David Chandler - Den of thieves

“Yes, exactly.” Malden smiled. “I’m sure they say something menacing, like, ‘I am your death’ or ‘Face me at peril.’ ”

“Not exactly. It’s a curse your ogre wears on his face, but not for his enemies. It’s for himself. One of the simpler curses, actually, and very effective. Translated, the words you see here would read: ‘An you harm any, thou shalt perish.’ ”

Malden’s eyes went wide. “What’s the nature of this curse?”

“It’s commonly used on paroled prisoners or creatures who have killed men in the past. If your ogre hurts a human being-even in self-defense-the runes will grow hotter and hotter until they burn right through his skull.” She wiped her fingers quite carefully on the hem of her cloak. “I don’t know your plan. I don’t want to know your plan. But if you were counting on this ogre to fight the guards or Bikker, I only hope you have a contingency up your sleeve.”

“Thank you, Cythera,” Malden said, between lips pressed together to stifle a shout. She nodded and left his room, headed back toward the villa before she was missed. When she was well gone, Malden slowly turned to face Croy.

“You knew all this, of course,” he said, quite carefully.

Croy didn’t answer directly. Instead he went to kneel above the loose floorboards where his swords were still hidden.

Malden was faster. He drew his bodkin and had its point at the small of Croy’s back before the knight could reach for his weapons.

“The success of my scheme depended on that ogre,” Malden said. “There’s no time now to find a replacement. Have you betrayed me, Croy?”

“Are you calling me faithless?”

Malden almost concurred. Then he remembered that it was the same word Croy had used to describe Bikker-the word that started a blood feud between the two of them. “I’m asking a question. Did you make some deal with Hazoth, to foil my plans? Or perhaps you work for the same master as Bikker.”

“Never,” Croy said.

“Then why, exactly, did you not tell me that your ogre was hobbled?”

He watched the muscles in Croy’s neck tighten. “I am not a liar, by inclination or by practice,” the knight said. “But I was left with no choice.”

“Speak plainly!”

Croy sighed. “Don’t you understand? If I’m to recover Cythera’s trust, I must earn it. I must be the one who frees her and her mother.”

“I’ve been generous enough to let you play a part, but that’s all,” Malden pointed out.

“The role you’ve set for me in your scheme is meaningless. I am to stand as a lookout, and nothing more. How can that show Cythera the depth of my devotion to her? It should be me fighting for her freedom. It should be my arm, my sword, that strikes the telling blow. And no other man has a right to fell Bikker. That is my duty, and I will perform it.”

“You’re wounded,” Malden said. He did not allow the point of his bodkin to shift even a fraction of an inch. “Even at the fullness of your strength, you’re no match for Bikker. He would have bested you up at the palace if the demon there hadn’t diverted his attention. He would have killed you then. Are you so hot to die at his hand now?”

“Love will strengthen my arm,” Croy said. “Justice will be my shield.”

Malden chuckled, and the point of his knife bobbed up and down, just a hairbreadth. Apparently it was enough.

Croy shifted under Malden too fast to follow. One of his legs kicked out and knocked Malden’s feet from under him, and the thief fell backward against the bed. It was all he could do to stop his fall with his free hand, while keeping the bodkin pointed in Croy’s direction.

Before he had recovered himself, Croy was looming over him with his shortsword in his hand, the point just under his chin. The blade shone so bright Malden could see his own shocked expression in its surface.

“I may be wounded. I’m still an Ancient Blade. You can mock my ideals all you want, thief. You can’t deny my skill.”

“I suppose not,” Malden said. “Very well. Who am I to deny you your own destruction? You fool. Maybe you’ve cost us everything by this deception.” He wanted to spit in disgust.

“I can slay Bikker. I must!”

“As you wish it. Take the ogre’s place. Die, if that’s what you want. As long as you survive a minute against the retainers, that’s all I need.”

“You’ll find that even if I’m not as strong as Gurrh, when it comes to swordplay I am matchless. Anyway, you have no choice.” Croy lowered his sword. “It’s almost time to begin,” he said. “There’s no time to find a replacement. Not even a band of bravos.”

Malden nodded. He was still looking into the sword’s blade, meeting his own eyes in reflection. “Yes,” he said. “Strong. He’s still very strong, even if he can’t fight.” It was like the sun had just come up in his mind. He saw it now, a way to make this work. “Croy, I’ve just had an idea that might save both our lives. Can you get word to the ogre and give him new instructions? He may have his uses yet.”

Interlude

Slag the dwarf climbed up into one of Cutbill’s chairs and puffed out his cheeks. “That boy Malden doesn’t have a fucking chance, does he?”

Cutbill had a great deal of respect for his dwarf. The diminutive craftsmen had a foul mouth, it was true, and a fouler disposition, but his work was immaculate and it allowed Cutbill’s thieves to do things that should have been impossible. So he showed the dwarf the signal honor of putting down his pen before he looked up and said, “Probably not.”

Slag nodded and scratched at his wild beard. “I just heard from Loophole. He thinks you don’t know that he’s been asking around, which is just fucking stupid. But he says Anselm Vry is turning half the city arse over eyebrows looking for the-”

Cutbill arched one eyebrow. His office was one of the most secure places in the city, and there should have been no chance of any unwanted ears listening at his doors, but in a world where the bailiff had a wizard with a shewstone at his disposal, no conversation was truly safe.

Slag nodded and held up his hands in apology. “-for the thing,” he concluded. “Vry’s watchmen are tearing open every damned door in the Stink, as if some poor bastard of a cobbler is hiding it in his privy. You think his wits are buggered? Seems like he’s lost his mind with terror.”

“Oh, no,” Cutbill said. “What he does makes perfect sense. He will fail to find it, of course, but then he can at least show the Burgrave that he made an honest effort. He’s looking in the Stink rather than the Golden Slope for the same reason he made no real attempt to recover it from its current location-because he’s afraid of the occupants. The rich citizens in their mansions up by Castle Hill would never put up with such outrages. The poor folk living under the Smoke can’t afford to be as particular.”

“So he won’t find it in time, and Malden doesn’t stand a chance either.”

“I wouldn’t say that. I’d say his chances are quite grim. But I picked Malden for a reason, Slag. It wasn’t because he showed such ability when he robbed Guthrun Whiteclay. It’s because he has a brain in his head. One sees that so rarely in the men who come through my door. If anyone can pull this job off, it’s Malden.”

“That why you’re sitting here, still scratching fucking notes in your fucking book?” Slag asked, gesturing at Cutbill’s ledger. “Like any other day. You might be dead tomorrow morning. Shouldn’t you be out whoring or drinking yourself sick?”

“I imagine if I am to have my throat cut on the morrow, a bad hangover or a case of the crotch rot would not, in point of fact, improve the experience. But no, I am not working so late because I expect Malden to succeed. I am working in case he does not. This ledger is more than just a record of accounts. It is my life’s work. It can never really be done, but I am attempting to make it as complete as possible. It includes a number of instructions that are to be carried out if I do meet my creator in the morning. I called you in here specifically because I need your help with that. Later tonight I want you to vacate the premises well before Anselm Vry and his soldiers arrive. And I want you to take this book with you. There are a number of people who should see it: the Pirate Queen of the Maw Archipelago will be most interested, for one. The Great Chieftain of the barbarians, Morg the Wise, absolutely must be allowed to read page three hundred and nine if we are to avoid a war with his people.”