Honor among thieves

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Malden closed the door behind him and bent low to look at the gap between the door and its jamb. He didn’t want the burning oil to come seeping in after him. Fortunately it seemed the pit was deep and wide enough to contain the oil-it never came over the edge. The volume of oil in the tub must have been less than the capacity of the pit, something he was sure had been taken into account when the traps were installed.

He heard movement in the hidden apartment and stood up straight to see what was coming. He was not entirely surprised when Cutbill emerged from another room, a cup of wine in one hand. The guildmaster of thieves evidenced no shock whatsoever to find Malden in his hiding place.

Cutbill held up one finger for a moment’s silence. Then he finished his wine and placed the cup on a small, elegantly carved table. Smiling-Cutbill almost never smiled, and when he did, it put Malden’s teeth on edge-he walked toward Malden and then knelt on the rush-strewn floor before him. Without saying a word, Cutbill lowered his head to expose the back of his neck.

Cutbill was not an imposing man, physically. He was slight and small of stature, and his features betrayed a clerkish sensitivity that didn’t quite jibe with his station. Malden thought about the ogrish one-legged boss of the thieves in Helstrow-the one Velmont had butchered when they came to a disagreement. He could not imagine two more different men, even though they were opposite numbers.

Of the two, Malden knew Cutbill was the far more dangerous.

Cutbill had hired an assassin to end his life. Malden had the proof inside his tunic-a warrant for his own murder signed with Cutbill’s symbol, a heart transfixed by a key. He expected Cutbill to make another attempt. He expected another cunning trap, one even he would not be able to avoid. A hidden blade, a dozen killers hidden in a nearby closet just waiting to spring out and attack. Perhaps a trip wire at ankle height that would bring down the whole Chapterhouse on his head.

He had the sneaking suspicion he was facing something even more devious. Cutbill did not move or speak. He simply knelt there, waiting for Malden to make the next move.

“What are you doing?” Malden demanded.

“Presenting myself for execution,” Cutbill told him. His voice was calm and level, quite matter-of-fact. As it always had been. “You’ve brought your sword. I assume you’ve come to exact your revenge.”

Malden’s blood burned inside of him. “Damn you,” he said, biting off the words. “You could at least have the decency to cower.” He pulled Acidtongue from its scabbard. Drops of vitriol hissed on the rushes.

“You’re well within your rights to lop my head off this very moment,” Cutbill said. Was it an apology? Malden couldn’t make any sense of this.

“So you don’t deny it? It was you who sent Prestwicke the assassin to slaughter me?”

“Oh, yes,” Cutbill said.

Malden brought the sword up high, as he’d seen Croy do when he wanted to make a devastating cutting stroke. He gripped its hilt with both hands, ready to bring it down fast. The blade could slice through anything, if it was driven with enough force. Cutbill’s flesh and bones wouldn’t stop it for a moment.

One cut-and he would be avenged. He would have satisfaction for the great injustice this man had done to him. Perhaps more important, he would be safe. Cutbill would never be able to turn on him again.

So why did it seem the exact wrong thing to do?

“I never harmed you!” Malden gasped. “I lined your pockets with gold. I strengthened your organization.”

“You were my best thief,” Cutbill agreed. “Perhaps the best I ever saw.” He glanced up at Malden for a moment. “You’ll want to move your left foot back an inch or two. It will give you a better swing. And please, aim for the thinnest part of my neck, here, just below my jawline.”

“I never plotted against you, if that’s what you think. I would never have betrayed you! So why in the name of Sadu’s eight elbows would you turn against me like that? I trusted you. I–I honored you. And you repaid me with treachery!”

“Is that what I did?” Cutbill asked.

“Yes! Unless-” Malden’s face was sweating. What wasn’t he seeing?

“Unless?”

The traps in the rooms above had been deadly, Malden thought, but not quite deadly enough. He’d believed that Cutbill’s summons was merely a lure to lead him into a place where he was certain to die. Where the job could be completed, the task that Prestwicke-Cutbill’s hired assassin-had been unable to finish. The coded message was itself the first trap, an irresistible lure to bring Malden to a place that would be his death. Yet-Cutbill must have known that he could overcome the blade, the tub of oil, certainly the pit in the hallway. In his career as a thief Malden had gotten past far more sinister snares.

But no one else could. Anyone without his experience would have been slaughtered. Anyone less quick than he. Anyone less lucky.

“Unless it was all a test,” Malden said. “Unless you meant me to come to this room. At this moment.”

“In truth, I’d hoped you would come sooner. I didn’t think it would take you so long to figure out my cipher.”

“Don’t anger me!” Malden shrieked. “Your life is forfeit!”

Cutbill laughed. “I think not. Not anymore. A moment ago you might have done it. But not now. You have to know. You have to know the why. Which might be explanation enough in itself why I chose to do this to you. Because you are wise enough, Malden, to never react to a misfortune until you know why it had to happen.”

Malden relaxed his grip on the sword. He could still do it. He could still bring the sword down. Take the bastard’s head.

But no. No, he would not. If he killed Cutbill now, he would never learn the truth.

He put the sword in its sheath.

“Get up,” Malden commanded. “Get up, and start talking.”

Cutbill raised his head. “Nothing would give me more pleasure.”