A Thief in the Night (7 page)

Chapter Ten

“I
returned to the shaft many times, trying to plumb its secrets,” Mörget went on. “It was very deep, running almost three hundred feet down into the mountain. Its walls were perfectly square, cut with precision. The block of stone at its end was cut to almost exactly the dimensions of the shaft. I brought men up there to break through the block, thinking to find my demon waiting just beyond where I could challenge it to single combat. It was not so easy as that. I soon discovered there was not one block, but four of them. They were plugs, you see. When the shaft was finished, its makers brought these four giant stones up the cliff face and slid them down the shaft to seal it forever.

“I could not rest, though, until my demon was destroyed. The blocks were broken one by one, shattered with iron picks, their pieces dragged back up the shaft with the strength of our backs. When we reached the fourth block, we were surprised to find a dwarven rune carved into its face. The thorn rune, which every man knows.”

“The rune of death and destruction,” Croy said. It was true that everyone learned that rune early on. When a dwarf decided something was too dangerous to meddle with, it was wise to take heed.

Mörget nodded. “When we broke through that block, we found it was all a trap. A great underground river was being held back by the stone. The water burst through, filling the shaft and nearly drowning me.

“The demon's lair could not be breached that way. I needed another route in.

“For months I searched, looking for another shaft. There was none. I traveled far and wide seeking out wizards who could see inside the mountain, to tell me how I could find my path. The effort I spent was wasted. Yes, they told me, there is a demon in there, which I already knew. Yes, they said, there were tunnels and even whole caverns inside that mountain where the demon could hide. Bah! Useless. At last one told me something I could use. He said to go to the library at Redweir. There I would find my answers.”

“That must have been daunting,” Croy said.

“Oh?” Malden asked.

“Redweir is a city of Skrae,” Croy said.

“Even I know that,” Malden replied.

“It lies on the far side of the Whitewall Mountains from Mörget's home.”

“How was that a problem?” Malden asked.

Croy shook his head. “Forgive me, Mörget, if I say anything that offends. But the . . . clans of the eastern steppes have been enemies with the land of Skrae since . . . well, for hundreds of years. It's only an accident of geography that keeps us from total war.” He looked at Malden the way a teacher will look at a recalcitrant pupil. “You don't know any of this?”

“I've spent my entire life in Ness,” Malden explained. “I never needed to know anything about maps or mountains.”

Croy nodded sagely. “This continent is split in half by a range of snowcapped mountains, called the Whitewall. The mountains are impassible, save in two places, both narrow defiles that are open only in the summer. The passes are well guarded on both sides, on the Skrae side by our soldiers, on the other side by the clans, so that no army can pass. If Mörget wanted to travel from his own land to Redweir, the easiest way would be through those passes, but we would never allow even one clansman through—for fear an army would be right behind him.”

Mörget laughed with excitement. “Give us one chance only, and we'll do it, too! You're right, the men at the passes would not let me through, even when I told them I was on a sacred quest. Just as we would not permit one of your warriors to travel east and live, no matter what flatteries and pretty turns of speech he offered,” Mörget said. “Yet come to the western lands—and Redweir—I must. So I took the long way around. I traveled halfway around the continent, on ships that sank and by trade routes beset by bandits. Along the way I taught myself how to fight against magic.”

“How?” Malden asked.

“By finding sorcerers and slaying them, of course. Many times death whispered in my ear, but never did she claim me.” He shrugged. “It was a long journey, and I needed something to do to pass the time.

“At last I came to Redweir, and the library there, which contains more than one thousand books. The customs of the place were strange to me. I could not read your languages. I had to teach myself even the shapes of your letters, and then I had to do many labors for the librarians before they would allow me to even see their books. But eventually I learned what I sought. The shaft I had found, the mountain I wished to enter, was known well to the sages on this side of it. The entire mountain was hollow on the inside, carved out by ancient hands. I learned that no one knew of the shaft I had found, but that on the western side there was a grand entrance to the mountain. I took this as a sign. I could not return to my homeland, not yet. I must enter the mountain here, from this side, if I were to slay my demon.”

