Honor Among Thieves (21 page)
A strange thrill went through her as she stood before the fire. Coruth had seen her practicing sorcery, somewhere in the future. A sorceress could marry anyone she chose. She could have Malden for her own. He would never meet her eye again if she gave in to that temptation, Coruth had said. But with the power of demons at her disposal, she could make him look on her. She could make anyone do what she wanted.
No.
She shivered, her whole body shaking as if she were consumed by frost, though the fire before her burned hot enough to singe the downy hair on her arms. She cast the book into the flames then, the flames that could never burn so hot as the pit. She watched the book burn.
I will become a witch, she thought. There is no other way. Malden—I’m sorry.
T
he thieves of Ness gathered just before midnight, when the moon had fallen behind the city wall and Godstone Square was a bowl of ink. By starlight only they met, many of them staying to thicker shadows still, where even Malden couldn’t see their faces.
Those he could see came from every corner of the city, arriving alone, and they stood alone, not one of them whispering to a friend or an accomplice, none of them with eyes for anything but Malden on his perch.
He stood atop the Godstone, an ancient and desecrated altar deep in the Stink. A standing stone fifteen feet high that was just too big to be moved when the religion of the Bloodgod was officially put down. To most of the city’s population it had become nothing but one more landmark, but to some it was still an object of great reverence. Malden was more interested in where it was than what it had once been. The city watch rarely traveled that far from Castle Hill.
The people who lived around the square kept their windows shut at night, and could be trusted not to talk—as long as Malden didn’t say anything the city watch might pay to hear. So he would name no names tonight, nor address any of the gathered thieves directly. But they would listen, and hear him.
He had not had time to decipher Cutbill’s message. He didn’t know what orders he’d been given, or what the guildmaster had expected of him. But he was out of time, and he had better think of something quick.
Nearly a hundred men stood below him, looking up. He studied their faces carefully and suddenly realized why Cutbill might have even considered him for this position.
He knew every man in the square. Knew their names, knew their specialties. He knew the difference between the ones in the dark cloaks—burglars and confidence men, good earners but rarely to be trusted—and those in poorer clothes, drab tunics and patched hoods: pickpockets, false beggars, dippers, silk-snatchers, boothalers, thimbleriggers, filchers, and smash-and-grab men. Strictly small-time operators, who lived and ate on the pennies and farthings they managed to scrape together. Men for whom the guild was the only authority in their lives, and Cutbill the closest thing to a father any of them had ever had. Those men he could trust—as long as they accepted his ascension.
Many, from both sorts, he had recruited for the guild himself. Some of them still had grudges against him for how that had gone—entry to the guild was often by way of subtle blackmail or coercion. Some he could almost call his friends. He knew which were which, and who would speak against him when the time came.
He knew what these men wanted, and what they feared, and what they were willing to do to get the one and avoid the other.
And he could see, forming already in his mind’s eye, the plots and stratagems that would neutralize his enemies and make his friends closer.
And despite the fact that he still didn’t know what advice Cutbill had left him, he knew exactly what to say.
“Evening, men,” he said with a grin. “Thanks for dropping by.”
Relief passed over many of the faces below like a cloud across the moon. They had been looking for something in Malden’s countenance—perhaps simply confidence, or even just good humor—and they’d found it. Cutbill’s disappearance must have left them all feeling vulnerable and exposed. Anyone who stepped up now and promised them continuity—that they had not just been hung out and left to dry—would at least get their attention.
“You’ve heard by now that the boss has scarpered. Gone south, perhaps, in search of better weather. Someone will have told you he chose a replacement before he left. Now, in most honest trade fraternities like the Coopers Guild or the Bakers Guild, there’s simple rules for a change of leadership. There are practices to follow, formulae to keep. Our kind are different. We don’t have that. Generally, when a guild like ours changes hands, there’s those who see in it an opportunity to shake things up. Maybe pick a leader closer to their heart’s desire and back his number like in a dice game, laying bets for one man or another to win. That’s when guilds like ours tear themselves apart—every man is for himself, at first, but that doesn’t last long. Men with common interests form crews for protection from other crews. Crews get together and form gangs. But gangs don’t make money. Gangs exist for one real reason, and that’s to fight other gangs. You know who always wins in a war like that? The city watch. They just love it when a fraternity like ours turns on itself. Because they’re lazy. In a war of gangs, they don’t have to go chasing after villains in the night. They just need to come ’round in the morning and collect the bodies.”
Malden watched the faces below carefully. He saw Velmont, at the edge of the crowd, looking away. He saw ’Levenfingers, sitting on a horse trough, nodding as if he’d seen it happen before, many times. The oldster probably had.
“We have a whole other kind of opportunity coming,” Malden went on, “if we can just stick together. The Burgrave’s about to ride out through Hunter’s Gate with half the city trailing along behind him—including every single man of the watch. Oh, I have no doubt he’ll leave a few one-legged halberdiers behind to watch his own stash. But we’ll have our pick of jobs—empty houses are easy to burgle. Purses are child’s play to snatch when there’s no watchman eyeing your back. We all stand to make a pretty farthing.
