David Chandler - Den of thieves

“I could tell, o’ course, when it came down,” Kemper said, leaning forward to suck drink through his reed. “I could feel it in me bones, smell it in the air. I knew I must be quick, so I dashed in through the garden, while the guards weren’t payin’ close watch. I think they was watching you up front, mostly, and I learned long ago how t’keep low and out o’ sight. The door hard by the kitchens was closed, but ’twas no problem for the likes o’ me. I slipped through neat as eel pie and found the stairs what servants use afore the wall was e’en up agin.”

Malden had guessed beforehand-and been proven correct-that what he’d be allowed to see of the interior of the house would be restricted to the lower floor. In his experience, most rich men kept their offices on the ground floor of their homes, rather than force their guests to climb stairs. Thus he had tasked Kemper with exploring what he could of the upper two floors.

“The second story’s about what ye’d expect, plenty o’ bedrooms, a couple o’ garderobes, storage fer linens, clothes, and whatnot. I didn’t check much there, seein’ I was bein’ careful wi’ the time. The third story’s where things get int’restin’, though. His own bedchamber’s up there, and ooh, is it grand. Silken sheets and pillers, divans an’ lookin’ glasses ever’where. There’s chains hangin’ from the ceilin’, too, with manacles on ’em, what felt like cold-forged iron. What you think he gets up t’wi’ those, eh? Eh? Maybe human lasses is too normal for his lot. Maybe he’s conjurin’ up suck-you-bye from the pit t’have his way wi’. What you s’pose that’s like, eh? Eh?”

Malden’s eyes went wide just with imagining. In the House of Sighs, the most expensive of the city’s whorehouses, there was a famous fresco of a succubus copulating with a sleeping man. He had run many errands to the House of Sighs as a boy, and that image had been impressed firmly in his youthful mind. He’d never before considered, though, that succubi might actually exist. Did they have wings, like in the painting? And horns, and- But enough. “What of the rest of the floor? Surely there’s more than just the one bedchamber. There must be. Did you see the crown?”

“Nay, lad, nay. But I think I mighta seen where it’s hid. There’s a study on that story, a mickle space for him to write letters and do his reckonin’s. Then there’s a workshop fit for a dwarf, wi’ all manner o’ tools and materials waitin’ to be fashioned. There’s a room full o’ glassware, I ne’er seen its like, all manner and shape o’ tubes and pots and bowls, some bubblin’, some smokin’, some full o’ what looked like ghost-stuff. I didn’t spend long in there for the smell, which were like rotten eggs. The biggest room up there’s at the end of a hallway, ain’t never used by the folk o’ the house. There’s dust on the rugs in there, and the doors is all locked up tight, and the lock’s half rusted. I’m figurin’ there’s traps all over that corridor, set for any thief what dares to try for the big room.”

“But what’s in this big room?” Malden asked.

“That,” Kemper said, “shall remain a mystery, I fear. I was bein’ extra careful in that hall, in case there’s such a trap as could kill a nosy ghost, mind. I was barely inside th’ hall when I heard ye out in the garden, scuffin’ up gravel and chattin’ all frien’ly like wi’ yer tattooed lady.”

“I tried to make as much noise as I could, without causing fuss, and stall as long as possible to give you time to make your escape,” Malden promised. It had been their agreed upon signal that he would make some noise when he was being ejected from the house. Kemper had to exit the place at the same time he did or risk being stuck inside the magical wall when it was brought back up.

“Oh, aye, ye did marv’lous well. I fled down th’ stairs and out th’ side, where some trees grow right up t’th’ fence. Now, trees or fence, it makes no diff’rence fer one o’ my proclivities. I was out like a crossbow quarrel and away, e’er ye was finished makin’ time. So who’s yer leman, huh? Who’s this bird, anyroad? Ye’ve taken a fancy to her?”

Malden blushed. He actually blushed at the thought. “She’s fair enough to look at. Not fair as in light of complexion, of course. But underneath all that ink she’s a beauty. But-this is silly talk. She’s betrothed, I think. Or at least promised.”

“Betrothed ain’t the same as wed,” Kemper said with a leer. He tried to jog Malden’s ribs with his elbow, but of course it just went through Malden’s flesh like air. He felt his breath turn to ice and coughed out a puff of vapor.

“Betrothed… to a fellow with a whacking great sword,” Malden clarified. “I don’t know that it would work out. She seems to like strapping men with chiseled features. I like women whose paramours can’t cut my head off for looking upon them.”

“No woman’s perfect,” Kemper admitted. “ ’Course, if’n you was diddlin’ her, well, she’d be right useful t’ a fella wanted t’break into her house, wouldn’t she?” He sucked up a great sip of his drink. “What in the Bloodgod’s hairy arse is this? Small beer?”

Malden shrugged. Small beer was what you served children, of course-milk being too useful for making butter and cheese, and water being nowhere in the city so clean you’d give it to any child you liked. “I figured after last night-well, my head’s still pounding.”

“And th’ cure for that’s this weak brew?” Kemper shook his head. “Nay, lad, ye’ve much I can teach ye yet. What we need now’s brandy, and great lashings of it. Call the servin’ wench. We’ve a great vict’ry today, let’s celebrate it!”

Malden did as he was told, though in truth he didn’t feel much like celebrating. He’d seen the inside of Hazoth’s house, yes. But what he’d seen had told him his work was cut out for him. Stealing the crown had been hard.

Stealing it back would take a miracle.

Interlude

Cythera prepared Hazoth’s dinner that evening-a good haunch of venison and a plate of radishes soaked in milk-and laid it out on a silver tray. She started to walk from the preparatory to the dining room where he normally took his evening meal, alone at that enormous table. He had invisible footmen to serve him, but he didn’t trust them to make his dinner-they lacked tongues or noses, and so had no idea how to properly spice meat, he said. Cythera suspected he had another reason for demanding that she cook for him. Perhaps it was yet another of the indignities he liked to heap on her, for Light sprang up around her, interrupting her thoughts. She felt her stomach slide sideways while the rest of her shot upward into the air, straight through the ceiling, and suddenly she was standing in Hazoth’s inner sanctum, the tray still clutched in her hands.

She did her best not to gasp. It would cost her if she flinched or showed any weakness in his presence. Still, it was always surprising when he transported her like that.

Normally, magic did not affect her at all. The charm on her skin kept her safe from all enchantments and dweomers. Hazoth had explained, however, that the displacement spell he used to move her around his villa did not, in fact, work on her. It moved space around her instead, shifting the villa through various dimensions without ever touching her directly. It was one of his favorite tricks, probably because it disoriented her so.

She found herself standing before the rose window, red and blue light streaming across her face. The pattern of glass was a hex of considerable power-it was very good at shielding the sanctum from magical viewing. Cythera had always found it beautiful in its own right, at least until recently.