“This mountain,” Croy said, “I fear I know its name.”

“I think you might,” Mörget said. “It is called Cloudblade, for the way it splits the storm clouds with its sharp peak. I think perhaps you also know the name of what lies underneath it. Yes, my friend. I learned that the place I sought was the Vincularium.”

Malden frowned. He had never heard the name before. It had to be very old, though, because it sounded like a word from the language of the Old Empire—a language no longer spoken in Skrae, and used now only by the Church and by scholars. He knew only a few words of that language, but perhaps enough to know what the name meant. “The . . . Chained Place, no—the House of Chains?” he asked.

“Yes,” Croy and Mörget said together.

“What's a House of Chains?” Malden asked.

Mörget glanced at Croy. “He knows little of maps, aye, but nothing of his own history.”

“Again, I've lived in Ness my entire life. What do I care about the rest of the world? But come, indulge me. What, I ask once more, is a House of Chains?”

“It's . . . a tomb,” Croy said. From the look on his face it was a lot more than that. “A very . . . old tomb. It was built by the dwarves, a long time ago. They say it fills half of the interior of Cloudblade, and that it is a great labyrinth of traps and pitfalls. They also say it is haunted.”

Malden touched his eyes with his thumb, an old gesture for warding off ghosts. He was not a superstitious man by nature, but no good ever came of disturbing the dead.

He shivered as he imagined the place. He'd heard far too many frightening stories about the underground lairs of the dwarves. In his day the dwarven kingdom was a small land just north of Skrae, a place of silent forests and cold, deep lakes. The dwarves themselves never went to the surface because they preferred to live underground. They had a handful of small cities up there built into old mine shafts where they worked tirelessly at their labors and only ever emerged to trade their wares for Skraeling gold. Once, though, their borders had extended much farther. Before mankind had come to this continent, the dwarves had been of much greater numbers and power. Most of their underground works were forsaken as their population dwindled. There were old abandoned dwarven cities left behind all over the continent—they were found as far away as the Northern Kingdoms and even on the Islands of Blue Mist, far to the east. No one ever went into those forgotten places, though, and for good reason. There was no telling what was down there—what hazards a grave robber might encounter, what terrible traps they might set off. The dwarves held many secrets, but everyone knew how clever they were with their hands, and how utterly deadly their safeguards were. Such places were not meant to be violated.

“Sounds terrifying,” he said, without a trace of flippancy.

“It is my destiny,” Mörget insisted.

“Well, that explains what you're doing in the West,” Croy said. “But not why you came to the Free City. The mountains of the Whitewall are a hundred miles from here.”

“I knew I could not storm the mountain on my own,” Mörget said. “I learned many lessons on my travels. I learned when I could rely on the strength of my own back, which is almost always. And I learned that there are some few occasions when I must find help. This demon is stronger and more dangerous than any creature I've fought before. Even with Dawnbringer in my hand it will be a challenge. I came for others who might help me defeat it—others sworn to that cause, in fact. I came looking for you, Croy. To ask for your assistance.”

Croy leapt to his feet—and nearly slipped and fell on the slate tiles of the roof. “Of course,” he said. “Of course I will help! I am honor bound.” He drew Ghostcutter and pointed it at the sun. “How could I refuse? Truth be told, I'm grateful for the chance. We had some trouble with demons here in Ness a while back, but since then I've heard nothing of them. I'd thought they were killed off, every last one, and all the sorcerers who might summon them.”

“There is at least one more,” Mörget said. “Perhaps we will have the honor of slaying the last one in the world.”

