David Chandler - Den of thieves

“That knife-his aim was deadly serious,” Malden said. He wondered if his face showed as much shock as he felt. “Yet there’s no drop of blood on you.”

Kemper laughed. “Here, shake me hand an’ see why.” He held out a callused and scarred hand, and Malden reached to take it.

It could not be done, however. Malden’s hand passed right through Kemper’s as though it weren’t there. He felt nothing more than a cold clamminess, as if he’d tried to hold a wisp of fog. He gasped and grabbed at the man’s arms and then his hair, unbelieving. He could not touch the man at all. He might as well try to grapple with his own reflection in a mirror.

“You’re-a ghost,” Malden said.

“A livin’ ghost,” Kemper agreed. “Which’s the saddest contrary I ken.”

Kemper drew too many stares after that to allow any comfort in the tavern. He gathered up his cards and his drinking reed-and of course the pile of coins scattered across the floor-and the two of them headed out into the streets, bound on a wild carouse. Perhaps just to spite those who glared, Kemper handed Malden his things and walked right through the closed door, which rose more than a few startled gasps. Malden bowed deeply to the astonished patrons and then walked right into the door himself, smacking his face on its wooden boards. Perhaps his three cups of ale had more of an effect than he thought.

Without looking back he opened the door and stepped out into the road. Kemper was waiting for him, whistling random notes that never quite added up to a song.

“It’s good to see ye, son, it surely is. ’Tis always a pleasure t’have such company as one can speak plainly to, and not have t’worry ’bout keepin’ secrets and bein’ circumspect. I’ll just have those,” Kemper said, and took his things back. The reed and the coins went into his tunic, but he kept the cards in his hand and riffled them as he walked.

“How is it you can hold those cards, when you cannot hold a tankard?” Malden asked. He had already worked out that the reed was necessary as Kemper’s hand would pass unheeding through any drinking vessel he tried to pick up.

“Well, now,” Kemper said, coming to a stop and lifting his chin like an orator. “The curse on me’s a strong ’un, yet a mite imperfect, if ye catch me meaning. If I concentrate hard ’nough on it somewhat, I can grip it. With long practice, I can hold just about anythin’. Like me reed, and me cards, which I’ve had since afore ye first soiled yer bedclothes in the night. I’ve mastered sittin’ in a chair, and lyin’ abed, an’ food an’ drink are available t’me. Seems the wizard what did this wanted me livin’, and not allowed the peace o’ death. I’ve not touched a woman, nor e’en changed me clothes, since the day ’twas done.”

“It’s a pitiable condition,” Malden sympathized.

“Yet not without its consolations, y’know, for a gentleman of fortune like me an’ yerself. It’s a rare gaol that can hold me, an’ I can carry coins, if they’re silver. As ye see.” He flashed a coin between his fingers and twirled it for Malden.

“Only silver?”

“None as is livin’ can say why, I reckon. Yet silver’s a metal no magic e’er touches, y’see?”

“I’m not sure I follow,” Malden admitted.

The card sharp sighed. “Some virtue o’ the metal, some property arcane, or mayhap a fault in the way magic’s woven, who knows? Yet ’tis a fact. Silver’ll cut through any spell, and no curse works ’gainst it. So even if I’m t’be punished for me sins, still I can clutch silver coins.”

“Ah! Hence the silver chains-in the Burgrave’s dungeon,” Malden recalled. “I wondered why they would use such precious rope to tie you.”

“Aye, lad. Only silver can hold me, and most places’re too poor to afford so much as a silver bootlace. Ye can imagine the advantages this offers t’ a man o’ my profession.”

“And when you disappeared-I thought you had run up the dungeon stairs, but instead you must have just walked out through the walls.” Malden shook his head in wonder. “Yes, I can see how that would be advantageous.”

“Yer a smart lad, I can see,” Kemper said. “ ’Tweren’t easy, I don’t mind tellin’ ye. I had to walk through solid rock, aye, for what felt like leagues. Never really got a feelin’ for that. Ye’re blind as a bat the whole time, and wond’rin’ whether ye’ll come out sixty feet up over the Skrait.” The card sharp reeled a bit as he walked-clearly he’d been drinking himself and wasn’t quite sober. “Or, or, and this’d be worse, that ye’ll just keep walkin’, goin’ deeper and deeper into the world till ye come out again in the pit itself, with ugly old Sadu starin’ up at ye with them fiery eyes of his. I always figgered if’n that happened, I give him a proper salute, like, and walk right past like unto I owned the place. Confidence, confidence is key in our game. Hold up. Hold up, lad, I’m goin’ to piss.”

Malden stood at a corner and waited until the card sharp was finished. He had to admit a certain curiosity-would Kemper’s water be as immaterial as his body? He thought it impolite to ask, though.

“How d’you like the look o’ this place? Think they’d take kindly t’gamin’ inside?”

Malden looked up and saw that they had come to the door of another tavern. Such were not infrequently found in the Stink. He knew this one by its sign, which depicted an ogre’s severed head. “It’s where the local priest of the Lady comes to drink,” he said, shaking his head doubtfully. “Good honest folk come here.”

“Me favorite kind,” Kemper said with a smile. “Them’s as honest themselves never cease to doubt the honesty o’ their fellows. And if ye know a man don’t trust ye, ye know how to gull him, right enough.” He gestured for Malden to open the door for him.

There was much ale that followed, with Kemper graciously picking up the bill from his winnings. The night devolved from a continuous narrative into a series of isolated incidents, separated by muddy stretches Malden would not remember clearly in the morning. There was a lot of singing, he knew, and he was encouraged to add his own voice, which was untutored. There was a great deal of gambling, at which Kemper proved more than lucky.

Sometime during the night he confided in Malden his great secret for winning. “Now y’see these cards, they’re not marked at all, perish the thought,” he whispered as they crossed the river Skrait by the Turnhill Bridge. “ ’Tis as I said-if a man doesn’t trust ye, ye can take advantage. They expect me to cheat, y’see. They expect marked cards. I’ve seen marked cards afore, so cleverly done you’d think ’twould take a dwarf to find the spots. Yet always, always some clever fella’s goin’ to find ’em, for he’s lookin’ for ’em. ’Tis only a matter o’ time afore he sees how it’s done. An’ then the jig is up, ain’t it! Nay, me secret’s simpler. Y’see how grimy they got, with greasy fingers holdin’ ’em these many years, and general wear. I don’t need ’em marked by now! Ha, lad, smell this.”

Malden recoiled as the cursed card sharp shoved the ten of bells toward his face. He did have to admit it had a certain aroma of unwashed clothing.

“It’s fouled,” Malden said.

“Hardly! Smells like me armpit, aye, don’t it? An’ when any man holds that card, why, I can smell it ’cross the table. An’ each of ’em’s got their own partick-uler odor, don’t it? Why, with me discriminatin’ nostrils I can tell ye’ve got a high card, or a low. From long use and practice I know these cards a fair sight better than the back o’ my hands, in troth.”

“Brilliant, simply brilliant,” Malden laughed, for by that point he’d reached the point where everything seemed admirable, the world was a lovely place, and death was never farther away.