David Chandler - Den of thieves

“Coruth has been locked away in the villa ever since?” Malden asked.

“Should she become free even for an instant, she could wreak a terrible revenge on Hazoth. He’ll never let her go willingly, and as long as he has her, he has Cythera, too.” Croy laughed. “That’s where we come in. Together we’ll fight our way into the villa, striking down every man who-”

“Sneak,” Malden said.

“What?”

“We aren’t going to fight our way in. We’re going to steal in during the night and get the crown before Hazoth even knows we’re there.”

“And free Coruth in the process, yes?” Croy asked. He looked like he didn’t like what he was hearing.

“If I can. For Cythera’s sake,” Malden said.

Croy seemed to take that as a yes. He clapped Malden on the shoulder. “You’re a good man, even if you are a thief. For Cythera! You can keep the blasted crown. Once Cythera is free of Hazoth’s bondage, she and I can marry. She will bear me a son, and if he is worthy, I will pass Ghostcutter to him when I am too old to lift it.”

He strode over to Kemper and took the sword from the card sharp’s hands. Kemper didn’t try to stop him. The silver edge of the sword was one of the few weapons that could kill him, after all. Croy lifted the sword above his head and made a swooshing pass through the air with it, careful not to break any of Malden’s simple possessions.

“In the past, I have been… confused. My duty to the Burgrave and my devotion to Cythera were at odds. Now I see, though, that destiny has led me to this pass. By freeing Cythera, I will recover the crown-and keep to both my oaths. My heart is clear.”

He seemed lost in a reverie. Malden took the opportunity to whisper to Kemper, “What make you of this story?”

Kemper laughed. “Methinks we’ve a walkin’ fairy tale in this ’un. Never once did I hear such piffle afore. Yet I heard he fought his way out o’ Castle Hill ’gainst two dozen men or more. I wouldn’t cross him, if’n I was you.”

“I’m afraid you’re right. Maybe we should have just cut his throat when we had the chance.”

“O’ course, mayhap there’s a way to profit o’ this anyway,” Kemper pointed out. “There’s liable to be some fightin’, afore this is all through.”

Malden looked over at the knight and the swords he was holding in his hands. “We could use a man who’s good with a sword, it’s true. This one’s wounded, though. He wouldn’t last five seconds against Hazoth’s guards.”

“Mayhap we don’t need to tell the guards that he’s hurt,” Kemper said. “I bet they take one look at ’im and run off.”

It was possible, Malden thought. Certainly, having the knight on their crew wouldn’t hurt.

While they spoke, Croy pulled on his clothes and put both his swords back in their rightful scabbards. Any idea Malden had possessed of keeping the knight as his prisoner was forgotten. “I’ve listened to your story, Sir Croy,” he said, “and I’ve decided to help you.” Of course, he’d always meant to steal the crown back. Frankly, as he saw it things were the other way around-he would allow the knight to help him. But it didn’t hurt if Croy saw it his own way. “Together we’ll retrieve the crown, and together we’ll save Cythera.”

“You’re a good man. I knew it when first we met,” Croy said, bounding over to grasp Malden by the forearms. “I saw in your eyes that you were a friend of Cythera.”

“A… friend. Yes,” Malden said. “Of course, I will expect some sort of recompense for my trouble.”

Croy’s face darkened in mid-beam. “I told you, I can’t offer you any money.”

“No,” Malden said, putting an arm around Croy’s shoulders. “No, I don’t suppose you can. But you do have one other thing that I want.”

Later that day, Malden climbed up on top of a house in the Stink near the cloth market. Below him lay Woolcomb Square-actually a triangular space where five roads came together-with merchants doing a bustling trade, hanging out bolts of fine loden and broadcloth on high wooden racks. The women who came there to buy grabbed up handfuls of the stuff and rubbed it against their cheeks to test its softness, or tugged hard at it to measure its strength.

In their midst a girl in a tattered kirtle sold ribbon from a tray around her neck, lengths of her wares hanging down like multicolored tongues. The ribbon covered her hands nicely, and Malden watched with professional appreciation as she went up to one goodwife after another and clutched at their skirts, begging them to buy a little something so her family wouldn’t starve. When inevitably the female citizens clouted her across the ear to make her give off, she would cry and run away-straight to the dilapidated stall of a button seller who never seemed to make a sale. Her tiny hand would plunge deep into a barrel full of sequins and the button seller would nod in satisfaction. She was good, this urchin, and Malden chuckled because he never saw the coins she stole. She was just that fast.

Behind him Croy clambered up over a gutter and onto the roof. Malden gestured for him to get down, to lie prone on the scorching-hot shingles, just as he had.

“I beg your pardon for taking so long getting up here,” Croy said. His face was white as milk. “I fear I’m not fully recovered yet.”

“I’m less worried about your speed than your noise,” Malden told him in a harsh whisper. “With all the metal you’re carrying, you clang and rattle like a cutler’s wagon. Do you really need to carry both those swords all the time?”

Croy frowned. “Well, yes. Ghostcutter has a special destiny, and should be saved for high combat, while simple bladework demands my shortsword, which-”

“Spare me,” Malden said. He returned to studying the market below. “You’re certain Cythera will come here today?”

“Once a month she ventures here from Hazoth’s villa to replace worn or stained cloths,” Croy told him. “Beyond her duties as a deflector of curses, she serves as the mistress of his household. All the necessities of life are her responsibility, as he cannot be bothered to see to his own arrangements. He spends every day in his laboratory or his sanctum, deeply absorbed in his studies.”

“You’ve been watching his movements, too,” Malden said. “Studying him with equal diligence.”

“When I returned to the city I think I already knew that eventually I must face him. He will never let her go for any price. She’s far too valuable to him-without her, he must suffer the rivalry of every demon in the pit, and be beset by the curses they send his way on a daily basis. No, I must force him to release her, one way or another.”

“Well, that’s what we’re here for.”

Croy frowned. “Are you truly sure we must involve her? She’s pledged to his service. She might betray us if we let her know what we plan.”

He had thought the same thing, of course. Yet he saw no other way. “If we’re to have any chance at all,” Malden said, “any hope, we need her on our side. If there’s a way she can help us that doesn’t put her in danger, I’ll take it. But this is too important not to try to enlist her aid. Surely she’ll want to help us, since we’re her only chance, too.”

“I pray you’re right.”

Malden watched with a frown as the ribbon girl’s hand was seized by an especially wary shopper. Great sobbing tears and wails granted her no mercy, and the goodwife squeezed her hand until it opened. The ribbon girl held up her empty palm as emblem of her innocence, and the goodwife was forced to release her. The ribbon girl ran off as fast she could, pitching her ribbon tray on a pile of ordure in an alley. The ribbons had been worthless tat, Malden realized, valued only for the cover they gave her real occupation. Now that she was under suspicion it meant nothing to her. Ah, and it was too bad-a good scheme, but now the game was up. Doubtless she’d have another scheme cooked up by tomorrow, though. The button seller did not react at all to her desertion.