A Thief in the Night (32 page)

Chapter Fifty-eight

M
alden's head spun. Lights burst in the backs of his eyes and drool fountained out of his split lip. He reeled as he staggered to keep his feet, one hand reaching for Acidtongue.

“Oath-breaker,” he swore, as he rubbed at his hurt jaw. “The law—”

Balint's eyes were wild. She stared down at the wrench in her hand as if she were holding a feral animal that was likely to bite her. Her mouth opened to form words but for a moment she was so stunned by what she'd done (perhaps more stunned than Malden was by the pain of it) that she could not speak.

Considering the mouth on her, that was a marvel in itself.

Then she seemed to recover a bit of her composure. “I . . . don't see any witnesses,” she said, and changed her grip on the wrench.

Malden drew Acidtongue a few inches from its sheath.

“Is this really what you want?” he asked.

She swallowed noisily. “Fuck you.”

Malden stepped backward. His head still rang, and he wouldn't have been surprised if his jaw was broken. It hurt badly enough. Still. He could focus enough to draw Acidtongue free of its scabbard and hold it out to his side, the way he'd seen Croy hold Ghostcutter many times.

Balint looked terrified when she saw the sword. She was trembling visibly. She clearly wasn't afraid enough to give in, however. Malden watched in grudging admiration as she drew her screwdriver with her free hand. It would make a serviceable dagger, more than capable of putting out his eyes.

Assuming he bent over so she could reach, and that he was obliging enough to hold still while she did it.

Malden took a step toward her. His magical sword dripped acid onto the rooftop. It would cut through her like a loaf of bread the first time it touched her. He had a longer reach. He was faster than she was. He outweighed her—a fact he'd seen end more fights than any other factor.

She started shaking. The wrench rattled in her hand.

“Just give me the antidote,” Malden said. He frowned, then added, “The barrels, too. Then you can run away.”

“I . . . can't do that,” Balint told him. Her whole body was shaking now.

“Of course you can.”

“No! The barrels must be destroyed!”

“By the Lady's eighty-nine nipples! What's in those barrels that makes dwarves go crazy?” he asked. “What could possibly be so important?”

“You don't know anything. You know nothing of our history, and don't even pretend otherwise. I have my orders, straight from the lips of my king. No human—nor any dwarf—can ever have the barrels. I'll give my life for that command.”

“A pox on your orders!” He lifted the sword higher, preparing to bring it down in a killing stroke.

“Why don't you go shit blood?” she asked. Her mouth closed tightly as if she were trying to keep her teeth from chattering. “Go ahead and kill me, you—you . . . girl-slayer. My men will still get away with the barrels, and Urin will still die.”

Malden lifted the sword and pointed it at Balint's face. She yelped in terror.

And then his heart broke inside his chest.
What in the name of the Bloodgod's trousers am I doing?

Malden had grown up hating swords. More accurately, hating anyone who wore one on his belt. Swords were the answer to any question, it seemed, for those who had them always got their way over those who didn't. In his experience most swordsmen took advantage of that fact and abused their power. How many times as a child had he seen a client refuse to pay one of his mother's colleagues, and get away with it because he had a length of iron on his belt? How many times had he seen tradesmen and merchants and the abject poor of Ness shoved to the side of a street, thrown in the gutter, because they were in the way of a man with a sword?

It wasn't until he'd met Croy that he even considered that there might be armed people in the world who didn't want to steal from, lie to, and cheat everyone else, and then claim that was their right because they were born to the proper parents.

And now here he was. About to slaughter a dwarf—a dwarf, in Sadu's name!—to get what he wanted. With a sword.

He had fallen in with low companions, he thought. Croy possessed a terrible influence on him. Made him forget everything he'd once believed. Croy had given him Acidtongue as if it was some great prize, some mark of esteem. In the process the knight had turned him into one of those arseholes he'd grown up hating. The ones who used to make his blood boil. He'd always considered himself an enemy of power, of the abusive system of knights and lords and kings that held Skrae in an iron grip.

When he accepted Acidtongue from the knight, he'd joined that crew.

He moved the sword back to his side. He wanted to throw it away. He didn't sheathe it, though. He still needed that antidote, at the very least.

“Keep your benighted barrels, then. Give me the antidote and I'll leave you in peace.”

Balint stopped shaking immediately. A look of incomprehension crossed her face—but then, suddenly, her eyes went sly. “I have your number now. You've got grease for guts,” she said. A nasty smile split her face. “You can't do it. You can't kill me, even with that length of iron in your hand. What is it? Are you just a coward? Or are you going to tell me you've got too much honor to slaughter an innocent?”

“I'd hardly put that label on you,” Malden told her. “But I won't cut you down. Not like this. Give me the antidote.”

