David Chandler - A thief in the night

Through the slats of the fence, Pathis stared up at him with glassy eyes. The fool’s throat was cut from ear to ear.

The sudden intrusion had woken the pigs. They stirred noisily, grunting and squealing in their fear. Some were struggling to their feet, slipping in the wet mud. Malden was certain the noise would wake the guard, but the boy didn’t stir.

Oh, no, he thought. No, it cannot be.

Legs bent double beneath him, Malden circled around the paddock a bit farther until he had a better look. The guard was dead as well, his throat cut just as savagely as Pathis’s. The boy had been tied to the fence, his arms fastened around his quarterstaff to keep his body propped upright. In the darkness, anyone would have thought the boy was only sleeping.

Malden certainly had.

The pigs were all standing now and whimpering in their fear. They knew the smell of death and no one was left to calm them. The noise they made was like thunder crashes in Malden’s ears. Surely anyone in the neighboring buildings would hear it, and wonder what had agitated the animals. Surely someone would come to investigate in short order.

When one is bent on criminal enterprise, and one discovers that even the slightest thing has gone wrong with the plan, the wise thief has but one recourse-to forget the night’s business, and run as fast as possible to a place of safety. The city watch was never far away, especially in the Smoke. If he were discovered near the paddock, he would be blamed for two murders and clapped in irons, thrown in gaol, and hanged with very little to say about it.

He stood up straight and dashed for the lastmaker’s shop. Up the wall and away over the roofs, that was the best course. He dared not go up the wall of the wheelwright’s, for fear of whatever had killed Pathis. The lastmaker’s shop was a two-story, half-timbered building with plenty of windows. An easy climb for one as nimble as he. This would be all right. He merely needed to escape. As for the mystery of what had gone wrong, he would gladly leave the pleasure of solving it to the watch. He grasped a timber and started hauling himself upward, and was ten feet off the ground before something hit him hard in the back and he slipped.

You didn’t learn how to climb as well as Malden if you didn’t first learn how to fall. He twisted in midair and got his hands and feet under him, ready to take the impact with the muddy ground below. Before he could land, however, a heavy, blunt object struck him in the stomach and he collapsed in a heap, winded and in pain.

He could hear someone coming toward him. Moving fast. Malden got his knees down in the mud and started to spring up to his feet. A forearm like something carved of stone smashed across his throat, and he fell down to sit in the alley, his back against the wall of the lastmaker’s shop.

He had learned his lesson, and did not attempt to get up again. Instead he looked up at his attacker.

The man was short, almost as short as Malden, and even more slender. He wore an undyed woolen habit like a monk’s, with a matching cowl covering much of his head. His face was round and merry, though his eyes were very small and very dark.

He looks like a priest, Malden thought. Just like the man who had come to the Ashes, asking for him by name, and been turned away by the urchins. The attacker had a stone in his hand, and Malden understood that the missiles that brought him down from the wall were simply that-cobbles pried up out of the street.

That gave him little comfort. He’d seen the urchins in the Ashes arm themselves with just such stones. If you had no other weapons, you could kill a man with one of those cobbles.

The attacker brought his arm up and then smashed the stone against the side of Malden’s temple so fast he couldn’t move to block the blow. Bright lights flashed behind Malden’s eyes and he felt his consciousness swim inside him, blackness surging up around his mind to carry him into nothingness.

“Oh no, not yet,” the attacker laughed, and slapped Malden hard across the face with a bare palm. Instantly Malden snapped back into his own head-and back into the pain that surged through his skull. “I wish you to know my name. That way, when your soul is cast into the pit, you can tell the Bloodgod who sent you.”

“Verr… wellll,” Malden slurred. His tongue could barely move in his mouth.

“My name is Prestwicke. I like all my kills to know my name.”

“Ki… k-kills,” Malden said.

“Yes. I was hired to slaughter you, Malden. It’s my trade.”

“Wh-Wh-Who?” Malden asked, wanting to know who had commissioned this murder. He did not expect the assassin to answer, nor did he.

Malden had many enemies, but he didn’t think a killer like this would come cheap. Most of the people who wanted him dead would have simply hired a bravo, some thug with an axe. Such a killer would simply have waited for him to walk into a dark alley and then make short work of him before he could cry out.

This man was something far more sinister. Something strange. You paid extra for that in Ness.

But who could have sent him? Malden wracked his brains trying to think, because knowing who it was could make all the difference. It would at least let him know why he had been singled out. It had to be a rich man. The list of truly wealthy men who would want his life was a short one, but it started with the Burgrave, the ultimate ruler and lord of the Free City of Ness. Malden knew a secret the Burgrave would prefer to be kept.

In a fairer world, of course, the Burgrave would have owed Malden a favor. He had recovered the lord’s crown when it was in the possession of Hazoth, and returned it to its proper head. In the process he’d saved the city from a usurper and ensured the continuation of the Burgrave’s reign. In the process, though, Malden had learned things better kept secret, and that was always the best way to get oneself killed. In the end it had been Cutbill who saved Malden from a quick death. The Burgrave did, in fact, owe Cutbill a favor-quite a large one-and Cutbill had used it up for Malden’s benefit. The Burgrave had promised Cutbill that he wouldn’t slaughter Malden. Of course, that only meant the Burgrave’s own guards and watchmen would not do the deed. If it could be done discreetly-and Prestwicke looked the discreet type-then perhaps the Burgrave was willing to break his promise.

It would not surprise Malden in the least.

Prestwicke reached up into one of his voluminous sleeves and pulled out a bundle wrapped in waxed cloth. He unrolled it on the ground and Malden saw half a dozen knives of various sizes and shapes inside. “I was paid a certain fee to take your life. It is customary that the client pays a small additional sum to ensure that it is done quickly, with a minimum of pain.”

“Thass… nice,” Malden said.

“I regret to say, in this case my client declined to pay the surcharge.” Prestwicke smiled broadly.

Malden’s head was packed too tight with wool to allow much fear to stir his brains, but he felt his breath come faster and his heart start to race. He could barely move, certainly could not stand up just then. He still had the bodkin at his belt, but his arm felt dead as a piece of wood. Even if he could manage to draw the weapon, he had little doubt Prestwicke could kill him before he could strike.

Think, he told himself. But he could not-his head hurt too much.

Talk your way out of this. But he could barely speak.

Was this how he was going to die?

Malden lived with constant danger. The penalty of thievery in Ness was hanging, whether one stole gems and jewels or a crust of bread. Every day he risked his neck. Yet he had never been more afraid than at that moment, never more certain that his jig was up.