A Thief in the Night

Book Two of The Ancient Blades Trilogy

David Chandler

Dedication

For G.G. and D.A., on the outer planes.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Map

Prologue

In a place of stone walls, attended by his acolytes

Part 1

Chapter One

A thin crescent of moon lit up the rooftops of…

Chapter Two

It was not more than an hour later when Malden…

Chapter Three

It was a long ride from the Golden Slope to…

Chapter Four

Malden grabbed a sack of coins from the wagon—Doral’s first…

Chapter Five

“Cythera should be here by now,” Sir Croy said, and…

Chapter Six

A flying tankard full of beer nearly struck Croy’s face…

Chapter Seven

“I think … they’re hugging each other,” Malden said. He…

Chapter Eight

Malden scampered up onto the roof of the tavern and…

Chapter Nine

There was no word Malden knew that could get Croy’s…

Chapter Ten

“I returned to the shaft many times, trying to plumb…

Chapter Eleven

“So of course, I told him to jump in the…

Chapter Twelve

Croy and Mörget set about at once outfitting themselves for…

Chapter Thirteen

If Malden wasn’t going on Croy’s grand adventure, he needed…

Chapter Fourteen

The hired paddock filled most of the space between two…

Chapter Fifteen

A drizzling rain rolled down Croy’s best loden cloak the…

Part 2

Interlude

Chapter Sixteen

The band of adventurers passed through King’s Gate without any…

Chapter Seventeen

In the morning Malden woke late, and came out to…

Chapter Eighteen

They covered twenty miles that day, pushing the horses near…

Chapter Nineteen

The following day the sun was warm and rippled along…

Chapter Twenty

“You,” Malden said. “I’ve seen you before. Back up the…

Chapter Twenty-One

The horses screamed as water jumped over the side of…

Chapter Twenty-Two

There was still plenty of daylight left, so the companions…

Chapter Twenty-Three

Croy and Mörget studied a map for a while, then…

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Please,” Herward said, “let me show you what meager hospitality…

Chapter Twenty-Five

Croy followed Cythera as she turned her horse up the…

Part 3

Interlude

Chapter Twenty-Six

The five of them made a simple camp just outside…

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Malden crawled forward on his hands and knees a few…

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The door opened easily on its hinges. It didn’t even…

Chapter Twenty-Nine

When Malden found the trap, he had to smile. It…

Chapter Thirty

Croy called out in shock but Malden was already in…

Chapter Thirty-One

“Then—someone else has been here. And recently,” Cythera said.

Chapter Thirty-Two

The five of them moved cautiously forward toward the center…

Chapter Thirty-Three

It seemed to take hours for the torch to fall…

Chapter Thirty-Four

“Lad, lass, get up,” Slag said, shaking Malden and Cythera…

Chapter Thirty-Five

The barbarian did not panic as the bony fingers dug…

Chapter Thirty-Six

“Do you hear any more of them?” Mörget asked, when…

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Out in the darkness, the revenants began to scream for…

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Malden was halfway down the rope when he looked up…

Chapter Thirty-Nine

They had not had the presence of mind to gather…

Chapter Forty

The marketplace corridor led hundreds of feet back from the…

Chapter Forty-One

Coarse sand crusted Croy’s cheek, digging into his flesh. He…

Chapter Forty-Two

Mörget had both their packs open and the contents spread…

Chapter Forty-Three

Malden climbed into the brazen cage and braced himself by…

Chapter Forty-Four

Slag’s path led them through the largest forge Malden had…

Chapter Forty-Five

Malden dropped the bar instantly. He grabbed up a candle…

Chapter Forty-Six

“What was that sound, just now?” Croy asked.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Croy and Mörget moved forward silently, taking light steps to…

Chapter Forty-Eight

Malden heaved at the iron bar again, and the stone…

Chapter Forty-Nine

“No, damn you,” Slag wheezed. “No! The book was clear.

Chapter Fifty

Croy went first down the secret tunnel, Ghostcutter drawn and…

Chapter Fifty-One

The demon flowed across the floor, the edges of its…

Chapter Fifty-Two

The blue-haired creature walked on its knuckles toward Malden and…

Chapter Fifty-Three

Cythera clutched her hands together, beseeching the dwarf one last…

Chapter Fifty-Four

Malden stepped carefully outside the door, watching the floor carefully…

Chapter Fifty-Five

Croy desperately needed to rest. Yet he would not, not…

Part 4

Interlude

Chapter Fifty-Six

Malden lifted the lantern high and scanned the rest of…

Chapter Fifty-Seven

“There!” one of the dwarves shouted.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Malden’s head spun. Lights burst in the backs of his…

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Malden howled in anger and horror. He forgot all about…

Chapter Sixty

Outside the throne room, Mörget and Croy hid behind thick…

Chapter Sixty-One

Malden hurried forward through the red-shadowed streets of the dormitory…

Chapter Sixty-Two

The foundry offered a hundred good places to conceal Malden.

Chapter Sixty-Three

A cry went up immediately, and someone shouted “He has…

Chapter Sixty-Four

Croy signaled for Mörget to come forward. It looked like…

Chapter Sixty-Five

“Malden stood here, yes. He must have been under attack…

Chapter Sixty-Six

The female dwarf hurried ahead, while Mörget and Croy took…

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Malden and Cythera each took one of Slag’s arms, but…

Chapter Sixty-Eight

“I’m Balint, by the way,” the female dwarf announced, when…

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Croy barely noticed the brass lift. It was magical in…

Chapter Seventy

The elves took them down a crude flight of stairs…

Part 5

Interlude

Chapter Seventy-One

Once the Hieromagus had withdrawn, the revelers in the great…

Chapter Seventy-Two

The elves led them down the spiral staircase to a…

Chapter Seventy-Three

Eventually the light at the top of the stairs went…

Chapter Seventy-Four

Croy’s blood pounded in his temples. His fingers twitched and…

Chapter Seventy-Five

After Slag was taken away, the night passed without further…

Chapter Seventy-Six

“Good,” the Hieromagus said, sinking back on his couch once…

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Every elf Malden had seen had been beautiful—their graceful, exotic…

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Balint had led them to a great communal kitchen on…

Chapter Seventy-Nine

“Stop, please,” Cythera begged. “I feel I might burst!” She…

Chapter Eighty

“Eight hundred years ago,” Aethil told them, as they trooped…

Chapter Eighty-One

Ghostcutter sliced through the bones of a defleshed arm and…

Chapter Eighty-Two

The elfin children were as beautiful as their parents, and…

Chapter Eighty-Three

Perhaps discomfited by the story she’d told them, Aethil took…

Chapter Eighty-Four

Aethil led them down a long series of curving tunnels…

Chapter Eighty-Five

“Heave!” Balint called. Croy and Mörget hauled on the ropes…

Chapter Eighty-Six

On their way back to Aethil’s chambers, they were stopped…

Chapter Eighty-Seven

When Aethil returned, Slag lay slumped on the divan again,…

Chapter Eighty-Eight

Mörget slammed Dawnbringer against the side of a dwarven tomb.

Chapter Eighty-Nine

For a long while, Croy heard nothing but a voice…

Chapter Ninety

Cythera stretched upward on the balls of her feet to…

Chapter Ninety-One

The elves dragged Malden back to the gaol. It was…

Chapter Ninety-Two

They dragged Malden through their twisting stone tunnels, and brought…

Chapter Ninety-Three

“Not like—not this way—the thief doesn’t—doesn’t die like this! History—so…

Chapter Ninety-Four

Croy’s arms felt like they were being torn from their…

Chapter Ninety-Five

Malden moved slowly, watching always the little knife in Prestwicke’s…

Chapter Ninety-Six

Croy’s breath came in ragged pants. His eyes snapped open,…

Chapter Ninety-Seven

Prestwicke came at him again, and Malden had barely managed…

Chapter Ninety-Eight

When Malden was halfway to Cythera and Slag, the entire…

Chapter Ninety-Nine

“Croy! No!” someone shouted.

Chapter One Hundred

The danger wasn’t over. Behind them the grotto began to…

Epilogue

The water surged furiously, smashing its way back and forth

Honour Among Thieves

Chapter One

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Other Books by David Chandler

Copyright

About the Publisher

Map

PROLOGUE

In a place of stone walls, attended by his acolytes and warriors, the Hieromagus knelt in the dawn rays of the red subterranean sun. Both sorcerer and priest, he wore a simple garment decorated with jangling bells. The sound of them was meant to draw him back to the real world, to the present, but for now he silenced them. For now, he needed to remember.

The ancestors spoke to him. For those long lost, forgetting was a kind of death. They pulled desperately at him, trying to draw him into memories of ancient forests, of a time before the first humans came to this continent. Before his people were destroyed, driven away, forgotten. He saw their great battles, saw the works of magic they created. Saw the small, tender moments they shared and the guilt and shame they tried to put behind them. He saw kings, and queens, and simple folk in well-patched clothing. He saw Aethlinga, who had been a queen—the seventy-ninth of her dynasty—but who had become something more. A seer. A diviner. Back then, in the depths of time, she had become the first Hieromagus. Just as he was to be the last.

His body twitched, his eyelids in constant motion as if he were dreaming. A serving girl mopped his forehead with a piece of sponge. He tried to wave her away, but lost in reverie as he could only raise a few fingers a fraction of an inch.

“I came as soon as I saw the sails. I knew you would want to see this with your own eyes,” the hunter said. Together the two of them climbed to the top of a forested ridge that overlooked the southern sea. One tree, an ancient rowan, stood taller than the rest. Aethlinga was old and frail but still she climbed the branches for a better look.

Out at sea the ships stood motionless on the curling waves, their sails furled now, their railings thick with refugees. Less desperate than they might have been. They had reached their destination. Down on the shore boats were landing, long, narrow wooden boats crammed with men. Hairy, unwashed, their lips cracked and cratered with scurvy. Their faces gaunt and grim after their long voyage.

Iron weapons in their hands.

“What are they?” the hunter asked. “They look a bit like ogres, but … what are they? What do they want?”

The Hieromagus’s lips moved, eight hundred years further on. “They want land. A place to make a new start. What are they? They are our death.”

It was very difficult to tell, inside the memory, where the Hieromagus ended and Aethlinga began. He had seen this particular vision so many times. Remembered it, for simply to recall was a sacred rite. This was the history of his people. The thing that could never be forgotten.

Later, when the first skirmish was over and the men from the boats lay bleeding and cold on the sand—but others on the ships still stood out on the waves, watching—Aethlinga went to a private grove deep in the forest. A place where the ancestors wove through the tree branches, whispering always. She had her own sacred memories to recall.

But now she turned her face to a pool of water, a simple looking glass. She looked into her own eyes. Formed her own memory. “I know you will see this,” she said, and she spoke a name.

She spoke the true and secret name of the last Hieromagus. This memory was for him.

“I need you to remember. Not the past this time, but the future. Look forward and find what is to come. I have glimpsed it as well, and you know I would not ask this, were it not utterly necessary.”

The body of the Hieromagus, so far away now, convulsed and shook. The serving girl drew back in fear that he would lash out and destroy her. It had happened before.

Some memories were less pleasant than others, and this was the worst of all.

Except—this one was not a memory at all. Instead it was foresight. For one like the Hieromagus, who saw past and future all at once, the distinction had little meaning.

Looking forward he saw the knight. He saw the painted woman. He saw the thief. As he had so many times before. Always before he could put their images out of his head. Tell himself it would be many years before they arrived.

Now they crowded in on him as if they were shouting in his ears. He could no longer push them back, nor did he seek to. He only endeavored to separate them, to let them each speak in turn.

“Some demons are smaller than others,” the woman said, and it was her, though the images were gone from her skin she was the same one, and then a twisted hand crashed across her cheek, knocking her to the ground.

Her, the Hieromagus thought—her—it was the one he sought, but in the wrong time—she was cut loose from him still, but so close, so—

A man with the features of a priest, but the eyes of a murderer. This one only smiled, and did not speak. This one showed only the teeth of a predatory animal.

He dared not look on that one too long, even in memory.

Two knights with the same name, one dissembling, not a knight at all. He was something else entirely, something hated, and yet he was the key to liberation. A draft of burdock root, certain oils most precious, blisswine. An elfin queen throwing herself across a bed in the attitude of a whore.

Closer now—closer, but fragmented. The Hieromagus beat feebly at the floor with his fists, trying to force the memories—the forebodings—into proper shape. Into an order he could understand. He must see the path. He must choose for his people.

Three swords, deadly swords. Something worse, something far worse, a weapon of incredible potential. Two men pushing a barrel up an incline of stone.

Yes. Yes, he had it—

A flash of light. A burst of energy, searing and brilliant. Molten stone flowing down a corridor.

There, that was the future he sought. The one he’d glimpsed so many times, only to turn away in fear. The one he’d convinced himself was still a long way off.

This time he must watch the images all the way through. See it all.

“Malden!” the painted woman called out to her lover, desperate, watching him walk toward utter and certain death. The sword in his hand would be of no help.

So close now. After so long. So many years of dreading what was to come. Of trying desperately to find a way to forestall it. When it could never be prevented.

The human knight leaned down over them, his face warped by hatred. Spittle flew from his lips as he barked at the bronze-clad warriors. “You’re going to die. Every last one of you will die! It’s less than what you deserve for what you did to Cythera!”

The hatred—the death that was coming—the tumult—

“He knew,” the painted woman said. Her voice thick with loss, with dread at the sacrifices that had been made. “The Hieromagus had seen the future. He saw this, all of this. He knew that what he’d seen could not be changed. That this was the only way for his people to survive.”

The eyes of the Hieromagus opened like window shutters being thrown back.

“No!” he screamed.

No.

He saw the dead laid out in heaps before him. He saw himself, the Hieromagus saw through his own eyes, crawling over a pile of bodies, his feet treading on the faces of the ones he loved.

No … not like that. It couldn’t come to that, to so drastic a turn. And yet …

It would. It must.

The painted woman was correct. What was foreseen could not be changed. And there was only one way forward, now. No turning, no detour was possible, though the way was choked with death and destruction.

He opened his mouth to speak. It was hard, so very hard to get the words out. He felt so very far away.

“They’re coming,” he said, and the warriors and acolytes stirred, traded terrified glances. Grasped hands in hope. “Very soon now, they will return for us.”

Much muttering, much grave discussion followed in that place where the underground sun burned red. Yet the Hieromagus heard none of it, for his memory was not yet done. There was more to see.

Back in the sacred grove, Aethlinga watched the visions with him. Her face, so slender and beautiful, was deformed by fear and the sorrow for what was to come. For what was to come to him.

“Be strong,” she said. “I know what we ask of you. There is no justice in it—but you were born to perform this task. This bitter cup is yours to sip alone. I am sorry.”

CHAPTER ONE

A thin crescent of moon lit up the rooftops of the Free City of Ness, glinting on the bells up high in the Spires, whitewashing the thatched roofs of the Stink. The furnaces of the blacksmiths in the Smoke roared all night, but the rest of the city was asleep—or at least tucked away in candle-lit rooms with closed shutters.

