David Chandler - Den of thieves

“Such desperate fuckers as them need to see the guild’s records of payments and income?” Slag asked. The gleam in his eye was one of distinct curiosity. Few things could break a dwarf out of his dark moods, but a juicy mystery was near the top of the list. “What’s really in there, then?”

“You’re free to read it and find out,” Cutbill said. He turned the ledger around so it faced Slag. The dwarf made his way across the room and climbed up on Cutbill’s desk to see better. Reading along upside down, Cutbill watched as Slag’s eye ran down the endless columns of numbers to the spidery glyphs that appeared in the margins of each page. Slag stabbed the coded symbols with one delicate finger.

“Huh. Fucking clever. It’s in cipher.”

Cutbill favored Slag with a thin smile. “One I’m sure you could break, given enough time.”

“That’s not why you want me to take the book, though.”

Cutbill shook his head. “No. I’ve chosen you for this task for a very simple reason. When Anselm Vry comes here tomorrow, he will kill every member of the guild he can get his hands on-with one exception. The law will not allow him to kill you.” It was true. Any man who turned his hand against a dwarf, so much as to slap him in anger, would forfeit his own life. It was the treaty humanity had made with the dwarves when they allied against the elves at the end of the long-past wars. It was a treaty never broken or ignored, simply because only dwarves knew the secret of making steel, and that made them more valuable to the king than his own subjects. “Furthermore, you are allowed to travel anywhere in the continent you please, and no one can stop you. You are, my friend, the only one I can trust with this duty.”

“Sure. That’s what they always say about the shit jobs.” Slag squinted at Cutbill as if the guildmaster of thieves were either an exquisite gem or a worthless piece of paste and he wanted to decide which. “I never had a blasted clue before tonight. But there’s more to you than people think, ain’t there?”

“On the contrary. I am exactly what I appear to be.”

“Oh?”

“I am a man who has very good reason to keep his secrets safe.” Cutbill smiled once more. “Now I’ll ask you to leave me, if you’ll be so kind. I have a great deal to get down before they come for me. Oh, one last thing: if, despite the obvious odds, Malden does succeed somehow-I must ask you to never mention this conversation to him, or anyone else.”

“Sure. If that happens, I’ll be so surprised I’ll probably bust a vein in my skull and forget all about it anyway.”

“I do so admire the optimism of your people,” Cutbill said.

The dwarf headed for the door. He had work to do of his own. “Ah, sod off, you bigoted bastard,” he replied.

It was the night before Ladymas, one of the most important fair days of the year. Though dark had come and the streets were unsafe as ever, still the Free City of Ness bustled with activity. There was much to prepare and make ready before dawn.

In the Ladychapel up in the Spires, the junior priests brought out the giant gold cornucopia that would be the centerpiece of the morning’s procession. They polished it with soft cloths until it shone like the sun, even in the light of a single candle. Others started loading it with the hundreds of small cakes and pieces of fruit that would be thrown to the poor as it was carried along. The lesser icons-the rudder, the globe, and the wheel-were touched up with gold paint to hide the chips and scratches where the wood beneath showed through. The senior priests kept vigil at the altar, intoning plainsong prayers and staying on their knees all night before Her sacred image.

In Market Square, vendors fought over the best places to set up their stalls. Most of the disputations were only squalls of words, with the occasional brandishing of a piece of paper as one or another claimed the right to a certain favorable spot. These pieces of paper were of limited utility, however, since most of them had been written by one of Cutbill’s expert forgers. The few authentic ones sold for ten times the price, but in the presence of so many counterfeits, they could not be honored either. Occasionally a fistfight broke out, which the few watchmen on hand had trouble breaking up. There was real money to be made at a fair day, after all.

On the Golden Slope, where most houses were already deserted, the last few wealthy citizens supervised their servants as they packed chests full of clothes and food for the next two days. Anyone who could afford to, fled the city during fair days and locked their houses up tight, because it was commonly believed that crowds spread plague. Some of Cutbill’s best agents were on the rooftops, making notes.

Down in the Smoke the giant furnaces were banked, a laborious process that was only performed twice a year. The fires that smelted and shaped the Free City’s iron had to be throttled down slowly and precisely, lest the forges cool off too rapidly and crack under the stress. Normally the furnaces were kept roaring all through the day and night. The law required that all fires be put out during fair days, however. During the festivities the population of Ness would triple, and should any house catch fire there would be no way to check the conflagration before it spread across town.

In the Stink every shrine of the Bloodgod was holding late services, accepting the small sacrifices of fish and meat the people brought. They lined up for blocks just to leave their scraps and make the proper signs. The poor couldn’t afford to displease either god or goddess, and so made a point of placating both in quick succession. At dawn they’d be on their knees in the little chapels of the Lady that dotted their neighborhoods, trying hard to stay awake through the morning prayers.

The watchmen took full advantage of the piety of the poor to break into more of their homes and rummage through their meager belongings. No crown was discovered in these searches, but plenty of copper coins and pieces of cheap jewelry were. It was a holiday for the watch as much as for everyone else.

At every inn the house was full, and travelers were forced to bed down in the stables, or sleep six to a bed in the house, and there was no wine to be had, only new ale and strong beer.

At the Lemon Garden, Elody opened her doors and hung a brass cornucopia over her door, advertising the special rate she gave to pilgrims far from home. She’d brought in extra girls for the increased foot traffic-honest women every other day of the year who wore masks tonight to make a little extra cash, since they could find cheap expiation in the morning for any sins they committed this night.

On the Goshawk Road opposite the northern wall of Castle Hill, the gambling houses closed their doors-but not their tables. The devoted card players and dicers inside kept their voices low in case the watch was listening, but that just drove the stakes higher. Fights broke out there just as in Market Square, but these ended much more quickly. Either the proprietors of the gaming houses ejected the brawlers with due dispatch (if they were of the more common sort), or (in the case of the gentry) helped the combatants make assignations for future duels. To be held only after Ladymas, of course. No nobleman would be so uncouth as to shed blood on the Lady’s sacred day.

In the Ashes the beggar children who watched over Cutbill’s lair gathered in a burned-down chapel and worshipped their own image of the Lady. It was only a charred piece of an old tavern sign that showed a less-than-divine woman holding a giant ale tankard, but the faith in the children’s eyes burned no less bright for it. If anyone needed to court fortune and abundance, it was these urchins.