Honor among thieves

Chapter Seventy-One

“The Godstone is cracked. The cracks need to be repaired. Only blood will do. Blood is what He wants! How can you not see this?” The madman, the child-killer, was chained to the bars of his cell in the gaol. He looked badly used. Bruises covered his chest and one eye was swollen shut. Clearly his keepers had been beating him.

Malden wondered if they had done so in self-defense or because they hated his crime. He supposed he couldn’t blame them for being angry. Still, he sighed. “I want him made as comfortable as possible. He’s beyond rationality-beyond knowing right from wrong. There’s no reason he should suffer because he’s lost his wits.”

“You could end his sufferin’ right now,” Velmont said. The Helstrovian thief didn’t look angry. He looked like he pitied the man. Yet it seemed he could imagine no better way to express that pity than slitting the madman’s throat.

The laws of Skrae-and the customs of Ness-agreed. If anyone but Malden had been in charge of his fate, the man would already be dead. But there had to be a better way-didn’t there? Mercy had to mean something.

“No,” Malden insisted. “There will be no executions while I’m Lord Mayor. The Burgrave hanged beggars for stealing a loaf of bread. Things are going to be different now.”

“There’s only six cells in this gaol,” Velmont pointed out. “There’ll be more like him, an’ soon enow.”

“Then we’ll build more cells,” Malden said, and headed up the stairs toward the ruins of Castle Hill. Velmont was right, of course. The gaol wasn’t going to serve his purposes for long. It was meant only for holding criminals until they could be brought to trial. It had not been designed for keeping anyone more than week at a time. The sanitary facilities were rudimentary. There was no air or light down there. Prisoners would sicken and perish if they were locked away in that hole for long.

Yet he knew he was right. Killing a man for a simple crime didn’t redress the original offense. It wouldn’t bring back the madman’s child. There had to be a better way, and it was up to him to find it.

Maybe, he thought for the first time, he’d been given this unwanted responsibility for a reason. Maybe he could use his power, instead of being used by it. Maybe he could change things for the better.

If he was only to be given a chance.

Up in the air again, he turned to Velmont and asked, “How much grain did we save from the stores?”

Velmont shrugged. “Enow fer a month, if we’re lucky.”

“We may have to ration it to last longer,” Malden said. He knew that would not be popular. In the two weeks he’d been Lord Mayor, the daily complaints he received about people unable to get flour to make bread had tripled. It was bound to get worse. Hungry people would want to know why he wasn’t feeding them. Starving people would start to think maybe they’d be better off with someone else. Every time he tried to explain the situation, he was met with blank stares.

The worst part was, he couldn’t blame the people of Ness. He couldn’t get angry with them when they didn’t understand. Back when he’d just been Malden the Thief, he would have had the same reaction. Living in a city, so far from farms and fields, people forgot that food had to be grown and harvested and brought to Ness and stored. When you could just go down to the market and buy a loaf of bread you never had to think about its provenance.

“Perhaps we should form details of men to go outside the walls and search the closer farms. There may be stores of grain left behind when the farmers fled. Though I imagine the Burgrave probably raided them. He’ll need to feed his army, and-”

Malden stopped because he’d heard a noise coming from beyond the wall of Castle Hill. A great jeering roar, full of boos and hisses.

“That can’t be good,” he said. They rushed to the broken gates and hurried out into Market Square. A crowd had gathered before the Cornmarket Bridge, a rough mob of women and old men who were throwing garbage at a train of wagons. Malden’s first thought was relief that the subject of the crowd’s ire was not himself.

His second thought was that it was his job to find out what was going on-and to stop it.

“We need to get through there and see what’s happening,” he said.

“On’t,” Velmont said, and started grabbing people from the crowd and thrusting them out of the way. Cursing and kicking, he forced a path through the gathering and Malden swept through until he stood at the end of the bridge, where rotten vegetables and bits of refuse coated the cobblestones, the remains of garbage thrown by the crowd.

