A Thief in the Night (8 page)

Chapter Twelve

C
roy and Mörget set about at once outfitting themselves for the journey. There were so many things to buy—a wagon to carry their gear, supplies to make camp in the wilderness, lanterns and climbing gear for inside the Vincularium. Croy had rarely been as happy or excited as when he looked over the growing pile of equipment.

Of course, Mörget had no money, so Croy had to pay for everything, but that did little to dampen his enthusiasm. He'd always considered money to be something you spent, not something you hoarded. He was glad to foot the bill for such an important endeavor.

While he arranged for the packhorses they would require, he was approached by a messenger with a letter from Cythera. He blushed, having almost forgotten the events of the previous day, when he'd come close to marrying her. Her message said she wished to meet with him and discuss a matter of importance—almost certainly about the banns, he decided. He sent the messenger back with instructions on where she should meet him.

Croy was just trying on a new brigantine when Cythera arrived at the armorer's shop. He glanced up at her with a smile and turned the doublet inside out, showing her the thin plates of bright case-hardened iron inside the canvas.

“Of course, this will be little use against a demon,” he said as she came and took his hands in greeting. “Especially this one, which can simply flow through the cracks between the plates. Yet there may be bandits along the way, and other dangers yet unguessed once we get inside the Vincularium.” He everted the doublet again and showed her the elaborate pattern of brazen rivets that held the plates fast. “Rather beautiful in its way, hmm? But of course, one doesn't choose armor for how it looks.”

“Perhaps you'll marry me in it,” she told him, then leaned close to whisper, “of course, you must remove it before the wedding night, or I shall be quite sore the next morning.”

He flushed red and stepped away from her. Picking up a round shield, he held it high between them. “Now, this will stop any blow. Yet it's light as a buckler, made of basswood in overlapping strips, then faced with boiled leather. Truly exquisite craftsmanship. As you would expect from a dwarf of Snurrin's reputation.”

The proprietor of the shop bowed low, his head dropping nearly to the level of Croy's ankles. “Your very presence in my shop only serves to enhance my meager fame, Sir Knight.”

The armorer looked like any other dwarf from Croy's experience, with corpse-pale skin (dwarves shunned the sun's rays, being subterranean by natural inclination) and a tangled mass of dark hair sticking up from his scalp. Yet he had never heard a dwarf speak so prettily—or with such couth. Normally they swore oaths and laced their sentences with profanity as much as did sailors. It was the reason Croy patronized Snurrin. Though the dwarf was known to be the most expensive armorer in the Free City, Croy knew he wouldn't be embarrassed by strong language while picking out his panoply.

“I'll want to see this brigantine proofed, of course, but I think it will suit,” Croy said. He smiled sheepishly and then let out a little laugh. “Ha, I have made a jest, I think. This suit of armor, you see, will—”

“Fie!” the barbarian shouted, coming out of a fitting room near the back of the shop. He was naked save for a pair of faulds that wouldn't quite buckle around his waist. For a man as large as Mörget that was a lot of nudity. “Have you nothing big enough for a real man? Or do you make armor only for tiny creatures like yourself, shopkeep?”

Croy saw Cythera staring at the barbarian and took her elbow to lead her toward the back of the shop. There was a yard behind the main building, where a number of Snurrin's human apprentices were cleaning hauberks and coats of plate. To get the blood and sweat and less identifiable substances out of the metal armor, they loaded each piece in a barrel full of sand wetted down with vinegar, then rolled the barrels endlessly back and forth across the yard.

“A rather tedious method of doing one's laundry,” Cythera observed.