It was the time of night when even the gambling houses started to close down, when the brothels shut their doors. It was the time when honest men and women retreated to their beds, to get the sleep they needed for another long day of work on the morrow. Of all the city’s vast workforce, only a handful remained at their labors. The city’s watchmen, of course, patrolled the streets all night long.

And, of course, there were thieves about.

Malden moved quickly, running along the ridges of the rooftops, hurrying to make a clandestine appointment. He made as little noise as a squirrel dashing along, and he was careful not to let himself be seen from the street level. For all that he made excellent time as he leapt from one rooftop to another, following routes he’d learned through years of practice, knowing without needing to look where he should put his feet, and where a roof had grown too soft to take his weight. He danced among the Spires, swinging from stone carvings, launching himself across narrow alleys. His route led him around the broad open space of Market Square, then downhill across the tops of the mansions in the Golden Slope. He was very close to his destination when, through the sole of his leather shoe, he felt a shingle crack and start to fall away.

Malden froze instantly in place, careful to keep his weight on the broken shingle as the rest of his body swayed with momentum. He checked himself, then bent low, his fingers grabbing at the broken shingle before it could fall into the street below and make a noise. Very carefully, he laid the pieces of the shingle in a downspout, then dashed forward again. It was very nearly midnight.

He reached his destination and clung to a smoking chimney pot, his body low against the shingles to minimize his silhouette. He had arrived. His eyes, well adapted to the dark, scanned the sides of the houses around him, looking for any sign of movement. He spied a rat scuttering through an alley twenty feet below. he saw bats circling a church belfry two blocks away. And then he found what he was looking for.

Across the street three men dressed in black were climbing a drainpipe on the side of a half-timbered mansion. When the one on top reached a mullioned window on the second floor, he wrapped his hand in a rag and then punched in the glass.

It made enough noise to scare cats in the alley below. Malden winced in sympathy. Had he ever been that noisy? He knew, from long experience, what the three thieves must be feeling. The blood would be pounding in their veins. Their heartbeats would be the loudest sounds they could hear. The thing they were about to do could get them all hanged, following the barest formality of a trial.

The one on top—the leader, he must be—reached inside the window and slipped open its catch. He opened the casements wide, then disappeared into the dark house. The other two followed close on his heels.

Malden shifted his position carefully, to make sure his legs wouldn’t cramp while he waited. He had to give them time to do the job right. He watched as a light appeared in the next window over, then as it moved, bobbing and darting, through the house. The thieves took their time about their work, perhaps because they wanted to make sure to get everything.

Grunting with impatience, Malden wished they would hurry up. Down in the street a man of the watch was coming this way. He wore a cloak woven with a pattern of eyes, and carried a lantern held high on the end of his polearm. The watchman barely glanced at the houses on either side of him, but if he should catch sight of that candle moving stealthily through an otherwise dark house, he might grow suspicious.

Malden would have been smart enough to bring a dark lantern with a shield over its light, and shone its beam only when absolutely necessary. Of course, Malden would have been in and out of the house already. And he wouldn’t have required two accomplices to burgle a house that size.

The thieves were lucky—the watchman saw nothing. He walked on past without so much as a glance at the mansion. When he was sure the man was out of earshot, Malden carefully stood up, then took a few steps backward to get a running start. With one quick bound he leapt across the alley and onto the roof of the darkened mansion.

The thieves were on the ground floor. Most like, they heard nothing as Malden landed, as soft as a pigeon settling on the roof. He lowered himself over the edge and placed his feet carefully on the open window sill, then slid inside, as easy as that.

He took a moment to glance around him and study his new surroundings. He was in a bedroom, perhaps the chamber of the master of the house. The bed had a brocade canopy hung above it to keep insects from pestering its occupants. The floor was strewn with rushes scented with a faint perfume. Against one wall stood a pair of wooden chairs and a wash basin. Underneath the bed Malden found a dry chamber pot.

Malden could hear the thieves moving about on the ground floor. How smart were they, he wondered? He needed to make a judgment. If they were at all clever, they would leave the same way they came. Leave as little sign of forced entry as they could. If they were fools they would exit by the kitchen door on the ground floor. An easier method of escape, perhaps, but it would put them in full view of the windows of four other houses—and thus, potentially, any number of eyewitnesses.

No, Malden thought. This bunch wouldn’t be that stupid. Cutbill—the master of the guild of thieves in Ness, and Malden’s master—kept his eye open always for real talent in the criminal professions. Cutbill had singled these men out, of all the freelance thieves in the City, as Malden’s next assignment. And Cutbill never sent Malden on such a mission if he didn’t have good reason.

So they would leave through the upstairs window. Which meant Malden had to wait a little longed. He swept his cloak back to uncover the bodkin in its sheath at his hip. Then he reached into a long wooden case he kept strapped to his thigh and drew out three slender darts. He was very, very careful not to touch their tips.

“Make haste, make haste,” one of the thieves hissed from the stairs. Another grumbled out some profanity. There was the old familiar clink of metal objects bouncing in a sack. And then the first of them stepped into the bedroom, eyes peeled, watching the shadows just in case.

He did not think to look down, and so he stepped right into the chamber pot, which Malden had placed before the doorway.

“Son of a whore,” the thief howled, as he tripped forward into the room and went sprawling past Malden where he lay on the bed. The other two rushed into the room after their fellow. One held the candle high, while the other had a wicked long knife in his hand. All three of them held bulging sacks.

“What is it?” the one with the candle demanded. His face was yellow in the guttering light and his eyes were very shiny. The one with the knife was quicker, and spied Malden even as he sat up in the bed.

“We’re tumbled!” he cried, and rushed forward with the knife.

Malden flicked his wrist and a dart went into the knifesman’s chest, just above his heart. As the candle holder turned to look, Malden pitched his second dart and caught him in the neck.

The one who had stumbled on the chamber pot managed to get back to his feet just as Malden readied his third dart. The thief began to cry out in fear just as Malden made his cast. The dart hit him in the tongue and he went silent.

The three thieves turned to look at each other, knowing the jig was up. One by one their faces fell. And then they slumped to the floorboards with a treble thump.

When he was sure they were all down, Malden stepped out of the bed and went to look in their sacks, to see what shiny presents they’d brought him.

CHAPTER TWO

It was not more than an hour later when Malden heard the master of the house come home. He had been out at a gaming hall until closing time, as he was prone to do every night. Malden had done his research on the man, following him for the last three nights all the way from the Royal Ditch back to his home. Typically the man lost more than he won, and he would be followed all the way home by his long-suffering wife, who begged him every night to give up his expensive hobby. The man never said a word, merely took his drubbing as his due. The two of them would be accompanied by a bodyguard and a linkboy who lit his way through the dark streets. Malden closed his eyes and listened as the householder paid off the linkboy and then set his bodyguard to stand watch in the main room of the ground floor. The wife moved straightaway to her chamber, as she did every night, perhaps exhausted by the long journey through the night streets, perhaps simply desiring to get away from her wastrel mate. Malden heard her splash her face with water from the basin, then call for her handmaid, who would not be coming.

The master of the house climbed the stairs ponderously, pausing now and again as if he were so drunk he could not walk a straight line. He came immediately to his strongroom, which served him both as office and sanctum. Before he opened the door, he called for his own servant, a valet, who was also conspicuously absent.

“By the Bloodgod’s eight elbows,” the merchant swore, stumbling inside his strongroom. “Someone strike a light, anyway. Who’s here? I can hear you breathing in there. I promise you, Holger, if this is your idea of a jape at my expense—”

The light from the open door spilled across a glittering treasure, gathered and neatly sorted on the rich carpet of the strongroom. Silver plate and cutlery had been stacked beside bags of coin and fine porcelain. Good clothing, the lady of the house’s jewelry, and even the more expensive sort of cooking spices had been laid out there. The master of the house inhaled deeply to see all his worldly goods of value arrayed so.

Malden struck flint and lighted a taper on the table before him, the table that normally served as the merchant’s desk. “Close the door,” he said.

The merchant’s name was Doral Knackerson. He was not the wealthiest man in the Free City, but he was far from the poorest, either. He owned three tanneries down in the Smoke. Malden had walked by those workshops often enough to know the particular gruesome stench of rendered animal carcasses. Strange, he did not detect even a whiff of that unforgettable smell on Doral’s person. It was as if the merchant were unwilling to visit his own property.

The man was middle aged, with silver wisps of hair around his temples, and none up top. He dressed well, but in the specific shabby-looking finery that rich men wore when they went abroad into the less reputable parts of town. He had a stack of coins in his hands—it seemed for once he’d left the gaming table richer than he’d arrived. The silver spilled from his fingers and rolled across the floor as he stared at Malden.

“Thief,” he whispered, then opened his mouth to shout it.

Malden forestalled him by stabbing his bodkin into the surface of the merchant’s desk. The knife was no longer than Malden’s hand, from the tips of his fingers to the heel of his thumb. It had no edge at all, but only a very sharp point that dug easily into the soft wood of the desk.

It was not a particularly effective or very deadly weapon. But it was good for sending a certain kind of message, one which Doral Knackerson must have received loud and clear. He closed his mouth again without so much as calling for his bodyguard.

“Close the door,” Malden said again, very softly.

Doral did as he was told. Malden had made extensive inquiries regarding Knackerson before he came here, and of all the people he had asked, none had described Doral as a fool. Good. That would make this much easier.

“You’ll hang for this, thief. Cut my throat, take my belongings—what will you, but you’ll hang for it. Or you may leave right now, empty-handed, and I’ll say nothing of this intrusion to my close personal friend, the Burgrave.”

Malden smiled. “I’m not here to rob you,” he said. “Not tonight, anyway. In fact, my purpose here is quite the opposite. I happened to be strolling past this fine home tonight when I discovered these,” he said. He glanced to one side.

The bodies of the three thieves he’d surprised lay sprawled on the floor there, face down.

Doral’s face went white.

“They were busy at amassing this collection of your goods,” Malden said, and gestured at the valuables piled on the carpet. “I stopped them before they could make good their escape.”

The merchant stared hard at Malden with shrewd, half-closed eyes. “You’re no watchman. None of them would lie in wait for me like this.”

Malden chuckled. “Oh, no. Just a citizen looking after his neighbor. By way of profession, I am the agent of one of your fellow burghers. A man of some influence in the City, though he rarely appears at the moothall. You’ll know his name, if you think for it.”

Doral pursed his lips. He did not require much prompting. “Cutbill. The guildmaster of thieves.”

“You make his name sound like a curse. When the man in question is about to become your fondest friend.” Malden shrugged. “These three were none of his. They were private operators, of a kind he despises. They were smart enough to make note of your movements, and even to bribe your servants to sleep elsewhere tonight. They were not clever enough to evade me.”

The merchant shook his head. “Say what you want. What your master wants, rather. I like not this feigned civility from a man who threatens me with a knife.”

Malden shrugged off the man’s brusqueness. “My master wants nothing. He wishes to give you something you clearly need. Protection. Cutbill can make sure you are never bothered with this unpleasantness again. You see how easily unprincipled rascals made entry to your house. You see how close a thing it was, that you were robbed tonight. Why, if I hadn’t been here, you’d only now be realizing how much you had lost. There must be … let me see … fifty gold royals worth of plate and jewels here, and the clothing would fetch some good silver coins if sold to the right consigners. Why risk losing so much, when Cutbill can insure the safety of your belongings for so little?”

“How much?”

Malden pulled his bodkin out of the desk’s top. “One part in fifty of everything you earn. To be paid monthly, in silver. A trifle.”

“That’s just robbery by another name,” Doral spat. “I won’t pay it.”

“Ah, no man would submit to such blandishment, be he a creature of honor. I told Cutbill you were too high-minded to accept his offer. Alas, he bid me make it anyway. Very good. I’ll take my leave now, with compliments to you and your lovely wife.” Malden stood up from behind the desk and sketched a graceful bow.

“If I see you again—”

“Oh, you shan’t,” Malden told the merchant, as he strode toward the door. “When next I come, you won’t see me at all.”

He walked directly past the merchant and reached for the latch of the door.

He didn’t make it that far.

“Wait,” Doral said. “We can negotiate something, surely.”

“I listen attentively,” Malden said, and leaned up against the wall.

CHAPTER THREE

It was a long ride from the Golden Slope to the Ashes. Malden had a small wagon and an old, spavined horse to drive down the steep hill that took him from the houses of the wealthy through the district of workshops and manufactories called the Smoke. There he entered a maze of narrow streets that led further downhill into the Stink, where the poor had their homes. It was just as he entered that zone of wattle-and-daub houses, where the streets and the alleys between them were hard to tell apart, that he heard the first groan from behind him.

The wagon appeared to be full of hay. If he were stopped, Malden could claim to be making a delivery to the stables of an inn nearby—it was close enough to dawn to make sense for such traffic—but if a watchman heard the hay moaning in pain, he might ask questions that Malden would find uncomfortable to answer. So he pulled his team into a very dark, very deserted byway, and leaned back over his cargo. He thumped the side of the wagon very hard with the pommel of his bodkin and waited until he heard another grunt. “I know you can hear me,” he said to the hay. The three men underneath it, the thieves from Doral’s house, were just now waking from their drugged stupor. They would be unable to use their limbs for a while yet, but their ears would be fully recovered. The drug Malden had used on his darts was measured out quite carefully, and he knew its effects well—he’d even tested it on himself, to be sure of its efficacy. He knew how groggy and listless it would leave them, and how unable to defend themselves.

Still the hay rustled as they tried to rouse themselves and escape. Malden sighed and said, “If I tell you to be quiet, I expect you will try to shout. It’s what I would do in your situation. Allow me to point out one thing, however. If I wished to kill you, I could have done so quite easily, hours ago. Instead I did you a very great favor: I saved you from the hangman’s noose. I’d like to do you another favor, but it depends on my getting to my destination without incident. You may therefore remain silent, and keep your groans to yourself. Or I can stop your breath right now, while you’re still too weak to fend me off. Do we have a deal? Cry once for yes, or twice if you wish to die.”

“Oooh,” one of them moaned.

“Pluh-pluh-pluz,” the second begged.

“Gah,” the third one muttered. That must be the one he’d struck in the tongue.

“Very good. Lie still, then, and you’ll live, for now.” Malden got his horse under way again and headed for the Ashes.

That ancient district of the Free City of Ness was named for a calamity that happened well before Malden was born, the Seven Day Fire that claimed half the City. There was very little evidence of the conflagration left in Ness, save for a small zone of houses that had been so decrepit before the fire—and their owners so desperately poor—that they had never been rebuilt. The Ashes had become a section of the city so desolate no one ever wanted to live there again. It was a grim place of streets that verged on nothing but charred ruin, all of it hid during the day by the shadow of the City’s towering wall. It was a place decent folk—and thus the City Watch—never ventured.

