A Thief in the Night (35 page)

Chapter Sixty-seven

M
alden and Cythera each took one of Slag's arms, but the dwarf had to move his own legs. He stumbled forward, clearly moving only by instinct. His eyes rolled in his head and eventually caught on Malden's face. “Lad,” he moaned. “Lad. Is that you?”

Malden hoisted the dwarf's head up so he could see better. “It's me,” he said. They were marching still through the rough tunnel, with elfin warriors ahead of and behind them. “Are you feeling any better?”

“I think I was sick,” Slag said.

“Many times,” Malden told him.

“Oh. That explains it, then.”

“What's that?”

“Why my beard smells like somebody's arsehole.”

The dwarf's head drifted forward abruptly and he stopped walking. His dead weight was too much to bear and he slid toward the floor, out of Cythera's hands, even as she tried to grapple him and keep him upright. Malden tried to prop him up again, but Slag had gone completely limp. He wouldn't take another step. Malden looked over at Cythera and shook his head.

“You,” she said, addressing the elf in front of her. “Our friend can't go any farther. He's sick and he needs to rest!”

The elf turned to look her up and down, as if sizing up a horse he was buying. “Carry him. Or, if you prefer, I can run him through and we can leave him here to die.”

Cythera glared at the elf. “Your orders are to bring us in alive.”

The elf shrugged. “Orders! We receive so many of them, honestly. And sometimes they contradict each other. By the time we reach home the Hieromagus will have forgotten why he gave that order. Pick him up, keep moving, and don't bother me again.”

The elf turned away, and Malden knew it would be no use arguing further. He'd met far too many watchmen, guards, and soldiers in his life—and been on the receiving end of their ire more often than not—to mistake the look on the elf's face. The elf had been given a job to do, a job he didn't care for and wanted to get over with as quickly as possible. Slag was merely an element of that task, an impediment at best. Any minor irritation, anything that made the elf do more work, would be enough to spur him to violence. Malden turned to Cythera and whispered, “They may not be human, but it's nice to see some things are universal.”

“Please, Malden—I can't hold him on my own,” Cythera said as she wrestled with keeping Slag from lying down on the floor and going to sleep.

Malden sighed and bent to help. He got his hands underneath Slag's armpits—they were slick with sweat—and lifted most of the dwarf's weight while Cythera took the ankles. She had to walk backward, facing Malden.

“Watch your head,” he told her. “The ceiling gets lower ahead of us.”

She ducked her head just before it struck an overhang.

“I've been trying to think of a way out of this,” she told him, keeping her voice low. “I've come up with nothing useful. I could turn invisible and make a run for it. I could go and look for . . . help. But I fear they would hurt you two in reprisal.”

Malden knew she was probably right. “They have orders to bring us in alive, but clearly they don't care what state we're in when we get there. We just have to be breathing. I fear we have no option but to see where they're taking us.”

Cythera nodded. She pursed her lips and looked down at Slag. “Will he be all right? You must have caught up with Balint. Did she tell you what poison she used, or what the antidote was?”

Malden shook his head. “She was hardly forthcoming. She hit me with a wrench.”

“No!”

Malden grinned, though it made his jaw hurt. “In her place I would have done the same. She told me only that the antidote will keep him alive, though he will be sick for a time.”

“You saved him,” she said. She favored him with half a smile. Then she blushed and looked away.

“I'm glad for one thing, at least,” he told her. “I got to see you smile one more time. I would have preferred different circumstances, of course. But when I got back to the hall and found the two of you gone—well, I didn't know what to think.”

She frowned. “They came with no warning. They pushed open the door and suddenly they were all around us. I couldn't fight them all, and Slag was barely conscious at the time. So I surrendered.”

Malden nodded in understanding. “I don't think any of us were expecting living elves down here.”

“There was no time to leave you a message, or any kind of warning. They asked me where the others were and I said the two of us were lost and alone. Then Slag woke up a little and asked if you had returned yet.” She closed her eyes in frustration.