“That would be a tale to tell,” Croy agreed. “I am at your service, brother. Ghostcutter and Dawnbringer will drink demon ichor once more. I wonder—should we summon the others? Sir Orne, Sir Hew, and Sir Rory are all here in Skrae—the bearers of Crowsbill, Chillbrand, and Bloodquaffer. They would rally to our cause on the instant.”

Mörget looked sheepish. “If it's all the same, brother . . . it is hard enough for me to admit I need the aid of one fellow Ancient Blade. Glory shared amongst two is glory halved. Split five ways . . .”

“I understand,” Croy said. “But two of the swords are kept by your people. What of Fangbreaker? I'd have thought you would go to its wielder first.”

“The one who bears Fangbreaker is not my brother,” Mörget said, in a tone that suggested he would not explain further.

Croy looked almost relieved—maybe he didn't want to share the glory either. “Very well. The two of us will leave as soon as possible. Ah—and there will be traps.”

“Aye. The Vincularium is full of 'em,” Mörget said. “Or so say the books at Redweir.”

“Well, then, your luck is with you today. When it comes to traps, and defeating them, there's none more skilled than Malden.”

The barbarian turned a suddenly interested eye on the thief. His red mouth split open in a wide grin and he started to laugh.

“I beg your pardon?” Malden asked, looking up at Croy.

“It'll be good sport,” Croy told him with a wink. “You'd be doing a work of great worth. And of course, the Vincularium is rumored to be stuffed full of treasure.” He looked down at the thief as if that final word was the goad that would move him to acts of unrivaled heroism.

Chapter Eleven

“S
o of course, I told him to jump in the river. Head-first,” Malden said, when he'd finished recounting the barbarian's story.

Cutbill had wanted to hear everything, and Malden did not stint on any detail. The guildmaster of thieves listened attentively, all the while scribbling long strings of figures into his ledger, as if Mörget's tale was a matter for scrupulous bookkeeping. “You said that? To the barbarian?” he asked, finally looking up.

“Yes! I did. Or, rather, I told Croy to do that. I told Mörget I wasn't the man he was looking for, but thanked him very much for considering me. I'm not stupid.”

“Hmm,” Cutbill mused. He flipped to an earlier page of his ledger. “Well, that's settled, then. There are demons afoot once more. Of course, something will have to be done about that—we can't have such creatures at large.”

“Yes, yes, it must be vanquished. But they hardly need my help with that. The two of them have their magical swords. They're perfectly adequate to the task.”

Cutbill shrugged dismissively. “Still, I can see why they'd like to have someone along to take care of the traps. A sword—even a magical sword—is of little use to a man who has fallen into a bottomless pit. But you turned down their offer, quite reasonably. It does sound like a dangerous undertaking.”

“Positively foolhardy,” Malden agreed.

“Quite. Though I imagine that for Sir Croy the risk is half the reward. This will give him the chance to prove, once again, just how heroic he is. He'll reap a great bounty of honor and glory.”

“I suppose such things are what you desire if you're a titled man's son, and there is no need to ever work a day in your life.”

“I imagine that would be nice,” Cutbill said.

“He's going to get himself killed. Him and the barbarian both. As for Mörget, well, good riddance. That man is a threat to decent society. It's just a matter of time before he kills someone just being here in the city.”

“It's for the best, then, that he leaves soon.” Cutbill put down his pen and rubbed his chin. “And yet I do not wish him ill.”

“Well, of course not,” Malden said, raising one eyebrow. He wasn't sure what Cutbill was on about but he could tell the man was already forming a scheme. “I mean, at the very least, I hope he survives long enough to save us all from the demon, but—”

Cutbill lifted his pen for silence. “Hmm. He wants someone to deal with the Vincularium's traps. I'll have to think of someone I could send his way. Just in the interest of getting him out of my town faster.”

“Much joy it gives them both, I hope. I'll have nothing to do with this tomb. As I told them, in no uncertain terms. Of course, then Croy had to go and suggest the place was full of treasure. As if that was all it would take to make my ears prick up. There's more to life than money.”

