David Chandler - Den of thieves

When Croy had asked Tyron to fetch Malden, Tyron knew enough to contact one of Cutbill’s agents. It might have gone no further, though, had Malden not been at Cutbill’s lair at the time, conferring with Slag the dwarf. He and Kemper had come at once, with Tyron leading them. No more than two hours had passed since Croy tasked Tyron with his message.

Had it taken any longer, Croy might have been dead before they arrived.

Malden knelt down next to the knight, who was moaning softly now. The swordsman’s face was fish-belly white. He must have lost a great deal of blood. It would be child’s play to kill him now, but Malden had something else in mind. He carefully opened Croy’s purse. He had a lighter touch that Tyron, though most likely it didn’t matter. Croy was feeling nothing but pain.

“Here,” Malden said, taking out a mixed handful of silver and copper coins. Not a farthing in the bunch. He picked out ninepence and tossed them to Tyron. “There’s plenty more here, if you’ll do one more errand. Find me a physick. A discreet physick. Bring him here and you can have half this purse. Then you’re done-you leave and tell no one about this. There must be a dozen silver galleons here. Not bad for a half night’s work, is it? Cross me, however, and I’ll send my associate after you.”

“Him?” Tyron said. “A beggarly card cheat? Why should I fear-”

Kemper lunged at the thug and drove both hands deep into Tyron’s chest. Tyron opened his mouth to scream and a stream of icy vapor issued from his mouth.

“Are we agreed?” Malden asked.

They most certainly were.

Tyron returned shortly, leading a man in a robe and a long conical paper mask. Malden peered through the holes in the mask and saw bleary eyes staring back. He paid Tyron and sent him on his way, with a promise to speak well of him to Cutbill.

“You’re a trained physick?” Malden asked when Tyron was gone and he could speak plainly with the healer.

“I am.” The man removed his mask-meant to protect him from the disease-ridden vapors of the Smoke-and rubbed at his face. He wore a pomander at his belt and stank of flowers and garlic. “I’m a doctor of physick, if you would know. Trained up at the university, under doctors Jacinth and Detwiler, and-”

“Good enough,” Kemper said. “But can ye keep yer mouth shut?”

The physick looked from Kemper back to Malden. “I’m usually employed by the workshops in this area. They pay me well to look after men hurt on the job. My employers prefer not to have suits of law brought against them-even in this place there are laws against negligence. So yes, I can be kept quiet. For the right price. Is this the man I’m to treat?” he asked, pointing at Croy.

“D’ye see anyone else who needs ye?” Kemper demanded.

“You might have moved him to a bed, if you cared about his health,” the physick replied. “For all I know you’re willing to let him die.” He dragged Croy up to a sitting position, then pried the knight’s mouth open to look at his tongue. He felt for Croy’s pulses and put an ear to his chest to listen to his wind. “Has he moved his bowels since he came here? Or passed any water?”

“Ye want to see his piss?” Kemper asked. “What kind o’ sick fella are ye?”

The physick clucked his tongue. “I don’t expect that your sort knows anything of medicine, nor shall I explain myself in detail. But the urine of a man is a great treasury of secrets, to those who know how to read it. I might find traces of extravagant humors in it. There might be blood in it, which would be a very bad sign indeed.”

“Tell ye what, buy me a coupla drinks, I’ll give ye all the urine ye can stomach,” Kemper said with a cackle.

The physick looked like he might jump up and leave on the moment. Malden rushed forward to put a hand on the man’s arm. “Forgive him. He’s little more than a peasant. Sure a man as worldly and learned as yourself can rise above such petty taunting?”

“I assure you, my interest in his urine is purely professional!”

“Of course it is,” Malden said, “and professionals,” he added, taking coins from his purse, “are paid for their services.”

It was enough to make the physick return to his labors.

While he worked, Malden stepped aside with Kemper and spoke quietly. “You don’t care for medicos, hmm?”

“Oh, was I rude?” Kemper said with mock shame. “Nah, lad, I ne’er liked ’em, e’en back when I were reg’lar flesh. ’Specially not then. They’re more like t’kill ye than heal ye, if ye’ve anythin’ worse’n a bruise on yer li’l finger.”

Malden shrugged. “True, but if we do nothing, Croy will die. I at least want a chance to talk to him before that. He had something to say to me, and I can’t afford not to hear it right now. We only have five more days before… before Ladymas. Croy is connected to what we’re doing, somehow. I’d like to know how.”

“Aye,” Kemper said, looking almost contrite. “Yer in the right. Just don’t let that butcher near me.”

Eventually the physick straightened up and came over to Malden. Leaning close enough that Malden could smell the garlic on the man’s breath, he said, “The wound is deep, but it hasn’t festered yet. I’ve bandaged it properly, which is most of what I can do for now. He’ll want an electuary of borage root if he takes fever. Watch his stools for any sign of flux. At the first such movement he’ll need to be bled. Do not tarry or the poison will take him in hours. If he’s hungry, give him foods that bolster the blood. Black pudding, blood sausage, the like.”

“Very good. Anything else?” Malden asked.

“You may want to offer a prayer to the Lady. If he does survive through the night, it will be a marvel. If he’s to make it through tomorrow, his stars must be with him. If he survives three days-well, I doubt that will happen. He will almost certainly take to fever, convulsions, and black vomit. Now. My fee.”

He held out his hand and Malden poured the rest of Croy’s silver into it. Malden had never had a problem spending other people’s money. “Is this enough to buy silence?”

“It is. Though let me warn you-I’m not the only one who’s going to recognize a knight of the realm when I see him. Get him out of sight, and quickly. The bailiff has sent word down from Castle Hill that this man is a wanted outlaw.” With that the physick left.

“Did you hear that, Croy? You’re an outlaw,” Malden said, nudging the knight’s foot with his own. “Just like me now. And no better.”

Croy moaned and fell over on his side with a crash.

Croy didn’t die in the night. He didn’t wake up either.

By mid-morning, with time growing short, Malden resorted to desperate measures. He filled a basin with water and then dumped it over Croy’s face. The knight sputtered and coughed and his eyes flicked open. One of his hands reached over his shoulder, looking for a sword that wasn’t there.

The wounded man’s face hardened. He looked around the room, even sat up a little. “You moved me,” he said.

“You’re safe. Or perhaps it’s better to say-no one knows where you are,” Malden told him. Croy was lying on Malden’s own bed, in his room above the waxchandler’s shop. “That’s a good thing, because right now Anselm Vry has his watchmen searching for you in every district of the city. It could become a bad thing, because none of your friends know where to find you. It’s up to you, Sir Knight, if you wish to leave this room again.”

Croy nodded. He understood. “Who’s he?” he asked, looking across the room at Kemper, who was paring his fingernails with the silver edge of Croy’s unusual sword. He had trimmed his beard and his hair as well with the blade, for the first time since he’d been cursed. He’d never had access to a silver knife before.