“But only if we work together. That’s why the old boss brought us in, remember? It’s what he promised us. Work together. Work for each other, and we’re all safer. We all get richer than we could on our own. Honor among thieves. The rest of the world thinks that’s a joke. A thing that couldn’t possibly exist. The old boss knew better. He also knew honor among thieves isn’t free. It has to be earned. But where it exists, we’re all safer. We’re all a little wealthier. And we can all breathe easy.”
Malden sat down on the top of the Godstone, his legs dangling in the air. He looked and saw Slag in the middle of the crowd, starting to raise one fist in the air. The dwarf wasn’t the only one—but Malden knew that a halfhearted cheer now would hurt his cause more than help it.
He held up his hands for peace. “Don’t answer me now. Don’t say a word, anybody. Go home. Or go to the tavern, or a bawdy house, wherever you might normally go at this time of night. I don’t want lauds and acclaim—yet. I haven’t given you anything yet but words, and we all know what words will buy you. What I want is a chance to prove everything I just said. Give me that chance. And when the time comes, we’ll all cheer together, for what we pulled off—together.”
A
few murmurs drifted up from the crowd regardless of his plea for silence. Most likely the most vocal would be the naysayers, the rebels, the ones who hated him and wanted to take his place. It didn’t matter. If he couldn’t hear what they were saying clearly, that meant they weren’t shouting it. Not yet.
One member at a time, the guild of thieves started filing out of the square. Some of them turned and gave him encouraging nods. Some left without looking back. When they were all gone, Malden started climbing down the Godstone. Though the sides of the obelisk were smooth, runes had been carved into the stone centuries ago and he found handholds enough if he took it slow. When he was six feet off the ground, he jumped the rest of the way and landed on the cobblestones as silent as a cat.
He did not intend to head straight home, though he had nowhere else in particular to go that night. He was certain that at least one spy had been among the crowd, someone who would report to the Burgrave what he had said. That was unavoidable. He figured if he went where the Burgrave expected him to go, he might very well arrive to find a watchman with a knife waiting at his door.
He considered a tavern, but knew he was tired enough already and that if he started drinking now he’d be asleep before the hour was out. Instead he decided to head out to the Lemon Garden, a brothel he knew out on Pokekirtle Lane. He longed for the companionship he’d find there. Not the traditional kind of companionship one sought in brothels, of course—Malden never paid for sex. But he’d been raised in a house much like the Lemon Garden, and some of the women there remembered his mother, who’d been a colleague. They would take him in and feed him and give him a soft and—if he asked politely—an empty bed.
He made his way quickly through the streets, headed for the Sawyer’s Bridge that would take him down into the Royal Ditch. He kept to the street level rather than the rooftops only because it was darker on the cobbles.
Thus, when he realized he was being followed, he was a little surprised. He couldn’t see his pursuer but he could hear soft footfalls behind him. From more than one set of feet, too.
He frowned in the dark but didn’t worry overmuch. He’d spent enough of his life running away from people that he felt confident he could lose this bunch. He ducked down the first alley he could find, a blind turning that emptied into a close—a clutch of houses built so near one another that in places their upper stories met above street level. Normally no one being followed would be so stupid as to enter a close, with only one way out. But Malden knew this particular close, and knew the ivy clutching to the walls of its courtyard was strong enough to hold his weight. He could climb to the roofs and be gone before his pursuers even got to the alley. They had no chance.
Except, of course, if they had a man waiting in the yard of the close, standing by a fire and holding a halberd in his hand. His cloak was embroidered all over with eyes, making him a man of the watch.
Malden backpedaled with all due speed, darting back out of the alley and up the first street that presented itself. The men who were following him started running to catch up. Just ahead, starlight showed Malden an intersection with a high street. Plenty of opportunities for escape there—
But before he could reach it, an elegant carriage pulled to a stop just in front of him. It was drawn by snow white horses and the driver wore fancy livery, though in the dark the colors were hard to make out.
The side door of the carriage opened and a man leaned out into the night. “Malden,” he said, “I’d have words with you. Do my men really need to chase you all night?”
Malden swallowed, his throat suddenly tight.
He couldn’t see the man’s face in the dark but recognized the voice—and he certainly recognized the simple golden crown on the man’s head. It was Ommen Tarness, the Burgrave of the Free City himself.
P
erhaps there was another reason why Cutbill had chosen him as his successor. Malden did run in certain influential circles. His association with Sir Croy, one of the most glamorous and famous men in Ness, was well known. What’s more, he was rumored to be in league with the witch Coruth, the most powerful practitioner of magic in the city. And a few people knew that he had once performed a vital service for Ommen Tarness, the sole ruler of the Free City.
They probably figured that gave him some leverage. That maybe even Tarness owed him a favor. Too bad Tarness didn’t see it that way, he thought.