“There is?” Cutbill asked, as if he'd never considered the possibility.

Malden had to think about that for a moment. “Yes, there is. There's living to spend it.”

“Interesting,” Cutbill said. He picked his pen back up. “Just the other day, you were telling me that you needed a large sum of money for a specific reason. Tell me, how is that project going?”

“I thought it was dashed to pieces,” Malden admitted, thinking of Cythera. She had not signed the banns of marriage after all. “But there may be some new hope. All the same, there are easier ways to get the money to buy a house than crawling around in haunted tombs.”

“Most assuredly. Though . . . I might suggest, Malden, that you go and ask someone about the Vincularium. Specifically, about who is buried there.”

“Some moldy old king or other, I have no doubt,” Malden said.

Cutbill frowned. “The treasure is likely to be . . . considerable.”

“The entire interior of that mountain might be made of gold, for all I care. I'm no grave robber.”

“Ah. So it's because of your deeply felt respect for the dead that you won't go.”

Malden wrestled with himself. He didn't ordinarily lie to Cutbill. The man had a way of seeing through to the truth no matter how honeyed a tale one spun. This time, however, he found himself completely incapable of telling the truth.

“Yes,” he said.

“Very good,” Cutbill said. If he believed Malden or not didn't seem to matter. He wrote in silence for a while, then put down his pen and folded his hands in his lap. Malden had worked for Cutbill long enough to know what that meant. He was about to do something devious. “Malden. Would you do me a favor? Go out to the common room and ask Slag if he would be kind enough to come in here for a moment.”

“Certainly,” Malden said. He was mostly just glad not to be the object of the guildmaster's plotting. Outside, he found Slag constructing a boiled leather cuirass, laying long strips of hardened leather across a stiffened shirt and then affixing them in place with paste. When Malden approached him, he cursed volubly, but after a moment the dwarf came trooping along after him into Cutbill's chamber. He had a scowl on his face, as usual, but he had always been an obedient employee.

“This had better be good. My glue's getting tacky.”

“It will only take a moment, I assure you,” Cutbill said. “Malden here has turned up a very interesting piece of information. It seems there's a barbarian in town who is forming a crew to go and open the Vincularium. I thought that would be of some small interest to you.”

The scowl went slack on Slag's face. “Huh,” he said.

Malden rubbed at his chin. He'd never heard the dwarf stymied for a curse before. What was Cutbill up to?

Slag failed to give the game away. He stood there looking pensive but said nothing more. Eventually Cutbill looked up and gave the dwarf a pointed look. “That's all. You may return to your work.”

Slag nodded and turned to go. He stopped before he reached the door, however, and turned to address Cutbill. “Sir,” he said. Malden had never heard the dwarf use an honorific before. Interesting. “Sir, if it's all right with you. Well. You know I'm in here every fucking day, and most nights. I work hard, don't I? And I serve you well. I haven't even been sick a day for—how long?”

Cutbill tilted his head to one side as if trying to remember. Then he stuck his thumb in the ledger book and opened it to a page quite near its beginning. “Seventeen years,” he said, after consulting a column of numbers.

The dwarf nodded. “Aye. Well. I think, suddenly, I might be coming down with somewhat. Somewhat lingering.”

“That is unfortunate,” Cutbill said. The look on his face was not what Malden would call sympathetic, but then he couldn't imagine Cutbill showing fellow feeling for anyone. “You'd better go home, then, until you feel well again. Take as much time as you need. I don't care if it takes weeks and weeks.”

“Thank ye, sir,” Slag said, and left the room.

When he was gone, Malden stared at the guildmaster of thieves. “What was that about? What's he after?”

“Like I said, Malden, you might do some asking around about the Vincularium. In this case, it might interest you to know who built it. Of course,” Cutbill said, and flipped back to his current page, “it matters not. Since you have already made up your mind not to go.”