A dozen men and women huddled there, sheltering themselves from the stinking missiles. They were dressed in heavy mantles and scarves as if they intended to travel a great distance. Behind them mules pulled three wagons overloaded with bundles and crates.

“What’s going on here?” Malden asked.

The leader of the group lifted his arm away from his face. It was the priest of the Lady who’d ministered to Pritchard Hood the night the bailiff died. The others, Malden realized, must be those few people left in Ness who still worshipped the Lady. The last few weeks had been difficult for them, Malden knew.

The priest stared pure hatred into Malden’s eyes. “I’m taking my flock to a better place.”

“Beyond the walls of Ness? It’s dangerous out there.”

“Less so than staying,” the priest insisted. “We are attacked by ruffians in the street. Our images are smashed. Our churches defiled by thieves and whores! You’ve driven the Lady’s face away from this city, Lord Mayor, and you will suffer the consequences.”

Malden grunted in frustration. He’d heard tales of violence against the Lady’s adherents, but had been able to do little about it. His staunchest supporters were those most devoutly attached to the Bloodgod, who seemed to think that the Lady’s priests were fair game.

“Don’t go,” he beseeched. “I’ll protect you. I’ll make it illegal to persecute anyone for their belief.” It had been one of the things he wanted to do anyway. He’d assumed he had some time before he had to start convincing people that they should accept all religions. Apparently it was now or never.

“We’ll take our chances with the barbarians, thank you very much. If you really want to help us, move this throng out of our path.”

Malden shook his head. “Where will you go?”

“The Northern Kingdoms do not worship the Bloodgod. Their interpretation of the Lady’s word is different from ours, but we share some articles of faith. Perhaps they will listen to our preaching there. If not, well, the Old Empire knows many faiths. The Emperor tolerates all religion as long as no one preaches against his rule. We can live there without fear of being murdered in our beds, simply because we believe in the true faith,” the priest said. He looked tired already. Malden wondered how far he would get before bandits killed him and his people for the contents of their wagons. Ten miles? Twenty? The Northern Kingdoms were two hundred miles away, and crossing the sea to the Old Empire would take months-assuming the pilgrims weren’t slaughtered by pirates or wrecked by storms.

“I won’t stop you,” Malden said, when for a minute he’d considered doing just that. He turned around and faced the jeering crowd. “All of you get back and let them through. And stop throwing that filth! They’re leaving. Isn’t that what you want?”

Grudgingly the crowd moved back to make an opening. They kept jeering and shouting insults but kept their garbage to themselves. Malden bowed to the priest and gestured for him to go through.

Velmont, however, had thought of something Malden had missed. “Boss,” he said. “What’ve they got in yon wains?”

For the first time Malden paid close attention to the priest’s wagons. They were filled to bursting with bundles of clothing, tents, and tools. More importantly, they were full of bags of flour, casks of lard, whole sides of salted beef and pork, and barrels of small beer.

Food. Enough food to get them to their destination. Alternatively, food that could feed a hundred people in Ness for a week.

Malden wrestled with himself. He could not, in good conscience, do what good politics demanded of him.

But he needed that food.

“Hold,” he said. The priest glared at him. Malden took a purse from his belt. It was full of silver coins and a few gold royals. “I’ll give you fair recompense for the food you’re carrying,” he said.

“We’ll need it on the road,” the priest said. But there was a new look in his eye. A look of fear.

Malden tried to push the purse into the priest’s hand. The old man wouldn’t take it. “You can buy food on your way. It’ll make your load lighter.”

“Let me pass,” the priest insisted. His voice was weak. He knew that without Malden’s approval, he would never make it as far as the city gates.

“You can stay here and keep everything. Or you can leave the food behind on your way out of Ness,” Malden said through gritted teeth. His heart shriveled in his chest, just speaking the words. “Take the coins, damn you.”

“Every demon of the pit will take turns gnawing on your soul,” the priest said.

But he took the coins.