“Mind your head again,” he told her.

“I think they've been watching us since we arrived. They know about Mör— I mean, they know there are more of us. I don't think they've caught the others yet. I said a lot of things to try to convince them you had fled the Vincularium, but—”

“I heard some of them. You called me a scoundrel.”

“I was trying to throw them off your track, Malden.” Her face changed. “What of Balint and her crew? Did they make good their escape? I suppose it's unlikely they would help us, but—”

“They're most likely dead,” Malden told her. He didn't know it for a fact. But he had heard their screams, and hoped, for their sake, it was true. Those screams had not sounded like the cries of people who were surprised by being taken captive. They were shouts of agony. “Though I don't know why they were killed, and we were spared.”

Cythera looked down at Slag's feet. “They have orders to kill dwarves on sight,” she whispered. “I think they blame the dwarves for their imprisonment more than they blame us.”

Malden frowned. “It was the dwarves who betrayed them, and sealed them in here. But then—why is Slag—”

She glanced over her shoulder, as if to see if any elf was listening. Then she whispered to Malden, “I told them he was a human.”

“Slag? A human?”

“A very short human. He wears human clothes, after all. And none of the elves have ever seen a human
or
a dwarf before. They asked a lot of questions, but I managed to convince them.”

“And saved his life. I wish Balint and her friends had been so quick of mind. No, they won't be coming to help us, not now.”

“So our only hope is . . .”

He knew she didn't want to say Croy's name out loud. She didn't want to give the elves any information they didn't already have. “Assuming he's still alive. And that he can stay free, with every elf in the Vincularium looking for him.”

“You two,” the elf behind Malden said, and jabbed him in the back with the point of a spear. Not hard enough to pierce his skin. “What's that you're saying? Your accents are so thick I can't understand you. Are you scheming something? Humans are supposed to be tricky sorts. What are you planning?”

“We were discussing which of you is the prettiest,” Malden said.

The elf jabbed Malden again with his spear, harder this time.

“Actually,” Cythera said, “we were just wondering about
your
accent.”

“Accent? I haven't got one,” the elf replied. “I talk like an elf.” He did not seem to possess much in the way of imagination.

“Of course, of course,” Cythera said, her voice warm with soothing tones. “Forgive me. I actually meant to inquire how it is that you speak our language, the tongue of Skrae?”

The elf looked deeply confused. Judging by the way his brow beetled and his eyes narrowed, it was a common expression for him to wear. “I don't speak Skraeling. I speak the tongue of the ancestors.”

“Ah, well,” Malden said, “that explains everything.” He made a face at Cythera, crossing his eyes and sticking his tongue out of one side of his mouth. She almost giggled in response. She had to raise one hand to her mouth to stifle it.

In the process she dropped one of Slag's ankles. The dwarf stirred in Malden's arms. One of his eyes opened a crack. “Lad? Am I dead?” he asked.

“I got your antidote, old man,” Malden told him.

“Ah,” Slag said, his chin drifting up and down with the rhythm of Malden's footsteps. “And then . . . the elves . . .”

“They've taken us captive. But they have orders not to kill us. We don't know why that is.”

“Well,” the dwarf slurred, a sleepy smile playing around his mouth, “that's easy. They haven't killed us yet because . . . because . . .”

“Because?” Cythera asked.

“. . . because they'll want to torture us first. That's an ancient elfin custom.”

Chapter Sixty-eight

“I
'm Balint, by the way,” the female dwarf announced when the two warriors had accepted that their demon had gotten away.

“Well met, milady,” Croy said, bowing low. “I am Sir Croy, a knight of Skrae, and this—” He turned to indicate Mörget, but the barbarian was halfway across the room, pouncing on something. Croy thought he must have found one of the demon's animate pieces, but when Mörget stood up with a nasty grin, he held something small and wriggling and humanoid in his clenched hand.

