Honor among thieves

Chapter Thirty-Three

After Cythera went to find her mother, Malden led Slag and the crew of thieves downhill, through the district of smithies and work yards known locally as the Smoke. Normally that name was self-evident-the chimneys of a thousand forges and the fuming tanners’ vats cloaked the streets in an eternal pall of foul smoke. Today the air was almost breathable. With the exception of the blacksmiths, whose shops were crowded with men churning out arms and armor, work had ground to a halt.

“That’s-That’s fucking disgusting,” Slag said when they passed by a pewterer’s that was deserted and locked up tight. He placed his thin hands against the workshop’s brick chimney. “Ice cold, when it should be too hot to touch. They’ve let their fires go out-you never do that! Do you know how long it takes to get a furnace going from a cold start?”

“Every shop along this way’s closed,” Velmont observed. “The masters must’ve fled, and the ’prentices gone to join up wi’ that piebald army we saw.” A wicked smile crossed the thief’s face. “That makes fer a prime looting opportunity, now don’t it? I think I might like it here in Ness, Malden.”

Malden kept his own counsel. They descended into the Stink then, the part of the city where Malden lived when he was in town. His little room, above a waxchandler’s, was always warm in the winter from the great vats of molten wax directly beneath him, and the idea of sleeping in his own bed that night was appealing. However, he could not raise his landlord or any of the workers there no matter how much he hallooed or pounded on the doors.

At least the Stink was not as deserted as the Smoke had been. There were still plenty of women around, going about their business as they always had-hanging washing on lines that ran above the streets, grinding meal to make bread, carting home their shopping. The women looked wary at the sight of men as they passed, but said nothing. There were oldsters and cripples about, too, far more than Malden expected, and very young children played everywhere or ran errands for their mothers. Without any men around, they seemed far more numerous than they’d ever been before.

His face was a mask of quiet confusion by the time they reached the bottom of the city, at Westwall. Down there lay the Ashes, a region of houses that had burned down in the Seven Day Fire before he was born. The district had been so badly impoverished before the fire that the houses were never rebuilt. Weeds sprouted now between the cobbles, looking bedraggled by autumn’s coolth, and landslides of charred debris filled most of the alleys. One expected the Ashes to be deserted, and it certainly was-but there was something here as well that felt slightly off to Malden. When he realized what it was, he began to worry in earnest.

He didn’t feel like he was being watched.

The Ashes were home to Cutbill’s headquarters, but also to a gang of wholly noninnocent urchins, orphan children who had gathered together for safety and made concord with the guild of thieves for mutual protection. Normally they served as ever-vigilant guardians. They stood ready to kill anyone who came too close without Cutbill’s approval.

Normally, if you knew where to look, you could see the glint of small eyes in every razed stub of a house, or see children watching you unblinking from the exposed rafters of the district’s fallen churches. Normally, Malden knew they were about long before he saw them.

This day he felt completely alone in the Ashes.

Surely the Burgrave would not have recruited the feral children? Most of them were too young, no matter how good they might be with their makeshift weapons.

When he reached Cutbill’s lair without being challenged, Malden knew to be on his best guard. When he entered the fire-ravaged inn that topped the lair, he was no longer surprised to find it empty. A plain wooden coffin sat in the middle of the blackened floor, but no one sat atop it.

“There should be three old men here,” he explained for Velmont’s benefit. “Loophole, ’Levenfingers, and Lockjaw. The elders of our guild. I like this not.”

Slag stood well back as Malden opened the trapdoor that led down into the lair. Nothing escaped from underneath, however, save for a puff of stale air. He went down first, bidding the others to stay up top until he was sure it was safe.

Below lay the common room where Cutbill’s legions normally disported themselves between jobs. Malden had never seen the room empty before. Always-at any hour of day or night-there had been a dice game here, while Cutbill’s latest enforcer or bodyguard watched the door. Now the room was empty and silent. Perhaps, he thought, the Burgrave had taken the present crisis as an excuse to finally break and disperse the guild of thieves. Maybe he’d sent his troops down here to kill Cutbill and all his workers. Yet there was no sign of a struggle. The rich tapestries on the walls were untouched, the stolen furniture was all in its proper place. Fresh tapers even stood in the cressets, only waiting to be lit. Malden struck flint and let a little light into the place, but that just served to make it seem spookier.

Tentatively, knowing better from past experience, he approached the door to Cutbill’s office unbidden. No one popped their head out to offer him welcome or to warn him off. He checked carefully to see if the door was booby-trapped but found no sign.

He pushed gently, and the door opened. It wasn’t even locked.

Malden pressed farther into the office, expecting to find darkness and abandonment. At least in this he was mistaken.

Candles burned inside. He saw the big desk that Cutbill never used, and the stool where the master of the guild of thieves was always perched. It was empty now. Cutbill’s ledger lay on its stand. That book recorded every transaction of the guild-including the names of every thief who had failed Cutbill and slain for their mistakes. He knew it would never have been left behind if the thieves deserted this place, and if the Burgrave raided it, he would certainly have confiscated the ledger as evidence against Cutbill.

No, Cutbill would never have let that book out of his sight. It was his life’s work, and he spent every day scribbling figures on its wide vellum pages. Yet Cutbill himself was nowhere to be seen, which was itself a wonder. As far as Malden knew, the guildmaster never left this room.

The place was not, however, empty. At first glance Malden’s eye ran completely over the old man sitting behind the desk, and failed to even register his presence. Then Lockjaw lifted a hand in greeting, and Malden jumped.

“Welcome home, lad,” the oldster said. His voice was thin, starved by many years of earning his sobriquet. Lockjaw knew many secrets but had earned them by keeping them close. He was famous for never betraying a confidence… until the maximum profit could be made by divulging it.

“Old friend, well met,” Malden said, and bowed to his elder. He had learned a great deal from this man and loved him dearly. “Is Cutbill available?” Perhaps he had simply stepped out to use the privy. Or maybe he was sleeping.

“Gone,” Lockjaw said.

“Gone? Just gone?”

“Like every man in the city who could afford to flee, aye.”

Malden could scarcely credit it. Cutbill would never leave Ness

… but then, he’d never known Lockjaw to actually lie. He was a master at the half-truth, but he never lied. “And his bodyguard, Tyburn? What of the other thieves?”

Lockjaw shrugged. “Most of ’em joined up already.”

Malden nodded carefully. “They went to join the Burgrave, you mean. That madness seems to have spread through the city like a fever. But then, tell me, who’s in charge down here? Have you taken Cutbill’s place?”

Lockjaw favored him with a very short chuckle. More of a ha. “Me, lad? Not a chance.”

“But-someone must be holding the reins.”

“Aye, Cutbill’s most trusted man’s been given mastery of the place.”

Malden frowned. He could think of no one that Cutbill actually trusted. “Most trusted” in this case could only mean the one Cutbill least expected to betray his interests. “Now who would that be?” Malden asked.

“You, lad. He left it all to you, to await your return.”