David Chandler - Den of thieves

He could hear the workmen outside grumbling about having to wait to offload their wares. He could hear horse hooves clopping on the flagstones of the courtyard. He could hear a guard atop the wall, hailing his fellow across the way, checking that all was well. He did not hear what he’d feared: no cry of alarm, no voice raised inside the palace to ask what that sound was. No one calling for the unconscious guard, to ask if something was the matter.

Very good. Getting the guard back down the stairs was not easy, but Croy had good muscle in his arms and a strong back. He shoved the guard into a verger’s room, then stripped him of his armor and tied his hands together behind his back. With a gag in the guard’s mouth, he thought he would be safe awhile. He threw his own cloak over the supine form of the guard for modesty’s sake, then pulled on the leather jack and put the helmet on his own head. He found the padded hood on the man’s belt and drew that on as well. It hid both his blond hair and his square chin.

Then he headed back to the second floor and straight to the door of Anselm Vry’s office. He raised the knuckles of one hand to knock, intending to announce that there was a message from the moothall and a reply was expected. That would get Vry to open the door with no fuss.

Yet just before he knocked he stopped and listened a moment-and heard a conversation beyond the door that grasped his attention.

“You must put it on. People expect to see you wearing the robe.” That was the voice of Anselm Vry, certainly.

Croy didn’t recognize the other voice. It was that of a grown man, but there was a childlike petulance to it-and at the same time a sort of hollowness, as if the owner of the voice was gravely ill, or, for that matter, ghostly.

“You can’t make me. You can’t make me do anything. I’m free of it!”

“If you won’t wear the robe,” Vry said, sounding exasperated, “you can’t appear in public at all. I’ll have you locked up in your room. And then we’ll see how free you are.”

“I’m free. I’m free! Every night, when they took it away-every night I dreamed. I dreamed of this! And in the morning when they brought it to me again, I wept. You won’t-you won’t bring it back, will you? Promise!”

“I promise. Now put on the robe. And stop sniveling. It doesn’t befit you. After Ladymas things will be different, just dream of that.”

Enough. Croy had never been a keyhole-listener before. He did not relish gossip, or knowing other people’s secrets. He knocked and announced himself firmly. “Message for you, your honor. From the moothall.”

“Damnation-what do the shopkeepers want with me now?” Vry said behind the door. Croy heard footsteps approaching and he stepped back to allow the door to open. Vry poked his head out and extended one long-fingered hand. “Give it here, and be gone,” he said.

Croy grabbed the hand and hauled the bailiff out into the hallway. Vry started to shout for his guards, but Croy was quick enough to get an arm around his throat and hold him still.

“You’ve come… to murder me, Croy? It doesn’t… seem your style,” Vry managed to gasp out as Croy put pressure on his windpipe.

“I saw no other way to gain audience with you, Anselm. No, I’m here for exactly the reason I said, to deliver a message-though not from the masters of the guilds. Will you listen to me if I release you? I have vital information you require.”

“I’ll listen,” Vry choked. Croy let him go. “I’ll listen, then I’ll have you arrested. I don’t know how you managed to get in here, and I can only wonder how you expect to get back out with your head attached to your neck. What message could be so important that you would risk your life for it?”

“The sorcerer Hazoth has the Burgrave’s crown,” Croy said.

“What? What are you talking about?”

Croy shook his head. “You needn’t pretend. I know everything. And now so do you. The crown is safe, sealed in a leaden coffer in Hazoth’s sanctum. What he wants with it I have no idea. Now, I must be going.”

“You’re right,” Vry told him. “This is vital information. I don’t suppose you’d tell me how you came by it.”

“I’m bound to secrecy,” Croy said.

“Of course, of course.” Vry nodded in understanding. “Hazoth,” he said. He tapped his upper lip. “Can you get the crown away from him, d’you think?”

“By myself? No. But you can marshal troops enough to wrest it from him, certainly?”

“I suppose I can. I owe you my thanks, Croy.” Vry clapped him on the shoulder. “I only wish I could pay you back for this debt. But you know that the Burgrave’s word is law, and he has ordered your death. What can I do for you, that will not counter his decision? It’s not in my power to pardon you, much as I’d like to.”

Croy clutched his friend by the forearm. “Just give me a head start. Don’t call your guards for five minutes. That will be enough. Oh, and Anselm?”

“Yes?” the bailiff asked.

“You really should take better note of who comes and goes through your gates.” Croy smiled broadly and gave the bailiff a deep bow. “I still serve the Burgrave,” he said. “My duty was clear.”

And yet-the words tasted wrong in Croy’s mouth. For in truth it was not for the Burgrave he’d come to the palace. Cythera had told him all about the theft of the crown, and together they’d made this plan. She could not leave Hazoth’s service as long as he held her mother prisoner-and while he lived, he would never release her. Croy knew he could not destroy the sorcerer on his own. No matter how strong his arm, no matter how puissant Ghostcutter’s blade, he could not match Hazoth’s magic.

Yet if it were to come to light that Hazoth was behind the plot to embarrass the Burgrave, well… perhaps the wheels of justice could turn in the right direction, just this one time. Anselm Vry would bring every guard and watchman in the city down on Hazoth’s house, and they would see just how strong his magic was then.

It was not Anselm Vry who next approached Hazoth’s villa, however.

It was Malden.

He had spent most of the day hiding in the bushes of the Parkwall Common, crouching like a footpad without even a jug of brandy to keep him company. The last thing he wanted after his night carousing with Kemper was more liquor.

It was easy enough to stay still. Every time he moved he felt like his brains sloshed back and forth in his skull. He felt weak and queasy. He was not sure if that was his hangover or only fear.

The gate of Hazoth’s villa opened and Bikker came striding out. This was what Malden had been waiting for. The bearded swordsman clanked as he walked-Malden could hear him all the way across the common-and he scratched at one armpit as he headed toward Old Fish Street, the road that led to the wharves on the river Skrait. Malden had no way of knowing what his business there might be, but he didn’t care. As long as Bikker did not return for an hour or more.

When Bikker was well out of sight, Malden rose painfully to a standing posture and then walked across the green common, in full view of Hazoth’s house. He wanted very badly to turn around and run, or at least to approach in a less conspicuous manner-there were trees all along one edge of the common that would hide him well.

He did not turn away.

At the gate, Hazoth’s guards were waiting for him. They stood well inside the fence, and Malden knew from watching them a long time that they would be inside the radius of the spell that protected the place. He offered them no threat and they made no move to challenge him. They leaned on their polearms and just watched him come closer, daring him with their eyes to step through the gate.