David Chandler - Den of thieves

Croy clapped Malden on the back. “He had a royal pardon. The Burgrave had to respect that. Nor would he evict Gurrh if he could. My friend here does a great service to the city, by keeping the pipe clean and making sure the Skrait flows unchecked into the city. Should any spy or sapper try to come in through the pipe, Gurrh would be here to stop them. He keeps to himself down here in the swamp, living on the wildlife, and shuns human society. Every month or so an envoy is sent down from the palace to check up on him and make sure he has what he needs.”

“It must…” Malden rethought his words. He had been about to say that it must be difficult, being hated and feared by the people you guarded. He didn’t know, however, if the ogre was aware that children told stories of the monster in the pipe and dared each other to see how close they could get before running away. If the ogre didn’t know about his own legend already, it would be cruel to enlighten him. “It must be very lonely down here,” he said instead.

The ogre shrugged. “I hath the birds to singeth me lullabies, and the trees to whisper their orisons o’er me at night.”

Ah, Malden thought. So he has gone mad with the solitude.

“Tell me,” Croy said to the thief, “would Gurrh be a useful addition to your crew?”

Malden thought it over. Ogres were notoriously difficult to slay, at least according to the stories. They could shrug off the blows of iron weapons, and only steel had proven capable of piercing their thick hides back in the old days-back when steel was rare as gold was now, before the dwarves started selling it to anyone with enough coin. And Malden had to admit that even Bikker would flinch when facing a rampaging ogre coming toward him with claws a-snatching and teeth a-gnashing.

He looked at Croy and nodded shrewdly.

“Gurrh,” Croy said, “the Burgrave has need of you once again.”

“Hath he? Certes, an’ that pleaseth me, Croy. I serve at his pleasure,” Gurrh said, and made a deep bow.

Malden frowned. “You don’t want to hear what we’re paying?” he asked.

“Thou speak of gold? When milord hath need of me? My arm’s his, for the asking, and always shall be. Service hath its own reward.”

Definitely crazy, Malden thought. But perhaps-usefully so.

A new and much improved plan had begun to come together in Malden’s mind. He ran through it time and again, arguing over the finer points with Kemper and looking always for the places where it could go dreadfully wrong. There were far too many of those for his liking, of course. He still did not know who had originally paid to have the crown stolen-Bikker’s employer remained mysterious. The plan depended far too much on Hazoth being preoccupied and taking no interest in what happened within his house. And at any time various players-Anselm Vry, the Burgrave, even Cutbill-could decide to move in and put an end to things in whatever way they chose.

Still-if everything went exactly right, and he made no mistakes

… maybe it could be done.

At all hours he had either Croy or Kemper watching Hazoth’s villa, looking for any sign that things had changed inside. From time to time they reported something interesting. Cythera was seen going out to market and carrying on with her usual business, which meant she had not betrayed him to Hazoth (willingly or no). Bikker showed up one afternoon with a haversack over his shoulder and took up residence in the guard barracks. Hazoth never left the house-more’s the pity-but at night, ofttimes, strange lights could be seen illuminating the rose window at the front of the villa.

“Like unholy fires blaze in there,” Croy said. “They dance and tremble and then are extinguished. None of the guards pay any mind.”

Malden knew not what to make of that. Hazoth could be summoning demons until his halls were stuffed with them, for all he knew. Or he could simply be engaged in some esoteric study Malden could never comprehend. He tried not to think of it overmuch, and focused on those things he could control.

The special gear he had tasked Slag with constructing would not be ready until the very day before Ladymas. The job would have to take place that night, which was cutting things very fine. Again, there was nothing he could do about that.

It left him with far too much time to think, however. He spent as many hours as he could going over the plan again and again, rehearsing bits of it with Kemper or taking his own turns watching the villa. But eventually he needed a rest, just a pause to refresh his mind. He headed for one of the few places in the city where he still felt at home: the Lemon Garden, up in the Royal Ditch.

Elody took him in without a word. Perhaps she could see in his eyes how haunted he was by what he was about to do. She led him to her own private rooms and gave him wine to drink and a plate of fresh fruit. “Your generosity is welcome, but I know you can’t afford this,” he pointed out as he stabbed an apple with his bodkin and brought it to his mouth. “I’ll pay you back, I swear.”

“Oh, Malden, just having you around is payment enough. You get the girls all excited when you turn up. That makes them frisky and they earn more, so in the end I have a net gain.” Elody laughed. “You can have any of them you like, on the house. You just have to ask.”

Malden shook his head. “The woman I want isn’t here,” he said, even though he knew what that would elicit. Elody’s face lit up and her eyes glowed as she descended on him, demanding gossip, wanting to know all about this new sweetheart.

“She’s not mine,” Malden said, a bit glumly. He had come here to cheer himself up but suddenly he was in a foul mood. “Most like she never will be. She was betrothed to a knight, of all things.”

“Was?” Elody asked. “But she isn’t now?”

“I don’t think so-it’s all so confusing. I think she might have been trying to tell me something the last time I saw her, but… I just don’t know. How can I compete with a man like that? He has a castle, Elody. A castle.”

“Not every woman is so mercenary with her favors as the ladies who raised you,” Elody replied. “Some, I hear, would rather have love than money.” She looked almost wistful when she said it. “You need to give her what he can’t. Is he handsome? Does he have strong arms and golden hair and a noble bearing?”

“Yes, all of those,” Malden agreed. “He is a bit dim,” he added, though, because he couldn’t help himself.

“Then try being clever. It shouldn’t be so hard for the likes of you,” Elody told him.

“When I’m around her I feel an utter fool. I feel as if I’ll never be clever again,” Malden confessed.

“Then it must be true love,” Elody said, and they laughed together.

She kept him there late that night and plied him with wine. He told her everything-of Cythera’s cursed skin, of Croy’s pledges and vows. She gave him what advice she could, then sent him home very drunk and a little less fearful. He fell into bed thinking he almost had a chance.

In the morning the early light convinced him otherwise. It was the day before Ladymas. His head was pounding, and he had work to do.

When Slag’s things were ready, he went immediately to Cutbill’s lair and took possession of them. He tied them up in a bundle and went straight back to his room above the waxchandler’s. It was almost noon by the time he arrived. Coming up the stairs he heard voices inside where only Kemper should be, and he opened the door warily, ready to run at the first sign of trouble.

When he saw Cythera inside, sitting at his table, his breath caught in his throat. He nearly did run away.

“Kemper, go relieve Croy at his watch,” Malden said when he’d divested himself of his gear.