David Chandler - Den of thieves

The night provided all manner of diversions. At one point they were chased by the watch, but escaped easily-Malden by ducking into a shadowy alley that was mostly used as a privy, Kemper by simply walking through a wall.

They were ejected, sometimes by force, from any number of drinking establishments. On one such occasion it was because Kemper had grabbed at the buttocks of a passing serving wench. His hand went right through her skirt, of course, but she felt something. Her face had gone quite white and she dropped her tray and then whirled around in bitter anger to confront her molester-only to find Malden sitting alone on a bench, looking innocent. It was all he could do to stumble his way out of that place-only to find Kemper in the street outside, laughing boisterously. At the first sign of trouble, the card sharp had merely ducked backward through the wall and to safety, leaving Malden to bear the barmaid’s wrath.

When he realized what Kemper had done, he could only laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

Then he was sick, over the side of a bridge. Afterward he felt weak and queasy, and Kemper assured him the best cure for what ailed him was more ale. Malden enthusiastically agreed.

The carouse ended only slightly before dawn-but on a sour note. They had wended their way down to the city walls without really meaning to, and Malden came up short when he saw the green common of Parkwall ahead of him. He was right back on Hazoth’s doorstep.

“Kemper,” Malden said. “Kemper.”

“What?”

“The wizard who cursed you, who made you like unto-unto… The sorcerer who cursed you, was his name Hazoth?”

Kemper laughed until he wheezed. “Hazoth? Ye think ’twas him, the grandmaster of sorcerers, the auld bastard? Sadu’s eight index fingers, save me skin from such a fate! Oh, laddie, nay. Nay, it was but some hedge wizard, in a blighted village a hunnerd miles from here.”

“But this hedge-hedge wizard-must have been, you know. Very powerful. To do this to you.”

Kemper shook his head violently. “Nay, in comparison, the bugger who got me-that is, compared to yer Hazoth-he was like hawkin’ a gob o’ spit next t’the ocean.” He sat down hard on the grass. “Magic’s strong stuff, it is. E’en a mild curse’s no joke. Yet what Hazoth could do t’ a body, I shudder t’think. Strip the flesh right off o’ your bones and make it dance a jig, maybe. Or just crack th’earth open, right at yer feet, and drop ye into the pit like a pebble in a well.”

“Oh,” Malden said, and threw up again. Partly from strong drink. Mostly from fear.

“Izzat his place, then?” Kemper asked.

“This is the place,” Malden said, pointing across the grass toward the sorcerer’s villa. “The crown must be inside.” Over the course of the night he’d told Kemper everything-including the fact that he had no choice but to break in there and steal the crown back. “It’s not like he’ll just give it to me,” he said.

Kemper shuffled his cards with one hand, no mean feat considering how drunk he was. He seemed to think of something then. “Have ye asked?”

Malden blinked and tried to clear his head. He wasn’t sure if what Kemper had just said was a stroke of genius or utter folly.

“Bikker would kill me the moment he saw me,” he said finally, shaking his head.

“Then ye wait till Bikker’s na’ a’ home,” Kemper said. Then he started hiccupping and had to sit down for a while.

“It’s too-too dangerous,” Malden insisted. “No. I need to break in. But how? There’s an invisible wall of magic around the place, not to mention guards and dogs, and-and Bikker, and Cyth-Cythera. I need to sit down, too.”

He fell backward onto his fundament on the grass. He was not feeling at all well. He tried to lean on Kemper’s shoulder and fell right through him, which made them both laugh so hard they couldn’t breathe.

It was not difficult to get into the Burgrave’s palace, if you did so in the middle of the day and you appeared to have business there. The denizens of the palace consumed vast quantities of food, drink, firewood, and other commodities every day. Carts came in and out through the massive iron gates in the wall of Castle Hill almost constantly. Laborers carrying sacks of flour, rashers of bacon, or hogsheads of lamp oil passed into the palace proper through an entrance in the back, nearest to the kitchens. On this day they had to line up and each wait their turn, as the courtyard was full already with workmen, masons, architects, and stone-breakers overseeing the careful demolition of what remained of the tower. It was a great chaos of people dressed in every imaginable hue and style.

When Croy entered, walking alongside a cart full of grain, he was still stopped by a guard at the gate, but not because he’d been recognized. The harried guard did no more than to assure himself that Croy carried no weapons before sending him through. Though Croy was wanted for escaping the gallows, the guard didn’t even glance at his face.

“You’re growing complacent, Anselm,” Croy chuckled as he headed across the courtyard toward the palace. There were no archers up on the castle walls, and what few watchmen he saw were arguing with the masons atop the ruins of the tower. The masons had set up a huge triangular crane that could lift away the chunks of broken stone, but the watchmen seemed to think they would damage the palace in the process. The masons argued they knew what they were doing and should be left to their work. Meanwhile their laborers stood around idle, leaning on picks and shovels or sharing a jug of wine. A group of apprentices, boys no older than ten, had started kicking a ball around the courtyard while they waited for the argument to finish so they could start work again. Croy took advantage of the chaos, slipped in through the back of the palace and walked right past the castellan. The old dotard was too busy counting bushel baskets full of candles to pay any mind.

Beyond the storerooms lay the servants’ quarters, narrow little rooms smaller than the cell Croy had been given at the gaol. Because it was the middle of the day, these chambers were all deserted-the servants were at their work, of course. Croy climbed a spiral staircase at the end of the hall and came out on the second floor, near the Burgrave’s chambers. Vry’s office was nearby, in case the Burgrave should demand his presence on a moment’s notice.

There was a guard at the top of the stairs. Croy was glad in a way to see that-he didn’t like to think of such important people being so vulnerable. The guard was dressed in leather jack with iron plates on his shoulders and down his forearms, and he wore a wide-brimmed kettle helmet. Because it was a warm day-Ladymas always brought sunny weather-the guard had removed the padded hood he should have worn under such a helmet. He lowered his halberd across the exit from the stairs and bade Croy to hold. “What’s your business?” he asked.

“I have a message for the bailiff,” Croy said, trying to sound frightened. A real messenger would be staring at the blade of the halberd, he thought, so he turned his head as if he were looking at it. His eyes, though, never left sight of the guard’s hands.

“Give it here, and I’ll see he gets it.”

“Oh, you want it?” Croy asked. “Very well.” He brought out the sap he’d been hiding under his cloak and smacked the guard across the temple. The kettle helmet rang like a bell and the guard grimaced as his eyes fluttered closed. Croy barely managed to catch him before he collapsed to the floor.

Then Croy stopped perfectly still, crouched on the top riser of the stairs with the guard in his arms, and listened. The ringing helmet had made far more noise than he’d liked, and he needed to know if anyone had heard him.