A Thief in the Night (12 page)

Chapter Nineteen

T
he following day the sun was warm and rippled along the surface of the road, while a soft breeze bowed the heads of wheat. Croy rode on the wagon while Malden drove. Between the demands of watching the horses and the knight's singing, Malden had no trouble staying awake this time. They made good time in the morning but had to slow their pace in the afternoon as foam slicked the backs of the hackneys and it was clear they were pushing the horses too hard. Still, by the time pink clouds began to gather in the sky, they could already see Helstrow on the horizon—the halfway mark of their journey.

The royal fortress stood in a wide bowl of land cleared of trees and rocks, to allow better fields of fire for the archers on its walls. In shape it looked like a great ship, with a sharp prow and a high stern castle—that must be the king's palace, Malden thought, a stand of spires and high towers. The fortress stood astride the river Strow, from which it took its name. A hundred flags flew from its high places, and knights in bright armor rode in and out of its three massive gates on endless patrols.

East of the fortress, across the river, an ancient forest grew. Croy told Malden it was the last of its kind in Skrae, a thicket of ancient trees that cloaked the foothills of the Whitewall Mountains. To find a forest that old anywhere else, Croy said, you'd have to go as far north as the dwarven kingdom, for the dwarves cared little for the surface world and had never cleared their land in the endless demand for firewood.

“This forest,” Croy told him, “has survived only because no one is willing to get so close to the Vincularium just to chop down trees.”

Malden had a choice to make, whether to part company here and lose himself in the streets of Helstrow—where surely there were things to steal, and a living to be made—or to press on with the party and become a grave robber (and, likely, a meal for a demon). While he was pondering that, however, he was asked for his opinion on another matter.

“The only bridge over the Strow is inside the fortress,” Croy said. “We'd have to enter the gates to cross.”

“That shouldn't be a problem—you're still a knight of the realm,” Malden pointed out. “Even a knight errant should be able to talk his way in.”

“The difficulty is on Mörget's side. A barbarian in Redweir or in Ness is a curiosity, even a wonder. Inside Helstrow, he's an act of war. One reason the king stays here is to keep his army close to the Whitewall, where he can respond quickly in case the barbarians flood through the mountain passes.”

“Is an invasion really that likely?” Malden asked.

Croy glanced over at Mörget, but the barbarian was out of earshot. “The people of the East live by conquest. They do not farm, so simply to feed their people they must constantly raid the freeholds and villages of their neighbors. Mostly they harass the hill people north of here, on the border between Skrae and Skilfing, but they've long had their eye set on richer bounty. If they were allowed through the passes, though . . . yes. I am certain they would try to conquer us. The threat they pose is real—and kept in abeyance only by constant vigilance on our part.” Croy shook his head. “If Mörget is discovered in Helstrow, we'll be taken as spies or traitors or worse. And you've seen him. He's hardly inconspicuous.”

“Is there another option?”

Croy frowned, a rare expression on his face. “The Strow is too deep and runs too fast to ford anywhere on its length. We can head downstream a few miles, build a raft, and pole the horses across—but that's not without its dangers. The current is so swift we could be capsized and drown.”

“When choosing between two evils,” Malden said, “my mother always said, make sure you get paid in advance. It seems to me we cannot predict what will happen if we enter Helstrow. Any number of things could go wrong. The river may be treacherous, but at least we know what we face.”

“I think you're right. But it will add a day to our journey. Thank you, Malden.”

“For my counsel? I'm surprised you even asked for it.”

Croy smiled at him. “You count yourself so worthless sometimes. You're one of the most canny men I've ever met,” he said. He reached over and slapped Malden on the back. “I know you weren't born a nobleman, Malden, but you have true honor in your soul. I've seen it. There are great deeds in your future.”

Guilt washed through Malden's veins, a feeling he'd hardly expected. If Croy knew what kind of dishonorable things he dreamed of, concerning Cythera . . . “I think you do me too much credit.”

Croy shrugged. “I suppose no man can take the measure of his own mettle. Once we're across the river we'll discuss this again.”

Malden wasn't sure what to make of that. Did Croy suspect something? Was he trying to put him off his guard? There was no way to know.

Croy stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled loud enough to hurt Malden's ears. “Ho, friends!” he shouted. “Up ahead the road forks. Turn south!”

“South?” Mörget asked. “Away from our destination?”

“Put faith in me,” Croy said, and the barbarian just nodded.

