Den of thieves

Chapter Seventy

When Croy came in, an hour later, Malden and Cythera were sitting on opposite sides of the room, trying to work out between them who Bikker’s mysterious employer might be. There were plenty of likely suspects.

“The king wants the charter revoked,” Cythera pointed out. “So he can tax Ness. He must lose thousands of royals every year because of a promise his distant ancestor made to the distant ancestor of our Burgrave.”

“He has the motive, I’ll grant it,” Malden said, “but my money’s on Bikker himself.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think Bikker invented this phantom employer. I think he knew Hazoth would never take him seriously, or maybe he wanted a scapegoat if everything went wrong. When the city riots, I think he’ll present himself as its new ruler. A man with an Ancient Blade could rally the people to his standard-and end the violence. He’d be a hero, and a sure bet to be named as Tarness’s successor.”

“Is a magic sword all it takes to lead men? Why, then, Croy might be our hidden enemy,” Cythera pointed out. She and Malden both stared at Croy as if they’d discovered a dire secret.

Croy stared back as if they’d both gone mad. When they laughed at their little joke, he turned bright red and went to Malden’s washstand. “Does it even matter?” Croy asked. He poured water over his hands in the basin and scrubbed at his face. “It’s too late to make use of such information. It’s almost time to begin. The plan can’t be changed now.”

“I must go,” Cythera said. “You know I cannot aid you once things are in motion,” she said, glancing at Malden.

He nodded. “You must act as surprised as anyone. But you’ll know it has begun when the ogre appears on your doorstep.”

“An ogre,” she said. “You mentioned it before. Where in the world did you find one of those?”

“It was Croy’s doing, actually,” Malden said. “His contribution to the scheme. You should see this creature in calmer times, Cythera. It has the voice of a poet and a soul devoted to the Lady, but it looks a fright-twice as big as a man, covered in dark fur, its face engraved with ancient and baleful runes.” He laughed. “It should give the guards a good scare.”

“Yes, but maybe not much else,” she said, looking concerned. She glanced over at Croy, who didn’t meet her gaze. “Malden,” she said, “these runes. Do you remember what they looked like?” She took a piece of charcoal and drew on one of his maps. “Were they like this, do you think?”

“Yes, exactly.” Malden smiled. “I’m sure they say something menacing, like, ‘I am your death’ or ‘Face me at peril.’ ”

“Not exactly. It’s a curse your ogre wears on his face, but not for his enemies. It’s for himself. One of the simpler curses, actually, and very effective. Translated, the words you see here would read: ‘An you harm any, thou shalt perish.’ ”

Malden’s eyes went wide. “What’s the nature of this curse?”

“It’s commonly used on paroled prisoners or creatures who have killed men in the past. If your ogre hurts a human being-even in self-defense-the runes will grow hotter and hotter until they burn right through his skull.” She wiped her fingers quite carefully on the hem of her cloak. “I don’t know your plan. I don’t want to know your plan. But if you were counting on this ogre to fight the guards or Bikker, I only hope you have a contingency up your sleeve.”

“Thank you, Cythera,” Malden said, between lips pressed together to stifle a shout. She nodded and left his room, headed back toward the villa before she was missed. When she was well gone, Malden slowly turned to face Croy.

“You knew all this, of course,” he said, quite carefully.

Croy didn’t answer directly. Instead he went to kneel above the loose floorboards where his swords were still hidden.

Malden was faster. He drew his bodkin and had its point at the small of Croy’s back before the knight could reach for his weapons.

“The success of my scheme depended on that ogre,” Malden said. “There’s no time now to find a replacement. Have you betrayed me, Croy?”

“Are you calling me faithless?”

Malden almost concurred. Then he remembered that it was the same word Croy had used to describe Bikker-the word that started a blood feud between the two of them. “I’m asking a question. Did you make some deal with Hazoth, to foil my plans? Or perhaps you work for the same master as Bikker.”

“Never,” Croy said.

“Then why, exactly, did you not tell me that your ogre was hobbled?”

He watched the muscles in Croy’s neck tighten. “I am not a liar, by inclination or by practice,” the knight said. “But I was left with no choice.”

“Speak plainly!”

Croy sighed. “Don’t you understand? If I’m to recover Cythera’s trust, I must earn it. I must be the one who frees her and her mother.”

“I’ve been generous enough to let you play a part, but that’s all,” Malden pointed out.

“The role you’ve set for me in your scheme is meaningless. I am to stand as a lookout, and nothing more. How can that show Cythera the depth of my devotion to her? It should be me fighting for her freedom. It should be my arm, my sword, that strikes the telling blow. And no other man has a right to fell Bikker. That is my duty, and I will perform it.”

“You’re wounded,” Malden said. He did not allow the point of his bodkin to shift even a fraction of an inch. “Even at the fullness of your strength, you’re no match for Bikker. He would have bested you up at the palace if the demon there hadn’t diverted his attention. He would have killed you then. Are you so hot to die at his hand now?”

“Love will strengthen my arm,” Croy said. “Justice will be my shield.”

Malden chuckled, and the point of his knife bobbed up and down, just a hairbreadth. Apparently it was enough.

Croy shifted under Malden too fast to follow. One of his legs kicked out and knocked Malden’s feet from under him, and the thief fell backward against the bed. It was all he could do to stop his fall with his free hand, while keeping the bodkin pointed in Croy’s direction.

Before he had recovered himself, Croy was looming over him with his shortsword in his hand, the point just under his chin. The blade shone so bright Malden could see his own shocked expression in its surface.

“I may be wounded. I’m still an Ancient Blade. You can mock my ideals all you want, thief. You can’t deny my skill.”

“I suppose not,” Malden said. “Very well. Who am I to deny you your own destruction? You fool. Maybe you’ve cost us everything by this deception.” He wanted to spit in disgust.

“I can slay Bikker. I must!”

“As you wish it. Take the ogre’s place. Die, if that’s what you want. As long as you survive a minute against the retainers, that’s all I need.”

“You’ll find that even if I’m not as strong as Gurrh, when it comes to swordplay I am matchless. Anyway, you have no choice.” Croy lowered his sword. “It’s almost time to begin,” he said. “There’s no time to find a replacement. Not even a band of bravos.”

Malden nodded. He was still looking into the sword’s blade, meeting his own eyes in reflection. “Yes,” he said. “Strong. He’s still very strong, even if he can’t fight.” It was like the sun had just come up in his mind. He saw it now, a way to make this work. “Croy, I’ve just had an idea that might save both our lives. Can you get word to the ogre and give him new instructions? He may have his uses yet.”