David Chandler - A thief in the night

There seemed nothing he could do, no way to save himself. But then a miracle happened and gave him a distraction.

Behind Prestwicke the pigs screamed. The assassin looked up and away from Malden, just for a moment. It gave Malden a chance to glance down at the knives, laid out in careful order on their cloth. They were so close to his right foot, dim slivers of light in the dark.

He jerked out with his leg and kicked them away from him, sending them clattering down the alleyway.

Prestwicke growled in anger and punched Malden hard in the gut. Malden nearly vomited-the killer was far stronger than he looked.

“You dunce! Now I’ll have to go collect them. And they’ll be dirty!”

“Sssorry,” Malden managed to say, when he stopped wheezing.

“And these beasts, why won’t they be quiet? Don’t they understand a man is working here?” Prestwicke demanded. “The watch will be on us at any moment, and they’ll spoil everything. I’m of a mind to just strangle you now.” The assassin stared out at the street, and Malden saw beads of sweat had broken out on his chin. “But no. We’ll do this right. Next time I’ll do it right.”

The assassin stooped to grab Malden under the armpits. He hauled the thief upright onto his shoulders and carried him down the alley.

“Where?” Malden asked, deeply confused. Where are you taking me? he wanted to ask.

“I can’t let the watch find you, not now,” Prestwicke told him. “They would lock you away, and probably hang you. And I don’t share.”

Malden was too weak to resist as the assassin carried him far across the Smoke, well clear of the searching watchmen. Prestwicke seemed to have a real gift for evading pursuit-he ran mostly through dark alleys, but occasionally he had to cross a broad avenue, where even at this hour there were people abroad. Yet Malden would swear not a single eye fell on him and his captor as they hurried through the night. Whatever kind of man this Prestwicke was, he was even more gifted at clandestine work than he himself.

Eventually they came to an alley on the edge of the Stink, a dark way between two massive blocks of wattle-and-daub houses. Prestwicke dropped Malden on a pile of old rubbish-broken furniture and sticks of unidentifiable wood kept there to feed the hearth fires of the houses all around.

“I’ll be back for you tomorrow night, when the proper hour comes again,” Prestwicke said, staring down at him. In Malden’s dazed state the assassin seemed to be looming over him from a great height.

“Where… should we meet? I’d hate to miss such a- Oof.” Malden’s head felt as if it were full of rocks grinding together. “Such an important engagement.”

Prestwicke sneered at him. “Run where you like. I’ll find you wherever you go to ground. There’s nowhere in Ness you can hide from me.”

“That’s awfully… convenient,” Malden said. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open. “Since I-”

But Prestwicke had already gone. Malden didn’t see his would-be killer leave, but one moment Prestwicke was there and the next Malden was alone in the alley, save for the rats that nested in the woodpile.

A drizzling rain rolled down Croy’s best loden cloak the next morning as he finished loading the wagon. He tied down a leather cover over the various supplies inside: barrels of smoked fish, rolled-up tents and camp gear, jugs of beer and a pail of milk for Morget. Big coils of rope and mining gear-blocks and tackles, hooks and spikes, hammers and other tools-rounded out the load. The horses snorted in their traces, unhappy about being out in the wet, but they were good well-bred hackneys and would settle down once they were under way. The riding horses, a palfrey and a rounsey, were still under shelter in the stable behind him.

It felt good to Croy to get moving. It felt good to begin.

For far too long he had been a true knight errant-a warrior without a master, or any well-defined purpose. He’d been sworn to fight demons, but there were so few of them left now. He’d been sworn to defend the king, and then the Burgrave of Ness, but both of them had severed him from their service. A man like himself needed a reason to keep going, to stay strong.

Well, the Lady had provided that.

He knew nothing of this demon, not its capabilities or how great a danger it was to the world. Yet he was certain that it had to be destroyed, and that he was the man for the job. He, and Morget, of course.

The barbarian came down from the door of the inn stretching and stamping, looking well-rested and ready to get under way. “Starting in the rain’s a good omen,” he said, looking up into the clouds. He opened his mouth wide to catch the raindrops, then swished them about his teeth and spat into the mud. “Means it’ll be dry when we arrive.”

Croy laughed. All deep thoughts about duty and purpose fled his mind with the excitement of the journey’s commencement. “I hope you’re right. It does mean we’ll have to make a short day of it, and find some shelter before dark. It’s getting cold early this year.”

The barbarian went back inside to get a bundle that he dumped on the tailgate of the wagon. It clanked loudly as he shoved it in with the rest of the gear.

“Sounds like you’ve got half an arsenal in there,” Croy said.

“All that I need,” Morget told him, with a shrug. “A man with a proper axe can survive in the wild longer than a man with a hundredweight of food and no axe.”

Croy laughed. He was glad to have the barbarian along. Morget was right, too-the food in the wagon would only last just so long, and he imagined they would have to hunt before they reached their destination, if they didn’t want to starve.

Once everything was loaded they were ready to depart, and waited only on the two other members of their expedition. Slag the dwarf arrived first. Croy had been quite surprised when Slag had found him the night before and demanded to be included. Croy knew Slag only a little, through his connection to Malden, but from what he’d heard, the dwarf was an unlikely traveling companion. For one thing, all dwarves were known for their hatred of travel, even those who worked as ambassadors for their king and had to move from place to place all the time. And Slag was a city dwarf, accustomed to the refinements of Ness. By Malden’s account he’d been a fixture in the city for many years.

Slag had given little explanation for why he wanted to leave just now, or why he would want to go to the Vincularium, but Croy supposed little was needed. Dwarves had built the place, after all, though so long ago none alive could remember it, surely. Morget had been enthusiastic about allowing Slag to come along, saying that the dwarf would be useful in overcoming the Vincularium’s many traps and blind passages. An important addition to their crew since the thief had refused to accompany them. Croy had offered no real objection. After all, Slag was a friend of Malden. That was enough to vouch for the diminutive man right there.

“Well met, friend,” he said, and bowed to clap hands with the dwarf. “We ride today toward true adventure!”

“Picked a lousy fucking day for it,” the dwarf replied. Without another word he climbed up under the leather cover on the wagon and curled around a barrel. In a few moments he was snoring.

Morget and Croy exchanged a smile and went to get the horses. By the time they had them out of the stable, Cythera had arrived as well. Croy gave her a knowing look as she placed her own gear on the wagon. She was dressed in an old cloak with the hood up over her hair. It hid her eyes as well.

“Shall we get started?” she asked when Croy opened his mouth.

He had been about to give her a chance to change her mind, and remain in the city until he returned. Clearly she still intended to go.