David Chandler - Den of thieves

The second brush with the watch was more serious. They had arrived nearly at the edge of Ladypark Common, within sight of Hazoth’s villa and the house where Croy was staying-only to find the grassy sward crawling with watchmen. The two of them retreated to a tavern a few streets away, where they were able to find out why the common was so heavily guarded. It transpired that a footpad had murdered the footman of a money-changer there earlier in the evening. It had been a particularly bloody killing, and the watch was called down in droves to find evidence and look for the assassin.

“They won’t find him,” Cythera said, when she and Croy could speak privately again. “That was Bikker’s work.”

“Are you sure?” Croy asked, looking as if he would grab his swords and run out into the night to find the big swordsman.

“No,” she said. “I can’t prove anything. But he was supposed to set a number of diversions, all the better to keep the watch away from Castle Hill. I didn’t think he’d be so… expedient about it.”

Croy settled down then. In his personal book of accounts, Bikker already had enough crimes under his name. One more didn’t change how he felt.

They took a room at the tavern under assumed names and spent the night waiting for a knock on their door or the sound of hobnailed boots rushing down the hall. No one came to arrest them, though, or even to ask them difficult questions. When morning finally came it seemed they were safe. The patrols of the watch had diminished in size and frequency, and both of them began to breathe easier.

“I have to go back soon,” Cythera said as she led Croy through the Ladypark Market, a winding street of shops and stalls just uphill from Hazoth’s villa. Fishmongers wheeled their carts from door to door-this early, the day’s catch had not yet begun to stink-as linkboys hurried home to bed, to wait out the day until their services were again required. Minutes before, the two of them had had the place virtually to themselves, but now the city’s throngs closed around them. Bakers and brewers were already at their stations, of course, long before the dawn. With the sun, the market truly came to life, however, filling with women getting their daily shopping done.

Croy found himself strangely unwilling to give up the heightened emotion of their night outrunning the watch. As fraught as it had been with apprehension, he’d savored the time with his lady fair. He supposed, though, that every night, no matter its freight of sweetness or of terror, must end. The morning had broken crisp and clear while they were renewing their old acquaintance-he had longed for the sun to tarry beneath the horizon, but alas, every day must follow in its course.

“If I’m late,” Cythera said, “Hazoth will want to know why. And he has a method of discerning falsehoods.”

“One that works, even on you?” Croy asked. “I thought you were immune to sorcery. Is his too strong for your curse to bear?”

She smiled without mirth. “There is no sorcerer in this world who could break through my curse. But Hazoth, well… not every trick he pulls is by magic,” she told him. “He’s the cleverest man I’ve ever met.”

“Cleverer than me?” Croy asked with a hurt look.

“By far,” she said, and this time laughter creased the skin around her eyes. He was glad only that he could still bring her some small joy. There had been a time-a lifetime ago, it seemed-when he would cut capers and dance for her until she clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from guffawing like a fool. Now her aspect had changed for the morose.

“I didn’t want to leave, back then,” he said with sudden seriousness. “The Burgrave was my liege lord. When he ordered me away, I had no choice.”

She did not reply. Instead she ducked inside a bakery and emerged again a moment later with a round loaf. When she cracked it open, steam burst from the spongy brown bread inside.

“When was the last time you ate?” she asked. “You were always so busy dashing hither and yon, you would forget to feed yourself. Don’t pretend to me, now. I’ve learned some of my master’s art and will see it in your eye.”

“I suppose it’s been no more than a day,” he said, thinking of the almonds he’d eaten while he watched her go inside Hazoth’s house the day before. He had to admit the bread was making his mouth water. “Not here, though. Let’s break our fast properly.”

They found an inn that had just opened its doors, and for a piece of silver they were given a private room. The hostler looked askance at the shifting tattoos on Cythera’s face but said nothing, nor was he slow in bringing wine and a half wheel of cheese when they called for them.

“Sit. There,” she said, and pointed at a bench by the room’s sole table. Croy did as he was told. “Will you take a cup?” she asked, lifting the flagon.

“You don’t need to serve me,” Croy said, and took it from her hands. His fingers touched hers-only the lightest, gentlest of meetings, but enough to make her wince and nearly drop the wine. Croy made as if he hadn’t seen her fearful gesture. “You’re not my slave. Nor my wife. Yet.”

“Oh, Croy, dreams are fine things, aren’t they?” she said.

“Call it no dream. Say vision. Or prophecy.” He cut the bread and the cheese with his belt knife and handed her a slice of the former. She took it very carefully. He studied her face while she ate. The painted vines that curled around her cheekbones sprouted new leaves-and new thorns-while he watched. Around her throat they were as thick as a tangle of briars, with shadows deep and black between them. Once, he saw a pair of bestial eyes glowing in that darkness, but they winked out before he could meet their gaze.

He knew perfectly well what those images meant. Cythera’s mother-a woman of fierce demeanor and considerable power-had placed this enchantment on her, that Cythera would never be harmed by curse or spell. Such magic could never penetrate further than the top layer of her skin. Yet that arcane energy must go somewhere, and thus manifested itself as these fell images. The curses lingered on her skin until such time that any man tried to attack her physically-and then they would be released, like a shock jumping from an iron door latch to one’s finger in the winter, only with far more lethal results.

It was rare that a woman of Cythera’s character was the object of a truly vile curse, though. When Croy had met her-back when he was still employed as the Burgrave’s bodyguard-there was only a single tendril of curling vine then, and that disappeared up her sleeve. She might have gone a lifetime without acquiring much more in the way of images, had she not needed money. Penniless, with no skills to earn her keep, nor the willingness to prostitute herself, she had found employment where she could.

Hazoth had taken her into his service when she was still a girl. He made an amulet out of a lock of her hair, which extended the protection of her enchantment to himself. And a sorcerer like Hazoth attracted his fair share of curses-cast by his enemies, of which he had many. He compelled service from the demons of the pit. Such creatures liked not making such bargains, and once they were free of his influence, sent magic to destroy him, or to pull him down into the pit with them where they could torment him forever. Now Cythera bore the brunt of those curses. Since entering Hazoth’s service, her collection of tattoos had grown denser with each day.

Cythera’s skin crawled with magic, far too much for her to safely contain. Magic never stood still-it was pure action, pure energy, and it hated being bound or constrained. Her skin could hold an enormous magical potential but it had its limit, and once that maximum had been reached, the magic constantly sought to be discharged. The slightest jar, the most well-meaning touch, could release that magic instantly. If Croy grasped her hand in a fit of passion, if he crushed her lips with his own-it would be his end.