David Chandler - Den of thieves

He finished the last of his bread and got up again. He headed up a side street, a narrow, winding passage between two closes, piles of houses built around tiny, stinking courtyards full of livestock. He heard voices from all around him, snatches of conversation dripping from every window thrown open to catch a breath of air. Hundreds of people lived in the closes, pressed into a space the size of a rich man’s parlor. Some of the houses were six stories high. Imagine, he thought, to every day go down to the river to fetch water and bring it back up all those stairs. He saw in his mind’s eye an endless course of pails, sloshing and losing a bit of their contents with every step they climbed, a river of water moving up and down inside those tall houses every day. And every pail needed a poor blighter to carry it.

He shook his head and hurried up the street. His own room was in the next block over, above a waxchandler’s shop. The shop turned out candles, whole barrels full of them every day made of beef tallow that stank when it burned or more expensive and reliable beeswax. His room stank always of paraffin, and the stairs leading to it were used to store extra spools of wicking and blocks of rancid tallow. Still, the room at the top of those stairs was warm all winter from the heat of the wax kettles underneath, and he didn’t have to share with anyone else. He headed up the exterior stairs to his door and lifted the latch, thinking only of his bed. It was a simple mattress stuffed with straw and sagging in a frame of ropes. He wondered if he would care enough to tighten them before he climbed inside. He wondered how long he would stay awake once his head touched the scratchy sheets.

He hurried inside and closed the shutters. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d slept through an afternoon, wishing to be rested for the night to come. Yes, just a few hours with his head down and then Thief. Hearken to me, thief.

The damned crown!

When he first touched it, it had spoken to him. During his escape from the dungeons it had mostly been quiet, but only because there was enough noise to drown out its voice. Now, when his room was still, when he was alone with his thoughts and his exhaustion, he could hear it whisper to him.

It never stopped.

Thief, I can help you. I can save you from all dangers. Simply listen to what I have to say. Thief! Listen to me!

Malden stormed over to the middle of the room, where he’d hidden the crown beneath the loose floorboards. He stamped on the spot, hard enough he thought he might stave in the boards and ruin his hiding place. Like a man pounding on the floor to tell his downstairs neighbors they are too loud.

I’ve seen what you desire, thief. And I can help you get it. I ask only one thing. Place me upon your head.

His stomping was of no use. The damned thing would be quiet just long enough to let him crawl into his bed. Then, before he could even close his eyes, it would speak again, inside his head where he could not block it out.

Thief, put me on. Place me on your head and I shall tell you secrets. Thief, I can tell you where treasure is buried. I can tell you how to make wealth out of thin air, how to acquire all the riches you desire. Thief! I can make you free!

The thing had hardly stopped talking since he stole it.

And much worse-he was starting to believe the things it said.

All he had to do was put it on his head. All he had to do was wear it for just a moment and it would tell him anything he wanted to know. It would tell him why Bikker and Cythera wanted it so badly. It would teach him all the secrets of the Burgrave.

And so much more, thief. I know the way to a woman’s heart. The witch’s daughter can be yours, thief. I can make her obey your every command. I can make her long for you until her body aches for your touch. Just put me on.

The crown wouldn’t let him get a wink of sleep. Long before dark he surrendered. Not to its suggestions, of course, but to the fact that he would go out again, as tired as he was, and find Bikker or Cythera immediately.

It couldn’t wait another hour.

Finding Bikker was easily enough done, for a man with the right connections.

Malden headed across the city again, this time taking the bridge that ran high over the Skrait to the Royal Ditch. He kept clear of the Goshawk Road there-that place was only for the sons of rich men, idle and carrying too much coin for their own good. They would have been an attraction for a man with his deft fingers if not so well-guarded. At every corner of the Goshawk Road armed men lounged, looking out for people like Malden. The guards, employed by the gambling houses and upscale brothels of the Road, would take him down an alley and beat him senseless without bothering to ask any questions first.

Besides, Malden’s destination was in a far more humble part of the Royal Ditch. A part of the city he knew very well. He should, since after all it was where he’d grown up. As he headed down Pokekirtle Lane, a few haggard whores leaned out of doorways to shout propositions at him, but he ignored them. Too drunk to recognize him, they let him pass without impugning his manhood too severely.

Malden had to knock on the door of the Lemon Garden for ten minutes before he was answered-and then only from a window on the second story. Elody, the madam of the house, leaned out into the dusk, her shoulders barely covered by a frayed silk shawl. She clucked her tongue down at him. “Sorry, love, we’re not open yet. Come back after dark.”

“Afraid a customer will see the pox sores on your rump if they aren’t hidden by darkness?” Malden asked.

Elody’s painted face turned dark with anger-until he stepped back away from the door so she could see him. Then a wide grin split her face, showing her missing teeth. “Malden! It’s been ages!”

It was true. It had been years since he’d returned to his childhood home.

Elody slammed the door shut, and he heard her racing down the stairs to get the door. She must have alerted the others inside to his presence, because half a dozen girls were squeezed in the portal when it opened, all of them giggling and simpering for him. He favored them with a warm smile, and a dozen soft hands pulled him inside and shut the door after him. The older “girls,” some of whom had worked alongside his mother, tousled his hair and poked him in the ribs to see if he’d gained any weight. The younger doxies reached for other parts of him, only to have their hands slapped away by Elody.

“He isn’t here for that,” she scolded, “you spavined sluts. Malden’s not a customer. He’s family. He could have girls younger and more talented than you for the price of asking but he never does.”

“Maybe he just hasn’t tried someone his own size yet,” a slender girl said.

“Or maybe he doesn’t like seafood,” one of the oldsters told her. “You might try washing it out after you use it all night.”

“Maybe he doesn’t like girls.”

“You do like girls, don’t you, Malden?”

“Don’t you like me?”

“Learn some manners!” Elody shrieked. “Mirain, fetch him some wine. Gerta-you get some pillows together, make him a pile to lie on. The rest of you go finish putting your faces on, it’s only an hour till we open. You don’t get paid for fawning over our boy! Malden, Malden, it’s good to clap eyes on you. How you’ve grown. Come in, come in!”

Elody was a madam who knew more of hospitality than any ostler. After all, she’d been entertaining men all her life. She let him take her plump arm and directed him into the courtyard garden that gave the house its name. A single withered lemon tree swayed there over piles of freshly strewn rushes. It was here the tupenny whores entertained their clients-the penny trulls (called penny uprights, sometimes) never bothered to lie down. In the rooms above, which had curtains instead of doors, wealthier clients might be entertained by girls who advertised themselves as virgins (unlikely) or by their varied specialties, which ranged a wide gamut.