“Armor must be cleansed after every battle or it rusts. I expect you to have little knowledge of what it's like to wear a rusty hauberk, but I assure you, it's unpleasant,” Croy told her. He could remember plenty of times in the field when he'd had no chance to keep his mail clean. The chain mail had chafed his skin until it was red and raw. “But this is what I brought you to see.” He led her to a wooden post mounted near the back of the yard. A crosspiece stood at its top and padding wrapped around the two beams of wood, while a hank of straw had been nailed to the top like a wig. It looked to Croy like an emaciated scarecrow. He slipped the brigantine over the wooden form and then took Cythera back to a table near the door where wine and three cups had been provided. There was even an awning to keep the sun off the two of them while they waited. In short order, Mörget emerged from the shop, holding a barbute helmet big enough to make soup in. It looked like it might just fit his massive head. It had a sharply pointed nasal and an elaborate aventail of mail to protect the neck.

“This is all he had,” Mörget said with a shrug. “I've never favored armor anyway. It's always too heavy and slows a man down.”

Snurrin came out of the door next, a broad-brimmed hat on his head to protect his eyes from the sun. He held a crossbow in his arms that was almost as big as he was. The dwarf did not seem overly taxed, however, with the work of cranking the bow to its full extension, or with loading a heavy quarrel. He mounted the weapon on a forked stand, sighted on the brigantine, and bowed.

“Perhaps you'll do the honors?” he asked Mörget.

The barbarian waved one lazy hand. “You go ahead.”

The dwarf frowned in shame and looked to Croy.

“He can't do it,” the knight said. “I imagine you don't know about Skraeling history. We signed a treaty with the dwarven king many centuries ago, back when we finished off the elves. Until that time men and dwarves were only the loosest sort of allies, you see, and after the long and wearying battle we waged against the elves we had no desire to fight another. So the dwarves kept their kingdom, and their borders were guaranteed, but in exchange they had to agree never to harm a human being. Now all dwarves are forbidden by both law and honor to use weapons—even the weapons they build themselves. It's part of our alliance with them.”

The barbarian looked confused. “But how do they defend themselves, then?”

Croy laughed. “Why would they need to do that? We protect them. In fact, we made it a law that any man who harms a dwarf is subject to being roasted alive. I assure you, the dwarves of this city are the safest of all its citizens. No one would ever rob them or harm a hair on their heads.”

The barbarian squinted at the dwarf. “You agreed to that? Really?”

Snurrin smiled and bowed low again. “I assure you, sir, I was not personally consulted, seeing that I was not to be born for many centuries. But I find the arrangement quite suits my taste. It's a dangerous world and I am most grateful for the protection the laws offer me.”

Cythera smiled knowingly at the barbarian. “They make it sound so very courtly and noble, don't they? Don't let them fool you. There's a reason the king of Skrae keeps his dwarves so close to his bosom. They're the only ones who know how to make good steel. If he wants proper weapons and armor, he has no choice but to appease them.”

“That's interesting,” Mörget said. “Quite interesting. Very well, then.” The barbarian stepped up to the mounted crossbow and squeezed the trigger.

With a resonant
thwock,
the quarrel slammed into the brigantine just to the left of center, high up on the chest. For a moment it stuck out straight from the armored doublet, but then drooped and fell away.

“Oh, well made, well made,” Croy said, jumping up and applauding vigorously. He rushed over to the brigantine and stuck a finger through the hole the quarrel made in the canvas. “The plate beneath is barely dented!” he called back.

“I'll hammer it out anyway,” Snurrin insisted. “Now, for the shield and yon basta—yon warrior's helm,” the dwarf said, nearly slipping into vulgarity, if not an outright obscenity.

The shield and the barbute were mounted on the wooden form, and Snurrin began to crank his bow back to tension.

“Croy,” Cythera said, grasping the knight's hands.

He squeezed her hands in return but his eyes were fixed on the shield. He barely heard her, for he was working out in his head what device he would put on it. As a knight errant, he was not permitted a proper heraldic coat of arms but he could paint it with some element of his family crest. Some way for anyone who saw him holding it to know who he was.

“There's something I want to tell you,” Cythera went on.

