David Chandler - A thief in the night

“Perish the thought,” Malden said. He scowled into the middle distance. “I can’t imagine a more boring possibility.”

“Hmm.” It was as good as a belly laugh, coming from Cutbill. It seemed the man was pleased with his work. Well, that was something.

Once upon a time Malden had hated Cutbill with a passion. The old man had blackmailed him into coming into the guild, just as Malden had browbeaten the three thieves that night. But rather than just welcoming him in with open arms, Cutbill had exacted a ridiculous payment for the right to work as a thief in Ness. A hundred and one gold royals-a vast fortune-to be paid before Malden could earn a single copper for himself. He’d made that payment, though nearly died in the process. Other people had died, though no one the world would miss. Once the price was paid, Malden had believed he would go on hating Cutbill for what he’d been put through. He’d been convinced he would spend the rest of his life looking for a way to put the man in his place.

And yet over the months that followed, something strange had happened. He actually came to respect the guildmaster of thieves. He would never go so far as to say he liked the man. Yet as he had watched Cutbill plot from his tiny office in the Ashes (as far as Malden knew, Cutbill never left the room), he began to see something of the man’s brilliance. The way he played the various factions of the city off one another. The way he kept his people out of harm’s way, and his thieves’ necks out of the noose. Cutbill could be a vicious schemer, and he was not above having people killed if they got in his way. Malden imagined the man had not a single moral compulsion in his slender skull. Yet by operating in such a ruthless fashion, Cutbill managed to save lives, to put money in pockets that had been empty, and to ameliorate some small portion of the city’s misery. It was almost enough to make Malden think the guildmaster had a heart after all.

Cutbill gestured at the night’s takings. “You may take your cut from the bag. I don’t need to count it.”

Malden stood up straight. That was a level of trust he’d never anticipated from Cutbill. He reached into the sack of coins and took out twenty small gold gravines. One part in ten of all he’d earned-the going rate.

“Just write me a receipt, if you’d be so kind,” Cutbill said. He put his pen down for a moment and actually looked up. “You know, Malden, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something. I’m worried about you.”

In the middle of scribbling his receipt on the desk, Malden managed to misspell his own name.

“You… are?” he asked, trying not to sound too surprised.

Cutbill frowned. “You’ve been taking on these protection and recruitment assignments more and more often. I might begin to suspect you were looking to move up in the organization, if I didn’t know you better. This sort of work is hardly fit to your temperament. You’re a housebreaker, not a kneebreaker. Blackmail and extortion are foreign to your character-if you take a coin from a man’s pocket, it seems to actually pain you to smile at him afterward. It’s one of the things I like about you. You’re the most honest thief I know.”

“I didn’t know you took such a personal interest,” Malden said. In truth, he found it rather disturbing.

“Do not give me too much credit,” Cutbill said. “A happy worker is a good earner, that’s all. I like to keep my people happy when I can. So I would like to know-why do you keep taking assignments you must hate?”

“For the money, of course. They pay so much better.”

Cutbill picked up his pen and looked down at his ledger. The time for concern and caring, apparently, was over. But then he surprised Malden again. He nodded vigorously, though he didn’t seem convinced. “I’m all for uncomplicated cupidity, of course. Greed is a wonderful motivator. But would you indulge me and answer one more question? What is it that you plan to buy with all that money?”

“A house,” Malden admitted. “A fit place for a fine lady.”

“Indeed? Malden the thief looks to marry? Fascinating,” Cutbill said, and wrote a number down in his ledger, as if he’d taken the empirical measure of Malden’s heart. “Does this most fortunate creature have a name?”

“Cythera should be here by now,” Sir Croy said, and paced across the floorboards for the hundredth time. “And Coruth-where is Coruth?”

Sir Croy was a knight of the realm, a man of action. He’d spent his life fighting demons and sorcerers, defending the weak and protecting his king from danger. He had faced down deadly monsters and desperate enemies and never quailed in the face of certain death.

Today he felt like every nerve in his body was twanging with panic. He felt faint, and flushed, and like he might be sick.

He stared over at Malden, who stood at the side of the hearth, leaning on the mantel. Tapping his foot on the floor in impatience.

“I beg you,” Croy said, as his stomach flopped about in his midsection, “stop that tapping! I swear, Malden, you seem more nervous than I feel right now.”

The thief’s eyes went wide, as if he’d been caught cheating at cards. He licked his lips and said, “Do I?”

“If someone walked in right now, they wouldn’t know which of us was getting married today,” Croy said. He laughed to cover up his distress. “Just-be calm, will you? It would help me.”

Malden’s face froze, his expression unreadable. Then he smiled, though it seemed he had to force himself. His foot stopped its infernal tapping and he laughed at Croy’s joke. “You’re right, of course. I have no reason to be nervous. I suppose I was simply agitated in sympathy with your plight. But please, Croy. Be at ease.”

Might as well ask a goblin to be pious, Croy thought. He went to the window for the hundredth time, then back to the hearth. “Is she late? Perhaps she’s not coming at all,” he said. There was something strangely appealing about the idea. If she didn’t come-if she had been detained by some small accident, something harmless but which required her attention, then he wouldn’t have to stand here feeling like a newly anointed page facing his first sparring match. But if she didn’t come-if she didn’t come-what would that mean? Would it mean she’d stopped loving him? Would it mean she had broken her pledge to him?

Why wasn’t she there already? Didn’t she know how important this was to him? He felt that if she didn’t come he would die on the spot.

“You spent ten years wooing her,” Malden said, favoring Croy with a knowing smile. “A few minutes more won’t erase that.”

“Of course. Of course you’re right,” Croy said. Good counsel-he knew it as soon as he heard it. Malden had a way of seeing things, of putting things in perspective. It was one of the things Croy valued in him.

It was more than a trace unusual that a knight of the king and a common thief would share this bond of friendship. Scant months earlier, Croy would never have associated with his sort. Yet the two of them had been through so much together, there was no one else Croy wanted standing beside him this day.

They were alone in a private room above a tavern. The room had been rented for the full afternoon and made cheery for the occasion. A fire had been lit in the hearth, though autumn was still young and there was only a hint of chill in the air. A table had been set out with wine and meats and bread and cheese. Strings of flowers hung from the walls, bright and colorful in the dusty light that streamed in through the open window.

Also on the table was a rolled up parchment, a pot of ink, and two quill pens already cut and ready for use. The parchment was a copy of the banns of marriage, and once Cythera signed it, Croy’s life would change forever. She had only to step up to the table, lift her pen, and Croy jumped when he heard someone shout in the room below. Just a man calling for ale, he told himself. The common room of the tavern, just down the stairs, was full of men drinking and gambling, two of the most common labors in the Free City of Ness. They made far more noise than Croy had expected. He’d wanted this room to be perfect, this room where all his dreams were set to come true. He’d wanted everything to be… perfect.