“I told you, there isn't any.”

Malden sighed. “And I know you're lying. Cythera—you met her back at the Hall of Masterpieces—told me so. She's the daughter of a witch, and she's worked with poisons herself. She told me no poisoner is so foolish not to keep the cure for her own venom somewhere on her. So you must have it. Hand it over. Now.”

She watched his face for a while, perhaps trying to judge just how far she could push him before he attacked her in blind rage. Then she reached down inside her shirt and took out a tiny glass vial with a cork stopper. A few drops of brown liquid rolled around inside the glass.

“Put that iron prick-replacement away and I'll consider it,” she told him.

He scowled at Balint, but then he shoved Acidtongue back into its glass-lined scabbard, as she'd asked. He kept his left hand near his belt, where his bodkin was ready to be drawn at a moment's notice. If he was going to have to kill her, he wanted to do it with a poor man's weapon.

“How do I administer it?” he asked, nodding at the vial.

“One drop is all he needs. Any more and the antidote will make him shit out his bowels, his brains, and everything in between,” Balint said.

She might be lying, but he reckoned Cythera would know the truth.

“He won't be much good for anything for a day or two. Of course, a debaser like that isn't fit to lick clean my privy any day.”

“Just give it to me,” Malden said.

“Certainly. Here you go!” she cried, and flung the vial past his outstretched hands and over the rooftop.

Chapter Fifty-nine

M
alden howled in anger and horror. He forgot all about Balint as he twisted on one foot and jumped into the air, trying desperately to catch the vial before it smashed on the flagstones far below. He gave no thought whatsoever as to where he, himself, would land.

The glass vial arced through the air, spinning end over end. His fingers barely touched it as he hit the top of his own parabola, and he nearly flicked it away by being overzealous. He shot out his other hand and just managed to grab it and hold it tight in his fist. He had it! He had the antidote!

Too bad it looked like he was going to die for it.

He had expected to land face-first on the rooftop but hadn't realized how far he'd jumped to catch the vial. So focused was he on catching it that he had overshot the edge of the roof completely. Now there was nothing beneath him but empty space.

Time seemed to stretch out and an awful sort of peace suddenly came over him, as his brain chose to retreat into pure reason rather than scream in horror. He seemed to have all the time in the world to think as he fell. He looked down and saw the rooftops of a lower building come shooting up toward him, and wondered if he'd just thrown away his own life to save Slag's.

How unlike me, he considered as he dropped through the dim red light. Normally I put myself first and above all others. For perhaps the first time in my life, I've acted nobly and selflessly.

He looked down again.

What a terrible mistake that turned out to be.

When Malden had taught himself to climb on the rooftops of Ness, one of the first things he had to learn was how to fall properly, but now there was no time to put that knowledge into practice. He tried to roll as he struck a rooftop two levels down, but still he took most of the impact in his shoulder. He felt the bones in his arm flex and start to crack, but before anything could shatter he was falling again, bouncing off the one roof to land on the next one down. This time he landed with a crunch that stole all his momentum and left him at rest.

That's odd, he thought. I don't appear to be dead. This doesn't even hurt all that much. He rolled over and tried to sit up.

What he accomplished instead was that he started to scream in agony.

He grunted through the pain, forcing himself to rise to his knees. His left arm felt like a piece of crazed pottery, like it would shatter into a million pieces if he moved it even a fraction of an inch. He had wrenched his shoulder badly, and the ribs down that side of his chest throbbed with agony.

He had to know, though. He forced his hand to open, and saw the vial lying on his palm.

Intact. The cork had worked its way partially out of its collar, but he pressed it back down with his good thumb.

Then he dropped onto his back and just stared up at the red-lit ceiling for a while, trying to not pass out from the pain.

For a long time that was all he could do.

There was no sign of Balint. She wasn't peering down at him from a rooftop high above. She wasn't approaching to hit him with her wrench again. Most likely she'd done the wise thing and just run away. He supposed he should be grateful for small favors.

He knew he had to get up. He had to get to his feet and get back down to the street level. He had to take the lift back to the foundry and get the antidote to Slag before it was too late. If he failed, the dwarf would die.

He tried to roll over, and screamed in pain again. He had no control over it—his hurt arm took control of his lungs and made him scream. Sweat poured down his face and his breathing came in hitches and starts. The red light pulsed behind his eyes, keeping time with his pulse.

He felt sick. He knew if he vomited now it would just make him weaker, so he choked down his stomach contents and struggled to get up on his knees. His legs worked just fine. They didn't hurt. He climbed to his feet—hard to do without using his hands, but he managed. He exhaled deeply, once, twice, three times. Then he walked across the rooftop to its edge, where he looked down and saw a ladder below him. He could climb down a ladder with one good arm, if he had to.

