Honor among thieves

Chapter Ninety-Eight

A single trebuchet stone arced over the city that day. It landed on Castle Hill in the ruins of a building already smashed to pieces and did no harm except to scare a few people. The day before no stone had come. Since the attack on the walls was repulsed, the barbarians seemed to place far less trust in their siege engines.

It was enough to create an illusion of peace and safety. Malden was glad for it, even if he knew how false it really was. The barbarians hadn’t given up, not at all-they had simply moved their attention elsewhere. Slag had started work on his countertunnel, but also reported that the sappers moving under the wall were craftier than he’d expected. They had dug a sort of maze down there, full of dead-end passages and parallel tunnels they then filled up with refuse and tailings just to foil his attempt to find them. “Which means I know they’re there, and they know I know they’re there, and they know I know they know they’re fucking down there. They’ll put traps in the fake tunnels, just in case I think to break through on them in mid-dig. They’ll have armed guards in the real tunnel to make me sorry I found it.” The dwarf shook his head in dismay. “I haven’t given up yet, lad. But you better have a good backup plan, in case they beat me to the punch.”

“What about your secret project?” Malden asked.

“If it’s ready in time, aye, and if it actually works-mind, I make no promises-it’ll be good for one big fucking surprise. One. It won’t end anything, just buy us a little more time.” He looked down at his hands. “I’m sorry. I know you were counting on me-”

“You’ve already been of better service than I could ask,” Malden told him. “We’ll survive this. I’m going to see Cutbill. He’s forgotten more dirty tricks than you or I will ever learn.”

“He is a sneaky bastard. I wonder, though, if you can trust him much more than you can trust those giant pillocks outside.”

“At this point every friend I have is precious,” Malden said. He left the dwarf’s reeking workshop and headed across the city toward the Chapterhouse. For once he took the streets, like an honest man. He wanted to make a point of showing himself to his people. If they saw him walking past their homes, safe and cheerful, it might help their morale.

He should have known better, though, because before he reached his destination, his own spirits were flagging. Everywhere he went he saw signs of religious mania. Every house now was decked with red ribbons, emblems of the blood sacrifice that Sadu demanded. Images of the eight-armed Bloodgod were being erected in every square and inside every close-most of them crude idols made of bits of wood nailed together and hung with weapons and animal teeth. More than once he passed by an old woman or a crippled man with nasty scars on their arms or hands, worn proudly to show they’d made their own private contribution to the war effort-by shedding their own blood.

When he reached Cutbill’s hidden office, he could only shake his head in grief. “The barbarians just have to hold out long enough for us to bleed ourselves dry,” he said.

Cutbill let him in without a word. He had a folded piece of parchment in his hand and he kept looking at it as he poured Malden a cup of wine. Then the ex-guildmaster of thieves sank down into one of his chairs and placed a hand on his forehead.

He seemed uninterested in talking about what bothered him. Malden had never seen Cutbill so agitated, and that unnerved him more than he liked to admit. He tried to shake Cutbill out of his melancholy by sharing some news.

“There’s been a change outside the walls-I can’t say what it is, but they’ve completely altered their strategy. Where before they seemed happy to starve us out, or crush us all with rocks, now they plan on bringing down the wall.”

“A change. Yes,” Cutbill said. He glanced down at his paper again.

“Something bad there?” Malden asked.

“A report from one of my spies,” Cutbill admitted. “Morg is dead.”

“Morg? The Great Chieftain? Why, that’s the best thing I’ve heard today!”

“Hardly.” Cutbill got up from his chair and started pacing. Eventually he threw the parchment on the fire and watched it burn.

“Hold a moment,” Malden said, because something had occurred to him. “You have spies among the barbarians? And you never told me?”

“Not spies. Call them contacts. I had one. Now I have none.”

Malden couldn’t believe it. “Morg worked for you?”

Cutbill shook his head. “No, Malden. He was a friend. A… colleague. He never betrayed his people or gave me anything you should have known. Nor did I give anything away in my messages to him. We were simply two men who respected each other’s intellect. That’s all.”

Cutbill was the smartest man Malden had ever met. He found it hard to believe that a barbarian could be his equal in a match of brains. “You need to tell me everything now. In plain detail. I don’t like this.”

The ex-guildmaster sighed deeply, but then he nodded. “I’ve spoken before of how I built up my organization, but not of the time since then. When I had Ness under my control-half the public officials on my payroll, the other half terrified I would have them assassinated if they displeased me-I started wondering how to expand my horizons. I reached out to others like myself in other cities. Other criminals, first. The pirate queen of the Maw Archipelago, the Beggar Prophet of Ranmark, their like. At first they distrusted me, thinking I meant to supplant them. Eventually I convinced them we could aid each other from afar without competing. I sent my tendrils farther as well, looking for thinkers sympathetic to my own philosophies, even honest folk. I found many among the dwarves, for instance, and among the Learned Brotherhood, and the College of Deans at the great university of Vijn. Eventually I found Morg. A more perfect mind I have rarely encountered. And so desperate to achieve something with his legacy! Something more than conquest and bloodshed. He wanted to make his people stronger, Malden.”

“Any stronger and they’ll be able to punch through the wall with their bare fists.”

Cutbill hissed in frustration. “He understood that the strength of a people is not in their arms or their steel. It’s in their ability to work together, and of each man to make the right choices for himself without a sword at his neck telling him what to do. In many ways the nation he built out of the clans is more sophisticated, more equable, than ours will ever be.”

Malden held his peace. He could tell Cutbill was grieving. A dozen jests rose to his tongue, but he kept them inside the cage of his teeth.

“Now that’s lost. The nation he wanted to create couldn’t survive his death-that was his great fear. That his children would not learn the lessons he wanted to teach. You’ve seen Morget and Morgain.”

“I… have,” Malden said.

“One of them will become the new Great Chieftain, it’s almost certain. The strange peace you’ve felt recently? This change in the bombardment? It will only last until they decide between themselves which it will be.”

Malden swallowed painfully. He was pretty sure he knew already who would win that contest. Morgain was a formidable woman, but Morget had the heart of a wounded lion. “And when it is decided?” he asked.

“Then they will come at you like a hammer toward an anvil. Both of them are smart enough to know they must demonstrate their power if they want to keep it. They will crush Ness no matter what the cost. I believe you have at most two more days of this quiet, Malden. You had better be ready when it ends.”

After that, Malden forgot what he’d come to talk to Cutbill about. He made an excuse-he was tired, he claimed, and needed to sleep-and took his leave. Once outside the hidden door of Cutbill’s lair, he leaned up against the cool stones of the Chapterhouse and tried to calm his raging thoughts. Eventually he could breathe again and his pulse stopped pounding in his temples. It was not the threat of a renewed attack that distressed him so, however, but one simple fact Cutbill had possessed a spy in the barbarian camp! And now that priceless resource was lost-without providing any useful information. Damn Cutbill for not telling him earlier! How much could they have learned? Now he would never even know the name of this lost informant.

He turned to go. It was only then he noticed the mangy dog that had curled up next to the door, as if waiting for his master to come home. Malden frowned at the animal, wondering what it was doing there-Cutbill had never showed any interest in dogs, not as far as he knew.

He stooped to pet the creature, mindful of fleas. The dog arched his back and panted happily at the touch. It felt good to be kind to someone-even a beast-that wouldn’t repay him with harsh words or dire imprecations.