“Hmm?” he asked. “Oh, yes, of course. That's what your message said. I'm sure we have much to talk about concerning the wedding and such. What is it in particular you wished to discuss, my pet?”

Mörget stepped in to fire once more. The crossbow's string thrummed with pent-up energy waiting to be unleashed. “It's not about the banns.” Cythera took a deep breath, then said, “I've decided I'm going with you.”

The quarrel leapt from the bow and smacked into the shield, this time sticking in place with its deadly point fully penetrating.

“I—I beg your pardon?” Croy asked, turning in his seat.

She had his full attention now. “I'm going with you to the—” She glanced over at the dwarf to make sure he wasn't listening. “—to the Vincularium. I will accompany you and Mörget.”

“I can't permit that.”

Cythera frowned. She must have known he would say as much. He was sworn to protect helpless women, the aged, and the infirm. There was no way he could take her into a place of danger.

“As your husband—” he began, but she shook her head.

“You are not my master yet,” Cythera said. “Once I sign the banns, you will own me like chattel. That is the law. But until that moment, I make my own decisions.”

“That's . . . true,” Croy admitted. He liked this not at all. “Yet I am also leading this expedition, and I will choose who accompanies me.”

“I thought this was Mörget's quest,” Cythera pointed out.

“Aye,” the barbarian grumbled, making Croy jump. He must have forgotten Mörget was in earshot.

“Then tell her she cannot come,” Croy insisted. “Questing's not for women. It just isn't done!”

Mörget shrugged. “In my land, our women accompany us whenever we travel.”

“But you're nomads! And from what I've heard, your women are nearly as big and strong as you.”

“Aye,” the barbarian said, with a wistful look in his eye. “They're huge.”

“This is completely different,” Croy demanded. “Cythera, this won't be like a coach ride to the next village over. This is going to be a demanding trek through wild lands full of danger. And then there are the perils of the Vincularium itself.”

“Aye, a place full of ancient curses.” She held up her left arm and showed him the writhing painted vine that wrapped around her wrist. It was longer than when he'd seen it last.

He understood her meaning, of course. Coruth, her mother, had gifted Cythera with the perfect charm against both curse and enchantment. When magic was directed toward her, she absorbed it into her skin in the form of what appeared to be tattoos. Later on she could discharge it as well, once sufficient malefic energy had been stored.

“Cythera, I beg you, forget this folly,” he said. “The place we go to is one of the most dangerous in all of Skrae—in all the world. If something happened to you there how could I go on living? How could I ever forgive myself? I love you more than my own life.”

“I know you do,” she said, “but—”

“Do you not love me?” he asked.

Her face went pale.

Croy was not a man given to manipulation, and preying this way on her feelings made him feel soiled. Yet how could he give in to her mad demand? He could understand why she was angry, but he could only hope she would get over it before he returned.

She took her time framing her reply, yet when it came, it was devastating. “Let me make this plain, Croy. I will not sign the banns until you have safely returned from this venture. I have no desire to be a widow even before my wedding ceremony. To ensure that you return safely, I will go with you, and protect you from threats that Snurrin's armor cannot. I'm afraid you cannot gainsay me now.”

“I—but—you can't—” Croy sputtered.

“Mörget,” Cythera said, “I am asking you directly. May I join your expedition?”

Mörget frowned. “I see one problem with it.”

“Thank you,” Croy gasped.

“We don't have enough horses,” Mörget said. “I suppose we'll need to buy some more.”

Chapter Thirteen

M
alden knew if he wasn't going on Croy's grand adventure, he needed to get back to work. He wasted little time finding his next assignment, though of course he had to tarry until nightfall before he could begin to work. Cutbill had a lead that took him into the Royal Ditch, the valley just north of Castle Hill that was formed by the course of the river Skrait. The narrow streets atop the ditch were lined with gambling houses and brothels, with drug dens and pawnshops that asked few questions. Old, familiar territory for Malden, though little that went on there was truly lucrative enough to interest him anymore. What the Royal Ditch did possess to compel him was a scattering of old friends.