Malden had come to know it well. He could find his way through the labyrinth of vacant lots and piles of rubble, through the lanes where weeds grew up through the soot-stained cobbles and moonlight soaked everything a sodden gray. He knew just where to turn, and, more importantly, just where to stop.

He stood his horse in the middle of a street and leaned forward on the reins. The horse snorted in the cold air, mist making twin plumes from its nostrils.

He did not wait long. Glancing over at a collapsed house to his left, he saw a flicker of motion, and then a boy no more than seven years old stepped out into the street. The boy lingered in a doorframe that was warped out of true by fire and time. He wore a tunic made of patched-together rags, and his face was filthy with ash. In his hand he held a stick, no longer than his diminutive forearm, with a twopenny nail driven through its end. A poor urchin’s eye-gouger, that weapon. Malden had no doubt the boy was well drilled in its use. The boy, one of a small army of orphaned children with nowhere else to go, worked for Malden’s master. The children made sure no one entered the Ashes without being seen, and, if they were unwelcome, made sure they didn’t leave again.

Malden nodded at the boy, then made a complicated gesture with his fingers. The boy nodded in return, then stepped back into the darkness and was gone.

The entire interchange took five heartbeats to complete, but it spoke in an elaborate and eloquent vocabulary. The message was plain: Malden had three new recruits with him. He had not been followed. He needed to speak with the boss. The boy had understood, and would see to everything.

Malden jumped down from the seat of his wagon and walked around to the back. He shoved the straw away and let the three men sit up. As they rubbed at their numb faces and shook out their deadened legs, he studied them carefully. They were scrawny, shortish men dressed in dirty clothing. They didn’t look like much at all. Malden knew their type all too well. Men broken down by poverty until they were willing to take the risk of being hanged rather than go another day without coin. Men who labored at menial jobs when they could, or relied on their families for a few coppers to keep them from starving to death when no work was available. Men who had spent every day looking at the houses of rich merchants and wondering why fate had denied them such luxury and comfort. One of them, Malden knew, was a cousin of Doral Knackerson’s valet. It had been his brilliant idea to buy off the servants and burgle the rich man’s house. It must have seemed like such a foolproof plan.

“I’ve taken your weapons, and the few coins you had on you,” he told them. “The drug I gave you has no lasting effect, but it will leave you weak for tonight. I really don’t recommend making a fuss now. You’ve been given a second chance and I hope you will all take it. The job you did tonight was a clumsy affair, poorly planned out and executed with only a modicum of skill. It was enough, however, to gain the notice of my employer.”

The three of them stared at him. One of them mouthed “Cutbill”, but was smart enough not to breathe the name aloud.

Malden nodded. “You may know that he runs all the crime in this town. You three thought you could go into business for yourselves. That shows initiative, but also stupidity. No one steals a copper farthing in the Free City of Ness without attracting his attention. You made a choice to try anyway, and now you are under his most exacting scrutiny. You have another choice to make, right now. You can get up, and walk into that building over there.” Malden pointed at the ruin of a feed store across the street. It had no roof, but three of its walls still stood. Only darkness lay within. “A little girl will take you from there to a place where you can sign on with my crew. Your other option is to walk back up that hill,” and here he pointed behind him, “and look for honest work, and foreswear ever taking up thieving again.”

“Do you know how hard it is to get a decent position just now?” one of the thieves demanded. “The trade guilds say who may work, and who must starve. And you have to pay them just to get on a list of men waiting for a chance.”

Malden felt little pity for the men. He himself was the son of a whore. He’d never known who his father was, had never had any family to fall back on. He’d been far more desperate once than these men would ever get. Yet he was going to offer them the same hope he’d clutched to himself.

“My guild,” Malden said, “is willing to welcome you in, tonight.”

The thieves fell to communing with each other, in the mode of desperate looks and shrugs and shaking of heads. The one with the hurt tongue—the valet’s cousin—seemed to be their leader, since the others turned to him as if begging him to make a decision. He ended this silent conversation with a grudging nod.

“You’ll not regret this, good sir,” one of the others said. He jumped down from the back of the wagon and ran toward the ruined feed store.

Another laughed out loud. “When I saw you on that bed, I thought I was dead as an elf,” he announced, and followed his accomplice.

That just left the leader, whose tongue was still swollen in his mouth. He stared at Malden for a very long time. He was making it clear he didn’t think Malden had done him any favors. But eventually he, too, took what was offered.

CHAPTER FOUR

Malden grabbed a sack of coins from the wagon—Doral’s first payment, made in advance—and walked away from the horse and its burden, knowing they would be taken care of by the children. The urchins who lived in the Ashes, orphans all, were desperate, violent little sprites but they worked hard for the pittance Cutbill gave them. It was their only way of getting food other than catching the district’s vast number of feral cats and roasting them over open fires.

Malden turned a corner and walked into the ruin of an old inn. Three old men waited for him there, ancient grey-beards who nodded and smiled as he approached. They were sitting on a coffin in the middle of an abandoned building, just as they did every night. The old grand masters of the guild of thieves.

“Well met, Malden,” Loophole said, raising a hand in welcome. Malden took it warmly and smiled. “More grist for the mill?”

“The wheel of the gods grinds slowly, but it grinds the barleycorn exceeding fine,” Malden said, making sure to use the night’s password. He bowed and started to walk past the old men, when ’Levenfingers stopped him with a discrete clearing of the throat.

“Someone’s been asking for you.”

Malden stopped where he was and turned to look at the oldsters. It was Lockjaw, he who rarely spoke at all, who gave Malden the news.

“It’s nothin’. Just some fool, poking around where he don’t belong.”

“What kind of fool?” Malden asked. “The heavily armed kind?”

’Levenfingers sighed. “The children spotted him, an hour hence, just on the edge of the Ashes. Little fellow in very plain clothes. Not a watchman, nor a bravo with a grudge. Looked more like a priest.”

“Perhaps he came to save my soul,” Malden suggested.

“He got naught from the bairns, save a nasty look,” Loophole told him. “He was smart enough to clear off after that.”

“It’s nothin’,” Lockjaw said, and waved one hand in dismissal.

“I appreciate the warning, all the same,” Malden said, feeling distinctly uneasy. Cutbill kept his headquarters in such a forlorn place specifically so that approaching strangers would be conspicuous solely by their presence. Anyone asking for Malden who knew where he worked should be considered potentially dangerous, no matter how holy their intentions.

Nor could Malden afford to be reckless. Collecting protection money for Cutbill might seem like an easy job, but it actually held far more danger than straight thievery. When you robbed someone, if you did it correctly, they never knew who had done it. Doral, though, knew Malden’s face now. If he cared enough to spend some money, it would not be difficult for the merchant to learn Malden’s name. Malden was making enemies these days, enemies who knew where to find him.

Brooding on this, Malden passed the old men and opened a trap door hidden in the debris of the fallen inn. He headed down a short flight of stairs and pushed aside a tapestry to step into a room full of warmth and light. The din of the place overwhelmed him as he walked inside, right into the middle of a dice game in full swing. The gamblers gathered up their money and moved backwards to let him through, some of them touching their hoods in salute. Malden was greeted warmly by the guildmaster’s new bodyguard, a swordsman in red leather named Tyburn, and the pair of working girls who were keeping him company. Malden, who had grown up in a brothel, knew the girls well and bowed as deeply to them as he might a pair of fine ladies. They giggled and batted their eyelashes at him.

Slag the dwarf was hard at work, as always, at his chaotic workshop in one corner of the room. It looked like he was making a grappling hook, bending rods of iron in a vise. His mop of ragged black hair was greasy with sweat and he swore liberally as he twisted the metal.

“I owe you a debt of gratitude,” Malden said. “Those darts you made me worked a trick.”

“They ought to. I sighted them in myself.” The dwarf glared up at Malden with wild eyes. “And you owe me nothing, you bothersome bastard. You paid for them, didn’t you?”

“I suppose I did,” Malden admitted, with a laugh.

“Then leave me be, so I can get back to my own business,” the dwarf finished, and turned away without another word.

Malden shrugged and made his way over to the massive door in the far wall that led to Cutbill’s office. He knocked the requisite number of times before opening it. Stepping inside, he felt an edge of cold iron kiss his throat.

He never had gotten used to that sensation, though it was hardly the first time he’d experienced it. He held still until the owner of the knife withdrew the weapon and stepped back behind a hanging tapestry before Malden could see his face.

Sighing, Malden stepped into the office. It was grandly appointed, with a massive wooden desk and a cheerily glowing brazier giving heat. The walls were covered with rich tapestries, woven with gold thread that caught the light.

Cutbill, however, sat on a stool in the coldest corner of the room, facing a lectern on which was propped a massive leather-bound ledger book. He was making notations in its pages with a quill pen. The guildmaster of thieves didn’t look like much to see, not at first glance. He was a small man, thin, with little hair and a pair of dark, beady eyes behind his long nose. He did not look up as Malden entered.

Malden placed the sack of coins on the unused desk and then leaned his hip against its solidity. It had been a long night and he longed to be abed, but he had to make his report first. Cutbill was a stickler for detail, and liked everything done in a precise way. His exactitude had bothered Malden once, but in the time he’d worked for Cutbill he’d learned just how necessary the details were. Cutbill’s operation was vast and one man alone could barely keep all the figures straight, even a man with Cutbill’s great talent for order. One slip-up could see the entire organization hanged. So Malden had learned to accept, and even appreciate, Cutbill’s niceties. Even when he was so tired he was seeing spots before his eyes.

“You were successful, I see,” Cutbill said. He made another notation in his ledger, then turned back several pages and consulted a figure.

Malden didn’t question how Cutbill could know that before he’d even given his report. Cutbill had a way of always being three steps ahead of anyone he spoke to. “A new customer, and three new recruits.”

“Hmm.” Cutbill sounded vaguely amused. It was hard to tell—the guildmaster never smiled, and certainly had never laughed in Malden’s presence. But Malden was beginning to learn his moods all the same. “That makes ten new clients you’ve recruited in two weeks,” Cutbill went on. “I wonder what will happen if you keep operating at this pace. By way of a hypothetical, what would Ness look like, if the entire population of the Stink were on my payroll at the same time, while every citizen in the Golden Slope was receiving my protection? Would we completely eliminate thievery in one fell swoop?”

“Perish the thought,” Malden said. He scowled into the middle distance. “I can’t imagine a more boring possibility.”

“Hmm.” It was as good as a belly laugh, coming from Cutbill. It seemed the man was pleased with Malden’s work. Well, that was something.

Once upon a time Malden had hated Cutbill with a passion. The old man had blackmailed him into coming into the guild, just as Malden had browbeaten the three thieves that night. But rather than just welcoming him in with open arms, Cutbill had exacted a ridiculous payment for the right to work as a thief in Ness. A hundred and one gold royals—a vast fortune—to be paid before Malden could earn a single copper for himself. He’d made that payment, though Malden had nearly died in the process. Other people had died, though no one the world would miss. Once the price was paid Malden had believed he would go on hating Cutbill for what he’d been put through. He’d been convinced he would spend the rest of his life looking for a way to put the man in his place.

And yet over the months that followed, something strange had happened. He had actually come to respect the guildmaster of thieves. He would never go so far as to say he liked the man. Yet as he had watched Cutbill plot from his tiny office in the Ashes (as far as Malden knew, Cutbill never left the room), he had begun to see something of the man’s brilliance. The way he played the various factions of the city off one another. The way he kept his people out of harms way, and his thieves’ necks out of the noose. Cutbill could be a vicious schemer, and he was not above having people killed if they got in his way. Malden imagined the man had not a single moral compulsion in his slender skull. Yet by operating in such a ruthless fashion, Cutbill managed to save lives, to put money in pockets that had been empty, and to ameliorate some small portion of the city’s misery. It was almost enough to make Malden think the guildmaster had a heart after all.

Cutbill gestured at the night’s takings. “You may take your cut from the bag. I don’t need to count it.”

Malden stood up straight. That was a level of trust he’d never anticipated from Cutbill. He reached into the sack of coins and took out twenty small gold gravines. One part in ten of all he’d earned—the going rate.

“Just write me a receipt, if you’d be so kind,” Cutbill said. He put his pen down for a moment and actually looked up. “You know, Malden, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something. I’m worried about you.”

In the middle of scribbling his receipt on the desk, Malden managed to misspell his own name.

“You … are?” he asked, trying not to sound too surprised.

Cutbill frowned. “You’ve been taking on these protection and recruitment assignments more and more often. I might begin to suspect you were looking to move up in the organization, if I didn’t know you better. This sort of work is hardly fit to your temperament. You’re a housebreaker, not a kneebreaker. Blackmail and extortion are foreign to your character—if you take a coin from a man’s pocket, it seems to actually pain you to smile at him afterward. It’s one of the things I like about you. You’re the most honest thief I know.”

“I didn’t know you took such a personal interest,” Malden said. In truth, he found it rather disturbing.

“Do not give me too much credit,” Cutbill said. “A happy worker is a good earner, that’s all. I like to keep my people happy when I can. So I would like to know—why do you keep taking assignments you must hate?”

“For the money, of course. They pay so much better.”

Cutbill picked up his pen and looked down at his ledger. The time for concern and caring, apparently, was over. But then he surprised Malden again. He nodded vigorously, though he didn’t seem convinced. “I’m all for uncomplicated cupidity, of course. Greed is a wonderful motivator. But would you indulge me, and answer one more question? What is it that you plan to buy with all that money?”

“A house,” Malden admitted. “A fit place for a fine lady.”

“Indeed? Malden the thief looks to marry? Fascinating,” Cutbill said, and wrote a number down in his ledger, as if he’d taken the empirical measure of Malden’s heart. “Does this most fortunate creature have a name?”

Cythera should be here by now,” Sir Croy said, and paced across the floorboards for the hundredth time. “And Coruth—where is Coruth?”

Sir Croy was a knight of the realm, a man of action. He’d spent his life fighting demons and sorcerers, defending the weak and protecting his king from danger. He had faced down deadly monsters and desperate enemies and never quailed in the face of certain death.

Today he felt like every nerve in his body was twanging with panic. He felt faint, and flushed, and like he might be sick.

CHAPTER FIVE

“Cythera should be here by now,” Sir Croy said, and paced across the floorboards for the hundredth time. “And Coruth—where is Coruth?”

Sir Croy was a knight of the realm, a man of action. He’d spent his life fighting demons and sorcerers, defending the weak and protecting his king from danger. He had faced down deadly monsters and desperate enemies and never quailed in the face of certain death.

Today he felt like every nerve in his body was twanging with panic. He felt faint, and flushed, and like he might be sick.

He stared over at Malden, who stood at the side of the hearth, leaning on the mantel. Tapping his foot on the floor in impatience.

“I beg you,” Croy said, as his stomach flopped about in his midsection, “stop that tapping! I swear, Malden, you seem more nervous than I feel right now.”

The thief’s eyes went wide as if he’d been caught cheating at cards. He licked his lips and said, “Do I?”

