Den of thieves

Chapter Seventy-One

It was the night before Ladymas, one of the most important fair days of the year. Though dark had come and the streets were unsafe as ever, still the Free City of Ness bustled with activity. There was much to prepare and make ready before dawn.

In the Ladychapel up in the Spires, the junior priests brought out the giant gold cornucopia that would be the centerpiece of the morning’s procession. They polished it with soft cloths until it shone like the sun, even in the light of a single candle. Others started loading it with the hundreds of small cakes and pieces of fruit that would be thrown to the poor as it was carried along. The lesser icons-the rudder, the globe, and the wheel-were touched up with gold paint to hide the chips and scratches where the wood beneath showed through. The senior priests kept vigil at the altar, intoning plainsong prayers and staying on their knees all night before Her sacred image.

In Market Square, vendors fought over the best places to set up their stalls. Most of the disputations were only squalls of words, with the occasional brandishing of a piece of paper as one or another claimed the right to a certain favorable spot. These pieces of paper were of limited utility, however, since most of them had been written by one of Cutbill’s expert forgers. The few authentic ones sold for ten times the price, but in the presence of so many counterfeits, they could not be honored either. Occasionally a fistfight broke out, which the few watchmen on hand had trouble breaking up. There was real money to be made at a fair day, after all.

On the Golden Slope, where most houses were already deserted, the last few wealthy citizens supervised their servants as they packed chests full of clothes and food for the next two days. Anyone who could afford to, fled the city during fair days and locked their houses up tight, because it was commonly believed that crowds spread plague. Some of Cutbill’s best agents were on the rooftops, making notes.

Down in the Smoke the giant furnaces were banked, a laborious process that was only performed twice a year. The fires that smelted and shaped the Free City’s iron had to be throttled down slowly and precisely, lest the forges cool off too rapidly and crack under the stress. Normally the furnaces were kept roaring all through the day and night. The law required that all fires be put out during fair days, however. During the festivities the population of Ness would triple, and should any house catch fire there would be no way to check the conflagration before it spread across town.

In the Stink every shrine of the Bloodgod was holding late services, accepting the small sacrifices of fish and meat the people brought. They lined up for blocks just to leave their scraps and make the proper signs. The poor couldn’t afford to displease either god or goddess, and so made a point of placating both in quick succession. At dawn they’d be on their knees in the little chapels of the Lady that dotted their neighborhoods, trying hard to stay awake through the morning prayers.

The watchmen took full advantage of the piety of the poor to break into more of their homes and rummage through their meager belongings. No crown was discovered in these searches, but plenty of copper coins and pieces of cheap jewelry were. It was a holiday for the watch as much as for everyone else.

At every inn the house was full, and travelers were forced to bed down in the stables, or sleep six to a bed in the house, and there was no wine to be had, only new ale and strong beer.

At the Lemon Garden, Elody opened her doors and hung a brass cornucopia over her door, advertising the special rate she gave to pilgrims far from home. She’d brought in extra girls for the increased foot traffic-honest women every other day of the year who wore masks tonight to make a little extra cash, since they could find cheap expiation in the morning for any sins they committed this night.

On the Goshawk Road opposite the northern wall of Castle Hill, the gambling houses closed their doors-but not their tables. The devoted card players and dicers inside kept their voices low in case the watch was listening, but that just drove the stakes higher. Fights broke out there just as in Market Square, but these ended much more quickly. Either the proprietors of the gaming houses ejected the brawlers with due dispatch (if they were of the more common sort), or (in the case of the gentry) helped the combatants make assignations for future duels. To be held only after Ladymas, of course. No nobleman would be so uncouth as to shed blood on the Lady’s sacred day.

In the Ashes the beggar children who watched over Cutbill’s lair gathered in a burned-down chapel and worshipped their own image of the Lady. It was only a charred piece of an old tavern sign that showed a less-than-divine woman holding a giant ale tankard, but the faith in the children’s eyes burned no less bright for it. If anyone needed to court fortune and abundance, it was these urchins.

In the Ladypark a yale bleated as it was brought to bay by a pack of feral dogs. It turned to face them with its wicked swinging horns, but it was severely outmatched. If the yale knew it was sacred to the goddess, it didn’t know how to call upon her aid.

In a rarely used chapel on Castle Hill, a certain figure sat with a bottle of wine and a good book. He would not be sleeping that night-at least until he heard from his fellow cabal members, Bikker and Hazoth. When he was certain the ungrateful thief was dead and Ghostcutter was ready to be passed on to a new owner, then he might relax-but only for a moment, before the real work of the conspiracy began.

All across the city hymns were sung. They could be heard through every window and on every street corner.

Everywhere people made merry, or atoned for sins, or simply enjoyed the warm summer’s night.

And on Parkwall Common an ogre walked sedately across the grass and up unto the gates of Hazoth’s villa. The guards there challenged him and shouted for him to leave, but he ignored them, and all else. As if he’d found a pleasant place to spend the evening, the ogre sat down on the grass just beyond the gate, and watched the house with his massive, staring eyes. After a while he folded his hands in his lap. He made no attempt to enter, nor gave any sign of violence. Yet a lightning stroke touching the rose window would have elicited less surprise.