Den of thieves

Chapter Seventy-Three

The second floor of the villa was as silent as a tomb. Malden reached the top of the stairs and stepped into a hallway with a single candle burning at its far end. There was just enough light to see the doors on either side. Framed pictures hung on the walls here, and he stole a glance at one, but it made his head hurt so he looked away quickly. It didn’t seem possible that the woman in the picture would be able to accommodate the giant insect she’d taken as a lover. He did not intend to waste time resolving how it was done.

Kemper had explored this floor and found little of interest-bedrooms, a garderobe or two, linen closets. Malden made his way down the carpeted hall as noiselessly as possible, ignoring the doors until he saw one begin to open. Instantly he pressed himself against the wall and pulled his hood down over his eyes so they would not shine in the candlelight.

He heard a woman’s sigh as the door opened fully, letting pale light out into the hall. The woman’s shadow was projected on the wall opposite, and he could see from the silhouette that it was Cythera.

He would gladly have made himself known and spoken with her. She could provide valuable information that would aid him in his skulduggery. On the other hand he had far better reason not to let her see him. If he startled her, she might cry out. At the very least, if she spoke to him, someone else might hear them. He could not afford to take that chance.

So before she stepped out into the hall, he took the great risk of opening the door nearest to him and slipping inside. He did it quickly but without making any noise at all. Luckily it seemed the room he’d entered was empty-an unused bedroom, with the furniture all shoved up against one wall and covered in cloths. He pressed his ear against the keyhole of the door and listened as Cythera stepped out into the hall and walked away. He counted to one hundred in his head before he considered leaving the empty bedroom again.

When he was certain it was safe, he tried the door’s latch-and found that it had locked behind him. He wanted to curse but didn’t risk the sound. What kind of door locked automatically from the inside? It made very little sense to him. Whoever stayed in this room would be trapped until someone came along and let them out.

He turned and looked again at the furniture against the wall. There was a bed, a clothes press, a basin on a stand, a low stool-all common enough fixtures. Something about the bed looked odd to him, though, and he twitched the cloth back to have a closer look. It was then he saw the manacles bolted to the headboard, and the bloodstains on the straw-filled mattress. He let the cloth go in disgust. Curiosity got the better of him, though, and he lifted the lid of the clothes press.

Inside, instead of the garments he’d expected, he saw trays full of rusted steel implements. He recognized only a few of them-a saw, a hammer, a variety of shears and pincers in various gauges. A great many knives. There was one tool with a watertight leather bulb at one end and a long tube on the other, and something else that resembled a meat hook stretched out long and thin.

He could hardly guess at their purpose, but then something occurred to him. He looked to his left and saw it again as if for the first time. There was one piece of furniture in the room he definitely recognized, from his childhood. The stool. A low three-legged stool about twelve inches high. It was the kind of stool midwives used.

When Malden realized what that meant and where he was, he wanted to close his eyes and just make this all go away. He wanted to jump in the Skrait and drown, because at least then he could die clean.

He was wasting time. He closed the press and pulled the cloth back over the bed exactly as it had been, then went to the door and unwrapped the lock picks hidden in the hilt of his bodkin. The lock on the door was a simple mechanism, easily defeated, and soon he had the door open. Yet as he was stepping back into the hall and closing the door behind him, again a sensation, unbidden and very much unwanted, came to his mind.

Malden had the distinct impression someone was coming up behind him. Was it Cythera, returning from some errand? Or a less welcome intruder? He flattened himself against the wall, knowing his only chance was to hide in the semidarkness of the hall. It was a forlorn hope. The light from the candle was plenty to see by-but his reflexes were such he couldn’t help but try to hide.

It turned out not to matter.

The thing coming up behind him wasn’t human. It was only roughly man-shaped in outline, and seemed to be made of living smoke. It left misty footprints of condensation on the floor where it walked, but it passed Malden without even turning its head-assuming that lump at its top was some kind of head. It walked right past him and into the stairs and then was gone.

He had no idea what that thing had been. A demon of some manner? A ghost? A spirit of the upper air?

More to the point, had it seen him? Could it see at all? Would it warn Hazoth as to his presence? He couldn’t know. He could only hope that by keeping still and not touching the thing, he’d somehow escaped notice.

If that was incorrect, he was sure he would find out very soon.

With a shudder, he stole down the hallway, toward the gallery at its far end.

On that gallery he chanced a quick look down at the enormous sphere of iron by the grand staircase. The egg of the demon. It remained motionless and seemingly quite inert-a thin stream of powdered rust fell from one of its sides, but otherwise it could have been dead inside. That was a good sign, of course-it suggested Hazoth was as of yet unaware of his presence in the house-but he couldn’t help but associate it with what he’d seen in the locked bedroom. What he might call the birthing room.

Enough. He was frightened enough without adding to his load of troubles. A flight of stairs led up from the gallery to the third floor, and his destination. He crept up the risers, keeping close to the banister, where the steps were least likely to creak.

He didn’t have much time left, perhaps less than an hour. When Croy and the ogre were both dead, slain by Bikker if no one else (as he was certain they would be), the barrier would be closed again and he’d be trapped. It was crucial that he find the crown and escape before that happened.