Malden would rather have climbed into the carriage of Sadu the Bloodgod Himself, and be taken at once down to the pit, than to have words with Ommen Tarness. But he got into the Burgrave’s carriage anyway.
It wasn’t like he had any choice.
Once the door was closed, the carriage started moving, bouncing wildly on the cobbles even though the driver wasn’t pushing his team very hard. Malden grabbed for something to hold onto but found only brocaded pillows.
“An impressive speech you gave, Malden,” Tarness said, looking out the window at the pitch-black streets.
“You were there in the crowd?” he asked, knowing the Burgrave had been nowhere near. He considered suggesting that Tarness was the most successful thief Ness had ever known, but that would be impolite.
Tarness didn’t answer his question, anyway. “Truly inspiring. Reminded me of me when I was your age.”
There were only a handful of people still living who knew that Ommen Tarness was, in fact, an idiot. A near-mindless creature who couldn’t dress himself. The man sitting across from Malden was merely a shell of a person. It was the crown that was talking to him. The crown contained the soul of Juring Tarness, the first Burgrave of the Free City. A man who had been dead for eight hundred years but lived on by possessing his direct descendants. When Juring said Malden reminded him of a younger time, he was speaking of centuries past.
Malden chose not to comment on this fact. The Burgrave had a funny way of repaying people who knew his secret, even those willing to keep it to themselves. It had only been the direct intercession of Cutbill that kept Juring from killing Malden on the spot. And now Cutbill was gone.
“I imagine you expected to see more faces around the Godstone,” Juring went on. “There used to be twice that number of thieves in Ness, didn’t there? But of course my recruiters don’t ask questions when they hand out my gold royals. They take any man with two hands and a head—whether he’s a thief or an honest workman. The past is obliterated when one signs on to my glorious campaign. Many, many of your thieves have already taken what I offer. How about you, Malden? Will you take a golden coin, and serve me by strength of arms?”
Malden shoved himself into a corner of the carriage and braced himself with both hands. He was starting to feel nauseous. “You can’t afford to pay the men you already have,” he said. Perhaps foolishly.
Juring laughed, however. “I have enough gold on hand to recruit. That’s all I need for now. But rest assured, my men-at-arms will be paid.”
Malden shook his head. “Not at that rate. Not every month. Even when you get this batch killed, the survivors will still bankrupt you. You would need to rob the royal treasury to keep those wages coming.”
“You don’t think the next king will happily pay to have his country back?”
“No,” Malden said, “I don’t. And I don’t think you’re such a f— such an optimist to go to war on the hope that he will.” That had been close. He’d almost called the man a fool. That would have been a mistake.
Juring waved one hand in dismissal. “I didn’t actually come for you in the middle of the night to discuss my finances.”
Malden stared at the Burgrave. What was his secret plan? He must have some notion of where he’d find so much gold. If he defaulted on his promise and failed to pay even one month’s wages, his army would disperse on the spot. They weren’t professional soldiers, used to waiting for their pay. They were greedy citizens of Ness, who lived by the credo of cash in hand. “Perhaps you expect to trounce the barbarians and use the spoils of that victory to keep your army together.”
“You think I can beat them quickly enough?” Tarness asked. He sounded as if he was looking for flattery. Well, Juring Tarness had been a great general, in his time. Back before the invention of steel, or plate armor, or the crossbow.
“No, I don’t,” Malden said.
“Neither do I,” the Burgrave said with a sigh. “But enough of this.”
Malden looked up at the crown on the Burgrave’s head. You weren’t supposed to argue with someone wearing such a piece of jewelry. The Lady’s teachings said that such people were sacrosanct and infallible. They must be, since She had chosen them by hand. A crown meant—
A crown. Except the thing Tarness wore wasn’t a real crown, it was just a coronet. Only kings wore real crowns.
“You didn’t start recruiting until you heard the king was dead,” Malden said, because he thought he had just pieced it together. “How long will it take for his heir to be elevated?”
Juring squinted at the thief. “Ulfram’s only living child—a daughter—is fourteen years old. She can’t be made queen for another four years. But what does that have to do with anything?”
“You wouldn’t have to beg her for money to pay your troops—if you had her crown on your head already. You aren’t putting this army together to drive off the barbarians. You’re going to seize Skrae for your own. Make yourself the new king.”
“No! You haven’t glimpsed my plan at all!” Juring shouted, and lunged forward to grab Malden by the throat. He did not, however, squeeze hard enough to strangle the thief. “There will be no queen. Nor will any man call himself king. No longer. I built this city, thief. I built it for free men. I will build a nation for free men now.”
Malden’s eyes went wide. What could that even mean? The very concept was foreign to him. A country needed a king. That was what he’d been taught since birth. That was the only way he could imagine a country working.
“They’ll make me their Lord Protector, because of what I’ve given them. All those who were once villeins, or worse—all those farmers who have been slaves in all but name their whole lives—will turn to me in gratitude. And they will
allow
me to rule in their name.”
Ah, Malden thought. So nothing at all would change, except a few titles.
That made more sense.
