A Thief in the Night (9 page)

Chapter Fourteen

T
he hired paddock filled most of the space between two multistory buildings, a patch of trammeled mud surrounded by a sturdy wooden fence. Inside, a few dozen head of swine were sleeping in the mud, huddled together for warmth. From time to time one would grunt, or a hoofed leg would twitch, but the animals suspected nothing of the grizzly fate Pathis intended for them.

Of course the paddock was guarded by night. No place in the Free City of Ness was left unwatched, given the constant threat of thievery. The guard here was just a boy, perhaps the son of the owner, perhaps just some local youth looking to gain an extra coin or two. He carried a stout quarterstaff and he stood his watch near the gate, leaning up against the fence. If he was not asleep standing up, he was certainly dozing—Malden could see that his head slumped forward on his chest and his shoulders were slack at his sides.

Malden slipped around the corner of the wheelwright's shop and into an alley that ran behind it, intending to take up a position where neither Pathis nor the guard could see him. He silently cursed the mud that sucked at his leather shoes, but he was an old hand now at lying in wait and had camped in even dirtier spots for longer than this would take. He kept his cloak wrapped around himself, covering his bodkin and anything else that might gleam even in the near perfect darkness. The cloak was a deep green, dark enough to look black, and he knew he was almost invisible where he perched behind the fence. He settled down to wait.

And wait. And wait. Where was Pathis? Malden had seen him no more than half a block away, coming hither with clear intent. He should have arrived already. Other than the dreaming pigs, nothing moved in Malden's vision. Nothing at all. He had expected the would-be thief to come in from the street, to accost the guard directly and then slip through the gate to get at the pigs. Would Pathis come from the rooftops, instead, thinking he could slaughter the animals and haul them out of the paddock without waking the guard?

Malden glanced upward at the roof of the wheelwright's shop. Nothing there. He turned slightly to get a view of the lastmaker's on the other side of the paddock. The roofline was clear. What was taking Pathis so long to—

With a muffled thump, a heavy weight fell from the roof of the wheelwright's and splashed in the mud of the paddock. Malden didn't so much as flinch, but his heart pounded in his chest. He shot a glance up at the roof of the wheelwright's again and saw nothing there. Without rising above a crouch, he circled around the edge of the paddock to get closer and see what had fallen.

Through the slats of the fence, Pathis stared up at him with glassy eyes. The fool's throat was cut from ear to ear.

The sudden intrusion had woken the pigs. They stirred noisily, grunting and squealing in their fear. Some were struggling to their feet, slipping in the wet mud. Malden was certain the noise would wake the guard, but the boy didn't stir.

Oh, no, he thought. No, it cannot be.

Legs bent double beneath him, Malden circled around the paddock a bit farther until he had a better look. The guard was dead as well, his throat cut just as savagely as Pathis's. The boy had been tied to the fence, his arms fastened around his quarterstaff to keep his body propped upright. In the darkness, anyone would have thought the boy was only sleeping.

Malden certainly had.

The pigs were all standing now and whimpering in their fear. They knew the smell of death and no one was left to calm them. The noise they made was like thunder crashes in Malden's ears. Surely anyone in the neighboring buildings would hear it, and wonder what had agitated the animals. Surely someone would come to investigate in short order.

When one is bent on criminal enterprise, and one discovers that even the slightest thing has gone wrong with the plan, the wise thief has but one recourse—to forget the night's business, and run as fast as possible to a place of safety. The city watch was never far away, especially in the Smoke. If he were discovered near the paddock, he would be blamed for two murders and clapped in irons, thrown in gaol, and hanged with very little to say about it.

He stood up straight and dashed for the lastmaker's shop. Up the wall and away over the roofs, that was the best course. He dared not go up the wall of the wheelwright's, for fear of whatever had killed Pathis. The lastmaker's shop was a two-story, half-timbered building with plenty of windows. An easy climb for one as nimble as he. This would be all right. He merely needed to escape. As for the mystery of what had gone wrong, he would gladly leave the pleasure of solving it to the watch. He grasped a timber and started hauling himself upward, and was ten feet off the ground before something hit him hard in the back and he slipped.

You didn't learn how to climb as well as Malden if you didn't first learn how to fall. He twisted in midair and got his hands and feet under him, ready to take the impact with the muddy ground below. Before he could land, however, a heavy, blunt object struck him in the stomach and he collapsed in a heap, winded and in pain.