He had to.

He was halfway down the dormitory tower when a new scream ripped through the red-lit air.

Malden froze in place and stared at the wall in front of him for a long time before he realized that the scream had not come out of his own mouth.

Who had made that sound, then? He couldn't know. It didn't matter. He climbed down another rung.

“Slurri!” he heard Balint call, from somewhere else in the cavernous dormitory level. “Murin! Where are you?”

No answer came.

Malden took another step down.

The light changed subtly and a long shadow passed across the wall in front of Malden's face. He ignored it and took another step down the ladder.

“Human!” Balint called. “Human! Answer me!”

Malden ignored her and kept climbing.

“What did you do to Slurri? Where's Murin?” Balint shouted.

“I've done nothing,” Malden said. He didn't have the strength to make his voice very loud.

“What? Speak up, arsehole. I can't hear you.”

Malden turned his head to look up at her. She stood on a rooftop across from him, one level up. Her face was lit from below by the red streetlamps, giving her a ghastly aspect.

“Look at me,” he said, with as much force as he could muster. “I'm right here. I did nothing! If your friends are gone, it must have been the revenants that got them!”

“Dead elves? Ha! Your lies stink worse than your moldy bollocks. You must have laid a trap for him. I swear, if they're dead, I'll go to Helstrow myself and demand justice of your human king. I'll make sure they cut you open and draw out your intestines on a windlass!”

Malden shook his head and climbed down another rung. Every time his foot landed it jarred his whole body and his left arm flared into agony again. “I don't—lay traps. I defeat them. You're the one who—sets traps.”

Balint said nothing more. She disappeared behind the edge of her rooftop and was gone. Malden was glad for it.

As he was about to place his foot on the flagstones at street level he heard another scream. This time he was sure he wasn't the one who made it. Perhaps it had been Balint, meeting her first revenant. That had to be it—the dwarves must have fallen afoul of the Vincularium's guardians. They were dead, then, all of them. Even Balint's wrench would be no match for their clutching, bony hands.

It didn't matter.

Nothing mattered but getting the antidote to Slag.

Chapter Sixty

O
utside the throne room, Mörget and Croy hid behind thick marble columns and did their best not to make a sound.

The patrol that sought them—the demon's smaller twin and the two armored revenants—was getting close. Close enough that Croy could hear their footfalls echoing. From his place in the shadows he got occasional glimpses of them as they moved around the room, poking their swords into various shadows and hiding places. So far they had failed to find anything, but they seemed resolved to check the entire chamber. As they drew closer, he wondered what he should do if he was discovered.

Every one of his sinews and tendons were tensed for him to jump out from behind the pillar and attack. He longed for the fight. He had taken vows to slay demons wherever they were found. Yet he had taken other vows as well. Vows of love.

He must find Cythera. He must get her out of this terrible place. And that meant that no matter what else, he had to keep himself alive.

He still felt weak from his last encounter with the formless demon, when he had nearly been devoured. His face and hands still stung from the touch of the creature's blood. He was in no shape for a desperate fight now. And even if he prevailed against this patrol, how many more of them would there be? How many revenants, hiding in the deepest recesses of the Vincularium, waiting for the proper moment to spring forward and take their revenge—and how many demons?

Just on the other side of his pillar, the new, smaller demon stopped moving forward. Its substance bunched up in the middle and it grew taller. Faces appeared under its skin, stretching outward as if they sensed something.

A few feet away, protected only by shadows, Croy held his breath and waited. Then he glanced over at Mörget.

The barbarian had Dawnbringer half out of its sheath.

Croy shook his head violently. Mörget frowned and lifted his sword another few inches clear of its scabbard. No, Croy thought, desperately trying to communicate with the barbarian. No, not now. He wasn't in any shape for a desperate fight. One demon had nearly butchered him. Backed up by undead elves, another might succeed. If he was slain now, what hope would Cythera have? She was trapped down here, surrounded by nightmarish creatures and unknown dangers. And she had only Malden to protect her.

Croy stared directly into Mörget's eyes and pleaded with him silently. He reached out and grabbed Mörget's sword arm. He felt the barbarian's arm tense, and for a moment thought the bigger man would attack him rather than the elves. But somehow Croy's desperation won through. The barbarian relaxed his arm. Croy held up a hand for patience. Mörget looked deeply disappointed but nodded and put his sword away.

Croy let out a breath in relief. He was careful to make no noise.

Still, it was enough to give them away. One of the revenants froze in place, then turned slowly to face the shadows where Mörget and Croy hid, its eyes scanning the darkness. The other moved back to cover it while the demon stayed where it was, its faces craning toward the shadows.

