David Chandler - Den of thieves

“Lad, it’s dull as ditchwater down there. Nothing’s like t’happen afore ye get in place.”

“Then you shouldn’t have any trouble,” Malden told him.

Kemper muttered something under his breath. “At least gimme cards back. I miss me little friends.”

“Your cards.” Malden still had them in his tunic, where they’d laid against his skin for days. “You can have them back when we’ve got the crown.” Their eyes met for one last time, and Malden saw that Kemper was ready. It was important that Cythera didn’t know the real reason why Malden had been holding onto the cards. “I don’t want to hear you cut off your watch early to find a quick game,” he said.

“I ain’t stupid, lad,” Kemper replied, his chin nodding almost imperceptibly. “I know ye’d have me hide if I did.”

Malden nodded and watched his companion leave. When he was alone with Cythera, he closed the shutter of the window, even though it was a hot day.

“Bikker has the guards complaining,” she told him. “He’s put them through harsh discipline and punished them severely for any slight change of routine.” She shook her head. “He doesn’t know what’s coming, though. Neither does Hazoth. How are things on your end?”

“Everything’s ready and in place,” he told her. “As much as it can be. I have completely changed my plans, thanks to your information. We start by sending in our pet ogre to-”

She shook her head. “Don’t tell me. If Hazoth questions me, he can make me give up your secrets. Unless I don’t have them.”

“Very well,” Malden said, appreciating her wisdom. “Then let me say only: your mother may be free by morning.”

Her eyes flashed with hope. She crossed the room to him, her velvet cloak swishing around her feet. “Malden-thank you,” she said. “I know you have your own reasons for doing this. But thank you.”

He started to bow but then thought better of it. Instead he held out his hand.

She smiled and held her own just above his palm, a fraction of an inch from touching him. Painted clematis and brier rose twisted around her knuckles. “No-don’t,” she warned when he leaned over her hand to kiss her fingers. “Please, Malden, for your own sake-”

His lips touched her skin with the gentlest of pressures. Had he only breathed upon her hand she would have felt it more.

“Oh, what are you doing?” she asked, her eyes wide. “Kissing me! Malden, once I tried to kill you with a kiss.”

“I’ve faced less sweet dooms since,” he told her. “I’d rather die on your lips than on the point of Bikker’s sword.”

“You… you speak words of love to me.”

Malden shrugged. “Are you surprised? I’ve felt something for you, Cythera, since the first time I met you. Tell me that was just a spell. Some charm your mother cast on you, to make you irresistible to men.”

“No,” Cythera said.

“Then what I feel is real,” he said.

For a moment they only watched each other, like duelists preparing to begin. He knew she felt something as well. She must! Yes, it was complicated. Yes, it was dangerous. But he’d been leading up to this for a very long time.

She took a step back. “One rough kiss would be all it takes to release the magic in my painted skin. It would destroy you.”

“I’m not afraid of the curses you’ve stored up,” he said. “A rough kiss would set them off, you say. Yet a gentle kiss is harmless, as we’ve seen.”

She laughed, delighted. “You are quite nimble, aren’t you?”

“I could show you just how deft I am,” he told her. “If you have an hour before you must return.”

“Malden, you dare much.”

“Do I offend? Then slap me across the cheek,” he told her, daring more.

He touched her wrist with one finger and traced a tattooed creeper that ran up toward her elbow. He kept his fingertip barely in contact with her skin, but enough so. He had lived among whores long enough to gain some basic knowledge of the erotic arts. For instance, he knew that a feather-soft touch on sensitive skin could be more maddening and arousing than a rough caress.

“Croy-” Cythera said, but then closed her mouth as a shudder ran through her body. “Croy-”

“Is not here,” he told her. He placed a soft kiss on the inside of her wrist. “How long has it been, Cythera, since you were touched like this?”

“Too long,” she said.

“But you remember how it feels, don’t you?” It was a careful way of asking an important question.

“Yes,” she said. “Before I met Croy, there were… others. They were brutes, for the most part. Too quick to take what they wanted, or they were cruel and wanted what I did not wish to part with.”

“But what do you want?” Malden asked her. He reached up and unpinned her hair, letting it fall down across her cheeks.

She sighed. “I don’t think any man has ever asked me that question.”

“Would you like to sit down? My bed is just over here.”

She laughed again, as if she didn’t know how to react. “If Croy knew what you were doing, his heart would crack like a badly forged bell.”

“Is there any reason why you would tell him?” Malden asked. “I’m no brute, Cythera. Nor am I cruel. You can stop this with a word. But if you remain silent… well. The choice is yours.”

When Croy came in, an hour later, Malden and Cythera were sitting on opposite sides of the room, trying to work out between them who Bikker’s mysterious employer might be. There were plenty of likely suspects.

“The king wants the charter revoked,” Cythera pointed out. “So he can tax Ness. He must lose thousands of royals every year because of a promise his distant ancestor made to the distant ancestor of our Burgrave.”

“He has the motive, I’ll grant it,” Malden said, “but my money’s on Bikker himself.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think Bikker invented this phantom employer. I think he knew Hazoth would never take him seriously, or maybe he wanted a scapegoat if everything went wrong. When the city riots, I think he’ll present himself as its new ruler. A man with an Ancient Blade could rally the people to his standard-and end the violence. He’d be a hero, and a sure bet to be named as Tarness’s successor.”

“Is a magic sword all it takes to lead men? Why, then, Croy might be our hidden enemy,” Cythera pointed out. She and Malden both stared at Croy as if they’d discovered a dire secret.

Croy stared back as if they’d both gone mad. When they laughed at their little joke, he turned bright red and went to Malden’s washstand. “Does it even matter?” Croy asked. He poured water over his hands in the basin and scrubbed at his face. “It’s too late to make use of such information. It’s almost time to begin. The plan can’t be changed now.”

“I must go,” Cythera said. “You know I cannot aid you once things are in motion,” she said, glancing at Malden.

He nodded. “You must act as surprised as anyone. But you’ll know it has begun when the ogre appears on your doorstep.”

“An ogre,” she said. “You mentioned it before. Where in the world did you find one of those?”

“It was Croy’s doing, actually,” Malden said. “His contribution to the scheme. You should see this creature in calmer times, Cythera. It has the voice of a poet and a soul devoted to the Lady, but it looks a fright-twice as big as a man, covered in dark fur, its face engraved with ancient and baleful runes.” He laughed. “It should give the guards a good scare.”

“Yes, but maybe not much else,” she said, looking concerned. She glanced over at Croy, who didn’t meet her gaze. “Malden,” she said, “these runes. Do you remember what they looked like?” She took a piece of charcoal and drew on one of his maps. “Were they like this, do you think?”