Honor among thieves

Chapter Forty-Two

The thieves of Ness gathered just before midnight, when the moon had fallen behind the city wall and Godstone Square was a bowl of ink. By starlight only they met, many of them staying to thicker shadows still, where even Malden couldn’t see their faces.

Those he could see came from every corner of the city, arriving alone, and they stood alone, not one of them whispering to a friend or an accomplice, none of them with eyes for anything but Malden on his perch.

He stood atop the Godstone, an ancient and desecrated altar deep in the Stink. A standing stone fifteen feet high that was just too big to be moved when the religion of the Bloodgod was officially put down. To most of the city’s population it had become nothing but one more landmark, but to some it was still an object of great reverence. Malden was more interested in where it was than what it had once been. The city watch rarely traveled that far from Castle Hill.

The people who lived around the square kept their windows shut at night, and could be trusted not to talk-as long as Malden didn’t say anything the city watch might pay to hear. So he would name no names tonight, nor address any of the gathered thieves directly. But they would listen, and hear him.

He had not had time to decipher Cutbill’s message. He didn’t know what orders he’d been given, or what the guildmaster had expected of him. But he was out of time, and he had better think of something quick.

Nearly a hundred men stood below him, looking up. He studied their faces carefully and suddenly realized why Cutbill might have even considered him for this position.

He knew every man in the square. Knew their names, knew their specialties. He knew the difference between the ones in the dark cloaks-burglars and confidence men, good earners but rarely to be trusted-and those in poorer clothes, drab tunics and patched hoods: pickpockets, false beggars, dippers, silk-snatchers, boothalers, thimbleriggers, filchers, and smash-and-grab men. Strictly small-time operators, who lived and ate on the pennies and farthings they managed to scrape together. Men for whom the guild was the only authority in their lives, and Cutbill the closest thing to a father any of them had ever had. Those men he could trust-as long as they accepted his ascension.

Many, from both sorts, he had recruited for the guild himself. Some of them still had grudges against him for how that had gone-entry to the guild was often by way of subtle blackmail or coercion. Some he could almost call his friends. He knew which were which, and who would speak against him when the time came.

He knew what these men wanted, and what they feared, and what they were willing to do to get the one and avoid the other.

And he could see, forming already in his mind’s eye, the plots and stratagems that would neutralize his enemies and make his friends closer.

And despite the fact that he still didn’t know what advice Cutbill had left him, he knew exactly what to say.

“Evening, men,” he said with a grin. “Thanks for dropping by.”

Relief passed over many of the faces below like a cloud across the moon. They had been looking for something in Malden’s countenance-perhaps simply confidence, or even just good humor-and they’d found it. Cutbill’s disappearance must have left them all feeling vulnerable and exposed. Anyone who stepped up now and promised them continuity-that they had not just been hung out and left to dry-would at least get their attention.

“You’ve heard by now that the boss has scarpered. Gone south, perhaps, in search of better weather. Someone will have told you he chose a replacement before he left. Now, in most honest trade fraternities like the Coopers Guild or the Bakers Guild, there’s simple rules for a change of leadership. There are practices to follow, formulae to keep. Our kind are different. We don’t have that. Generally, when a guild like ours changes hands, there’s those who see in it an opportunity to shake things up. Maybe pick a leader closer to their heart’s desire and back his number like in a dice game, laying bets for one man or another to win. That’s when guilds like ours tear themselves apart-every man is for himself, at first, but that doesn’t last long. Men with common interests form crews for protection from other crews. Crews get together and form gangs. But gangs don’t make money. Gangs exist for one real reason, and that’s to fight other gangs. You know who always wins in a war like that? The city watch. They just love it when a fraternity like ours turns on itself. Because they’re lazy. In a war of gangs, they don’t have to go chasing after villains in the night. They just need to come ’round in the morning and collect the bodies.”

Malden watched the faces below carefully. He saw Velmont, at the edge of the crowd, looking away. He saw ’Levenfingers, sitting on a horse trough, nodding as if he’d seen it happen before, many times. The oldster probably had.

“We have a whole other kind of opportunity coming,” Malden went on, “if we can just stick together. The Burgrave’s about to ride out through Hunter’s Gate with half the city trailing along behind him-including every single man of the watch. Oh, I have no doubt he’ll leave a few one-legged halberdiers behind to watch his own stash. But we’ll have our pick of jobs-empty houses are easy to burgle. Purses are child’s play to snatch when there’s no watchman eyeing your back. We all stand to make a pretty farthing.

“But only if we work together. That’s why the old boss brought us in, remember? It’s what he promised us. Work together. Work for each other, and we’re all safer. We all get richer than we could on our own. Honor among thieves. The rest of the world thinks that’s a joke. A thing that couldn’t possibly exist. The old boss knew better. He also knew honor among thieves isn’t free. It has to be earned. But where it exists, we’re all safer. We’re all a little wealthier. And we can all breathe easy.”

Malden sat down on the top of the Godstone, his legs dangling in the air. He looked and saw Slag in the middle of the crowd, starting to raise one fist in the air. The dwarf wasn’t the only one-but Malden knew that a halfhearted cheer now would hurt his cause more than help it.

He held up his hands for peace. “Don’t answer me now. Don’t say a word, anybody. Go home. Or go to the tavern, or a bawdy house, wherever you might normally go at this time of night. I don’t want lauds and acclaim-yet. I haven’t given you anything yet but words, and we all know what words will buy you. What I want is a chance to prove everything I just said. Give me that chance. And when the time comes, we’ll all cheer together, for what we pulled off-together.”