“Got you!” the barbarian announced. “Croy, look what I found!”

“That would be mine,” Balint said, sounding annoyed.

Croy shook his head. “It's all right,” he told Mörget.

“Some kind of cave imp! It was spying on us!”

Croy smiled as politely as he could. “It's just a knocker,” he explained. “The dwarves use them to scout their tunnels.”

The barbarian stared at the blue-haired thing he clutched. It was tapping frenziedly at his forearm with its long fingers.

“You can put it down now,” Croy said.

Mörget scowled, but he dropped the thing. It came running over to Balint and hid behind her legs. Croy bent low to pat it on the head, but it snapped at his fingers with its nasty teeth.

“Does it have a name?” he asked.

Balint stared at him. “It's not a pussycat,” she said. “It's a tool. I don't name my hammers either.”

“I see.” Croy glanced at the barbarian, who had crouched down and was staring at the knocker with the shrewd eye of a hunter. “Ah, this would be Mörget,” he told the dwarf.

“We've met before,” Mörget said. He turned his head and spat copiously on the ground.

“You . . . have?” Croy asked.

“Briefly,” Balint concurred. “Though our meeting was approximately as enjoyable as having the skin flayed off my buttocks.”

“Oh,” Croy said.

“At Redweir,” Mörget explained, “I sought information on this place, and on my demon. The dwarves there were less than helpful. She is the lieutenant of the dwarven envoy there.”

“Ah,” Croy said, “so you must be of noble blood. Well, milady, I—”

“Fuck nobility,” Balint said, scratching one armpit. “My father was a bricklayer, and my mother a cook. I got my job by being more useful than the dwarf who had it before me.”

“I see. And what do you do for the envoy? See to his appointments, watch his accounts, that sort of thing?”

Balint laughed. “Mostly I go in for surprising his enemies with nasty traps.” She shrugged. “It's what I'm good at.”

“And . . . is that what you came here to do?” Croy asked. “Forgive me, but I've never heard any dwarf mention a desire to enter the Vincularium before. Those of my experience always seemed willing to leave the past alone. Yet you came here, facing terrible dangers, and—here's the rub—at exactly the same time as we did. I suspect that might not be a coincidence.”

Balint glared over at Mörget, who refused steadfastly to look back. The female dwarf squinted one eye, but when she failed to cause Mörget to so much as turn his back on her, she sighed. “In my line of work secrets are a valuable commodity, but I don't suppose that matters now. All right. When yon friend of yours came to Redweir, we could tell he wasn't the sort to be turned away by a friendly warning. He was going to come to the Vincularium, open it up and stir up the past, whether we liked it or not. There are some old secrets buried here we didn't want disturbed, and a lot of history we didn't like thinking on. The history of this place ain't something to be proud of.”

“I suppose not,” Croy admitted.

Balint scowled. “I was sent here, tell the truth, to keep an eye on your barbarian. Make sure he didn't find some things we didn't want found. The dwarven king had no idea this place was as full of squatters as a goblin's larder is full of roaches. We didn't know anything about the squishy bastards, for one thing.”

The knocker climbed up her arm and perched on her shoulder. Balint headed back to the body of her fellow dwarf. Croy saw that much of the corpse had been devoured by the demon despite her efforts. She wasted no time on tears, however, nor did she offer any prayers for the dead dwarf's soul. Instead she merely picked up his remains and hauled them into one of the nearest houses. “We need to make haste. One of those wet farts will come soon enough—the little ones that got away will come back, or send one of his brothers. There are more of them out there than I have traps to deal with.”

“You've seen more of the demons?” Croy asked. “We thought there might only be three. One of which we already slew.”

Balint gave him a nasty look. “Really, now? And how did you manage that?”

Croy looked away. “We . . . allowed it to swallow me, and then Mörget stabbed its . . . heart.”