He found one shortly after dark, exactly where he expected her to be. Every part of Morricent's face was painted, with the white lead caked so thick around her eyes that it hid all the wrinkles. She'd been at work in Pokekirtle Lane long enough to know all the tricks of her trade: she doused herself in sweet perfumes, she pitched her voice unnaturally high, like an infant's, she wore her hair down with green ribbons woven amongst her curls, like a twelve-year-old girl celebrating her first chapel ceremony. Yet Morricent was old enough to remember Malden's mother.

His mother, who had spent some time in Pokekirtle Lane herself, though she died before she needed to start painting with white lead.

Malden had been born in a whorehouse, and spent his childhood inside its walls, working first at cleaning it and then later learning how to keep its books. When his mother died during his adolescence he'd been forced to leave and find his own way in the world—a hard thing for a penniless boy with no family. Yet he had not been cast out without pity. The whores of Ness were a close sisterhood, and they stuck together better than any guild of workmen. Malden was guaranteed a warm welcome now whenever he stopped in at any brothel in the city, and even the semi-independent streetwalkers knew his face and always had a smile for him. Morricent was no exception.

“Malden! You've come to keep a girl company on a wretched night,” Morricent cooed as he leaned up against her particular stretch of wall. The bricks were wet with mist, and dark clouds covered the moon. It was indeed a bad night to be out of doors, especially while wearing as little clothing as Morricent did. One more trade secret. “Such a warmhearted fellow. Here, come help me chase away the cold.” Morricent's hand was already under Malden's tunic, plucking at the belt that held up his breeches.

He grasped her wrist and pulled it gently free of his clothes. As he lifted her fingers to his lips, instead, and placed a gentle kiss on the back of her hand, her eyes grew wide.

“Milady,” he said, “nothing would please me more, save—I have business tonight, pressing business.”

He released her hand. She closed it fast enough to keep from dropping the coins he'd slipped into her downturned palm.

“Gareth sent me to you, saying you might have some information for me.” Gareth was Morricent's pimp. Not a bad sort, as they went—mostly his role was to collect the money his stable of women earned. He never beat them and was actually just a middleman for a wealthy gambler named Horat, who paid the city watch to stay out of the Royal Ditch. Horat, in turn, answered to Cutbill, whose interests ranged far and wide.

“I'll tell you anything you want to know, Malden, of course. You don't have to pay for
words
.”

“Ah, but I impose on your valuable time. I understand you had a customer last night, a hairy fellow with a mole on his cheek just here.” Malden indicated the spot on his face. “Talkative cove. Wanted to brag all about something big he had planned.”

Morricent nodded and leaned close to whisper. “He said he would take me someplace nice, next time. A room at an inn, even, with wine and sweetmeats, instead of a bare patch of wall and a sprig of mint to freshen my mouth after, like usual.” She shrugged. “I hear promises from that sort all the time, so perhaps I did not look sufficiently convinced. He wanted me to believe he was about to come into money, so I would fuss over him like a real lover. So he told me about this job he had lined up, told me all the angles, and I had to admit it sounded like a nice bit of work. Simple as sifting flour, he kept saying, and no crew to split the swag with.”

Malden got the particulars from her, then bowed and took her hand again. “He's one of your regulars?” he asked.

Morricent nodded.

More coins flowed into her palm. Silver this time. “After tonight,” Malden said, “you may see a lot less of him. Even if he does come back I'm afraid there'll be no room at an inn.”

Morricent's fingers rubbed at one of the coins he'd given her. Malden knew what she was doing—even without bringing it to the light she could tell by the feel what denomination he'd given her. “Methinks I can get my own room now, and all the sweetmeats I like, and a bed for just me. Now that's a rare enough thing to be treasured. Thank ye, Malden,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek.