He could hear someone coming toward him. Moving fast. Malden got his knees down in the mud and started to spring up to his feet. A forearm like something carved of stone smashed across his throat, and he fell down to sit in the alley, his back against the wall of the lastmaker's shop.

He had learned his lesson, and did not attempt to get up again. Instead he looked up at his attacker.

The man was short, almost as short as Malden, and even more slender. He wore an undyed woolen habit like a monk's, with a matching cowl covering much of his head. His face was round and merry, though his eyes were very small and very dark.

He looks like a priest, Malden thought. Just like the man who had come to the Ashes, asking for him by name, and been turned away by the urchins. The attacker had a stone in his hand, and Malden understood that the missiles that brought him down from the wall were simply that—cobbles pried up out of the street.

That gave him little comfort. He'd seen the urchins in the Ashes arm themselves with just such stones. If you had no other weapons, you could kill a man with one of those cobbles.

The attacker brought his arm up and then smashed the stone against the side of Malden's temple so fast he couldn't move to block the blow. Bright lights flashed behind Malden's eyes and he felt his consciousness swim inside him, blackness surging up around his mind to carry him into nothingness.

“Oh no, not yet,” the attacker laughed, and slapped Malden hard across the face with a bare palm. Instantly Malden snapped back into his own head—and back into the pain that surged through his skull. “I wish you to know my name. That way, when your soul is cast into the pit, you can tell the Bloodgod who sent you.”

“Verr . . . wellll,” Malden slurred. His tongue could barely move in his mouth.

“My name is Prestwicke. I like all my kills to know my name.”

“Ki . . . k-kills,” Malden said.

“Yes. I was hired to slaughter you, Malden. It's my trade.”

“Wh-Wh-Who?” Malden asked, wanting to know who had commissioned this murder. He did not expect the assassin to answer, nor did he.

Malden had many enemies, but he didn't think a killer like this would come cheap. Most of the people who wanted him dead would have simply hired a bravo, some thug with an axe. Such a killer would simply have waited for him to walk into a dark alley and then make short work of him before he could cry out.

This man was something far more sinister. Something strange. You paid extra for that in Ness.

But who could have sent him? Malden wracked his brains trying to think, because knowing who it was could make all the difference. It would at least let him know why he had been singled out. It had to be a rich man. The list of truly wealthy men who would want his life was a short one, but it started with the Burgrave, the ultimate ruler and lord of the Free City of Ness. Malden knew a secret the Burgrave would prefer to be kept.

In a fairer world, of course, the Burgrave would have owed Malden a favor. He had recovered the lord's crown when it was in the possession of Hazoth, and returned it to its proper head. In the process he'd saved the city from a usurper and ensured the continuation of the Burgrave's reign. In the process, though, Malden had learned things better kept secret, and that was always the best way to get oneself killed. In the end it had been Cutbill who saved Malden from a quick death. The Burgrave did, in fact, owe Cutbill a favor—quite a large one—and Cutbill had used it up for Malden's benefit. The Burgrave had promised Cutbill that he wouldn't slaughter Malden. Of course, that only meant the Burgrave's own guards and watchmen would not do the deed. If it could be done discreetly—and Prestwicke looked the discreet type—then perhaps the Burgrave was willing to break his promise.

It would not surprise Malden in the least.

Prestwicke reached up into one of his voluminous sleeves and pulled out a bundle wrapped in waxed cloth. He unrolled it on the ground and Malden saw half a dozen knives of various sizes and shapes inside. “I was paid a certain fee to take your life. It is customary that the client pays a small additional sum to ensure that it is done quickly, with a minimum of pain.”

“Thass . . . nice,” Malden said.

“I regret to say, in this case my client declined to pay the surcharge.” Prestwicke smiled broadly.

Malden's head was packed too tight with wool to allow much fear to stir his brains, but he felt his breath come faster and his heart start to race. He could barely move, certainly could not stand up just then. He still had the bodkin at his belt, but his arm felt dead as a piece of wood. Even if he could manage to draw the weapon, he had little doubt Prestwicke could kill him before he could strike.

Think
, he told himself. But he could not—his head hurt too much.

Talk your way out of this
. But he could barely speak.

Was this how he was going to die?