“If someone walked in right now, they wouldn’t know which of us was getting married today,” Croy said. He laughed to cover up his distress. “Just—be calm, will you? It would help me.”

Malden’s face froze, his expression unreadable. Then he smiled, though it seemed he had to force himself. His foot stopped its infernal tapping and he laughed at Croy’s joke. “You’re right, of course. I have no reason to be nervous. I suppose I was simply agitated in sympathy with your plight. But please, Croy. Be at ease.”

Might as well ask a goblin to be pious, Croy thought. He went to the window for the hundredth time, then back to the hearth. “Is she late? Perhaps she’s not coming at all,” he said. There was something strangely appealing about the idea. If she didn’t come—if she had been detained by some small accident, something harmless but which required her attention, then he wouldn’t have to stand here feeling like a newly anointed page facing his first sparring match. But if she didn’t come—if she didn’t come—what would that mean? Would it mean she’d stopped loving him? Would it mean she had broken her pledge to him?

Why wasn’t she there already? Didn’t she know how important this was to him? He felt that if she didn’t come he would die on the spot.

“You spent ten years wooing her,” Malden said, favoring Croy with a knowing smile. “A few minutes more won’t erase that.”

“Of course. Of course you’re right,” Croy said. Good counsel—he knew it as soon as he heard it. Malden had a way of seeing things, of putting things in perspective. It was one of the things Croy valued in him.

It was more than a trace unusual that a knight of the king and a common thief would share this bond of friendship. Scant months earlier, Croy would never have associated with his sort. Yet the two of them had been through so much together, there was no one else Croy wanted standing beside him this day.

They were alone in a private room above a tavern. The room had been rented for the full afternoon and made cheery for the occasion. A fire had been lit in the hearth, though autumn was still young and there was only a hint of chill in the air. A table had been set out with wine and meats and bread and cheese. Strings of flowers hung from the walls, bright and colorful in the dusty light that streamed in through the open window.

Also on the table was a rolled up parchment, a pot of ink, and two quill pens already cut and ready for use. The parchment was a copy of the banns of marriage, and once Cythera signed it, Croy’s life would change forever. She had only to step up to the table, lift her pen, and …

Croy jumped when he heard someone shout in the room below. Just a man calling for ale, he told himself. The common room of the tavern, just down the stairs, was full of men drinking and gambling, two of the most common labors in the Free City of Ness. They made far more noise than Croy had expected. He’d wanted this room to be perfect, this room where all his dreams were set to come true. He’d wanted everything to be … perfect.

“Do you think she’ll like the place?” Croy asked. “It was all I could arrange on short notice.”

“I think she will be so busy looking into your eyes that she will forget what land she is in. Here,” Malden said, and grabbed Croy’s arm. He yanked downward on one sleeve of the knight’s leather jerkin where it had bunched up. “And take this to mop your brow,” he added, handing Croy a cloth.

Croy grimaced and wiped sweat away from his face.

“Ah,” Malden said. “I hear the carriage.”

At that moment Croy felt his heart stop in his chest. He raced over to the window and peered down into the street, just in time to see Cythera step down into the mud.

The footman of the hired carriage squawked and rushed to help her, but she had not waited for him. She could be headstrong, at times, and she would need some training before she could be presented at court, but—

—but she was beautiful. Especially today.

She wore a velvet gown, the finest he’d ever seen on her. Her dark hair was gathered in thick braids entwined with golden bells. Her skin was fair, with only a hint of red on her high cheekbones. A tattoo like a vine wrapped around her forearm. As Croy watched, it bloomed with pink wisteria flowers. It was not a tattoo at all, he knew, and it betokened something darker than ornament. It was her curse—or perhaps her gift—that she could absorb magic into her skin. Curses or baleful spells cast against her would manifest themselves as painted vines and flowers on her body, blossoms that were never still. Once those painted blooms had been like chains which bound her to her dead father, the dread sorcerer Hazoth. Croy—with Malden’s help, of course, he could never forget the debt he owed the thief—had laid the sorcerer low and freed Cythera from that slavery. In gratitude Cythera had agreed to marry Croy and make him happy. Now, wherever they’d come from, the painted vines seemed to only enhance her delicate beauty.

She entered the tavern below to much comment and acclaim from the men in the common room. She must have made some small jest, for Croy heard the men laughing in response. Then he heard her footfalls coming up the stairs.

The door opened and a boy showed her into the private room, where Croy and Malden stood together waiting for her.

She smiled for them both, and let them kiss her hands.

Croy tried to speak, but then he grimaced with pain as he heard a man in the common room announce he was going to be sick.

“Boy,” Malden said, snapping his fingers for service, “close that door. We like not all this noise.” The serving boy rushed to do as he was told.

Croy opened his mouth again, intending to speak, and found he could not. His tongue would not lift from the floor of his mouth.

For a moment the two of them just looked at each other. Croy tried to smile and felt his lips tremble, so he pressed them together tightly enough to still them. This served only to make a flat, grim line of his mouth, as if he dreaded what was to come next.

Cythera’s face fell.

“Give me a kind word, Croy,” Cythera begged. She reached forward to take his hands. “Tell me I look beautiful, please. I spent so long coming to this favor. I put on this uncomfortable dress. All for you.”

He drew back a pace and stared at her. How could he be so nervous, now? He could scarcely credit it. He felt as if his feet were not touching the floor, as if his legs dangled in empty air. He’d been working toward this day since the first time they’d met, years ago. He’d slain monsters for her hand, had brought her and her mother out of sorcerous slavery to reach this exact moment. He’d never lacked for courage before.

Now, it seemed, he had not the bravery to even open his mouth. “You,” he managed to stammer out, “look—”

There were no more words in his head. He could not speak.

“When he saw you from the window,” Malden told her, “he used up every word he knew, words like ‘enchanting’, ‘divine’, and—of course—‘beautiful.’”

Croy stared at his friend, unsure of what was happening.

The thief raised his eyebrows and tilted his head in Cythera’s direction. What was he trying to communicate? Croy was unsure.

After a pause for breath, Malden went on. “He even swore on the Lady’s holy name that he had been struck through the heart, by that invisible arrow whose wound no physic can heal, save the kiss of the archer.”

From below came the sound of an old drinking song, sung well off key.

Cythera didn’t seem to notice the music. “He said all that, did he?” she asked.

“Indeed, milady,” Malden said, and bowed.

“Well, then he has said enough. Would someone be kind enough to pour me a cup of wine? I think I need to sit down. This corset is tighter than what I’m used to.”

Malden rushed to help her. Croy couldn’t move. She sipped at the wine the thief offered her and gave him a smile of thanks.

“When my mother arrives, we can get this formality out of the way and then—” Cythera stopped speaking then because the serving boy had let out a stifled yelp. “Ah,” she said, not turning in her chair to look. “That must be her now.”

The witch Coruth stepped out of the hearth and brushed sparks from her cloak. She must have come down the chimney in the form of a bird, Croy thought. He supposed if you were a witch you didn’t need to travel in the way of common people.

Coruth had a wild tangle of iron gray hair and a nose so sharp it cut through the air like a ship’s prow through the sea. She stared around at each of them, with an especially long and pointed glance at Malden, and then said, “Why is the thief here?”

“The law requires a witness,” Cythera said. “After all, this is a legal contract of marriage. Once I sign it, I will be bound to marry Croy, or suffer quite severe penalties.” She gestured at the roll of parchment. “Malden was kind enough to offer his services.”

Coruth’s thin mouth curved upwards in a smile like a sharpened sickle. She was staring still at Malden, who couldn’t seem to meet her gaze. Croy wondered what the witch found so amusing. Then again, he told himself, maybe he didn’t want to know. The things witches found entertaining were not always pleasant for common folk. “Handy fellow, your thief. What’s that singing?”

“We are above the public room of a tavern,” Cythera explained.

“Hmm. Well, then what are we waiting for? Sign this thing, and then we can eat.” Coruth sat down heavily in one of the chairs.

“Yes, of course.” Cythera picked up one of the pens and smoothed the parchment out with her other hand. Then she stared down at the banns and laughed. “It’s odd, I can’t seem to make out the words. I have tears in my eyes, yes, that must be it. Tears. Of joy. Sir knight, would you come over here, please, and show me where to put my name?”

Croy’s head snapped upward and he blinked rapidly. Suddenly he felt in possession of his own body once more. He rushed to stand behind her and put one hand on her shoulder—her very warm and very soft shoulder—as together they looked down at the paper.

“My love,” he said, “you seem ill at ease. I think I know why.”

“You … do?” Cythera said. Strangely enough she glanced over at Malden as she said it. Croy wondered why. Perhaps she was hoping the thief would give her his support, as well.

“Yes, of course,” Croy said. “After waiting so long, this day must seem like a dream. After all you’ve been through, all the suffering and hardship. But I assure you, once you sign this paper, I will take full responsibility for you.”

“Responsibility,” Cythera said, very softly, but she lowered her head so the bells in her hair jingled.

Words came easily to him, now. Perhaps too easily—they spilled off his tongue before he’d even thought of them.

“In full. I will protect you,” he promised. “I will never let you near any harm, ever again. I will whisk you away to my castle, where you will be served night and day, all your needs met, all your requirements seen to on the instant. Why, you’ll never need to lift a finger again. You’ll never need to leave the castle at all. And when our children come, you will be complete as a woman. Think of how fulfilling it will be, to raise our sons and daughters far away from this noisy throng, this vulgar city.”

Malden gave a cheer. “And that’s exactly what you want, isn’t it, Cythera?” he asked. “What you’ve always dreamed of.”

Cythera looked up at the thief and scowled. “Indeed. As I’ve told you many times, Malden.”

“Then you should have no trouble signing this paper,” the thief said. “Once you do, there’s no going back. You’ll spend the rest of your life with Croy. You’ll be his property.”

“In a legal sense, perhaps,” Croy said, hoping Malden wasn’t going to scare Cythera off. What was the thief thinking, saying that? “But in a spiritual sense, it’ll be the other way around. I’ll be your slave. Forever,” he promised.

“Sounds like a bargain,” Malden announced, and he laughed as if he’d made a hilarious joke. “Sign now, and let it be forever. Or—”

“I’ve never been happier to write my name, Malden!” Cythera said, her voice almost a shriek. Nerves! So many raw nerves in the room, Croy thought. If only she would get this over with, and let everyone be at peace!

He could say no more, only watch as Cythera moved her quill to dip it in the ink pot—

—and flinched as a scream came up from the room below. Her hand jumped and she knocked the ink pot over, spilling ink across the table.

“What was that?” she asked, lifting the parchment away from the expanding pool of ink. “Did everyone hear that?”

“It was nothing but men carousing,” Coruth insisted. “Sign, now. I’m hungry.”

“I could have sworn it was—”

Cythera did not have a chance to finish her thought, because just then something hit one of the walls of the tavern hard enough to make the entire building shake. A candle fell from a sconce on one wall. Luckily, Malden was quick enough to grab it before it could land on the floor rushes and set the place ablaze.

The sound they heard next was even more startling—booming laughter from below, the sound, surely, of a demon exulting over deadly mischief. It was followed by the sound of a man crying out in dire pain. There was no more singing from below, no sound of clinking tankards or muttered jokes.

Suddenly everyone in the room was looking right at Croy. Croy, who had sworn an oath to protect the people of Skrae. They were looking to him, he knew, for an explanation of the noise. Well they should, he thought. As a knight of the king, it was his sworn duty to keep the king’s peace—which, by the sound of it, was being violated most egregiously in the room below.

If he were truly honest Croy had never been so grateful for a distraction in his life. “I should go investigate that,” he announced. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” He was already headed down the stairs.

CHAPTER SIX

A flying tankard full of beer nearly struck Croy’s face as he hurried down the stairs. He dodged and let it smash messily against the wall. Leaping down the last few steps, he pushed his way into a throng of people in the common room, all but a few of whom were trying desperately to get out. Some hurried up the stairs, some rushed for the door or ran toward the kitchens. For a moment even Croy had trouble swimming against the tide of panicked humanity—but then, suddenly, the room was cleared, and he was standing alone.

Alone save for a barbarian in a wolf fur cloak, and the six bravos who had stayed to fight him.

The bravos were of the ordinary sort who haunted every tavern in the city, men of Ness who were good with a blade or a club but lacked any other trade. When they found work it was as bodyguards or hired thugs, but they spent most of their time drinking, gambling, and whoring. They dressed to intimidate, in boiled leather or in black cloaks, and they went everywhere armed. The six facing the barbarian carried knives as long as their forearms. Illegal, of course, but easily concealed. One—obviously the smartest of the lot—had a buckler on his left wrist. They had formed a rough semi-circle before the barbarian, and were edging back and forth, trying to get behind him.

Their opponent stood head and shoulders taller than any of them. His head was shorn down to mere stubble and the lower half of his face was painted red as if he’d been drinking blood. Under that paint huge white teeth showed, for he was smiling. Beaming. He was either very drunk or very confident.

Croy flicked his eyes to the side to learn how this had started. He saw a man slumped against a cracked wooden pillar behind the barbarian. That accounted for the great crash Croy had heard, which shook the tavern like an earthquake. He was certain the column had not been cracked when he came into this place earlier.

The barbarian reached up and unlaced the front of his cloak. Pushing it away from his shoulders he revealed rippling muscle beneath—as well as a small arsenal of weaponry. A sword hung from his belt, reaching near his ankle. A cruel-bladed bearded axe hung at his other side. Knives were tied to his upper arms and a mace dangled on a thong at the back of his hip. He reached for the axe, first.

One of the bravos danced forward, knife slashing up from a low start. It was a good strike, timed perfectly. The barbarian brought up one massive forearm and took the cut on the back of his wrist. Blood ran down toward his elbow. Before the bravo could finish his swing, the axe came around in a powerful swing that carved right through the bravo’s leather pauldron and sheared off half his bicep. The bravo howled and spun away from the mêlée.

One of his fellows tried to duck low under the axe and get a knife point into the barbarian’s ribs, but the barbarian stepped aside at the perfect moment and the knife missed him entirely. The axe swung back and the end of its haft came down hard enough to crack the attacker’s skull. As the bravo fell the barbarian kicked his insensate body away, so as not to tangle his footing.

The man was fast, and exceeding strong, Croy saw. He would make short work of his six assailants if he wasn’t stopped. Rushing forward with his hands held high, Croy called, “Fellows, good men all, stop this now, let us converse, and see if—”

His words were lost in the noise as the barbarian’s mace—held in his presumably weaker left hand—caught a third bravo in the stomach and sent him sprawling across the room. The injured man screamed with a horrible wet sound that suggested half his innards had just been ruptured.

