Honor among thieves

Chapter One Hundred Nine

There was no time to think on all that had happened, no time to think at all. Malden ran from house to house, bashing at the doors, rousing the people inside. “To arms! To arms!” he shouted, and whenever he found a man with two working legs, he sent them forth, to carry the message, to spread the word. “At dawn we fight,” he told them. “At dawn there will be barbarians in Ryewall! To arms!”

“The priests say we can hold them back,” a boy with a withered leg told him.

“And so we shall,” Malden insisted, clapping the boy on the back.

“They say all it will take is giving Him His blood.”

Malden turned to say something but the boy was already gone.

He hurried to the arsenal and threw open the great doors. Already a crowd had gathered, perching on the ruins of the university cloister, milling in Market Square, wanting to be the first to get their pick of weaponry. Malden had worried his people would be too afraid to take up polearms and crossbows when the time came. It seemed he’d underestimated their patriotism-or perhaps their terror. They looked ready to fight. They looked ready to kill anyone who dared invade their home.

He watched them file in and out of the big building, each man and woman brandishing a rusty longaxe or a glaive with a rattling blade as they emerged. The crowd behind them cheered, intent on getting their own means of defending themselves and their families.

They would fight.

“For the Bloodgod!” one newly armed man shouted, and a great hurrah went up. “I’ll shed blood in Sadu’s name!” another called.

As long as they were ready, Malden didn’t care whose holy name they praised. He hurried next across the bridge to the Royal Ditch, to summon the harlots there, and make sure he could count on their bows. “Up on the walls-up to Westwall, and Swampwall. Stay away from Ryewall,” he told Herwig and Elody and all the madams. “It’s going to come down.”

“Just like that?” Elody asked, her eyes bright with fear. “They’ll magic it down?”

Malden shook his head. “Don’t ask me how it’s done. It’s dwarven trickery, not magic, though. The one thing we can count on is that it’ll come at dawn.”

One of the girls, a thin waif with dark circles around her eyes, whispered something to another, who nodded meaningfully.

“What are you saying?” Malden asked, pointing at the girl.

Herwig glared at her until she came forward.

The girl looked at her own feet, not Malden’s eyes. “Just, if it please you, Lord Mayor-we can count on one other thing.”

Malden sighed. “The Bloodgod?”

The girl nodded and simpered. “If He’s given the proper sacrifice, we’re told He will smile on us. The proper sacrifice is all-”

“Hush, you little twit,” Herwig chided. “Pay no mind, Malden. There’s those among us who know better.”

Malden frowned, not fully understanding. It sounded like the priests of Sadu had been hard at work, spreading some mischief. Maybe they had called for human sacrifice at last. He should try to stop that, but he hadn’t time at the moment to winkle out the mystery. He hurried on, through the eastern edge of the Stink. He used the rooftops to make his way quickly through that district, where criers were out calling all to arms. Many citizens, it seemed, had congregated in Godstone Square, perhaps looking for someone to tell them where to go. A priest was there, handing out loaves-surely the last of the food. Fair enough, Malden thought. Better to go into battle and die on a full stomach. He headed onward to the work yards of the Smoke, where he’d had the guilds working night and day on defensive engines. There had been diagrams of such in Rus Galenius’s Manual, improbable constructions of wood designed to slow, if not stop, an invading army. Great logs studded with spikes and mounted on wheels, to act as mobile barricades. Leather bellows that could squirt flaming oil across an invader’s path and force them back. Mantlets, giant wheeled shields behind which crossbowmen could shelter while they reloaded their weapons. “Get these moving toward Ryewall,” Malden called. “I don’t care if they aren’t finished, just shift them.”

A former journeyman in the wheelwright’s guild saluted him and promised he’d have the engines in place on time if he had to drag them himself. “Sadu helps those who help themselves,” he said, and gave Malden a knowing wink.

Malden had been about to race away, but he stopped himself. “I get the sense you’re saying more than you’re saying, if you catch me right.”

“Less said the better,” the journeyman said, and chuckled. “Just know, Lord Mayor-we all appreciate what you’ve done for us. And what you’re going to do, on the morrow.”