The two warriors trusted each other implicitly, Malden realized. Mörget didn't question Croy's instructions unduly, because he knew they shared a common interest. And now Croy was trying to bring Malden into that same confidence. It gave him chills.

And a very strange sort of pride. Not that he intended to live up to this newfound trust. But it was . . . nice, perhaps, to have a man like Croy think highly of you.

Malden laughed to himself. He'd been spending too much time with the knight errant. He was starting to believe in Croy's folly himself. Best to nip that in the bud.

The road duly forked, and Croy wheeled the wagon to the south, so that the setting sun was on their right shoulders. The horses were dragging their feet by the time, a mile later, they pulled into the stable yard of a milehouse. They were on the road to Redweir now, and Croy told Malden that the milehouses on this road were named for the Nine Learned Arts. The sign out front depicted the constellation known as the Troll, and the house was called the Astrologer.

Inside, the walls and ceiling were decorated with tin stars, and instead of the usual dreary room they found music and warmth and a boy carrying two flagons of ale. He nodded them toward one of the available tables. This place was not crowded by any measure, but at least it saw some decent custom. The men gathered at the tables were mostly merchants and tradesmen, travelers on the road between Redweir and Helstrow. Men who might have a coin to spend. They were laughing and their faces were bright with drink.

“Now this is more to my liking,” Malden said, and called for food. What came to the table was pottage again, but a bit of bacon had been stirred into the bowls to give the stew a measure of flavor. He downed his bowl in a hurry and ordered another, as well as more ale.

It might, after all, be the last meal he shared with the dwarf and the knight. It might be the last time he ever saw Cythera. He intended to get drunk.

Croy went to bed early. Cythera stayed long enough to watch a band of musicians strike up their first song. The music was as rustic as the instruments—a shawm, an old plucked dulcimer, and a fiddle—but boisterous and full of life, and the songs retained their traditional, and therefore mildly obscene, lyrics. Malden found himself slapping the table in time, and even Slag nodded his head to the rhythm.

When the first song ended, to much cheering, Cythera rose from the table and took her leave. “If I stay, I'll be dancing before long, and shan't sleep at all,” she told them.

Malden nearly fell over his chair as he jumped to his feet. “Pleasant dreams, dear lady,” he said.

She looked quizzically into his eyes for a moment, but when he added nothing more she nodded to Slag and headed back to her private room.

“You haven't an arsehole's chance with that one,” Slag said when Malden sat back down. “What woman would trade a knight for a thief? Unless human women are so different from the dwarven kind.”

Malden shook his head. “Some of them, perhaps. Slag, tell me, does Cutbill have an agent inside Helstrow?”

“If he does, he never told me,” the dwarf replied. “You think I'm privy to his secrets? And why do you even ask?”

“A wise man would never set foot inside the Vincularium. A wise man would run now, while he still had the chance. Oh, I know you have your reasons for going onward with this crew,” Malden said. “Even if you won't share them. Probably a hoard of dwarf gold hidden in there somewhere, left behind an age ago.”

Slag's face refused to show any emotion. Which told Malden he'd come close to the mark, at least.

“Yet,” the thief went on, “I'm more likely to die than get rich if I go. I had considered the possibility of making my own way from here.”

“You mean to run off without a word of explanation, is what you're saying,” Slag said.

“I'll head for Helstrow and find my fortune there,” Malden whispered. “Better a live thief than a dead hero, no?”

“Well, if you do go,” the dwarf said, and pursed his lips as if he'd bitten into a lime, “good luck go with you, son.”

“There. It's not so hard to wish a man fortune, is it? I know curses are easier for you, so I'll ask no further benediction.” Malden rose unsteadily from the table. He should have taken his time with that fourth pint of ale, he thought.

“You're going right now?” Slag asked.

“No, no, no, no,” Malden said. “Just outside. For a piss.”

The dwarf looked like he didn't believe this, but it was true. Malden was in no shape to walk a dozen miles that night, not without some sleep. If he did run off, he would do it just before the dawn.

He stepped out into the cold night air, leaving the music and the fire behind him, and wandered down the dooryard of the milehouse toward the privy. Overhead an army of stars marched across a perfect dark blue sky.

Malden had built a kind of life for himself in Ness. He could do it again in Helstrow, he was sure of it. The decision would be easy, if not for—

But he did not finish that thought. Just as he was about to take down his hose, he heard a sudden sharp crack behind him. He jumped in the air and spun around.

Standing behind him was a man dressed in a heavy cloak with a hood that masked his features. He had a white stick in his hand, which he slapped against the wall of the milehouse. “Going somewhere?” he asked.