The remaining three all rushed the barbarian at once, their knives flashing high. The one with the buckler took a mace blow perfectly, catching it on the small shield and knocking it backward toward the barbarian’s face. The barbarian took a step backward, surprised at this resistance—the first real challenge he’d met—and another bravo took the opportunity to lunge forward with his knife and prick the barbarian’s chest. The barbarian howled and brought his axe around to slice off his foeman’s cheek. The axe was red with blood when it came back around, whirling in its master’s hand. Continuing his swing, the barbarian brought it behind his back and embedded it deep in the buckler, splitting the wooden shield and the wrist that held it. Two more bodies struck the floor.

Croy felt no fear at watching this spectacle of gore. He had trained himself, over the course of many years, to ride the wave of giddiness that threatened to freeze him to the spot. He took another step forward and raised his hands again for attention. “Stop this. Now,” he said.

“Just a moment,” the barbarian said. Then he swung around on one foot, his mace whistling through the air. The final bravo had edged around behind him and was about to stab him in the back. Instead the mace shattered the bones of his forearm and he dropped the weapon. For a moment he stared at his hand dangling at the end of a crushed arm, and then he began to scream.

There was no other sound in the room. The air seemed to hang perfectly still, as if it had turned to glass and held every object secure in its place. Croy felt rooted to the spot, unable to move an inch.

It was no magic spell that made Croy feel that way, but the simple focus of battle joined. It was clear this barbarian would not surrender without a fight. Based on what little Croy knew of his people, that was no surprise. The barbarians of the eastern steppes were born warriors all—they spent their entire lives hunting and fighting, and they were renowned for their pure bloody courage. Only a thin range of mountains separated their land from the kingdom of Skrae, but that fluke of geography was a true blessing. If the barbarians ever came to Skrae in pursuit of conquest, even Croy doubted the kingdom could stand for long against them.

Now he was face to face with a perfect specimen of that warrior culture, and he didn’t know if he could prevail.

“I believe you wished to say something,” the barbarian said. His lips drew back in what might have been a friendly grin—if the posture of his body and the set of his muscles didn’t suggest he was about to spring forward in a deadly attack.

Croy scowled and drew his sword. He had trained for fighting, himself. He had made a study of taking down opponents like this. He considered his strategy in the moments he had left before the attack came. He could parry the axe, he knew, if he used a cross slash cut, but that mace was too heavy and the arm that wielded it too strong to be effectively blocked. He would need to duck under its swing, and lunge forward at the same time, bringing his sword down in a weak slash that might—

“Ghostcutter,” the barbarian said, as if he were greeting an old friend. He nodded at the sword in Croy’s hand. Then he flung his arms out to the sides and dropped both axe and mace.

Croy frowned. “You know my blade?” he asked. The sword he wielded—the only weapon he’d brought to the signing of the banns, and that only for ornament—was famous in certain circles, of course. It was an Ancient Blade, one of seven swords forged at the dawn of time to fight no lesser opponents than demons themselves. Ghostcutter was made of cold-forged iron, with one edge coated in silver. Runnels of melted silver streamed across its fuller. It was made to fight against magical creatures, curses, and the abominations of foul sorcery. It was damned good at cutting more mundane flesh, as well.

“I should recognize it anywhere,” the barbarian said. He drew his own sword and launched himself forward, straight at Croy, in a fast cutting attack that would have overwhelmed a less disciplined warrior’s defense.

The two swords clanged together with a sound like the ringing of a bell. When two well-made swords met like that it was called a conversation, for the repeated ringing noise as they came together and checked each other’s strikes. Croy knew this conversation would be very short—if he didn’t cut the barbarian down in the next few seconds, the other man’s strength would end the fight before it had a chance to properly begin. The first clash nearly brought him down. He struggled to hold his parry against the strength behind the blow, his eyes fixed on the point where the barbarian’s foible met his forte. The weakest part of the barbarian’s blade, up against the most resistance Croy could offer, and he barely held his ground. Iron slid against iron with a horrible grinding that would blunt both edges.

Then the barbarian’s blade burst into light.

It was no reflection of a candle flame, but the pure clean light of the sun, and it came from within the metal of the blade itself. Croy was blinded and he shouted an oath as he jumped backwards, falling on his haunches away from the light. He flung up Ghostcutter before him in hopeless defense. If he could not see the barbarian’s next attack, he could not properly meet it. The man could kill him a hundred different ways without resistance.

Yet when Croy managed to blink away the bright spots that swam before his eyes, he found not a sword pointed at his face, but a massive hand reaching down to help him back to his feet.

“Dawnbringer,” Croy said, with proper reverence. “You wield Dawnbringer.”

“Yes. Will you take my hand,” the barbarian asked, “and call me brother?”

Croy grasped the barbarian’s wrist gratefully, and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. Dawnbringer was already back in the barbarian’s scabbard. Croy sheathed Ghostcutter, and stepped forward into a warm embrace.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“I think … they’re hugging each other,” Malden said. He was lying on the stairs above the common room, watching the fight and reporting on it to Cythera and Coruth, who were standing in the doorway of the private chamber. “They’ve put their swords away. They’re … talking. They actually look quite friendly.”

“Good. It’s over,” Coruth said. “Now we can eat.” She stepped back through the door and disappeared. Cythera glanced down at Malden, threw up her hands in resignation, and followed.

Malden found the two of them sitting at table, picking apart a cheese between them. “But,” he said, “it was—it looked like it was to be a fight to the death,” he said. “Clearly they were going to kill each other.”

“Yet for some reason they’ve decided not to,” Cythera pointed out.

“You saw the big man, though. He’s a beast! The bloodlust had him. What kind of man can just go from wanting to kill an enemy to embracing him like that?” Cythera shot him a knowing look, and it was Malden’s turn to shrug. “Other than Croy, I mean. I admit that’s exactly the kind of thing Croy would do.”

Cythera and Coruth nodded in unison.

Croy had a sense of honor that other people often found confusing. Malden thought of it as sheer stupidity, but sometimes he was glad enough for it. One of his tenets was that he tried never to let anger overcome him when he was fighting, so that he never struck anyone down for ignoble reasons. More than once Malden had benefited personally from that compunction. “I still don’t see it, though. The barbarian just left six men in a moaning heap. He maimed some of them for life. Now Croy’s acting like this fellow’s as blameless as an honest priest.”

“Don’t try to figure out Croy’s reasons,” Coruth said. “You’ll tie your own brains in knots.”

“I usually just wait for him to explain himself later,” Cythera pointed out. “He’s never shy about telling me how things ought to be. Or how he thinks they should be, at any rate.”

Malden pursed his lips. “I noticed that earlier. When he was talking about how he would lock you away in his castle so you could have his babies. He made it sound quite … safe.”

“There are worse things in this world than being secure.”

Malden stopped himself from speaking. He wasn’t sure how much he could say in Coruth’s presence. Yet he longed to be alone with Cythera so he could discuss things with her. There had been a time when she had seemed to care for him. More than that, perhaps. She had seemed to love him. After her father died, and she was free to renew her pledge to marry Croy, that had all seemed to just melt away.

For her, anyway. Malden’s feelings for her were just as strong as ever.

When Croy had invited him here today, to witness the banns, he had accepted in a state of pure denial. He couldn’t believe Cythera would actually sign the document and go through with the marriage. She had seemed so nervous—almost as nervous as Croy. Malden had been certain she would say no at the last moment. Reject Croy, refuse to marry him, because she still loved Malden.

But then the barbarian had shown up and thrown everything into disarray. And now he had no idea what to think.

“Cythera,” he said. “You and I should have a talk at some point, about—”

“Malden,” Cythera said, cutting him off before he could finish his thought, “the watch will be here at any moment. They’ll have a lot of questions, and they may try to take this stranger away. In the meantime, we have a moment’s peace. It’s even quiet for—”

They all flinched, then, as the booming, demonic laughter came once more from below. Malden tensed and reached for the bodkin at his belt, but when there was no sound of ringing swords or screams of agony, he dropped into a chair and shook his head.

“—mostly quiet, for now,” Cythera amended. “We’ll all have to leave very shortly, so perhaps we should make use of this groaning board before we have to flee.”

Malden could see the wisdom in that. He nodded, but said, “Later, then. But we will speak, won’t we?”

“As you wish!” Cythera said, seeming more than a little annoyed.

Malden knew better than to push the point. He took an eating knife from the table and speared a slice of ham. He glanced over at Coruth. She was downing a goblet of wine, so fast it was spilling down the front of her tunic. If the witch had read anything into the conversation between the thief and her daughter, she seemed oblivious now.

“He’s a barbarian,” Coruth said, when she had emptied her cup. She reached for the flagon to refill it. “If you’re wondering.”

“You didn’t even see him,” Malden said.

Coruth grabbed a roasted leg of chicken from a plate. “Don’t need to.”

Malden frowned. “You sense his nature, on some subtle current in the ether? Is that it? Have you plumbed his heart with your witchery?”

“Don’t need that, either. Only a barbarian laughs like that. Like his death could come for him at any minute and he’s looking forward to it.” The witch put down the bone she’d been gnawing and sat back in her chair. “They’re different, out there on the eastern steppes. Unsophisticated, some might say. They live in a more violent world, that’s for sure. They have no gods but death, and they fight like animals.” She stared into the middle distance and smiled. “Make love like animals, too.”

“Mother,” Cythera said, spreading butter on a piece of brown bread, “if you know that from personal experience, I’d prefer not to hear the story.”

Heavy footsteps came clomping up the stairs, and the two swordsmen bustled into the room. The barbarian had a fresh bandage around his forearm but the bleeding wound on his chest was left exposed. He had one massive arm around Croy’s shoulders.

“Everyone,” Croy said, “I’d like you to meet Mörget.”

Malden rose from his chair and wiped his hands on his tunic. He glanced toward the window, wondering how fast he could get out of the room if he had to. It wasn’t that he felt he was in any particular danger. Looking to the nearest escape route was simply his natural reaction when being introduced to a very large man covered in weapons.

Croy introduced his new friends to the ladies, and then to Malden, who stuck out one hand to grasp. The barbarian stared at the hand for a moment, then looked away.

“I beg your pardon, sir, if I have offended,” Malden said.

“Little man, forgive me. In my land we touch only those we love, or those we plan on killing.”

“Like … Croy,” Malden said, nodding at the arm that held the knight. “Do the two of you know each other from some previous battle?”

“We never met before today,” Croy assured the thief.

“Then—”

“Mörget is an Ancient Blade.”

“Oh!” Cythera said, and Malden nodded, because that explained everything.

Croy bore the sword Ghostcutter, and it defined his life. Before it had been given to him his father had carried it, and before his father there had been a whole succession of knights who had wielded the sword. Each of them had groomed his own replacement, so that the sword would always have a noble bearer. Croy had spent his entire youth training just to be worthy to hold it. To listen to him talk of his sword, the knight was far less important and less valuable than the piece of iron he wore at his belt, so when people asked him what kind of man he was, he claimed he was an Ancient Blade—speaking for the sword, which had no voice of its own.

The wielders of those swords were sworn to various oaths, one of which was that they would aid each other in noble quests. Another was that if they ever broke their vows the other six were bound to hunt them down and slay them, so that the blade they had dishonored could be recovered and passed on to a more worthy owner.

Which meant that Croy and Mörget would either be fast friends from now on, or Croy would have to kill Mörget without warning.

“I believe I told you once that only five of the swords were accounted for here in the west. Two others were lost to us, among the—the barbarians.”

Mörget pursed his lips and tsked. “The clans of the east,” he corrected.

“Yes, of course,” Croy said, “the clans of the east. Well, it turns out they weren’t lost at all. The clans have had them for centuries, and they’ve been honoring the blades just as we have, and keeping them for their holy purpose.”

“We have sorcerers beyond the mountains,” Mörget added, “just as you have them here. Someone must fight them. I, myself, have slain more than one dozen with Dawnbringer.” He drew the sword from its sheath and jabbed it toward the ceiling. “May I live to slay a dozen more, or die with blade in hand!”

“Yes, may you do that,” Malden said. He went to the table and picked up a pitcher of ale. “Should we drink to it?”

“I never drink spirits,” Mörget insisted, putting his sword away. “They dull the senses, ruin the body, and make a man unfit for battle. Do you have any milk?”

“There’s cream here,” Cythera suggested, and pointed out a ewer.

The barbarian picked it up like a cup and quaffed a long draught. Then he grimaced and shook his head. Cream was smeared all around his mouth, obscuring the red paint there.

It did not, in Malden’s eyes, make the man look comical. He could have been wearing a wig of straw and a fake pig snout over his nose, and still Malden would not have thought the man looked like a clown. Not when he knew how much iron Mörget was carrying under his fur cloak.

It was not that Malden was a coward, after all—he was not opposed to personal risk if there was any benefit to be had from it. It was merely that he understood that courage in the face of certain doom was folly. He would no sooner laugh at this barbarian than he would put his head inside a lion’s mouth to prove his manhood.

While he was brooding on this subject, Malden heard the door of the tavern open with a crash. He glanced at the window again. “I believe the watch have arrived,” he said, and was proven right when a voice below demanded to know what had happened. “As well met we may be, we would be just as well advised to be elsewhere now.”

“Agreed,” Coruth said. She stood up from the table and grabbed for Cythera’s hand. “It’s time to go home.”

Cythera began to protest but the witch had already started to change shape. She and her daughter transformed into a pair of black birds that darted out the window, and before anyone could react or speak they were gone.

“Witchcraft,” Mörget said, staring after them. There was a bloody look in his eye.

“Let us follow them, by more prosaic means,” Malden suggested. He went to the window and saw its ledge was wide enough to stand on. “The roof of this tavern is connected to the roof of a stable next door. From there we’ll have to cross Cripplegate High Street.” He looked over at Mörget. “Do you know how to climb, milord barbarian?”

The barbarian opened his mouth and let out another booming, murderous laugh. “Like a goat, boy!” he claimed, and threw himself out the window with abandon.

The watchmen were already coming up the stairs. Malden followed Mörget, with a trace more care. Standing on the ledge outside, he looked back in at Croy and gestured for him to follow.

“But the banns—we never signed them,” Croy protested, staring at the parchment on the table. Black ink had soaked into the contract and obliterated half of its calligraphy.

“The wedding will have to wait,” Malden said. “Such a shame.” Then he reached in to grab Croy’s arm, and pull him toward the windowsill.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Malden scampered up onto the roof of the tavern and braced himself against a chimney, then reached down a hand to help Croy up. This was not the first time Malden had brought the knight up onto the rooftops of the City. Always it was a painful process. Croy could never seem to find proper handholds, and the boots he wore were wholly unsuited to running on uneven surfaces. Always Malden had to help him over every obstacle and show him where to hold on and where not to put his weight. Making matters even worse the knight didn’t seem capable of moving quietly even when walking down a crowded street. His baldric slapped against his chest with every step, his sword clattered in its scabbard.

Mörget, it seemed, was different. He was already halfway across the roof of the stables when Malden caught sight of him. The barbarian leapt from the roof ridge of the stables to a broad lead gutter as nimbly as a bird, and perched there on hands and feet in such a way that even his great bulk didn’t strain the drainpipes. Malden scurried across a bank of shingles to join him, then beckoned for Croy to come as well.