It was over. The revenants had found them, and Croy knew he could not win. He reached for Ghostcutter's hilt anyway—

—but did not draw it. The revenant took a step into the darkness. Croy felt like it could reach out and grab them, like it would lunge at any moment. Yet it waved its sword around ahead of itself as if it were blind in the dark.

How was that possible? The revenants they'd seen on the top level had no trouble seeing in the dark. None of them even had eyes. Why was this one so tentative? It almost seemed afraid of finding them.

In the shadows, Croy could barely make out its features. Yet he sensed there was something different about this one. It wore the same bronze armor as the revenants he'd fought, and it carried the same bronze sword. Yet it didn't move like they did. It was at once more graceful and less resolute. As its sword came closer, pointing almost directly at him, he squinted hard and studied its face, and got quite a shock.

Its skin was intact—he couldn't see the bones breaking through rotted flesh. Its nose was unscarred by time, its lips not even cracked. And its eyes glinted with the few stray beams of red light that made it back into the hiding place.

In fact, it didn't seem to be dead at all. It seemed . . . alive.

It looked almost exactly like Croy's idea of what a living elf would look like.

Of course, at that moment its looks mattered far less than the fact that it was about to stab him through the vitals. He pressed himself back against a wall and prayed to the Lady that he would not be discovered.

“Aengmar!” someone called from out in the main room. “Over here!”

The revenant—or whatever it was—in front of Croy turned and looked over its shoulder. “I thought I heard something over here,” it shouted back, its voice enormous in the shadowy hiding place. It had an accent Croy didn't recognize, thick enough that he had trouble understanding even the simple words. Yet he knew one thing for sure. The revenants didn't talk. They couldn't speak.

“Never mind that! Quickly!” the other cried.

The revenant—the elf—Aengmar—turned away from the hiding place and dashed off to catch up with its partner. Leaning out of hiding—exposing himself a little to the light—Croy saw the demon and the two armored figures run into the throne room, out of sight.

Croy gestured for Mörget to emerge from their hiding place. Still keeping silent, the two of them moved away from the arch, their only light the reddish glow that spilled in through the gallery ahead of them. Croy moved cautiously around a building with high marble walls and headed to his left, looking for any way out of the level. He found a side passage leading along another gallery. It looked deserted. When he was reasonably sure they were alone, he leaned close toward Mörget's ear and whispered, “Did you see that thing? It was no revenant.”

“Aye, I agree. But so what?” Mörget asked.

“So what? I think we both know what those were. They were alive. That woman we saw swimming in the central shaft—the girl you saw back at the mushroom farm. It adds up, now, to only one thing. Those weren't revenants. They were—Lady preserve us all—they were living elves!”

The barbarian shrugged. “Probably easier to kill than the dead kind.”

Croy shook his head in frustration. Didn't this mean anything to Mörget? The fact that there were living elves in the Vincularium was extraordinary! It meant—it meant—

“It means nothing to us,” Mörget pointed out. “We are here to kill demons. Any other inhabitants of this place are merely in the way. Now I understand you wished to avoid detection back there. At first I thought you were a coward.”

Croy's brain was so wracked with understanding what living elves could mean that he didn't register that at first. Only slowly did the heat of anger light up the chambers of his heart. “I beg your pardon?” he asked, very carefully. If Mörget said that again, it would be a slight that had to be answered.

“I thought it briefly, but then realized the truth. You simply wish to lay an ambush for them, yes? It makes sense. You do not let the enemy come for you. You lay in wait for them! I am learning so much from you, western knight.”

“You thought I wanted to . . . no,” Croy said. “No, no—we can't fight those things now. We must find the others. If there are more of these elves here, then—”

“You think a thief, a dwarf, and a witch's useless daughter will be any help against them?” Mörget demanded.

Croy studied the barbarian's face. “Not at all,” he said. “But that's exactly the point. We must get them to safety.”

“And postpone my glory even longer,” Mörget said. “I like it not.”

“I like nothing about this,” Croy said. “But I know my duty. Innocent lives are at stake.”

Mörget snarled in disgust. “Innocence is not a quality admired by my people,” he said. “It's just another name for weakness.”

“I've taken a vow to aid those who can't help themselves. If you want my help with your demons,” Croy said, “you'll have to do this my way.”

The barbarian glared at him, clearly estimating how much he valued Croy's help after all. Croy very much hoped he would come around and see reason. He had no desire to split up, not as weak and tired as he felt. He did not want to have to leave Mörget here and go looking for Cythera on his own.

But if that was what it came to, so be it.

Luckily the barbarian was still capable of seeing reason. “All right,” Mörget said. “All right! We'll do it your way.”