Malden was more confused than ever. “You’re welcome, then,” he said. “I hope tomorrow you’ll feel the same way.” Riddles! Too many riddles. There was so much left to do.

And so little of it that could make any difference. The barbarians wouldn’t be stopped by a rabble of townsfolk, no matter how desperate they were. Morget wouldn’t stop until everyone was dead, everyone No. He would not give in to despair. Slag had been right. You had to keep fighting, or give in. And if he decided to give in now he would just go hide in some quiet place and shiver in fear and wait to be slaughtered. Keeping busy at least kept him from unmanning himself.

And who knew? Perhaps the Bloodgod would come to their aid, at the last minute. Perhaps He would open up the pit and a legion of demons would come boiling out, all teeth and claws and nightmarish shapes to save the city.

Malden laughed to himself as he hurried across the rooftops, down to the Ashes and the headquarters of Cutbill’s guild of thieves. He laughed because he’d half begun to believe it himself. The faith of the people was infectious, it seemed.

When he reached the burned-out tavern above Cutbill’s lair, he dropped to the street and stepped inside the ruin, looking for ’Levenfingers or Lockjaw. One of the oldsters should always be guarding the entrance, but neither of them was present.

It didn’t matter. Since there were no more watchmen in Ness, nor any bailiff to raid the place, security on the lair was of minimal importance. Malden hoped that the old men were out enjoying themselves, maybe having one last drink or enjoying the caresses of one last wench before the desperate moment came. He hurried down through the trapdoor into the lair and through the empty common room, heading for Cutbill’s office. Velmont should be there, collecting last minute reports from the thieves.

The Helstrovian was inside, as expected, which was at least something. Velmont sat in the chair behind Cutbill’s old desk, counting coins into a sack.

“It’s coming tomorrow, at dawn,” Malden said. “Send word around. I want every thief in the city on the rooftops before Ryewall. Make sure they have plenty of arrows, and-and-”

There were a lot of coins on the desk. And they were all gold.

Velmont hurriedly shoved them into his purse as if he didn’t want Malden to take them away from him. Odd.

“Where did you get those?” he asked.

“One last job,” the Helstrovian said with a shrug. “Surely you don’t begrudge it, boss. A man must get coin in this world where he can.”

“I’d be a sorry kind of thief if I disagreed,” Malden said. “Enjoy your newfound wealth while you’re able. Just make sure you get those archers in place before you go looking for ways to spend it.”

“They’ll be at it, sure enow,” Velmont said.

Something was wrong. The city was about to be overrun-sacked by the barbarians-but Velmont seemed calmer than he’d been in weeks. Almost like he knew he wouldn’t be around to see the end happen.

So many coins in that sack. So much gold. “You aren’t planning to run out on me now, are you?” Malden asked, laughing to make it sound like a joke.

“Perish the thought,” Velmont said. He rose from the chair and went to a side table to fetch a bottle of wine. “Quite the adventure we’ve had, eh? Not what I thought I was getting into, when I signed on.” He pulled the cork with his teeth.

“Hopefully it’s been sufficiently lucrative that you don’t question your decision,” Malden told him.

Velmont grinned broadly and poured a cup of wine. He handed it to Malden, then started pouring a second cup for himself.

“I’d love to stay and drink with you, believe me,” Malden said, sipping from his cup, “but I’m afraid there’s no time.”

“Certes there’s a moment for one mickle toast,” Velmont said. “Just swear one oath with me, is all, and be on your way.”

Malden sighed but raised his cup and touched its rim to Velmont’s. “And what oath will that be? To coin? To… loyalty?”

“To honor among thieves,” Velmont said, tilting his head to one side. “The most valuable commodity in this sorry world, eh?”

Malden laughed. “Because it is the rarest,” he agreed and drained his cup.

Something rattled around at its bottom. A whitish lump of something half dissolved. It slid forward on the dregs and touched Malden’s lips. Instantly they went numb.

Malden dropped the cup. He tried to grab the hilt of Acidtongue. His arm felt like a piece of rope. He could barely feel his hand at all.

“You… bass… yuh basst…” he slurred.

A tapestry hanging across one wall twitched aside, and half a dozen priests of the Bloodgod stormed into the room.