The knight looked game enough, but halfway across his foot slipped and he began to tumble. Malden raced toward him to try to steady him but Mörget beat him to it, rushing over and picking up Croy in his two giant hands while Croy’s legs still flailed in the air. The barbarian set Croy down carefully and they all three peered down into the high street. A market crowd had gathered there, perusing the wares of an endless line of ramshackle wooden stalls. Pigs and small children ran in and out of the throng and someone was walking a pair of cows uphill toward a slaughterhouse. Smoke from the stalls of food vendors wafted on the air.

“It’s too far to jump,” Malden said, pointing at the roofs of the shops and houses across the way. Nearly ten yards of open air separated the climbers from that goal. “But up there, we can make use of that canopy.” He indicated a broad roof slope sticking out from the second floor of a blacksmith’s shop. It covered the open part of the shop below, where horseshoes and andirons and skillets were on display. “From there we jump to the balcony across the way, and then up over the roof beyond.”

Mörget nodded and raced toward the blacksmith’s, even as a watchman poked his helmeted head over the roofline and called for them to stop.

Malden dashed for the canopy and made the jump easily, landing on the balcony across the street and gesturing for the swordsmen to follow. Croy nearly mistimed the jump but at the last second Mörget gave him a boost that sent him clattering and sprawling onto the balcony beside Malden. The watchmen came boiling out onto the roof of the tavern they’d just fled so precipitously, even as Mörget boomed out a laugh and flung himself over the street.

Half the shoppers in the market looked up in surprise and terror, perhaps thinking some storm cloud had passed over their heads booming with thunder. They could only stare upwards in wonder as the thief and the knight followed suit, without quite so much noise.

“Now,” Malden said, “up and over. And—please you—discreetly.”

Mörget frowned in mock shame and hauled himself up onto the slate tiles of the roof above. Malden helped Croy do the same. They left the watchmen behind, staring across the street at them, unwilling to make the jump. Rather than waiting for the watchmen to shout for reinforcements, Malden led the two warriors up and over a roofline, then along the gutters of a row of houses and over a narrow alley until a quarter mile of rooftops lay between them and any possible pursuit.

“Enough, Malden, enough,” Croy gasped, unable to stand upright after all that bounding and jumping. “We’ve lost them, I’m sure of it.” He sat down hard on the slates, with his legs dangling in the air.

“We could have just stayed and fought them off,” Mörget suggested. “You made me it sound as if an army was after us, when it was just five little men with halberds.”

“I’m sure you could have smashed them into paste,” Malden said, scowling, “but then you would have had an army after you. Don’t they have watchmen where you come from? If you fight one, you have to fight them all.”

“Men whose only job is to watch their fellows and make sure they are not breaking laws? Why would we need such a thing? In the east, when a man wrongs you, you go to his tent and call him out to fight. You pummel him until he apologizes, or pays you what is owed. It’s a very simple system, but it works.”

“And what if you call out a man who has done you some injury, but he’s bigger than you, and he wins?” Malden asked.

The barbarian squinted in confusion. “I wouldn’t know.”

Malden shook his head. “Well, here, when you attack six men in a tavern with an axe—”

“Come now, I didn’t kill any of them.”

“—the watch will send as many men as it takes to cart you away. Then they put you in gaol to wait for a trial.”

“I would have died before they put me in a cage,” Mörget said.

“Or afterwards, when they hanged you. They would have probably arrested Croy for helping you, and detained me on pure suspicion because I happened to be nearby.”

“Thanks to Malden it did not come to that,” Croy said, and slapped the thief on the back.

“I suppose I owe you at that,” Mörget admitted.

“Think nothing of it. But perhaps you’ll tell me one thing. Why did that fight start in the first place, and how did it get so out of hand? Normally a tavern fight ends with bruised knuckles and maybe a chair being broken over someone’s head, not axes and maces and faces getting chopped off.”

Mörget shrugged. “A man insulted me. He besmirched my honor.”

Croy nodded in understanding but Malden had to look away.

“You Ancient Blades and your honor will get me killed one of these days. Alright, what did he say? What was such a dreadful blasphemy?”

“He saw me drinking milk and said I was the largest babe he’d ever clapped eyes on. I thought it a nice jest, and saw no harm in it.”

“Men in taverns often joke and make sport,” Malden said. “It means nothing.”

“But among clansmen, one must always respond to a jape with another. So of course I had to tell him that in my country, even infants were bigger than the men than I’d seen in this city. He didn’t like that much.” Mörget shrugged. “He tried to grab my arm—as I have said, that is forbidden to strangers in my land. So I picked him up and threw him against a pillar. I thought that was the end of it, until I saw his friends drawing their knives.”

Malden made a mental note never to try to shake the barbarian’s hand again. “Alright,” he said, “that explains how we all came to meet. But now, tell me, pray thee, what you’re doing in the Free City of Ness in the first place. We don’t get … ah, that is to say, a man of your people is a rare sight this far west.” Malden had grown up hearing horror stories of the barbarians, of how they ate their own babies and that their women were all seven feet tall. As an adult he’d often heard them spoken of in hushed tones, as it was commonly believed that the barbarians would sweep over the mountains any day and invade Skrae and enslave them all. It was all hearsay, of course. He had never met a barbarian before, nor ever expected to.

“Ah!” the barbarian said, and looked like he might start laughing again. “I am glad you asked. I am looking for Sir Croy.”

Malden was confused. “Well, you found him—but did you expect to find him in that tavern? It’s not the sort of place he normally frequents.”

Croy himself was still trying to catch his breath. His eyes were locked on Mörget’s face.

“I knew nothing of him, until now, except his name. Perhaps I spoke wrong,” Mörget said, with a frown. “I am looking for another Ancient Blade. I am looking for the help of an Ancient Blade. It did not matter which one. I have sought them for a very long time, looking anywhere men with swords gathered. Until today my search was fruitless. From town to town I wandered, asking everywhere. Few men would even speak to me, but in the town of Greencastle I was told there was not one, but two such men in Ness. Sir Croy, and Sir Bikker—champions of your king, each of them bearers of a puissant sword. Ghostcutter and Acidtongue, they are called. I was told that Sir Bikker would be found in a place where ale is sold, if he could be found anywhere.”

Malden and Croy traded a glance. Until a few months ago, that might have been true. Bikker had been in Ness—though that man had fallen a long way since he’d been one of the king’s champions. He’d hired himself out as a sell-sword to the sorcerer Hazoth and the traitor Anselm Vry. And then he’d put himself at odds with Malden and Croy. That had nearly ended in both their deaths. Instead—

“I’m afraid Bikker is dead,” Croy said, still a little out of breath.

“Dead?” Mörget asked.

“He broke his oath,” Croy nodded, as if that explained everything.

Apparently it did, as far as Mörget was concerned. “Ah. So you had to strike him down. I understand. It is part of our duty, our sworn duty, we who bear the Blades.”

Malden didn’t want to talk about Bikker. The dead man had caused him a great deal of trouble, once. “Well, you found the other one, anyway. The other Ancient Blade in Ness. Now, what do you want with Croy?”

“There is a task I must perform. The other part of our oath must be fulfilled.” The barbarian’s eyes had gone out of focus, as if he was looking at nothing but the inside of his own skull. As if his thoughts were very far away.

Malden scratched at an eyebrow. “If you specifically need the help of an Ancient Blade, that suggests just one task I can think of.”

“Indeed. I am hunting a demon.”

Croy jumped to his feet, all sign of weariness gone from him. “Where?” he demanded.

CHAPTER NINE

There was no word Malden knew that could get Croy’s attention better than “demon”.

The world had its share of monsters. Up in the Northern Kingdoms there were still bands of goblins on the loose, and the occasional troll for a knight to test his steel on. Malden himself had met an ogre, and knew stories of everything from the dread Longlegs of the Rifnlatt to the dragons of the Old Empire. All such creatures could be felled by good swords or by magic, it was said. Demons were different.

They were not of the world. They did not belong there. Instead they were creatures of the Bloodgod, and they abided in his Pit of Souls, that place where all men were eventually judged and punished for their sins. Demons were normally trapped down there with eight-armed Sadu, but they could be summoned to the mundane realm by sorcerers who sought to tap their incredible power. Such a pact was illegal and utterly forbidden, and with good reason. Demons did not hail from the world of living men, and in that world were unnatural things, unbound by natural law. They were enormously powerful and almost impossible to kill. The sorcerer Hazoth had called up two of them before he died, and either one of them might have destroyed all of Ness if they had not been stopped.

Luckily for Malden and his fellow citizens, Croy had been there to slay them. Ghostcutter had prevailed against them, just as it had been made to do. The Ancient Blades had been forged for just that purpose.

And over the last eight hundred years they’d been quite successful at it. The men who wielded them often died in the process, but the swords had all but eliminated demonkind from the world. Now the existence of a single demon anywhere on the continent was a rare—but utterly fearful—occurrence. If the barbarian had encountered one, Croy had no choice but to go and slay it.

“You must tell me everything,” Croy said.

The barbarian nodded. “And so I shall. Two years ago I was hunting in the mountains at the western end of our land,” the barbarian said, squatting down on the tiles. “I was after a wild cat that had already tasted human blood, and found it to be good. I went into the hills with only a knife and three days’ food in a sack. Just having a bit of fun, you know.”

“Yes, of course,” Malden said. “Fun.”

Mörget squinted at the sky. “I followed the cat’s trail until I ran out of food, and then for five days more. Its spoor took me ever higher, up to a place where the trees grew no taller than saplings, and then to where they thinned out until there was nothing but lichens to eat, and spring water to quench my thirst. From time to time I found the remains of some creature the cat had killed—or so I thought. The carrion was broken open, crushed and sucked dry.

“On the sixth day I found the cat itself, and all its bones ground to dust. There was not much left of it save the head and one paw. The rest had been … dissolved, yes, I think that is the word I mean. Eaten away as if by acid. It was then I knew I hunted bigger prey than I thought.

“I made a hunting blind in the cave of a raven, and sat me down to wait. It was another seven days before I caught my first good sight of the thing I tracked. It came to me at twilight, moving along the bare rock face of a cliff. It was about fifteen feet long, though it was hard to measure. It did not climb, you understand, for it had no legs. It crawled—no, it flowed like water along the rock, living water.” Mörget clenched his fists in frustration. “I describe it poorly. I have not the honeyed words of a westerner, forgive me.”

“It’s alright,” Croy said. “Go on.”

“Its skin glistened like autumn moonlight on a brackish pond. The skin had no regular form, but flowed and oozed as it moved. There were shapes under that skin, shapes like hearts and livers and even human faces, that pressed up against the skin from inside, mouths open in soundless screaming. I decided then this was no natural beast.”

“A fairly safe conclusion, it sounds like,” Malden agreed.

“I made myself still, and did not so much as breathe as it came ever closer. I did not wish to scare it away. It came up to the mouth of my cave, and still I held myself in readiness, my knife in my hand. It came inside, into the darkness, and I could barely see it. It flowed up over my bare feet and my flesh screamed at its alien touch, but still, I made myself like a statue. It climbed up my body, faster now, as if it had become excited, as if it hungered for me. It was only then I struck.

“Yet how to slay a beast with no muscles, no bones? I stabbed at the shapes like hearts and livers and faces, but my knife could not puncture its slimy skin. It flowed over my chest and part of its substance oozed up to my face. It tried to fill my mouth and nose so that I could not breathe. I stabbed and pulled at it, to no avail. I wrestled with the beast, rolling on the floor of my cave, tearing at it with my fingers. I was so close to death I could feel her hands upon my shoulders.”

“Her hands?” Malden asked.

“Death is my mother,” Mörget said. It sounded like a litany, something the barbarian had said so many times it would spring to his lips without bidding. “When I die, she will be there to bring me home. But not that day! With all my strength I fought against this demon, aye, for demon it had to be—I fought for long hours as it wrapped around me like a cloak, smothering me. Would it absorb me, I thought, until mine was one of those screaming faces I’d seen under its skin?

“Strength did not matter to the beast. It yielded every time I grasped it, stretched like dough in my hands. Always it covered more of me, always it sucked hungrily at my more solid form. Then, of a sudden, I was inside the beast. It had swallowed me whole. My lungs cried for breath, my skin burned as if I’d been doused in acid. I could just see by the light that streamed in through its translucent hide. Before me were the livers and hearts and faces—faces attached to no skulls, faces with no eyes, like living masks. There was another shape inside there, one I had not seen before, just as a man will not see a piece of glass that is under dark water. This was the biggest of the shapes, a thing like a clear egg full of worms. With the last of my strength I grasped it with my hands and started pulling it apart. It was more solid than the rest of the beast, and when I broke it open, it bled. Could I breathe then, I would have laughed, for I knew death favored me still. The beast trembled and shook and spat me out all at once, dripping from my skin to the floor of the cave. It raced away from me, for it knew I was going to slay it. I tracked it all that night, though it moved far faster than a man on that rough terrain. I tracked it up the mountain side, until it came to another cave, which I thought must be its lair.

“This new cave was far deeper than I expected, however. It proved to be the mouth of a tunnel that led deep into the heart of the mountain. Nor was it any natural cavern. Had I not been so hot for the thing’s destruction, I would have noticed how regular the floor was, how the walls had been carved out of the rock by metal tools. The tunnel went down and down until it came to what looked like a blank wall. There was no light down there, so at the time I could not see that a solid block of stone filled the tunnel, a block cut almost to the exact dimensions of the shaft. I was just in time to watch the thing flow around that block, to ooze through the hair-thin gap between the block and the wall. It nearly got away from me. I managed at the last only to stab at it one more time, and to pin one of its hearts to the floor. It tore itself in half to get away from me, so desperate was it to escape.

“I had not killed it, I am sure of that—the part that got away still lives. What remained behind shriveled rapidly, parts of it drying out and turning to dust, other parts melting and soaking into the floor of the tunnel. I put the heart in a sack and brought it down the mountain, to my father, who is called Mörg the Wise. He is a man of great learning, they say, and it was he who told me of demons, for I had never heard the word before. He told me how they are hauled up out of the pit, and how they take forms unseemly to man. He said that if such a thing was haunting the steppes, all of our clan were in great danger. I said I would take a band of men back up to the mountain and slay it but he shook his head. He had something else in mind.

“In the eastern land of my birth, no boy becomes a man, not truly, until he hunts and kills an animal of his father’s choosing. I had thought this cat, the poor creature I originally tracked, would be the prey that made me a man. Yet my father laughed at the prospect. After all, I had not killed the cat myself, but only seen what did it. He demanded that I track and kill the demon properly—with a tool that was made for such work. And that was when he gave to me Dawnbringer, and made me swear all the vows of an Ancient Blade. I will not be allowed to marry, or sire children, or lead men to battle, until this demon is destroyed.

“I do not think my father knew how hard that would prove. Or perhaps he did, and wanted me to show that I had not just manhood within me, but greatness.”

