David Chandler - Honour Among Thieves

Chapter Eighty

Mörget tramped up the frost-crackling hill, naked axe in hand,…

Part 4

The Siege of Ness

Interlude

In theory there were no officers in the Army of…

Chapter Eighty-One

North of Helstrow, Croy took to the road.

Chapter Eighty-Two

“Nock! Draw! Fire!” Herwig the madam shouted, beating time against…

Chapter Eighty-Three

“Halloo! Halloo! Ness! People of Ness! Is someone in charge…

Chapter Eighty-Four

“Get me out of this ridiculous stuff,” Malden growled, trying…

Chapter Eighty-Five

Malden hurried through the streets, headed for the bridge to…

Chapter Eighty-Six

“Fascinating. In the space of one night they built three…

Chapter Eighty-Seven

Bethane slumped down to sit on a rock and rub…

Chapter Eighty-Eight

The whispers became murmurs. The murmurs became disgusted looks in…

Chapter Eighty-Nine

The rocks kept coming, though not as frequently as when…

Chapter Ninety

The rider had come very close, now. He could descend…

Chapter Ninety-One

The Skilfinger knight wore a byrnie of chain mail that…

Chapter Ninety-Two

Mörg was no fool.

Chapter Ninety-Three

The workshop stank of brimstone and urine, enough to make…

Chapter Ninety-four

“They’re scaling Ditchwall now, and there’s no one to stop…

Chapter Ninety-Five

There seemed to be no end to the berserkers willing…

Chapter Ninety-Six

Malden followed the dwarf down a flight of stairs to…

Chapter Ninety-Seven

Croy could stand, and if he used Ghostcutter as a…

Chapter Ninety-Eight

A single trebuchet stone arced over the city that day.

Chapter Ninety-Nine

Malden wrapped a loaf of bread in a silken cloth—the…

Chapter One Hundred

The Lemon Garden could no longer hold all the supplicants…

Chapter One Hundred and One

The wailing of Mörgain’s female warriors set Mörget’s teeth on…

Chapter One Hundred and Two

“Come forth! Step up, and receive Sadu’s bounty! Food for…

Chapter One Hundred and Three

Croy rode at the head of an army of two…

Chapter One Hundred and Four

Mörget raced back into the camp, Balint at his heels,…

Chapter One Hundred and Five

Malden ordered Velmont to search for other survivors in the…

Chapter One Hundred and Six

Malden looked to Cythera. She was drained, and worse than…

Chapter One Hundred and Seven

In her bed, Coruth struggled for every breath. Her hair…

Chapter One Hundred and Eight

On the march, it is far too easy to slip…

Chapter One Hundred and Nine

There was no time to think on all that had…

Chapter One Hundred and Ten

“Get that iron off him,” Velmont commanded. His eyes stayed…

Chapter One Hundred and Eleven

An hour before dawn, the snow burned a deep blue.

Chapter One Hundred and Twelve

As soon as Malden could stand on his own two…

Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen

The crowd of devout citizens gasped and ran as a…

Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen

Croy brought Ghostcutter around and disemboweled a gray-bearded reaver, then…

Chapter One Hundred and Fifteen

When Ryewall collapsed Malden was thrown from his feet. He…

Chapter One Hundred and Sixteen

“What in the Lady’s name was that?” Hew asked.

Chapter One Hundred and Seventeen

Slag crowed and danced and shouted up to Malden where…

Chapter One Hundred and Eighteen

Mörget shouted in pain and for a moment froze in…

Chapter One Hundred and Nineteen

Smoke from the explosion of Slag’s weapon hung in the…

Chapter One Hundred and Twenty

The Lemon Garden was far enough from Ryewall that Malden…

Epilogue

He’d made his decision. He’d been forced to pick between…

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Other Books by David Chandler

Copyright

About the Publisher

The Free City of Ness was known around the world as a hotbed of thievery, and one man alone was responsible for that reputation. Cutbill, master of that city’s guild of thieves, controlled almost every aspect of clandestine commerce within its walls—from extortion to pickpocketing, from blackmail to shoplifting he oversaw a great empire of crime. His fingers were in far more pies than anyone even realized, and his ambitions far greater than simple acquisition of wealth—and far broader-reaching than the affairs of just one city. His interests lay in every corner of the globe and his spies were everywhere.

As a result he received a fair volume of mail every day.

In his office under the streets of Ness he went through this pile of correspondence with the aid of only one assistant. Lockjaw, an elderly thief with a legendary reputation was always there when Cutbill opened his letters. There were two reasons why Lockjaw held this privileged responsibility—for one, Lockjaw was famous for his discretion. He’d received his sobriquet for the fact he never revealed a secret. The other reason was that he’d never learned to read.

It was Lockjaw’s duty to receive the correspondence, usually from messengers who stuck around only long enough to get paid, and to comment on each message as Cutbill told him its contents. If Lockjaw wondered why such a clever man wanted his untutored opinion, he never asked.

“Interesting,” Cutbill said, holding a piece of parchment up to the light. “This is from the dwarven kingdom. It seems they’ve invented a new machine up there. Some kind of winepress that churns out books instead of vintage.”

The old thief scowled. “That right? Do they come out soaking wet?”

“I imagine that would be a defect in the process,” Cutbill agreed. “Still. If it works, it could produce books at a fraction of the cost a copyist charges now.”

“Bad news, then,” Lockjaw said.

“Oh?”

“Books is expensive,” the thief explained. “There’s good money in stealing ’em. If they go cheap all of a sudden we’d be out of a profitable racket.”

Cutbill nodded and put the letter aside, taking up another. “It’ll probably come to nothing, this book press.” He slit open the letter in his hand with a knife and scanned its contents. “News from our friend in the north. It looks like Maelfing will be at war with Skilfing by next summer. Over fishing rights, of course.”

“That lot in the northern kingdoms is always fighting about something,” Lockjaw pointed out. “You’d figure they’d have sorted everything out by now.”

“The king of Skrae certainly hopes they never do,” Cutbill told him. “As long as they keep at each other’s throats, our northern border will remain secure. Pass me that packet, will you?”

The letter in question was written on a scroll of vellum wrapped in thin leather. Cutbill broke its seal and spread it out across his desk, peering at it from only a few inches away. “This is from our man in the high pass of the Whitewall Mountains.”

“What could possibly happen in a desolated place like that?” Lockjaw asked.

“Nothing, nothing at all,” Cutbill said. He looked up at the thief. “I pay my man there to make sure it stays that way. He read some more, and opened his mouth to make another comment—and then closed it again, his teeth clicking together. “Oh,” he said.

Lockjaw held his peace and waited to hear what Cutbill had found.