David Chandler - Den of thieves

Malden chose his words carefully. “I admit, Magus, that my intentions were not unalloyed with self-interest. Vry intends to torture anyone connected with the theft until they provide the crown’s location. I fear he has some way of discovering my involvement, and that he will put me to the ordeal. It had occurred to me that you might be able to offer me some protection from that fate. It would be in our mutual self-interest, as then I could not reveal-”

“You and I have no mutual interests of any sort,” Hazoth told him. “Tell me something-you may answer me this-do you know why I wear this veil?”

Malden lowered his eyes. He thought of Anselm Vry’s hedge wizard, and what came from peering into his shew-stone. “It is my understanding that magic is never free. That power comes from the demons a magician treats with. So as his power grows, his body is twisted and deformed to resemble the creatures of the pit. I assume you wear the veil to hide some disfigurement.” An eye out of place, a face turned the texture of tree bark, a beard of writhing flesh…

“Oh, very good! And yes, that is the reason for the tradition. I don’t suppose your brain is capable of understanding what happens when one siphons power through the flaws in the underpinnings of our fractured cosmos, but you have the gist down pat. Perhaps you will brace yourself to take a look at what is beneath my veil.”

Malden’s stomach tightened as Hazoth reached up to lift the black crape away from his face. For a sorcerer as powerful as Hazoth, the price of magic must have been exceeding steep. Would the uncovering reveal skin as scaly and shiny as an asp’s? Would there be pus, and open sores that never closed, or even wounds so deep the skull would be visible? Would the face look human at all?

Then the veil was rolled back and Malden saw Hazoth’s face and he gasped in surprise. For the countenance thus exposed was perfect.

It was the face of a demigod. The cheekbones were high, the limpid blue eyes set perfectly far apart, the nose powerful without being over prominent. The skin was as clear as milk, with no blemish visible anywhere. It was a face of youth, of compassion, of inherent goodness and decency-except for the eyes, which were as hard as iron.

“I wear this veil,” Hazoth told Malden, “because if I did not, no one would take me seriously. They would think my power slight, my magic untested. Whereas in fact the opposite is true. When one becomes powerful enough, one is able to shape one’s appearance to fit one’s fancy. And I am quite powerful indeed. Let Anselm Vry come to my door, as you did. I will welcome him inside, and if he troubles me, I will dispatch him like an obnoxious fly.”

Hazoth rose from his chair and went over to one of his bookshelves. He ran his finger along a number of spines before selecting a slim volume and pulling it free. “It was good of you to come here and give me your warning, boy. However little it was needed. Do you have anything else to say before you leave? You may speak.”

Malden bit his lip. Circumspection was everything now. “I can only plead with you then, Magus. Beg, if I must. I’m in a great deal of trouble, trouble I earned in your service. Does that not entitle me to some consideration? It would be a trifle for you to offer me some protection under your roof. If nothing else I could come work for you, in whatever capacity you saw fit.”

“A job? You want a job? But you already had one, dear boy. If there were risks involved, you knew them when you took it. Or perhaps you will claim you didn’t understand the magnitude of your crime. Well, considering your limited resources, I suppose that’s understandable. Come here.”

Malden’s legs started walking toward the sorcerer before he thought to move them. He’d had every intention of doing as he was bid, but it seemed the sorcerer wanted to compel him anyway. When he was standing only a few feet away-inside knife range, he thought bitterly-his legs stopped and froze in place.

Hazoth gestured with the book he held in his hands. “If I needed a table boy, or someone to muck out my stables, I could have you with a thought. I could render you mindless and servile. Bind you to my service for the remainder of your life, and do it in such a way you would be unutterably happy, thrilled every morning to rise from your pile of straw and spend another day working for me until your fingers bled. If I wanted that, it would already have begun.”

Malden swallowed carefully. His heart was racing.

“Such a waste that would be, though. You can read. Do you understand how rare that is? Reading is the difference, the mark, of a being capable of thinking beyond its own petty concerns. It is the one thing that truly separates humanity from the beasts. Somehow you have managed the art, and like a trained dog that can count with its paws, you amuse me. So no, I won’t give you a job. Or my protection. But you may have this instead: the greatest treasure I can convey, or at least the greatest that you will be able to comprehend.” Hazoth pressed the book into Malden’s hands.

It was bound in calf’s leather and was duodecimo in size. Gold characters were printed on the spine but in an alphabet Malden did not know.

“Read it at your leisure. I’m sure you’ll find it most edifying.” Hazoth smiled, revealing a double row of perfect white teeth. “You may thank me.”

“Thank you, Magus,” Malden said.

“It is nothing. Now. Cythera-perhaps you will see our little friend out. Take him the back way, so no one sees him leave. I have no doubt Vry is already watching this house and saw him enter. Or,” Hazoth said, turning his frigid eyes on Malden, “did you not consider that when you came?”

Malden had not been told to speak, so he held his peace.

“Come,” Cythera said, and headed toward a door at the far side of the library from which they’d entered. Malden glanced over his shoulder on the way out and saw that Hazoth was no longer in the room.

“A neat trick,” he said as she led him down a side corridor. “This vanishing and appearing. You know it as well,” he added, remembering how he’d first met her, when she appeared out of thin air on the roof of the university cloister.

“A simple one, once it’s mastered. Mostly it is a matter of misdirection. Of moving when no one is looking.” She pushed open a wide set of doors and brought him into the villa’s dining room. Its walls were of carved oak, and the table could seat sixteen in spacious comfort. The chairs were pushed up against the walls-they were carved of some glossy wood in intricate patterns and looked far too delicate to support the weight of a human being. The table itself was a slab of marble three inches thick. Something about it demanded Malden’s attention. When he looked closer, he saw it had no legs. The slab simply floated in the air, perfectly motionless. He couldn’t resist the urge to push down on one edge, but the table easily resisted any force he put on it. Cythera sighed in frustration and pointed toward the door. “Leave that be, Malden. You must go now, and quickly, before he changes his mind. He is known to be capricious.”

“Oh? You think he’ll take his book back?” Malden asked.

“He has decided to let you live for today. I’m worried he’ll rethink that choice.”

At the back of the dining room was a small preparatory, where food brought in from the kitchens could be arranged on platters before going to table. The preparatory had a single high window that was open to catch the breeze. It didn’t look like it could be locked.

“You’re concerned for me,” Malden said as she opened the doors to the garden. “I’m touched.” He blinked in the sudden rush of sunlight when she led him out onto a gravel path.