CHAPTER TEN

“I returned to the shaft many times, trying to plumb its secrets,” Mörget went on. “It was very deep, running almost three hundred feet down into the mountain. Its walls were perfectly square, cut with precision. The block of stone at its end was cut to almost exactly the dimensions of the shaft. I brought men up there to break through the block, thinking to find my demon waiting just beyond where I could challenge it to single combat. It was not so easy as that. I soon discovered there was not one block, but four of them. They were plugs, you see. When the shaft was finished, its makers brought these four giant stones up the cliff face and slid them down the shaft to seal it forever.

“I could not rest, though, until my demon was destroyed. The blocks were broken one by one, shattered with iron picks, their pieces dragged back up the shaft with the strength of our backs. When we reached the fourth block, we were surprised to find a dwarven rune carved into its face. The thorn rune, which every man knows.”

“The rune of death and destruction,” Croy said. It was true that everyone learned that rune early on. When a dwarf decided something was too dangerous to meddle with, it was wise to take heed.

Mörget nodded. “When we broke through that block, we found it was all a trap. A great underground river was being held back by the stone. The water burst through, filling the shaft and nearly drowning me.

“The demon’s lair could not be breeched that way. I needed another route in.

“For months I searched, looking for another shaft. There was none. I traveled far and wide seeking out wizards who could see inside the mountain, to tell me how I could find my path. The effort I spent was wasted. Yes, they told me, there is a demon in there, which I already knew. Yes, they said, there were tunnels and even whole caverns inside that mountain where the demon could hide. Bah! Useless. At last one told me something I could use. He said to go to the library at Redweir. There I would find my answers.”

“That must have been daunting,” Croy said.

“Oh?” Malden asked.

“Redweir is a city of Skrae,” Croy said.

“Even I know that,” Malden replied.

“It lies on the far side of the Whitewall mountains from Mörget’s home.”

“How was that a problem?” Malden asked.

Croy shook his head. “Forgive me, Mörget, if I say anything that offends. But the … clans of the eastern steppes have been enemies with the land of Skrae since … well, for hundreds of years. It’s only an accident of geography that keeps us from total war.” He looked at Malden the way a teacher will look at a recalcitrant pupil. “You don’t know any of this?”

“I’ve spent my entire life in Ness,” Malden explained. “I never needed to know anything about maps or mountains.”

Croy nodded sagely. “This continent is split in half by a range of snow-capped mountains, called the Whitewall. The mountains are impassible, save in two places, both narrow defiles that are open only in the summer. The passes are well guarded on both sides, on the Skrae side by our soldiers, on the other side by the clans, so that no army can pass. If Mörget wanted to travel from his own land to Redweir, the easiest way would be through those passes, but we would never allow even one clansman through—for fear an army would be right behind him.”

Mörget laughed with excitement. “Give us one chance only, and we’ll do it, too! You’re right, the men at the passes would not let me through, even when I told them I was on a sacred quest. Just as we would not permit one of your warriors to travel east and live, no matter what flatteries and pretty turns of speech he offered,” Mörget said. “Yet come to the western lands—and Redweir—I must. So I took the long way around. I traveled halfway around the continent, on ships that sank and by trade routes beset by bandits. Along the way I taught myself how to fight against magic.”

“How?” Malden asked.

“By finding sorcerers and slaying them, of course. Many times death whispered in my ear, but never did she claim me.” He shrugged. “It was a long journey, and I needed something to do to pass the time.

“At last I came to Redweir, and the library there, which contains more than one thousand books. The customs of the place were strange to me. I could not read your languages. I had to teach myself even the shapes of your letters, and then I had to do many labors for the librarians before they would allow me to even see their books. But eventually I learned what I sought. The shaft I had found, the mountain I wished to enter, was known well to the sages on this side of it. The entire mountain was hollow on the inside, carved out by ancient hands. I learned that no one knew of the shaft I had found, but that on the western side there was a grand entrance to the mountain. I took this as a sign. I could not return to my homeland, not yet. I must enter the mountain here, from this side, if I were to slay my demon.”

“This mountain,” Croy said, “I fear I know its name.”

“I think you might,” Mörget said. “It is called Cloudblade, for the way it splits the storm clouds with its sharp peak. I think perhaps you also know the name of what lies underneath it. Yes, my friend. I learned that the place I sought was the Vincularium.”

Malden frowned. He had never heard the name before. It had to be a very old name, though, because it sounded like a word from the language of the Old Empire—a language no longer spoken in Skrae, and used now only by the church and by scholars. He knew only a few words of that language, but perhaps enough to know what the name meant. “The … Chained Place, no—the House of Chains?” he asked.

“Yes,” Croy and Mörget said together.

“What’s a House of Chains?” Malden asked.

Mörget glanced at Croy. “He knows little of maps, aye, but nothing of his own history.”

“Again, I’ve lived in Ness my entire life. What do I care about the rest of the world? But come, indulge me. What, I ask once more, is a House of Chains?”

“It’s … a tomb,” Croy said. From the look on his face it was a lot more than that. “A very … old tomb. It was built by the dwarves, a long time ago. They say it fills half of the interior of Cloudblade, and that it is a great labyrinth of traps and pitfalls. They also say it is haunted.”

Malden touched his eyes with his thumb, an old gesture for warding off ghosts. He was not a superstitious man by nature, but no good ever came of disturbing the dead.

He shivered as he imagined the place. He’d heard far too many frightening stories about the underground lairs of the dwarves. In his day the dwarven kingdom was a small land just north of Skrae, a place of silent forests and cold, deep lakes. The dwarves themselves never went to the surface because they preferred to live underground. They had a handful of small cities up there built into old mineshafts where they worked tirelessly at their labors and only ever emerged to trade their wares for Skraeling gold. Once, though, their borders had extended much farther. Before mankind had come to this continent the dwarves had been of much greater numbers and power. Most of their underground works had been forsaken as their population dwindled. There were old abandoned dwarven cities left behind all over the continent—they were found as far away as the Northern Kingdoms and even on the Islands of Blue Mist, far to the east. No one ever went into those forgotten places, though, and for good reason. There was no telling what was down there—what hazards a grave robber might encounter, what terrible traps they might set off. The dwarves held many secrets, but everyone knew how clever they were with their hands, and how utterly deadly their safeguards were. Such places were not meant to be violated.

“Sounds terrifying,” he said, without a trace of flippancy.

“It is my destiny,” Mörget insisted.

“Well, that explains what you’re doing in the west,” Croy said. “But not why you came to the Free City. The mountains of the Whitewall are a hundred miles from here.”

“I knew I could not storm the mountain on my own,” Mörget said. “I learned many lessons on my travels. I learned when I could rely on the strength of my own back, which is almost always. And I learned that there are some few occasions when I must find help. This demon is stronger and more dangerous than any creature I’ve fought before. Even with Dawnbringer in my hand it will be a challenge. I came for others who might help me defeat it—others sworn to that cause, in fact. I came looking for you, Croy. To ask for your assistance.”

Croy leapt to his feet—and nearly slipped and fell on the slate tiles of the roof. “Of course,” he said, “of course I will help! I am honor bound.” He drew Ghostcutter and pointed it at the sun. “How could I refuse? Truth be told, I’m grateful for the chance. We had some trouble with demons here in Ness a while back, but since then I’ve heard nothing of them. I’d thought they were killed off, every last one, and all the sorcerers who might summon them.”

“There is at least one more,” Mörget said. “Perhaps we will have the honor of slaying the last one in the world.”

“That would be a tale to tell,” Croy agreed. “I am at your service, brother. Ghostcutter and Dawnbringer will drink demon ichor once more. I wonder—should we summon the others? Sir Orne, Sir Hew and Sir Rory are all here in Skrae—the bearers of Crowsbill, Chillbrand, and Bloodquaffer. They would rally to our cause on the instant.”

Mörget looked sheepish. “If it’s all the same, brother … it is hard enough for me to admit I need the aid of one fellow Ancient Blade. Glory shared amongst two is glory halved. Split five ways …”

“I understand,” Croy said. “But two of the swords are kept by your people. What of Fangbreaker? I’d have thought you would go to its wielder, first.”

“The one who bears Fangbreaker is not my brother,” Mörget said, in a tone that suggested he would not explain further.

Croy looked almost relieved—maybe he didn’t want to share the glory, either. “Very well. The two of us will leave as soon as possible. Ah—and there will be traps.”

“Aye. The Vincularium is full of ’em,” Mörget said. “Or so say the books at Redweir.”

“Well, then, your luck is with you today. When it comes to traps, and defeating them, there’s none more skilled than Malden.”

The barbarian turned a suddenly interested eye on the thief. His red mouth split open in a wide grin and he started to laugh.

“I beg your pardon?” Malden asked, looking up at Croy.

“It’ll be good sport,” Croy told him, with a wink. “You’d be doing a work of great worth. And of course, the Vincularium is rumored to be stuffed full of treasure.” He looked down at the thief as if that final word was the goad that would move him to acts of unrivaled heroism.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“So of course, I told him to jump in the river. Head first,” Malden said, when he’d finished recounting the barbarian’s story.

Cutbill had wanted to hear everything, and Malden had not stinted on any detail. The guildmaster of thieves had listened attentively, all the while scribbling long strings of figures into his ledger, as if Mörget’s tale was a matter for scrupulous book-keeping. “You said that? To the barbarian?” he asked, finally looking up.

“Yes! I did. Or, rather, I told Croy to do that. I told Mörget I wasn’t the man he was looking for, but thanked him very much for considering me. I’m not stupid.”

“Hmm,” Cutbill mused. He flipped to an earlier page of his ledger. “Well, that’s settled, then. There are demons afoot once more. Of course, something will have to be done about that—we can’t have such creatures at large.”

“Yes, yes, it must be vanquished. But they hardly need my help with that. The two of them have their magical swords. They’re perfectly adequate to the task.”

Cutbill shrugged dismissively. “Still, I can see why they’d like to have someone along to take care of the traps. A sword—even a magical sword—is of little use to a man who has fallen into a bottomless pit. But you turned down their offer, quite reasonably. It does sound like a dangerous undertaking.”

“Positively foolhardy,” Malden agreed.

“Quite. Though I imagine that for Sir Croy the risk is half the reward. This will give him the chance to prove, once again, just how heroic he is. He’ll reap a great bounty of honor and glory.”

“I suppose such things are what you desire if you’re a titled man’s son, and there is no need to ever work a day in your life.”

“I imagine that would be nice,” Cutbill said.

“He’s going to get himself killed. Him and the barbarian both. As for Mörget, well, good riddance. That man is a threat to decent society. It’s just a matter of time before he kills someone just being here in the City.”

“It’s for the best, then, that he leaves soon.” Cutbill put down his pen and rubbed his chin. “And yet I do not wish him ill.”

“Well, of course not,” Malden said, raising one eyebrow. He wasn’t sure what Cutbill was on about but he could tell the man was already forming a scheme. “I mean, at the very least, I hope he survives long enough to save us all from the demon, but—”

Cutbill lifted his pen for silence. “Hmm. He wants someone to deal with the Vincularium’s traps. I’ll have to think of someone I could send his way. Just in the interest of getting him out of my town faster.”

“Much joy it gives them both, I hope. I’ll have nothing to do with this tomb. As I told them, in no uncertain terms. Of course, then Croy had to go and suggest the place was full of treasure. As if that was all it would take to make my ears prick up. There’s more to life than money.”

“There is?” Cutbill asked, as if he’d never considered the possibility.

Malden had to think about that for a moment. “Yes, there is. There’s living to spend it.”

“Interesting,” Cutbill said. He picked his pen back up. “Just the other day, you were telling me that you needed a large sum of money for a specific reason. Tell me, how is that project going?”

“I thought it was dashed to pieces,” Malden admitted, thinking of Cythera. She had not signed the banns of marriage, after all. “But there may be some new hope. All the same, there are easier ways to get the money to buy a house than crawling around in haunted tombs.”

“Most assuredly. Though … I might suggest, Malden, that you go and ask someone about the Vincularium. Specifically, about who is buried there.”

“Some moldy old king or other, I have no doubt,” Malden said.

Cutbill frowned. “The treasure is likely to be … considerable.”

“The entire interior of that mountain might be made of gold, for all I care. I’m no grave robber.”

“Ah. So it’s because of your deeply felt respect for the dead that you won’t go.”

Malden wrestled with himself. He didn’t ordinarily lie to Cutbill. The man had a way of seeing through to the truth no matter how honeyed a tale one spun. This time, however, he found himself completely incapable of telling the truth.

“Yes,” he said.

“Very good,” Cutbill said. If he believed Malden or not it didn’t seem to matter. He wrote in silence for a while, then put down his pen and folded his hands in his lap. Malden had worked for Cutbill long enough to know what that meant. He was about to do something devious. “Malden. Would you do me a favor? Go out to the common room and ask Slag if he would be kind enough to come in here for a moment.”

“Certainly,” Malden said. He was mostly just glad not to be the object of the guildmaster’s plotting. Outside, he found Slag constructing a boiled leather cuirass, laying long strips of hardened leather across a stiffened shirt and then affixing them in place with paste. When Malden approached him he cursed volubly, but after a moment the dwarf came trooping along after him into Cutbill’s chamber. He had a scowl on his face, as usual, but he had always been an obedient employee.

“This had better be good. My glue’s getting tacky.”

“It will only take a moment, I assure you,” Cutbill said. “Malden here has turned up a very interesting piece of information. It seems there’s a barbarian in town who is forming a crew to go and open the Vincularium. I thought that would be of some small interest to you.”

The scowl went slack on Slag’s face. “Huh,” he said.

Malden rubbed at his chin. He’d never heard the dwarf stymied for a curse before. What was Cutbill up to?

Slag failed to give the game away. He stood there looking pensive but said nothing more. Eventually Cutbill looked up and gave the dwarf a pointed look. “That’s all. You may return to your work.”

Slag nodded and turned to go. He stopped before he reached the door, however, and turned to address Cutbill. “Sir,” he said. Malden had never heard the dwarf use an honorific before. Interesting. “Sir, if it’s alright with you. Well. You know I’m in here every fucking day, and most nights. I work hard, don’t I? And I serve you well. I haven’t even been sick a day for—how long?”

Cutbill tilted his head to one side as if trying to remember. Then he stuck his thumb in the ledger book and opened it to a page quite near its beginning. “Seventeen years,” he said, after consulting a column of numbers.

The dwarf nodded. “Aye. Well. I think, suddenly, I might be coming down with somewhat. Somewhat lingering.”

“That is unfortunate,” Cutbill said. The look on his face was not what Malden would call sympathetic, but then he couldn’t imagine Cutbill showing fellow feeling for anyone. “You’d better go home then, until you feel well again. Take as much time as you need. I don’t care if it takes weeks and weeks.”

“Thank ye, sir,” Slag said, and left the room.

When he was gone Malden stared at the guildmaster of thieves. “What was that about? What’s he after?”