Chapter Twenty

“Y
ou,” Malden said. “I've seen you before. Back up the road a ways. You're—”

“I'm the man no mischievous little peasant ever wants to meet,” the man said. Malden was sure he knew the man now, even if his face couldn't be seen. This was the shire reeve he'd seen back at the last milehouse. The one who'd sized him up like a horse he wanted to buy. “I work this road looking for runaways. Most don't give me such exercise as you.” He swept back his cloak and Malden saw a long-handled hammer dangling from his belt. “You're looking at a beating, no matter what. But you can save yourself from being hobbled if you play nice.”

Hobbling. The very word made Malden's blood freeze. It was too gentle-sounding a word considering what it meant—leg-breaking was perhaps more precise. It was the traditional punishment for villeins who ran away too many times from their farms.

Malden licked his lips in fear. “I have no idea what you think I've done, but—”

“Your master sent me to bring you home, boy.”

“Master? I don't know what you're talking about,” Malden said. “I'm a citizen of Ness, a free man. I'm traveling with a knight of the realm, Sir Croy. He'll vouch for me if we just go inside and rouse him.”

The shire reeve chuckled. “You've got a silver tongue in your mouth, I'll give you that. Most folk I catch can barely mumble the king's speech. That must have helped you trick yon bunch into letting you ride on their wagon. Did you tell them all that guff about being a citizen? Do you think they really believed you? Look at you, son. You're as thin as a switch, and near short as a dwarf. You've got the look all over you of one born poor. You can put on fancy city clothes if you like, too, yet it don't make you a gentleman.”

Malden glanced to the left and the right, looking for a good escape route. Unfortunately none presented itself. The privy stood well off from the main building, and he doubted he could outrun the shire reeve. Yet if he could just get inside the milehouse, he knew he could wake the others and they would explain everything. If he could—

“Hold,” he said, thinking of something. “You say my master sent you? Pray tell, what was his name?”

“I should think you'd know that yourself,” the shire reeve said. “Prestwicke. His name is Prestwicke. He sent me word of your description, and coin to pay for your capture in advance. When I spied you last night I sent a message back. He'll be here tomorrow to collect you—whether or not you can walk then.”

At the sound of the name Malden's heart raced. He'd come all this way to get away from Prestwicke, but it seemed the assassin wasn't going to give up that easily. He had no choice now but to escape. If Prestwicke came for him, he knew the bastard would never let him get away again. “Very well,” he forced himself to say. “I'll go quietly. Just let me do one thing first.”

“Come now, what could you possibly hope to achieve by—”

“This,” Malden said. He drew his bodkin from his belt in one quick motion and flicked it toward the shire reeve's face. It was no throwing knife—it had no edge, just a poorly sharpened point—and he knew better than to think it would actually hurt the man. The shire reeve didn't know that, however, and as Malden had expected he flinched and took a step backward as the tiny knife flew past his ear.

It was just enough to ruin his balance. Malden rushed toward him with one shoulder down and caught him in the midriff, knocking him off his feet. He didn't stop to admire his handiwork but kept running, across the road and into the field of wheat on the far side. Behind him he heard yelling but he didn't bother listening too closely—he could guess what the shire reeve was shouting about.

The stalks of wheat, pale in the moonlight, bowed and bent aside as Malden hurtled through them. He would run a dozen yards and no more into the field then double back, he figured, and race for the door of the milehouse. Hopefully the shire reeve would get lost in the wheat while trying to stop him. Hopefully—

A sharp pain exploded across Malden's buttocks. He was lucky he'd been doubled over, trying to keep his head down below the level of the wheat. If the hammer had taken him in the back it might have broken his spine. It was one of the worst blows he'd ever taken, and it sent him sprawling in the mud. His breath burst out of him and his hands grabbed at the yielding wheat as he tried to scrabble back up to his feet.

A boot pushed down on his back and ground him into the dirt.

“That,” the shire reeve said, “was a fool's gambit. You think I never chased down some farmhand in a field before?”

Malden could think of several witty quips to come back with, but he lacked the breath to form them.

“I can see you're a lively one,” the shire reeve said. “Well, I got a cure for that. Tell me, boy. Which knee you want to keep? Left or right?”

Malden fought and struggled and just managed to roll over onto his back. He looked up at the stars and the great shadow of the shire reeve above him, and the silhouette of the hammer in the man's hand. His heart beat so fast in his chest he thought it might burst. “Please,” he begged. He'd spent much of his life as a thief waiting to be measured for a hangman's noose. He'd thought often of what he would say to his executioner, what final words he would impart on the world. All that came out of his mouth now was, “Please.”