He was enough of a gentleman to wait until he was out of Pokekirtle Lane before wiping her white lead off his face.

The job was going to take place that very night, halfway across the city. He had to hurry if he wanted to catch Morricent's client in the act. This wasn't a typical housebreaking either, and he had to think on how he would get his wrench into the would-be thief's works.

Malden always thought best up in the clear air of the rooftops. He moved quickly, jumping across alleyways and making good time across the sloped roofs of the Smoke, the zone of workshops and tanners' yards that separated the wealthy uphill parts of the city and the poorer districts down by the wall.

Some of the manufactories and smithies of the Smoke were open all night. The big furnaces there that smelted iron were never allowed to die down, because it cost too much to get them back up to heat once they were cold. Similarly, there were some industries so in demand that the shop masters kept their apprentices working at all hours, taking their places at the workbenches or sleeping in their communal beds in shifts. Therefore Malden had to be careful as he ran along the roofline of a fuller's shed and then up the brick side of a sifting tower beyond. If he was seen now he could get away easily enough, but any honest citizen who spotted him up on the rooftops would know he was at no legal business. They would call out “Thief! Thief!” and the hue and cry might alert his mark. That would ruin everything. The mark might run off, forgetting his scheme, thinking it too risky—or at the very least he would be overly cautious, expecting someone to come up behind him at any moment and put a hand on his shoulder. That would make Malden's work difficult. It could also make it dangerous. The mark would be armed, and desperate enough to attack at the first sign of trouble.

No, if he was to take this man, he needed to have the advantage of surprise. It was the best lesson he'd learned from Cutbill—if your mark knew you were coming, the game was already fouled. Better the mark never saw him coming. Never, in fact, guessed that anyone was on to him.

Morricent's regular was a wheelwright's apprentice named Pathis. He'd reached the grand old age of thirty without ever advancing in that career—either he was too lazy to apply himself, or his master had no faith in his abilities. Trapped in employment of the most menial kind, knowing he was too old now to ever make a change, he must have spent every day scheming, trying to think of some way to get enough money together to start a new life. Perhaps Pathis had never heard of Cutbill, nor that there was already an organized army of criminals in the Free City. Certainly he had no idea that freelance larceny was frowned on by the powers that be.

So when an opportunity came along, an easy way to make some quick coin, Pathis had jumped at the chance. It might have been the first enterprising thing he'd done in his entire life, and it might well be the last. The shop where he worked stood next to a hire paddock, an empty lot between two workshops that was rented out to farmers bringing their livestock to market. He must have seen the vast number of animals that went through the paddock every day, and thought of the price each one would fetch. Of course, it wasn't easy to steal sheep or cows or horses, since every animal was branded with its owner's mark, and no one would buy livestock from a thief without knowing its provenance.

No one, that is, who wished to butcher said animals for their meat, or sell them on to others. Yet two roads down from the wheelwright's shop there was a tannery. Pathis could hardly have avoided noticing
that
—the reek the place (and all the others like it) gave off, of death and acrid dissolution, was what gave the Stink its name and low rents. Tanners needed animals all the time, and weren't likely to ask too many questions. Animals were their stock in trade. Dead ones, anyway.

And so one simple, ugly, brilliant, nasty idea had flourished in the otherwise barren garden of Pathis's mind.

Malden climbed to the top of the sifting tower and had an excellent view of all the surrounding streets. He did not know if Pathis would come from his shop, or from his home down in the Stink, or from some tavern after building up enough liquid courage to carry out his foul employment. But from atop the tower Malden could be sure he'd see the would-be thief coming.

He did not have long to wait. Pathis appeared in Greenmantle Stair, coming up the hill from the Stink, not even bothering to keep to the copious shadows of that dark night. He looked exactly as he'd been described to Malden, and he already had his knife in his hand.

Keeping out of sight, Malden started to climb back down the side of the tower, toward a dark alley near the hired paddock. It was time to get to work.