Den of thieves

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Later that day, Malden climbed up on top of a house in the Stink near the cloth market. Below him lay Woolcomb Square-actually a triangular space where five roads came together-with merchants doing a bustling trade, hanging out bolts of fine loden and broadcloth on high wooden racks. The women who came there to buy grabbed up handfuls of the stuff and rubbed it against their cheeks to test its softness, or tugged hard at it to measure its strength.

In their midst a girl in a tattered kirtle sold ribbon from a tray around her neck, lengths of her wares hanging down like multicolored tongues. The ribbon covered her hands nicely, and Malden watched with professional appreciation as she went up to one goodwife after another and clutched at their skirts, begging them to buy a little something so her family wouldn’t starve. When inevitably the female citizens clouted her across the ear to make her give off, she would cry and run away-straight to the dilapidated stall of a button seller who never seemed to make a sale. Her tiny hand would plunge deep into a barrel full of sequins and the button seller would nod in satisfaction. She was good, this urchin, and Malden chuckled because he never saw the coins she stole. She was just that fast.

Behind him Croy clambered up over a gutter and onto the roof. Malden gestured for him to get down, to lie prone on the scorching-hot shingles, just as he had.

“I beg your pardon for taking so long getting up here,” Croy said. His face was white as milk. “I fear I’m not fully recovered yet.”

“I’m less worried about your speed than your noise,” Malden told him in a harsh whisper. “With all the metal you’re carrying, you clang and rattle like a cutler’s wagon. Do you really need to carry both those swords all the time?”

Croy frowned. “Well, yes. Ghostcutter has a special destiny, and should be saved for high combat, while simple bladework demands my shortsword, which-”

“Spare me,” Malden said. He returned to studying the market below. “You’re certain Cythera will come here today?”

“Once a month she ventures here from Hazoth’s villa to replace worn or stained cloths,” Croy told him. “Beyond her duties as a deflector of curses, she serves as the mistress of his household. All the necessities of life are her responsibility, as he cannot be bothered to see to his own arrangements. He spends every day in his laboratory or his sanctum, deeply absorbed in his studies.”

“You’ve been watching his movements, too,” Malden said. “Studying him with equal diligence.”

“When I returned to the city I think I already knew that eventually I must face him. He will never let her go for any price. She’s far too valuable to him-without her, he must suffer the rivalry of every demon in the pit, and be beset by the curses they send his way on a daily basis. No, I must force him to release her, one way or another.”

“Well, that’s what we’re here for.”

Croy frowned. “Are you truly sure we must involve her? She’s pledged to his service. She might betray us if we let her know what we plan.”

He had thought the same thing, of course. Yet he saw no other way. “If we’re to have any chance at all,” Malden said, “any hope, we need her on our side. If there’s a way she can help us that doesn’t put her in danger, I’ll take it. But this is too important not to try to enlist her aid. Surely she’ll want to help us, since we’re her only chance, too.”

“I pray you’re right.”

Malden watched with a frown as the ribbon girl’s hand was seized by an especially wary shopper. Great sobbing tears and wails granted her no mercy, and the goodwife squeezed her hand until it opened. The ribbon girl held up her empty palm as emblem of her innocence, and the goodwife was forced to release her. The ribbon girl ran off as fast she could, pitching her ribbon tray on a pile of ordure in an alley. The ribbons had been worthless tat, Malden realized, valued only for the cover they gave her real occupation. Now that she was under suspicion it meant nothing to her. Ah, and it was too bad-a good scheme, but now the game was up. Doubtless she’d have another scheme cooked up by tomorrow, though. The button seller did not react at all to her desertion.

There was still no sign of Cythera. Malden shifted his position slightly to get more comfortable on the shingles. It might be a long wait.

“One thing I don’t understand. What does Hazoth want with the crown? Does he simply wish to study its enchantment?” he asked.