Malden lived with constant danger. The penalty of thievery in Ness was hanging, whether one stole gems and jewels or a crust of bread. Every day he risked his neck. Yet he had never been more afraid than at that moment, never more certain that his jig was up.

There seemed nothing he could do, no way to save himself. But then a miracle happened and gave him a distraction.

Behind Prestwicke the pigs screamed. The assassin looked up and away from Malden, just for a moment. It gave Malden a chance to glance down at the knives, laid out in careful order on their cloth. They were so close to his right foot, dim slivers of light in the dark.

He jerked out with his leg and kicked them away from him, sending them clattering down the alleyway.

Prestwicke growled in anger and punched Malden hard in the gut. Malden nearly vomited—the killer was far stronger than he looked.

“You dunce! Now I'll have to go collect them. And they'll be
dirty
!”

“Sssorry,” Malden managed to say, when he stopped wheezing.

“And these beasts, why won't they be quiet? Don't they understand a man is working here?” Prestwicke demanded. “The watch will be on us at any moment, and they'll spoil everything. I'm of a mind to just strangle you now.” The assassin stared out at the street, and Malden saw beads of sweat had broken out on his chin. “But no. We'll do this
right
. Next time I'll do it
right
.”

The assassin stooped to grab Malden under the armpits. He hauled the thief upright onto his shoulders and carried him down the alley.

“Where?” Malden asked, deeply confused.
Where are you taking me?
he wanted to ask.

“I can't let the watch find you, not now,” Prestwicke told him. “They would lock you away, and probably hang you. And I don't share.”

Malden was too weak to resist as the assassin carried him far across the Smoke, well clear of the searching watchmen. Prestwicke seemed to have a real gift for evading pursuit—he ran mostly through dark alleys, but occasionally he had to cross a broad avenue, where even at this hour there were people abroad. Yet Malden would swear not a single eye fell on him and his captor as they hurried through the night. Whatever kind of man this Prestwicke was, he was even more gifted at clandestine work than he himself.

Eventually they came to an alley on the edge of the Stink, a dark way between two massive blocks of wattle-and-daub houses. Prestwicke dropped Malden on a pile of old rubbish—broken furniture and sticks of unidentifiable wood kept there to feed the hearth fires of the houses all around.

“I'll be back for you tomorrow night, when the proper hour comes again,” Prestwicke said, staring down at him. In Malden's dazed state the assassin seemed to be looming over him from a great height.

“Where . . . should we meet? I'd hate to miss such a— Oof.” Malden's head felt as if it were full of rocks grinding together. “Such an important engagement.”

Prestwicke sneered at him. “Run where you like. I'll find you wherever you go to ground. There's nowhere in Ness you can hide from me.”

“That's awfully . . . convenient,” Malden said. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open. “Since I—”

But Prestwicke had already gone. Malden didn't see his would-be killer leave, but one moment Prestwicke was there and the next Malden was alone in the alley, save for the rats that nested in the woodpile.

Chapter Fifteen

A
drizzling rain rolled down Croy's best loden cloak the next morning as he finished loading the wagon. He tied down a leather cover over the various supplies inside: barrels of smoked fish, rolled-up tents and camp gear, jugs of beer and a pail of milk for Mörget. Big coils of rope and mining gear—blocks and tackles, hooks and spikes, hammers and other tools—rounded out the load. The horses snorted in their traces, unhappy about being out in the wet, but they were good well-bred hackneys and would settle down once they were under way. The riding horses, a palfrey and a rounsey, were still under shelter in the stable behind him.

It felt good to Croy to get moving. It felt good to begin.

For far too long he had been a true knight errant—a warrior without a master, or any well-defined purpose. He'd been sworn to fight demons, but there were so few of them left now. He'd been sworn to defend the king, and then the Burgrave of Ness, but both of them had severed him from their service. A man like himself needed a reason to keep going, to stay strong.

Well, the Lady had provided that.

He knew nothing of this demon, not its capabilities or how great a danger it was to the world. Yet he was certain that it had to be destroyed, and that he was the man for the job. He, and Mörget, of course.

The barbarian came down from the door of the inn stretching and stamping, looking well-rested and ready to get under way. “Starting in the rain's a good omen,” he said, looking up into the clouds. He opened his mouth wide to catch the raindrops, then swished them about his teeth and spat into the mud. “Means it'll be dry when we arrive.”