Even vain hopes are answered, sometimes.

There was a sound very much like the noise a scythe makes when it cuts through a sheaf of grain. A few drops of dark rain pattered on Malden's cheek. And then the shire reeve's head fell from his neck to land right in Malden's lap. The man's body stayed standing a moment longer, then slid to one side and crushed the wheat down flat.

Another shape was revealed behind it. A much larger shape, that of a man holding a massive bearded axe.

“The fool woke me up,” Mörget said, “when he rapped on the wall with that little stick of his. I was enjoying my rest.”

The blood started flowing once more in Malden's veins. It still ran cold, though.

No. Oh, no. It couldn't be.

Not a shire reeve.

Among the criminal fraternity of Ness there was a certain understanding. Thieves occasionally fought one another. Sometimes footpads had to hurt someone to make their nightly wages. Every thief owned at least a knife, and often far more serious weapons, and they knew how to use them. But not even the most hardened thug in the Free City would think of attacking a watchman.

The agents of the law had their own fraternity, and they punished those who killed their own without mercy or question. If you slew a watchman, you were signing your own death warrant. They would never stop until they caught the killer.

And that was just for average everyday watchmen. The shire reeve was—had been—one of the most important officials of law in the entire kingdom.

If you killed a man like that, you might as well slit your own throat next. And Malden knew to a certainty that after the law dealt with Mörget, they would come after him as an accomplice. The facts didn't matter. The law would have its due.

“That might have been a foolish blow,” he said. “Though I do thank you for it.”

Mörget squatted down a little and picked the head up from Malden's lap. “No, it was a clean cut. Look.”

Malden shook his head. “Mörget, that man was an official of the crown, and when he turns up missing they'll hunt high and low for his killer. Nor will they think that disturbing your rest justified your crime.”

“Ha! Let them come. I'm afraid of no watchman.”

Malden shook his head. “Please, listen to me, friend. You know how to chop off men's heads—I know about the law. We have to hide the body. Just to make sure it isn't found until we're long gone from here. Once we're across the Strow, away from civilization, maybe we can breathe easy again.”

“Justice! Law!” Mörget mocked. “Just words, little man.”

Oh, this was bad. Very, very bad. Malden could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He could feel sweat pooling in the small of his back. What if someone in the milehouse heard the shire reeve shouting? What if they were coming even now with torches and swords, looking to see what was the matter?

What if the shire reeve had told someone, anyone, about the peasant named Malden he was hunting? What if Prestwicke came in the morning and—

No. He couldn't think about that. He couldn't think at all, there was no time for it. He needed to act.

Malden got to his feet, then reached down to grab the shire reeve's ankles. The shire reeve was bigger than he was, and Malden didn't think he could drag the man very far on his own, but if Mörget would just help—

“Catch,” the barbarian said.

It was all Malden could do to drop the dead man's ankles and bring his hands up. He neatly caught the shire reeve's severed head, then almost dropped it again when he realized what Mörget had thrown to him.

The barbarian bent down and lifted the body easily, slinging it over his shoulder. “Where do you want it?” he asked.

“Deeper in the field is our best bet,” Malden said. “He won't be discovered until this place is harvested.”

Together they covered up all evidence of what had happened. The hardest part was washing the blood from his tunic. Malden was convinced the keeper of the milehouse would come out and demand to know what they were doing in his horse trough, but somehow they avoided detection.

When it was done, Mörget returned to the stables, while Malden slipped inside and headed for the room he was supposed to share with Slag. He stopped outside the door and waited until he'd stopped shaking.

Inside, Slag was propped up on the mattress, reading by the light of a single candle. “Didn't have the liver for it, eh?” the dwarf asked.

It took Malden a moment to realize what Slag meant. “Ah. No. I won't be going to . . . to Helstrow, not now.” Not until he was sure the shire reeve's death went unnoticed. Not while Prestwicke was out there somewhere, riding hard to catch up with him. All the horrors of an elfin crypt couldn't match what his misbegotten fate came up with on its own. “I'm coming with you.”

“I thought as much,” Slag said.

“You did?”

“You'll never leave Cythera behind. Not if it means losing her to Croy,” the dwarf told him, and tapped the side of his nose.

Malden knew he couldn't tell anyone—not even Slag—what had happened, so he just said, “You've got me there, old man. You've got me dead to rights.”