David Chandler - Den of thieves

It would be good to get out of the mist and dry off, he thought. And perhaps a drink would bolster his flagging body. The laughing stranger hurried him inside and made a hand sign at the taverner, who leaned on a second bar inside. “Here, give me a coin, will you? An offering to the god of the house, call it. Ha ha.”

Croy drew a coin from his purse and too late saw that it was silver. It was already in the stranger’s hand. “Ooh, pretty, hark the way it shines, hmm? This’ll do nicely, ha ha. Come, let us find a place to sit, oh, it’s quite crowded out here, isn’t it?”

“Private room,” Croy rasped. “I need to-sit down.”

“Sure you do. Long day’s work for men like us, hmm? This way, this way, mind that fellow’s feet, he’s a real rough customer, wouldn’t want to start anything, ha ha, here, here, no, over here, through the door, that’s right. Here’s a bench for you, and a little table. And, ah! Here comes the priest himself to perform the mass.”

“Stow that nonsense, Tyron,” the taverner said, backing through the door with a tray in his hands. He set an earthenware bottle of distilled spirit and two goblets on the table, but poured into only one of them. “He’s probably so far gone he doesn’t understand a word you’re saying.” He scratched his eyebrow with one filthy nail, then rubbed his thumb across his fingertips. The stranger-Tyron-nodded discreetly. So the taverner was in on the scheme, Croy realized.

Croy leaned forward on the edge of the table. Sitting down was helping, he thought. He hadn’t realized how taxing just walking through bad air could be. A little strength trickled back into his arms.

“A bit of this will have you back on your feet, ha ha,” Tyron said, and pushed the full goblet toward him. Croy made a show of reaching for it, then knocked it over clumsily so its contents spilled across the table. The liquor had the viscous consistency and milky color of blisswine. Even if it wasn’t adulterated with some drug-and Croy was certain it was-it would have put him to sleep before he finished the generous portion. “Oh, clumsy, and that stuff’s expensive, ha ha,” Tyron japed, “lucky for me it’s not my coin. Here, lean back, that’s right. Get comfortable. There’s no place for you to be, nothing needs doing. Let me loosen your cloak for you, it’s catching at your neck.” Nimble fingers undid the clasp and the cloak fell away from Croy’s shoulders. “And here, this is too tight as well,” Tyron said, reaching toward Croy’s belt. Instead of opening the buckle, however, he began to pull at the strings of Croy’s purse.

Croy lunged forward and knocked Tyron to the floor. The villain wasn’t fast enough to dodge out of the way as Croy’s shortsword sprang from its scabbard and came around in a weak swing-all he could manage-that left its point gently touching Tyron’s throat.

“Thief,” Croy said. “You thought I was drunk. You were going to-what’s the word-roll me. Weren’t you? Take my money and leave me unconscious in an alley.”

“No, friend, you have me all wrong, ha ha,” Tyron said, his eyes very bright.

“Don’t lie,” Croy said, and leaned forward a fraction of an inch. It brought the point of his shortsword that much closer to the man’s jugular vein.

“Ha ha, now don’t be so hasty, milord,” Tyron said, his eyes roaming around the room. “There’s plenty of fellows outside that door who know me. And none who know you from the Lady’s archpriest, do they?”

“I can cut your throat before you can call for help,” Croy pointed out. “Then I can-I can walk… walk out of here, and none the wiser.”

“They know the score,” Tyron said. He wasn’t laughing now. “If you leave here without my arm around your shoulders, they’ll know something’s gone wrong. They’ll stop you before you reach the street.”

“That,” Croy managed to growl, “will be of little comfort to you, as you’ll be dead back here before I open the door.”

“All right. All right. Take your ease,” Tyron pleaded. “Tell me what you want of me, and I’ll do it. I swear. Just take that cutter away from my throat.”

A service. The man would perform a service, in exchange for his life. It was like the old stories. Like the tales of demons bound to grant wishes. But what did he wish for at this moment? What could possibly help him? He was lost in the Smoke, away from all friends and aid. Away from anyone who could ensure his safety. Nor could he count on his friends anymore. The rich friend who he had been staying with-the fellow who was kind enough to loan his horse-would surely turn his back on him now. Before, Croy had been a figure of fascination, a symbol of the man’s generosity. Now he was a wanted criminal. No, even if his friend would take him in, Croy knew he would be doing him a great disservice by going back there. He thought of Murd-lin, the dwarf envoy. Murdlin had saved him from the gallows once. But he’d also said their account was square, that he had repaid Croy in full. Dwarves never forgot a debt-but they never gave anything on credit either.

Perhaps, though-perhaps he could call not on a friend but on an acquaintance. Someone with whom he shared the slenderest of links, but a link nonetheless. There was one man in the Stink, one man who cared for Cythera, just as he did. One thief. Tyron might even know him-or at least how to reach him.

“You like silver, don’t you? Don’t you?” Croy demanded.

“Oh, aye, and who doesn’t?” Tyron wheedled.

“Do me a service, and earn it, then. I have a message to send. And I think you might know how to deliver it.”

“It’s just as I said, ha ha,” Tyron told them. “Look, he’s weak as a kitten. Three against one, those are fine odds. We cut his throat while he’s sleeping, that makes even better sense. Then we take his silver and dump the body in the Skrait, yes? It’ll be out in the ocean to be nibbled by the fishes before anyone even knows he’s gone.”

Malden shot a glance sideways at Kemper. The intangible sharper kept his face as still as stone, no doubt thinking exactly what he was thinking.

“Keep your voice down,” Malden whispered. “If he wakes it’ll take more than us to put him to sleep again.”

“It don’t take three men t’slit some sleepin’ bugger’s neckpipe,” Kemper advised in even lower tones.

“You can’t cut me out of this. I know too much, ha ha,” Tyron said. “I’ve seen his face. A man of quality like that. A knight, or better, he is. But wounded like this, and so far from Castle Hill. There must be someone-ha ha-looking for him. But not someone, I wager, he wants to be found by. Else why would he have sent for the likes of you two? He’s trouble, this one. You think the watch won’t want to hear about this?”

On the floor, Sir Croy rolled over on his side with a moan. The hilts of his two swords stuck up at bad angles from his back. Sweat sheened his face and blood stained his clothes. He wasn’t going to wake anytime soon.

“I didn’t have to cut you in at all,” Tyron went on. “I could have just waited till he slept, then taken everything for myself. We do this together, and then maybe you’ll speak the right word in the right ear. Maybe I find myself in a new position, ha ha.”

Malden knew what the man meant-his measure was already taken. Before agreeing to come with Tyron into the Smoke, he had learned the man’s whole life story.

Tyron was not one of Cutbill’s thieves. He was not really a thief at all, at least not all the time. Mostly he labored at a redsmith’s, working brass into latten with a cloth-covered hammer. It was not pleasant work and it paid barely anything, so Tyron was always happy to supplement his income with a quick bit of thuggery. Rolling drunks, short change confidence games, picking pockets when he could get away with it-any quick and dirty scheme to make an extra bit of coin. He was smart enough to have an arrangement with the tavern’s owner. That showed organizational skills-which had promise. He was just the sort of fellow Cutbill might take on as an apprentice, though it was unlikely he’d ever rise much higher. Tyron only knew he wanted the protection that Cutbill’s guild could bring him, and that alone had made him actually carry out Croy’s bidding.