Croy laughed. All deep thoughts about duty and purpose fled his mind with the excitement of the journey's commencement. “I hope you're right. It does mean we'll have to make a short day of it, and find some shelter before dark. It's getting cold early this year.”

The barbarian went back inside to get a bundle that he dumped on the tailgate of the wagon. It clanked loudly as he shoved it in with the rest of the gear.

“Sounds like you've got half an arsenal in there,” Croy said.

“All that I need,” Mörget told him, with a shrug. “A man with a proper axe can survive in the wild longer than a man with a hundredweight of food and no axe.”

Croy laughed. He was glad to have the barbarian along. Mörget was right, too—the food in the wagon would only last just so long, and he imagined they would have to hunt before they reached their destination, if they didn't want to starve.

Once everything was loaded they were ready to depart, and waited only on the two other members of their expedition. Slag the dwarf arrived first. Croy had been quite surprised when Slag had found him the night before and demanded to be included. Croy knew Slag only a little, through his connection to Malden, but from what he'd heard, the dwarf was an unlikely traveling companion. For one thing, all dwarves were known for their hatred of travel, even those who worked as ambassadors for their king and had to move from place to place all the time. And Slag was a city dwarf, accustomed to the refinements of Ness. By Malden's account he'd been a fixture in the city for many years.

Slag had given little explanation for why he wanted to leave just now, or why he would want to go to the Vincularium, but Croy supposed little was needed. Dwarves had built the place, after all, though so long ago none alive could remember it, surely. Mörget had been enthusiastic about allowing Slag to come along, saying that the dwarf would be useful in overcoming the Vincularium's many traps and blind passages. An important addition to their crew since the thief had refused to accompany them. Croy had offered no real objection. After all, Slag was a friend of Malden. That was enough to vouch for the diminutive man right there.

“Well met, friend,” he said, and bowed to clap hands with the dwarf. “We ride today toward true adventure!”

“Picked a lousy fucking day for it,” the dwarf replied. Without another word he climbed up under the leather cover on the wagon and curled around a barrel. In a few moments he was snoring.

Mörget and Croy exchanged a smile and went to get the horses. By the time they had them out of the stable, Cythera had arrived as well. Croy gave her a knowing look as she placed her own gear on the wagon. She was dressed in an old cloak with the hood up over her hair. It hid her eyes as well.

“Shall we get started?” she asked when Croy opened his mouth.

He had been about to give her a chance to change her mind, and remain in the city until he returned. Clearly she still intended to go.

“Very well,” he said. “You take the palfrey. He's gelded, and a good ambler. Mörget can have the rounsey for now. That's a man's horse.”

Cythera turned to face him, and he saw she was glaring at him under her hood.

“I meant simply that the rounsey will better bear his weight, that's all,” Croy said, desperate to mollify her. “I'll drive the wagon for this first day.”

Cythera said nothing more, but climbed onto the palfrey and kicked its flanks to get it moving. Croy had to hurry to jump up on the wagon and get the hackneys moving, just to keep up with her. She led them downhill, through the Stink toward King's Gate, which opened on the road toward Helstrow. They passed by a fish market on their way there, where poor women braved the rain to get the freshest catch, and then past a small churchyard. Croy frowned—that was a bad omen, riding past graves on the way to danger—but he did not call for a change of course.

Soon he saw the wall rise up before them, sheer and white and looming over the buildings that crowded around its feet. The rain had flooded some of the side streets, but the main way stayed clear. Croy leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and started lulling himself into the old familiar trance of the road. The rhythmic clop of the horses' hooves and the grinding of the wagon's wheels on the cobbles made a song of journeying. In a few minutes they would pass the gate and be on their way. The way would be long, and there would be obstacles to overcome, but he was on a quest again, a mission. How he had longed for—

Something heavy dropped onto the leather cover of the wagon behind him. Slag shouted out a curse as if he'd been struck. Croy pulled on the reins, and the hackneys whinnied as he slowed them. Turning around, one hand already on Ghostcutter's hilt, he stared with wide eyes.

“Room for one more?” Malden asked. He lay sprawled across the wagon's cover, as if he'd fallen there out of the thin air. For some reason his face was badly bruised and one of his eyelids was nearly swollen shut. “I have a sudden urge to get some country air,” the thief offered, by way of explanation.