David Chandler - A thief in the night

“Now this is more to my liking,” Malden said, and called for food. What came to the table was pottage again, but a bit of bacon had been stirred into the bowls to give the stew a measure of flavor. He downed his bowl in a hurry and ordered another, as well as more ale.

It might, after all, be the last meal he shared with the dwarf and the knight. It might be the last time he ever saw Cythera. He intended to get drunk.

Croy went to bed early. Cythera stayed long enough to watch a band of musicians strike up their first song. The music was as rustic as the instruments-a shawm, an old plucked dulcimer, and a fiddle-but boisterous and full of life, and the songs retained their traditional, and therefore mildly obscene, lyrics. Malden found himself slapping the table in time, and even Slag nodded his head to the rhythm.

When the first song ended, to much cheering, Cythera rose from the table and took her leave. “If I stay, I’ll be dancing before long, and shan’t sleep at all,” she told them.

Malden nearly fell over his chair as he jumped to his feet. “Pleasant dreams, dear lady,” he said.

She looked quizzically into his eyes for a moment, but when he added nothing more she nodded to Slag and headed back to her private room.

“You haven’t an arsehole’s chance with that one,” Slag said when Malden sat back down. “What woman would trade a knight for a thief? Unless human women are so different from the dwarven kind.”

Malden shook his head. “Some of them, perhaps. Slag, tell me, does Cutbill have an agent inside Helstrow?”

“If he does, he never told me,” the dwarf replied. “You think I’m privy to his secrets? And why do you even ask?”

“A wise man would never set foot inside the Vincularium. A wise man would run now, while he still had the chance. Oh, I know you have your reasons for going onward with this crew,” Malden said. “Even if you won’t share them. Probably a hoard of dwarf gold hidden in there somewhere, left behind an age ago.”

Slag’s face refused to show any emotion. Which told Malden he’d come close to the mark, at least.

“Yet,” the thief went on, “I’m more likely to die than get rich if I go. I had considered the possibility of making my own way from here.”

“You mean to run off without a word of explanation, is what you’re saying,” Slag said.

“I’ll head for Helstrow and find my fortune there,” Malden whispered. “Better a live thief than a dead hero, no?”

“Well, if you do go,” the dwarf said, and pursed his lips as if he’d bitten into a lime, “good luck go with you, son.”

“There. It’s not so hard to wish a man fortune, is it? I know curses are easier for you, so I’ll ask no further benediction.” Malden rose unsteadily from the table. He should have taken his time with that fourth pint of ale, he thought.

“You’re going right now?” Slag asked.

“No, no, no, no,” Malden said. “Just outside. For a piss.”

The dwarf looked like he didn’t believe this, but it was true. Malden was in no shape to walk a dozen miles that night, not without some sleep. If he did run off, he would do it just before the dawn.

He stepped out into the cold night air, leaving the music and the fire behind him, and wandered down the dooryard of the milehouse toward the privy. Overhead an army of stars marched across a perfect dark blue sky.

Malden had built a kind of life for himself in Ness. He could do it again in Helstrow, he was sure of it. The decision would be easy, if not for But he did not finish that thought. Just as he was about to take down his hose, he heard a sudden sharp crack behind him. He jumped in the air and spun around.

Standing behind him was a man dressed in a heavy cloak with a hood that masked his features. He had a white stick in his hand, which he slapped against the wall of the milehouse. “Going somewhere?” he asked.

“You,” Malden said. “I’ve seen you before. Back up the road a ways. You’re-”

“I’m the man no mischievous little peasant ever wants to meet,” the man said. Malden was sure he knew the man now, even if his face couldn’t be seen. This was the shire reeve he’d seen back at the last milehouse. The one who’d sized him up like a horse he wanted to buy. “I work this road looking for runaways. Most don’t give me such exercise as you.” He swept back his cloak and Malden saw a long-handled hammer dangling from his belt. “You’re looking at a beating, no matter what. But you can save yourself from being hobbled if you play nice.”

Hobbling. The very word made Malden’s blood freeze. It was too gentle-sounding a word considering what it meant-leg-breaking was perhaps more precise. It was the traditional punishment for villeins who ran away too many times from their farms.

Malden licked his lips in fear. “I have no idea what you think I’ve done, but-”

“Your master sent me to bring you home, boy.”

“Master? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Malden said. “I’m a citizen of Ness, a free man. I’m traveling with a knight of the realm, Sir Croy. He’ll vouch for me if we just go inside and rouse him.”

The shire reeve chuckled. “You’ve got a silver tongue in your mouth, I’ll give you that. Most folk I catch can barely mumble the king’s speech. That must have helped you trick yon bunch into letting you ride on their wagon. Did you tell them all that guff about being a citizen? Do you think they really believed you? Look at you, son. You’re as thin as a switch, and near short as a dwarf. You’ve got the look all over you of one born poor. You can put on fancy city clothes if you like, too, yet it don’t make you a gentleman.”

Malden glanced to the left and the right, looking for a good escape route. Unfortunately none presented itself. The privy stood well off from the main building, and he doubted he could outrun the shire reeve. Yet if he could just get inside the milehouse, he knew he could wake the others and they would explain everything. If he could “Hold,” he said, thinking of something. “You say my master sent you? Pray tell, what was his name?”

“I should think you’d know that yourself,” the shire reeve said. “Prestwicke. His name is Prestwicke. He sent me word of your description, and coin to pay for your capture in advance. When I spied you last night I sent a message back. He’ll be here tomorrow to collect you-whether or not you can walk then.”

At the sound of the name Malden’s heart raced. He’d come all this way to get away from Prestwicke, but it seemed the assassin wasn’t going to give up that easily. He had no choice now but to escape. If Prestwicke came for him, he knew the bastard would never let him get away again. “Very well,” he forced himself to say. “I’ll go quietly. Just let me do one thing first.”

“Come now, what could you possibly hope to achieve by-”

“This,” Malden said. He drew his bodkin from his belt in one quick motion and flicked it toward the shire reeve’s face. It was no throwing knife-it had no edge, just a poorly sharpened point-and he knew better than to think it would actually hurt the man. The shire reeve didn’t know that, however, and as Malden had expected he flinched and took a step backward as the tiny knife flew past his ear.

It was just enough to ruin his balance. Malden rushed toward him with one shoulder down and caught him in the midriff, knocking him off his feet. He didn’t stop to admire his handiwork but kept running, across the road and into the field of wheat on the far side. Behind him he heard yelling but he didn’t bother listening too closely-he could guess what the shire reeve was shouting about.

The stalks of wheat, pale in the moonlight, bowed and bent aside as Malden hurtled through them. He would run a dozen yards and no more into the field then double back, he figured, and race for the door of the milehouse. Hopefully the shire reeve would get lost in the wheat while trying to stop him. Hopefully A sharp pain exploded across Malden’s buttocks. He was lucky he’d been doubled over, trying to keep his head down below the level of the wheat. If the hammer had taken him in the back it might have broken his spine. It was one of the worst blows he’d ever taken, and it sent him sprawling in the mud. His breath burst out of him and his hands grabbed at the yielding wheat as he tried to scrabble back up to his feet.