David Chandler - Den of thieves

One climber, however, had the brilliant idea to ascend the back of the chapel, where the guards weren’t watching. Of course, he was not one of the faithful overcome by religious zeal. He didn’t want to fall prostrate before the Lady’s altar, nor did he wish to break in and steal the cakes and sweetmeats loaded in the giant golden cornucopia inside either.

Malden clutched at a gargoyle and hoisted himself up to one of the clerestory windows high on the side of the church. The window had been cranked open to let in some air-this close to midsummer, it was already hot just two hours past dawn-so he slipped inside and hid himself in the holy images mounted around the chapel dome.

The acoustics of that place were such, and his senses so sharpened by nervous dread, that he could see and hear everything that took place in the nave below. A red velvet carpet had been unrolled from the altar all the way to the massive doors. Anselm Vry was down there, dressed in a cloak of state. It had the repeating eye motif of a watchman’s cloak, but was brocaded with silver wire. It looked very heavy. The Burgrave was there as well in full regalia, though his head was bare. They stood surrounded by a clutch of green-robed priests who prayed and wafted holy smoke around the Burgrave, while young acolytes went about lighting hundreds of candles and dozens of censers until the icons shone like the sun.

“I said, leave us!” Vry shouted.

“Milord bailiff,” one of the priests insisted, “this is a holy precinct, and your authority here is-”

Vry established that authority by drawing a long dagger and pointing it at the priest’s face. “The Burgrave is not well. I must administer his physic before the procession begins, and I will not have you watch me do so,” he said.

The priest had turned deathly pale when the knife came out. Now he nodded and gestured at his fellows and the acolytes. They streamed out of the nave quickly enough.

When Vry and the Burgrave were alone, the bailiff sheathed his dagger and then turned to look at the Burgrave with disdain. Ommen Tarness was weeping softly, a horrible sound well-amplified by the dome of the chapel. Up on his perch, Malden peered down with unsympathetic interest.

“I don’t want to wear it,” Ommen said, his voice thick with snot. “I won’t! I’m free, finally free. Anselm, I feel… smarter today. I feel like-like I’m waking up from a very long nap, and I’m still groggy, but I feel-”

Vry slapped the Burgrave hard across the face. Then he drew the crown from inside his silver cloak-of-eyes. “We discussed this. You will put on the crown. You will go out there and make your speech. I have an archer standing ready to cut you down if you start to babble. When you’re done speaking the words I gave you, I will emerge and announce that you have been ill and are no longer fit to serve as Burgrave. Then I will take you away from all this, and you’ll never have to wear the crown again.”

“You… promise?” the Burgrave asked. He sounded like a naive child being promised a candy if he was good during a court ceremony. “Never again?”

“Just this one last time. And anyway, this isn’t the crown you’re afraid of. This one doesn’t talk.” He lowered it over Ommen’s head, and the Burgrave bit his lip and mewled but didn’t stop him.

Ommen squeezed his eyes tight as the crown made contact with his scalp. After a moment, though, he opened his eyes wide in surprise. “You’re right! It’s lost its power. I’m still-still me!”

Vry smiled without humor. His expression changed drastically, however, when the crown lifted off Ommen Tarness’s head and started to float away.

Up in the dome, Malden reeled in his line. He held the hat-fishing pole that Slag had made, the one the dwarf meant to be used under the arch of the Royal Ditch. The line strained under the weight of the crown, but Malden brought it up quickly and soon held the crown in his hand. Or rather, the false crown. Slag had made it as well, out of lead coated in gilding metal. It looked very much like the real crown, and had been polished until it shone like gold, but under close scrutiny the cheapness of its manufacture was obvious. Malden had carried it with him throughout his sojourn into Hazoth’s villa. He had known that Vry would show up at the last minute and seize the crown, so he made sure he had something to give the bailiff.

“You! Up there! Thief!” Anselm Vry shouted, peering up into the dome. “That’s a funny jape you’ve made. Now give the damned thing back.”

“Or what, Anselm? You’ll have me killed?” Malden spoke at a normal conversational tone, but the dome amplified his voice until he was sure Vry could hear him. “If I give it back, will you let me live?”

“Give it back! Give it back! I like this one, it’s not as heavy,” Ommen cried.

Vry silenced him with another slap. “Thief, let’s be reasonable. We both know I can’t let you live. I can kill you now, though, quickly and almost painlessly. We can spare you the agony of torture and the embarrassment of being drawn and quartered in public. Surely you’d rather avoid that.”

Malden laughed. “Perhaps you’d be willing to fight for it. Of course, that’s not your style. All your men are outside. You even sent the priests away. You’d have to face me alone.”

“That’s not going to happen. I am curious to know, however, what you thought you could achieve here.”

“I’m going to save my life, and Cutbill’s as well.”

“So you think you can escape,” Vry said. “I suppose it’s possible. You could flee across the rooftops, while my men would have to push through the crowds to give chase. I’ll grant you might make it as far as the city’s walls. What would you do then? You’re no landowner. Once outside the gates, you would become a simple villein. A peasant. Little more than a slave. You would save your life but lose your freedom. I know your type, thief. You don’t want to spend the rest of your days laboring on a farm.”

“Hardly. All right, Vry. I’ll make you a deal. I think you’ll find it a bargain.” Malden swung the crown back out on the end of its line and started to lower it again. “I only wish to assuage my curiosity. Answer a few questions truthfully, and we’ll end this.”

Vry looked around him, as if to make sure no priests were hiding in the corners of the chapel, listening. “Very well.”

Malden unreeled a bit of line. The crown descended a dozen feet, then stopped with a jerk. He must be careful, he thought, not to let the line snap. “You were Bikker’s employer, weren’t you? The theft of the crown was your idea from the beginning.”

Vry’s face clouded with rage. “I’ll admit nothing under this duress, you-”

He stopped talking when Malden started reeling the line in again.

“Yes,” Vry said, balling his fists in anger. “Yes, it was me.”

Malden paid out a dozen more feet of line. “But not you alone. You formed a conspiracy of three to make this happen. I’m impressed, honestly. The chance of such a plot working out is inversely proportionate to how many people know of its existence. You did all this-you may still bring a city to its knees! — with only three people. You promised Hazoth safety for his services. You hired Bikker because as an Ancient Blade he was likely to notice there were more demons about than usual, and he might feel the need to stop you and Hazoth. When Croy returned to town you must have been very worried.”

“Sir Croy? Indeed. The Ancient Blades don’t have any more demons to fight, so they wander the land righting wrongs and helping people.” Vry sneered at the thought. “They’re always poking their noses in where they don’t belong, and since Croy technically outranks me in the peerage, I had to find a way to neutralize him. Juring always had a soft spot for that fool. It took real cunning on my part to have him banished-and then to force the Burgrave’s hand on his return, to enforce the penalty of execution.”