David Chandler - Den of thieves

Malden couldn’t breathe. He tried to speak but no words would come. Unable to bear his own weight, he sat down on the edge of Cutbill’s desk.

“In your own time, of course,” Cutbill said without looking up.

Malden drew his bodkin and held it before him.

He could-he could kill Cutbill, now. He could strike the guildmaster down. There was no one in the common room to come to Cutbill’s defense. He could kill the man, and then run-and run-and And yet, he didn’t do it. Cutbill must have considered the possibility when he ordered him to self-slaughter. There must be good reason for Cutbill not to fear his blow. Perhaps… perhaps Cutbill had some defense that was not immediately apparent. A charm against blades. A spell up his sleeves. Or a cunningly hidden archer, ready to pierce him through with an arrow at the first sign of violence.

Yes, that was exactly the sort of thing Cutbill would have.

Malden lowered his weapon.

“You,” Cutbill said, “have achieved something Vry could never do. You have single-handedly destroyed my organization. All by making one phenomenally poor choice. You chose not to tell me what you were going to steal.”

“I–I didn’t wish to implicate you, or the guild,” Malden protested. “Already that has paid dividends-the shewstone found no lies in your heart. And now Vry has no proof I was working on your behest.”

“Proof? Proof is for the rich. When a man of property must be taken to court, and tried by his peers, then proof is required.” Cutbill glanced up at Malden for the first time. “When the bailiff comes for me the next time, there will be no trial. He will have my name because he will torture enough people until one of them names me merely to make the pain stop. And then he will do as he promised.”

“He only has seven days, though. He won’t be able to find the crown in that time.”

“Everyone knows that perfectly well. That will not stop Vry from destroying me.”

“I know where it is,” Malden said. “Right now. Or at least, who has it.”

“That would be useful information. Too bad a dead man can’t provide it.”

“But you could simply tell Vry where it is, and-”

“That would change nothing. No.” Cutbill laid down his pen and tilted his head back as if his neck was tired from stooping over the lectern for so long. “That would only speed the process. The only chance, the only possibility of a chance of resolving this in my favor, is if I could somehow recover the crown myself. If I could bring it to the Burgrave before Ladymas. He and I already have an understanding. He could chain Vry like the dog he is. But of course, I can’t get the crown, now can I? It is in hands I dare not snatch at.”

Malden shook his head. He knew exactly where this was going. Cutbill wanted him to come to the conclusion on his own, however. He, Malden, would have to regain what he had already sold. It would be his only chance to save his life. “Let me do it. Let me go to Ha-”

Cutbill clucked his tongue.

“-to the man who has it,” Malden said, glancing at the corners of the room, knowing Cutbill did not wish to hear Hazoth’s name spoken aloud, but unsure who might be listening. “I’ll buy it back. Or trick him out of it.”

“Quite unlikely,” Cutbill said.

“Permit me to try,” Malden pleaded. What choice did he have?

“Very well,” Cutbill said. “Do what you can. Let us be clear, though. Should you fail, I will be killed.”

“I know that,” Malden said. “I heard-”

“I will be taken to the dungeon, and tortured, and then hanged. Perhaps drawn and quartered. That will take a few days. During that time, while I yet live, I will still be able to contact my remaining thieves. At least a few of them will remain loyal to me. They will ensure one thing: the moment I perish, your throat will be slit from ear to ear. If you fail, Malden, we will both die.”

“And if I succeed-you must grant me a reward,” Malden said.

“Oh? Must I? Tell me, what is your heart’s desire?” Cutbill rejoined.

Malden swallowed the lump in his throat. “My life, of course. And reinstatement in your books.”

“I suppose you can’t have one without the other. Go, Malden. You don’t have much time, so you’d better get started now.”

“I promise you I will-”

“Leave me,” Cutbill repeated.

Malden fled.

Sir Croy had been raised to be a knight, to be a champion on the battlefield, a slayer of demons, a devout and pious man. He had been trained from birth to command companies of men-at-arms and ride fiery-tempered warhorses.

That night he was called upon for quite a different kind of duty. His patron, the rich merchant who was hiding him from the law, insisted that he attend a dinner party as a guest of honor. He was to be put on display for the merchant’s guests, a symbol to prove the merchant’s largesse and power.

It was the only thing the merchant had asked for in way of payment for his kindness. Croy could not say no. Had a legion of demons erupted from a crack in the world at that particular moment, however, he would never have been happier to smell brimstone on the air.

“They say the Burgrave has taken ill-did you hear that, Croy? Mayhap he was hurt when the tower came down.”

Croy turned to the woman on his left, who had addressed him. She wore a wimple and a ridiculous pointed hat, perhaps to draw attention away from the unfashionable roundness of her face. He could not remember her name. She was the wife of a rich merchant-a dealer in silks? Or maybe it was furs. He only knew that she had been trying to get his attention all night, and when she spoke to him she ran the toe of her slipper up his calf, under the table. Politeness demanded he ignore it. He saw that her cup was nearly empty and he refilled it from the flagon of good wine that sat before him on the table.

“I haven’t been much for the news, of late,” he apologized.

“The Burgrave didn’t appear at the courts of law today,” she went on, as if he’d said nothing. As a dish of roasted larks went past she speared one with her knife and dropped it on her plate. It was the seventh or eighth course-there were dozens more to come, small dishes brought out each as they finished cooking, as was the style at this sort of banquet. When the larks were offered to him next, Croy waved them away. He wasn’t hungry. “I was there. There was a very interesting case waiting to be heard-a man had killed his wife. He said she had been inconstant, which normally would have been the end of it, but the witnesses said she was pregnant, which complicates things. I like to go to the courts of law some days. I like to look at all the men in the dock, they’re so… desperate. So wild. I feel a little thrill whenever they gnash their teeth and demand their innocence.”

As she prattled on he nodded politely. He’d been trained in how to attend such meals, and knew which salt cellar to use, and when it was permitted to belch, and how to keep his fingers from getting too greasy. One couldn’t be a knight and not be versed in polite manners. He had never enjoyed any meal that took half the day, however, and his legs were falling asleep from sitting in one chair for so long.

And his thoughts, of course, were elsewhere. He kept seeing the face of that thief again, the one he’d followed from the Ladypark up into the Stink. Malden, his name was. Cythera had been waiting for him in her boat, Croy recalled, when he had jumped from the wall of Castle Hill. What possible business could that sort have with Cythera? He needed to find out.

“Sometimes I imagine I’m a magistrate, and as the condemned men kneel before me and ask for clemency, I- Oh. Oh, I do beg your pardon,” the merchant’s wife said. She had gone quite pale.