Croy had no good answer. “It puzzles me as well. Hazoth was a good friend of the first Burgrave, Juring Tarness. They fought together against the elves that once held this place. Hazoth was instrumental to the founding of Ness. In the intervening years he’s showed no sign of rebellion-Ness has always been a safe haven for him. He’s been protected here, where sorcerers in other cities have been burned at the stake. In return for that protection he’s always supported the Burgravate to the best of his powers. A less civic-minded sorcerer would have been run out of the Free City long since-he would have been burned at the stake. Such men rarely live long, and yet Hazoth has persisted through centuries.”

“I imagine knowing all that magic helps,” Malden pointed out.

“He is a powerful sorcerer. From the tales I’ve heard, though, he must have changed much over the centuries. In those days, before the Free City had its charter, Juring Tarness was a great general. He defended the kingdom against the elves and then against the dwarves, who had better weapons and impregnable fortresses all through this land. Hazoth turned the tide in that conflict, as the dwarves had no sorcerers of their own and could not resist his magic. Hazoth was hailed as a great hero, and Juring a protector of the realm.”

“I saw the campaign banners hanging in his tower room, when I took the crown,” Malden said, thinking hard. “A great leader of men, was he?”

“Juring? Oh, yes. They say his voice had the power to compel. It was not magic, I think, but sheer force of character.”

“So anyone he spoke to would be inspired to follow his orders. Interesting.” Malden was beginning to put together a few facts, but so far he had no conclusions. He made a mental note to revisit the idea again.

Croy’s voice had a note of the highest admiration as he said, “Juring was a born ruler, and yet he served his king faithfully. When he founded the city, he proved-as is not often the case-to be as good a statesman as he was a warrior. The king of that era asked him what reward he would choose for his service. Juring could have had anything-riches, a grand fief, a personal army. Instead he requested freedom for the people of Ness. They had supported him through a long and trying campaign, you see. A time of great suffering for his army. He used his reward to give them perpetual safety from taxes and bondservice. The freedom you now possess is only guaranteed by the charter he asked the king to sign. In fact-”

“Hold,” Malden said.

Down in the market, Cythera had arrived. She was dressed in a fine purple velvet cloak and moved listlessly from stall to stall, barely fingering the cloth on display. She was followed by one of Hazoth’s retainers, a sallow-faced man with a chain-mail shirt and an axe on his belt. He pushed a barrow to hold her purchases, but his eyes were watching the crowd, perhaps searching every face for sign of threat.

“I hoped she would come alone,” Malden said. The plan had been to draw her into some secluded bystreet, and there converse with her in private. It was crucial she not be seen talking with either him or Croy, as word of such a meeting would doubtless get back to Hazoth. “All right,” he said. “This will just take a bit of cunning. Follow me down.”

The two of them climbed down a drainpipe on the side of the house, out of view of the crowded market. Croy had some trouble on the way down and nearly fell, but he caught himself in time. Malden led him around a corner and back into the market from a different direction. He did not approach Cythera directly, but made sure to cross her path so she saw the two of them.

When they were buried again in the throng of people, Malden whispered to Croy, “Did you note her face when we passed?” He had been careful not to look at her, but he knew Croy would not have been able to resist.

“She saw me,” Croy said, but he sounded crestfallen. “Her eyes-they went cold, and she looked away. Malden, she did not even smile at me.”

Nor at me, Malden thought, and then chastised himself. Any hope he’d had of catching Cythera’s favor-and it had been a forlorn hope, at best-was gone now that Croy was in the picture again. He’d heard the way Croy talked about Cythera, about how they had pledged to marry. Surely he had no chance of competing with a knight of the realm. A man who owned a bloody castle, for Sadu’s sake. No, it was for the best if he put those feelings away. Let them die a natural death.

Still. It hurt.

He waved one hand in the air as if to dispel a miasmic vapor. “That’s because she’s wise enough to be discreet, nothing more. Come. I have a notion of our next move.”