“Sounds like a wonderful plan,” she told him. “Here, help me, will you? Or did you just want to watch me break a sweat? Maybe that's what gets you stiff, sweaty dwarf girls.”

Croy frowned, deeply discomfited by Balint's words. Yet he knew that she meant no real offense. Dwarves made an art of vulgar oaths and blasphemous curses. Instead of poetry they wrote bawdy farces, and instead of high-minded rhetoric and grand speeches they tended to tell jokes about—well, about bodily functions.

So he did not chide her for unladylike speech, but helped her move the other body—the one with the ruined face—inside the house as well. Then she started to wall off the doorway with paving stones that she pried up from the floor, gluing them in place with paste from a pot affixed to her belt.

“You wish to give them a proper tomb,” Croy said, admiring her quick and thorough work.

“I just don't want them getting eaten and then shat out by the likes of that thing,” she told him. “Murin and Slurri were layabouts and scum, honestly, and not worth the salt they put in their soup. Just two fools I picked up in Redweir who needed a quick bit of coin. Still, I'd hate to see them end up as luncheon for those snot monsters. Murin knew some jokes even I thought were nasty, and they were both at least adequate at fucking.”

Croy tried not to let her see him blush. Instead he turned to look at Mörget, who was busy sharpening his weapons over by the fountain. Apparently the barbarian had no desire to renew his acquaintance with Balint.

Croy watched as she put the last stone in place, sealing the doorway. Then she stepped back and dusted off her hands. On her shoulder the knocker mimicked her gesture.

When she spoke again, her voice was very different—almost reverent. “Anyroad, there aren't enough of us dwarves left not to show each other a little respect. Barely ten thousand of us now, in the whole wide world. There were five times that many living in just this city, back in its heyday.”

“We humans try to protect you as best we can,” Croy said. He needed to ask her a very delicate question, and he was looking for a way to lead into it.

“That's the law,” she replied. “And like most human laws, if you put what it's worth on a scale and balanced it against a fly's turd, you'd still find it wanting.”

She walked away from the impromptu tomb and started gathering up lengths of rope from her various traps. These went into a pack she wore on her back.

“I'm sorry you feel that way,” Croy said. “But I swear on my honor I won't let you be harmed again. I'm afraid we can't leave just yet, not until we find our friends. But I'll make sure you get out of here as soon as possible.”

“You think of leaving now?” Mörget said, looking up from his axe. “While the demons still live?”

“The thing we came here for seems undoable now.” Croy sighed. “We came to slay one demon and we find an army of them. I think a judicious retreat is our best option. We'll go to Helstrow, summon the rest of the Ancient Blades. Maybe raise an army. Then we'll come back here and purge this place of them all.” He turned back to Balint. “You must have seen one of our friends here. The, ah—the man with the sword. I need to know. Was it him who killed your crew?” Malden was his friend, and he had no desire to be obligated to chase him down like a common murderer. Yet the law—and his duty—was clear.

“That sheep dropping? Hardly,” Balint snorted. “He hadn't the guts to carve a roasted chicken. I dealt with him handily.”

“Oh, thank the Lady,” Croy said, though he'd meant not to speak. It was such a relief to learn that Malden was no dwarf-killer.

“No, it was them that came later. They appeared out of nowhere. Right out of the wall—dozens of them, skinny as a whore's breakfast and paler than mother's milk. I thought they were ghosts, to start with. They cut down Murin and Slurri without so much as a by-your-leave. Then they came for me. I took my licks, then did what a human girl does on her wedding night: lie down, pretend it isn't happening, and wait for it to stop. They must have thought I was dead, too. I bled enough.”

“You mean the elves,” Croy said. “Were they living elves, or the undead kind?”

“Living,” Balint told him.

“Did these elves kill our friend?” Croy asked.

“No. He was too busy running back to the others. That moping slattern of his, and the debaser, Slag.”

“You know where they are?” Croy asked, his eyes growing wide.

“What's left of them, more like,” she told him.