David Chandler - Den of thieves

“And when that didn’t work out-when Croy got away-you came up with another scheme. You played him like a fish on a line, pretending to do everything in your power to find the crown. But Croy is a simple man and he doesn’t suspect treachery until it’s proven to him. I myself was nearly fooled by your performance in Cutbill’s lair. It seemed you really wanted to find the crown. Even when you sent your men to Hazoth’s home and had them search the place-even when they left empty-handed, we both thought you were just an overly officious bureaucrat. That you were hampered by rules and laws, and thus ineffectual. You’ve played this game well. I wasn’t entirely sure until I handed you the false crown last night. You acted as if it was talking to you-though we both know it was false. That was when I became certain. You didn’t want the crown back. Even while you made a good show of looking for it, in fact you were making sure nobody could get to it.”

“Very clever of you. Yes,” Vry admitted. “You have the gist of it.”

“I am still not certain why you did it, though,” Malden said. He lowered the crown farther. “What benefit will come to you? When Ommen walks out there and makes a fool of himself before the entire city-the repercussions will be dire. The people will realize they’re being ruled by a fool, and they won’t stand for it. They’ll riot in the streets-especially when you spur them on.”

“No one likes being hoodwinked,” Vry said when Malden paused. “The people of Ness have so much freedom, they love to gripe and grumble about the slightest stricture. If I show them their master is a half-wit, they’ll refuse to obey even his just laws. And when the violence does not stop, when the gutters run red with blood, the king will know that the Burgrave is incapable of running the city. He will surely revoke the city’s charter. Every man in Ness will lose his freedom.”

Malden shrugged. “Every man who does not own property,” he said, and let out more line. “Such as yourself.” The crown was barely six feet above the head of the Burgrave now. “But the free men of Ness are its heart’s blood. Their labor creates wealth. That was Juring Tarness’s brilliant idea-and it worked. It worked for eight hundred years. Free men will work to make something of themselves. What do you stand to gain when they are enslaved?”

“Power, obviously.” Anselm Vry reached up his hands to snatch at the crown. Malden jerked it away from him. Sighing deeply, Vry said, “You don’t understand anything. When the charter is revoked, this city will be plunged into chaos. The only force for law and order inside the walls will be me, and my men of the watch. It will be up to us to keep the city from erupting into mutiny. And when we do-when we suppress revolt, and reestablish the king’s rule here-how grateful do you think he’ll be? He will need someone to rule the city then. Obviously, he will choose me.”

“Thousands may die,” Malden said. “Shops will shut down, entire guilds will go out of business. The city you inherit will be half dead.”

“But it will be mine. To rule as I see fit-by fire and iron. No longer will I be constrained by the laws of the charter. No longer need I answer to the moothall and the guildmasters who control it. It will all be mine, and mine alone. The first year will be hard. There will be little money coming in and people will starve, yes. The second year they will pay me any price I ask for bread. They will accept much higher rates of taxation, in exchange for their lives. It’s a long game I’m playing. But in the end I am guaranteed to win.”

“I can see the appeal,” Malden said. “And I salute you.”

“Oh?”

“You’re far more crooked than any thief I know. You have my respect. Very well. Here’s what you wanted.” With a flick of his wrist, Malden sent the crown dancing through the air to come to rest on Ommen’s head. He cut the line that held it and collapsed his pole. “I wish you much joy of it.”

And then he laughed.

“Watchmen! Priests! Get in here now,” Vry shouted. Doors around the nave flew open and the summoned ones came flooding in.

Ommen Tarness straightened up, his posture improving instantly. “Hold,” he said, and everyone froze. There was something in his voice that commanded attention-and imposed his will on every listener. “I have heard enough,” he said.

Or rather, Juring Tarness said it.

Earlier-just at dawn-Gurrh the ogre had brought the leaden coffer to Swampwall, his home for so many years. He laid it down in the soft soil and then started bashing at it with his massive, hairy fists.

Eventually it came open. The true crown was inside, just as expected.

Malden had been there to see it emerge. Coruth the witch flew him through the air so he would not be late. He thanked Gurrh, who bowed deeply and then returned to his pipe. Then Malden approached the crown, his hands shaking it a little. He lifted it carefully and heard its voice begin to command him. Before he could be overcome, before it could make him put it on his own head, he shoved it into a burlap sack and slung it over his shoulder. Still, it continued to speak to him, made imprecations and promises and outright threats-until Malden explained to it what he had planned. Then at last, thankfully, the crown became quiet.

Later, when Malden drew the false crown to the dome of the chapel with Slag’s fishing pole, it was a simple matter to switch it with the true crown-the crown he had lowered once more onto Ommen’s head.

The transformation in the Burgrave was instantaneous. Juring Tarness resumed his control of his imbecilic descendant, and heard everything that was said within the chapel.

“You would depose me, Anselm?” Juring asked then. He looked down at the bailiff. Standing straight, he was many inches taller than his servant. “You would go to such lengths to take what is mine?”

“Milord,” Vry said, bowing low. “This was a tale, only, a fabrication spun to appease the thief when-”

“No more lies,” the Burgrave shouted. The priests and watchmen around him all drew back. Juring drew a jeweled dagger from his belt. It was one of his symbols of office, mostly for ornament’s sake. The blade was kept sharp, though, to represent the keen insight the Burgrave brought to his office. “Kneel,” he said.

Vry turned to face his watchmen. “The Burgrave is ensorcelled!” he cried. “Seize him-we must perform an exorcism at once. You, high priest, fetch the appropriate vestments and the holy thurible and-”

“I said, kneel,” the Burgrave said again. Neither watchmen nor priests moved from where they stood.

Vry tried to run. The Burgrave grabbed the back of his cloak and pushed him to the ground. Then he grabbed the bailiff’s hair and pulled his head back. “No more lies,” he said again. Then he pried the man’s jaw open and cut out his tongue.

Anselm Vry gasped and choked on his own blood. The noises he made were horrible. Even Malden flinched.

“Now,” Juring Tarness said when it was done, “someone bring me a rag. I don’t want this traitor’s blood on my hands when I lead the joyous procession of Ladymas. You, watchman-take this fool away. Lock him in my dungeon. We’ll give him a trial and see how well he speaks in his defense now. Then we’ll find some way to execute him more horrible than any we’ve tried before. Maybe we’ll force him to eat his own entrails. To swallow his own excrement, as it were.”

The captain of the watchmen did as he was told, with a bow, a salute, and no words at all. The priests cleaned the Burgrave’s hands and wiped off his dagger. While it was done, the Burgrave looked up into the dome.

“As for you, thief. Go and tell your master Cutbill that I would speak with him. Eventually. I have a long day ahead of me.”