David Chandler - Den of thieves

“And here, now, I love you,” he told her.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, and for a moment he thought she would say it in return. Then she leaned her head against his chest. “Malden, you’re a thief. A man of property now, but still-a thief. You must understand-you have to understand-that people in the real world do what they must to survive. To make their lives better.”

“And that means you will stay with him,” Malden said.

“You have a strip of land unfit for human habitation. He has a castle. Servants and retainers. A title. My children will have all those things, too. Do you understand why that matters? Look at my life. Look what my parents gave me. Can you accept that I would do anything not to pass on that inheritance?”

Malden let her go. He strode to the far end of the balcony and looked uphill, toward the palace. All around him the city lay in its unalterable tiers, with the poorest people at the bottom and the rich up top. So it would ever be.

She started to go back inside, to the sickroom. He stopped her by calling her name.

“Do you love him?” he asked.

“What a silly question,” she said, and then went inside.

Cutbill made a single notation in his ledger, then crossed out two lines. “There,” he said. “You are now a journeyman in the guild, with all rights and privileges of that rank.” He glanced over the edge of his book at Malden. “There is, of course, the question of the money you owe Slag. And I expect you to start earning right away, to keep my good favor.”

And that was it. No thanks, no reward. Fair enough, Malden thought. He’d expected nothing more from Cutbill. He had caused a great deal of trouble for the man, but now he’d repaired the damage. They were even.

And he was in the guild. Croy’s deed had made him a man of property, and now he was a man of profession. He could start earning money for himself, having ransomed his place in Cutbill’s organization. He was beholden to no one, his own master. He was truly free.

“You may go,” Cutbill said. Then he held up one hand, rescinding that. He looked to one corner of the room, where a tapestry was shimmying as if blown by a wind Malden did not feel. “Wait. Use that door, over there.”

Malden looked at the indicated door and frowned a question, but Cutbill offered no explanation. Malden stepped through the door and closed it behind him. Beyond lay the spy room, where one could observe what happened inside Cutbill’s office without being seen.

Malden bent his eye to the spy hole and watched as a tall man wrapped in a plain brown cloak walked over to Cutbill’s desk. The newcomer sat down behind the desk as if he owned the place, then pulled back his hood.

It was the Burgrave. He wore his golden crown and his eyes were very sharp. What was he doing there, unaccompanied?

“Milord,” Cutbill said.

The Burgrave was silent for a while. Then he said, “It seems I am once again in your debt. I don’t like owing you things, thief.”

“Then allow me to say that the debt is all mine,” Cutbill responded. “You permit me to exist, and to carry out my operations. If those operations are occasionally to your benefit, I consider it my honor to serve so great a man.”

“Honeyed words never sound right in your mouth.” The Burgrave got up from the desk and stormed around the room. “I never doubted Anselm Vry. I always thought he was a clerk, and nothing more. Someone gifted with moving numbers around on a page, but wholly incapable of treachery.”

“You make him sound like me, milord,” Cutbill suggested. He continued to work at his notations.

“Hardly. You-I’ve never trusted you. But you saved me from a rather unpleasant fate, and you’ll have a reward.”

“Many thanks. Tell me, milord, have you decided what to do with the two heroes of the day? I speak of Sir Croy and of Malden.”

The Burgrave shrugged. “Croy proved his loyalty well enough. I don’t suppose I’ll make an issue of him. I’ll leave his banishment intact but not enforce it. That way, if he crosses me again I’ll have legal standing to hang him. Who is Malden?”

In the spy room, Malden cringed. He rather wished Cutbill hadn’t used his name at all-it could only lead to trouble.

“The thief who stole the crown. And returned it. One of mine, though he was not acting under my orders in the first instance.”

“Oh,” the Burgrave said. “Well, he’ll have to be killed, of course.”

Malden nearly cried out.

“He knows my secret. I can’t have that.”

“Indeed.” Cutbill made another notation. “Understandable. Though

…”

“What is it?”

Cutbill looked up from his ledger. “You said you would grant me a reward.”

“Yes, yes. Gold, jewels, what will you have? It can’t be anything official, of course. Nothing on paper.”

“Malden’s life. Spare it.”

Malden’s jaw fell open.

“Oh, come now! What do you care about one thief? You have dozens. Many more circumspect ones, at that. This one nearly got you killed.”

“But he didn’t. He proved far cleverer than he should have been.”

The Burgrave let out a curt laugh. “Enough reason I’d think you’d want him dead. Don’t tell me you’re getting sentimental, Cutbill. I admit, I’d like to let him live myself, but reality is often unfair. You know that all too well.”

“Do not mistake me. I don’t ask out of a sense of justice. I have none. I ask because he could be an excellent earner, if I keep him under my thumb. He could make me quite a bit of money in the long run.”

The Burgrave studied Cutbill shrewdly. “You’ll keep him quiet?”

“I’ll sew his mouth shut if he threatens to speak out of turn.”

“Very well, then.” Then the Burgrave left the room, shaking his head in disbelief. He headed through the door that led back up to the Stink.

When he was gone, Malden stepped out of the spy room.

“I don’t know what to say,” he said, staring at Cutbill in gratitude.

“Say only that I won’t regret this,” Cutbill told him. “Now. You may go. Don’t come back until you have some money for me.”

Malden nodded and headed out, into the city that was his home.

Acknowledgments

I didn’t think you would ever see this book. I wrote it for myself, for therapy, for fun. I wrote it intending to put it in a desk drawer (well, the back of my hard drive) and forget about it. Nobody else was ever supposed to see it, but Alex Lencicki stood outside my cave shouting insults and dire threats until I threw some pages at him to make him go away. After that it was out of my hands. Russell Galen saw it next, and he beat me over the head with a club until I let go of the manuscript. Diana Gill and Will Hinton took it from there and made it into something better, something I’m proud to show the world. Without these people it could never have happened, and I’m very grateful.