“Like I said, Malden, you might do some asking around about the Vincularium. In this case, it might interest you to know who built it. Of course,” Cutbill said, and flipped back to his current page, “it matters not. Since you have already made up your mind not to go.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Croy 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 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 pack horses 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.

He 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. There was a 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 had been 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?” Snurrin 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 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, then. 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 it 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

If Malden 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 pawn shops that asked few questions. Old, familiar territory for Malden, though little that went on there was truly lucrative enough to interest him any more. 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’d died before she needed to start painting with white lead.

Malden had been born in a whorehouse and had 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 warm-hearted 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 down-turned 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 middle-man 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 some place 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. Malden had to hurry if he wanted to catch Morricent’s client in the act. This wasn’t a typical house-breaking, 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 tanner’s 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, and be 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 Malden 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’ 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.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The hired paddock filled most of the space between two multi-story 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. Malden 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’. 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 Malden 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 Malden. This would be alright. 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. Malden twisted in mid-air 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 Malden 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 Malden 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.

“Ny 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.”

“H-h-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 Malden 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 racked 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 Malden’s 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 had been in the possession of Hazoth, and returned it to its proper head. In the process he’d saved the city from a usurper and insured 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 one’s self 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’d 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 Malden.

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 there—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 Malden. 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 go, 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 they 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 get moving. It felt good to begin.

For far too long Croy 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 Croy 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 underway. “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 hundred weight 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 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 Slag 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. By contrast Slag was a city dwarf, accustomed to the refinements of Ness, and by Malden’s account he’d been a fixture in the city for many years. He 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 their 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,” Croy 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.

INTERLUDE

Snurrin the dwarf armorer closed up his shop an hour early that day, sending his human employees home with a half-hearted excuse—he’d had too much sun, he told them, and needed to rest somewhere cool and dark or he’d be worthless for the next morning’s appointments. The humans didn’t seem to care why they were released early from their labors. As was typical of the gangly bastards they were just glad for a chance to spend the evening in a tavern drinking away their wages.

“Fucking layabouts,” Snurrin muttered once they were gone. It felt good to be able to swear like a proper dwarf, something he never did when humans were around. Humans, he thought, were so very tall and brutish, and so very good at killing one another, but they acted liked strong language was more dangerous than any weapon in his shop. Utter one good profanity and half of them just fainted dead away.

He locked up the day’s take in his strongbox, then cleaned up the workshop where he’d spent most of the day fletching crossbow bolts. When he was done he headed up to the top floor of his shop where he kept his living quarters. Heavy velvet drapes covered all the windows there, blocking out the fierce sunlight. They were tacked in place but still a few errant beams of light broke into his room. More than enough to see by. Snurrin went to his desk and took out a long thin strip of paper. Using a heavy stylus of white lead, he wrote out a message in dwarven runes. When he was done the paper still looked blank, but if it were held over the proper sort of oil lamp for a few moments the runes would be revealed, as the particles of smoke adhered to the paper but not to the lead. What he had written was not for every eye to see.

Snurrin was no stranger to spycraft. Every dwarf living in Skrae—or at least every one loyal to the dwarven king—was expected to keep an eye on what the humans did, and report as necessary. The treaty between the crown of Skrae and the kingdom of dwarves was ironclad and made their two nations fast allies. That didn’t mean they trusted each other for a moment.

When the message was ready Snurrin headed up to the roof where he kept a wooden box sealed with a good stout padlock. Inside were a dozen bats each as big as his forearm, still asleep with their wings folded over them like cloaks. He picked one with three black dots painted on its back and rolled his message around its leg. The bat kicked and squealed in its sleep but it was unable to shake the slip of paper loose. When Snurrin was sure it was done properly he locked the box again and went back downstairs to take his supper. His work was done.

The city of Redweir lay over a hundred miles away, far to the southeast on the Bay of Serpents. It would take a human rider three days to cover that distance, even if he rode through the night and assuming he had fresh horses waiting for him at every stop on the way. A fast ship sailing with a fair wind might make it there in half the time. But even if the entire Free City of Ness had been swallowed up by a crack in the earth and dragged down to the pit of souls, no human in Redweir would hear of it and quicker than that.

The dwarves had a far more convenient method of getting messages back and forth between the two cities. That night when darkness fell, the bat would clamber out of a thin slot in the side of the box and wing toward Redweir. It knew the only way to get the objectionable piece of paper off its leg was to present itself to a certain dwarf who lived there. It would fly at full speed and arrive by dawn, when a minor clerk in the dwarven embassy at Redweir would find it just as he was headed for bed. The clerk would take the message—unread—directly to the Envoy of that city, who would know exactly how to make it legible. The Envoy would also know exactly what to do with the information Snurrin had provided:

BARBARIAN LEAVING TODAY FOR VINC MUST NOT FIND WHAT IS HIDDEN THERE THE KING GIVES THIS UTMOST PRIORITY HUMAN CASUALTIES ARE ACCEPTABLE SEND BALINT

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The band of adventurers passed through King’s Gate without any trouble—none of the guards were interested in stopping such a dangerous-looking crew from leaving the City—and before Malden knew it he was out in the world.

His reaction was immediate, and visceral.

Never, in his entire life, had he set so much as a foot outside the walls of the Free City of Ness. He was for the first time seeing that there even was a world beyond.

And it terrified him.

The land rolled like the waves of a vast ocean, a sea of tawny grain that never stopped moving under the lowering gray sky. In the distance the clouds broke and sunlight streamed down in impossibly long, straight rays to flicker on golden fields. A small army of peasants worked out there, bent over with sickles to harvest the glowing treasure. To the northeast a church stood white and straight, its spire pointing upwards like an accusing finger. It looked terribly alone in that open space, its right angles and distinct shape like some piece of Malden’s life cut loose and cast down carelessly like a plaything by some cyclopean child.

Every hour of Malden’s life to that point had been spent in narrow lanes, or climbing over rooftops, or in well-mannered parkland hampered by walls. Now there was nothing on any side of him that he could reach out and touch. If I were plucked up into the sky by some violent wind, Malden thought, and tossed out into the middle of the ocean with no land in sight, this is how it would feel. He felt exposed, naked, vulnerable in a way he distinctly disliked.

Over time this unease ebbed, though it never left him.

For hours they ambled through the fields under the blustery rain, never seeing more than the occasional distant group of laborers. The only way to measure the distance they covered was to count the mile markers that stood by the side of the road, simple piles of stones marked with the sigil of the local nobility: a crudely drawn stork or a pair of chevrons or just a simple crown. To Malden the symbols meant only one thing, really: all this land belonged to someone else. He was trespassing on someone else’s property, and if they wanted to, they could run him off.

It seemed there was no place outside the city where a man could be free, after all.

Despite his unease Malden soon found himself drowsing in his seat. He worried that if he fell unconscious he would slump and fall from the swaying wagon, and so he was almost grateful when Croy began to sing a traveling song. It was a rather sentimental tune about a knight who went out riding to do battle for his lady’s honor. Malden knew a far different version, a much lustier tale of a farmer’s lovely daughters and dragons that disguised themselves as naked women (and only gave themselves away by a certain scaliness of their skin), but he knew there would be plenty of time to sing his version later. This journey was likely to take more than a week, after all—no need to use up all his songs on the first day.

After about an hour’s travel Cythera dropped back to ride beside the wagon. “I’m surprised to see you here,” she told him, “though I’ll admit I’m rather glad.” She reached across to touch Malden’s face. “Oh. You’re hurt,” she said.

Malden shrugged, even though it pained him to do so. “’Tis a trifle only,” he told her.

“What happened?” she asked.

Malden puffed himself up and said, “A host of villainous assassins came upon me in the dark. Now, normally I would have been ready for them, but I was busy at that moment stealing the silver out of the moon, so they got first licks in before I knew what they were about. After that, of course, it was a done deal, and I left them in far worse shape than I found them.”

She laughed, which made him smile for the first time in a day.

“Boasting’s not your strength, thief,” she said. “Regardless, I’m glad you weren’t killed. Or arrested, for that matter. Was there much silver in the moon? It looks no bigger than a single coin held out at arm’s reach.”

“When matched with the gold I took from the sun, that’s still a sum worth stealing.” He glanced sideways at Croy but the knight made a good show of paying no attention to their talk. He was busy singing, anyway, and was deep into a verse about the virtue of courtly love, so Malden felt he had a little liberty to spend. “I must say, if you’re surprised to see me, I’m doubly so to see you. I didn’t think you were prone to Croy’s nature of folly.”

“I’ve spent my whole life working for my father or my mother, almost every day of it inside Ness’s walls. I wished to see the world one time before I was married. Once I am pregnant with Croy’s get, there will be no more opportunities of this sort.” She looked away from him and added, “Besides, there were certain temptations I wished to leave behind me,” she said.

“Like me,” he said.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she told him, looking straight ahead.

Malden shook his head. “I saw the way you hesitated when you tried to sign the banns. You aren’t sure of your own heart, are you?”

“Malden … we’ve spoken of this before. You know my mind’s made up. When we return to Ness I’ll marry Croy. My life’s course is sure and steady before me, straighter even than this road.”

“I’ll believe it when I see you wed,” he told her.

Her eyes flashed when she turned to look at him. Her mouth set in an angry line. If she’d possessed her mother’s gift for magic, he imagined she might have cursed him until his skin turned inside out, then and there. Instead she could only glare.

He met her gaze, measure for measure. When she refused to take the bait, however, he eventually looked away. After a bit of riding in silence alongside him, she spurred her horse and went back to riding in front of the wagon, by Mörget’s side. It seemed their conversation was done.

The day passed, as days spent traveling in the rain will, with little talk and much brooding. When no one joined his song, Croy eventually fell quiet, though still he smiled as the road passed beneath them. Malden had never seen the knight happier. Even Mörget seemed listless and irritable when faced with the prospect of endless miles of plodding through mud and cultivated fields. Of them all, only Croy kept his spirits high, despite the rain.

Eventually the sun sank toward the horizon as they rode away from it, into the east. The sky turned yellow, then pink, and it was getting hard to see when Croy called ahead to Mörget to say they should stop for the night.

Thank the Bloodgod, Malden thought. His legs were near as bruised as his face after eight hours on the wagon, and every stone and rut in the road brought new pain. He had never imagined he could get so tired from sitting all day.

Up ahead a milehouse stood in a patch of weeds by the side of the road. Before long Malden made out its sign, a crudely painted sway-backed cow. The king’s law, Croy told him, required that houses of lodging like this be placed every ten miles on the road from Ness to Helstrow, for the comfort of travelers like themselves. Once Malden saw the place he wondered what the legal definition of comfort might be. It was a ramshackle affair of only a single story, with a row of stalls to one side where horses could be stabled for the night. Its walls had been whitewashed with lime at some point in the past, but time and dust had robbed it of any cleanliness or cheer. Its thatched roof crawled with rats but at least a little yellow light beamed out from its windows.

There was no stable boy to take the horses, so Mörget agreed to see to them—and sleep with them for the night. “I’m used to sleeping out of doors,” he explained, “and would feel ill at ease in such a place.”

Malden was more than glad to jump down from the wagon and head inside with the others. The common room of the milehouse proved as shabby as its exterior: a long room with a low, sagging ceiling, lit only by the guttering fire in its hearth. A cowhide had been nailed to one wall, its fur rubbed off in places by years of customers brushing against it. The room was empty save for themselves and the alekeep, who looked more tired than Malden felt. The man ushered them to a table by the fire and brought them what he had to eat. This proved to be coarse bread and pottage—a thin stew of vegetables, tasteless and fit only for the peasants who patronized the Cow. There was ale, though, which was more than welcome.

None of them spoke much while they ate, and by common agreement they retired immediately after their meal to the small rooms provided for them at the back of the house. Cythera and Croy each got their own room, while Malden and Slag had to share.

“What is this?” the dwarf asked, when he saw their accommodations. The room was barely big enough for a pair of mattresses, which proved to be sacks of straw with musty blankets piled on top. When Slag pulled the blankets off of one mattress dark things with many legs scuttled away from the light. “This is unacceptable.”

“Call down to the master of the house, and bid him bring you a proper bed, then,” Malden said. “I, for one, could sleep on a pile of leaves just now, with a rock for my pillow.”

“Ha! Laugh now, jester. That’s exactly what’s in your future,” Slag told him. “Once we cross the river Strow, this will seem like luxury. I fucking hate traveling. Nothing for it, I suppose. That damned wagon bounced and rattled so bad I couldn’t get a wink of sleep today.” The dwarf threw himself down on the bed with a deep sigh, and in a few minutes began to snore. That was the sign Malden had been waiting for. Tired as he was, he had to answer a question or he knew it would plague his dreams. Making no noise at all, he slipped out of the door of the room and down the hallway.

Cythera had taken the room nearest the front of the house because it was likely to be the warmest. Malden tapped lightly at her door—if she were already asleep, he had no desire to wake her. He waited a long while, thinking himself a fool, before the door cracked open and he saw one of her blue eyes peer out at him. The eye went wide when she who was there.

“Malden, what are you thinking, coming to me like this?” she whispered.

“I was thinking I might be welcome,” he said.

“If Croy came in here right now—”

“—he would slaughter me where I stand,” Malden said. “I deem the risk worth the prize.”

“I was going to say it would destroy him. His best friend, taking liberties with his betrothed! I ask again, whatever gave you the idea to come here like this?”

“The words you said today on the road put a notion in my mind. I could not rest until I found out exactly how you felt. You said I was a temptation.”

“One I wished to leave behind.” She reached for his hands. “Malden, I will not deny I bear a certain … affection for you. And I do owe you a debt. Without your help, both my mother and myself would still be enslaved.”

“I didn’t come here seeking payment for services rendered.”

He could barely make out her face in the darkness, but he was certain the look in her eye then was one of utter relief. Had he insisted on a reward, would she have given herself? But of course, then she could never truly love him after. Malden knew enough about women to understand that.

“No,” she said. “I know you don’t see it that way. You’re a kindly man, Malden, under all that arrogance. So—be kind. Let me repay my debt by never speaking of this to Croy. And in turn, do me another service, and forget this fancy.”

A wiser man would not have tried to kiss her, then. She did not try to stop him, but merely turned her cheek so he ended up kissing the line of her jaw instead of her lips. He sighed and lifted his lips to her ear.

“I see,” he told her. “You’ve truly made up your mind.”

“I’ve never suggested otherwise,” she sighed. Was there regret in her voice, a certain heaviness, a longing? Or did he simply wish there was?

Malden nearly choked on the lump in his throat. He had hoped … well, he had hoped. And hope was worth exactly what it cost. “Very well,” he said. “I will trouble you no more.”

He slipped away from the door without a backwards glance, and leaned up against the wall outside him own room, and waited for his heart to stop racing.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

In the morning Malden woke late, and came out to the common room to find that he could not break his fast—the kitchen was already closed. Remembering there was food stored in the wagon, he headed out toward the stables and found his companions there waiting for him. Cythera and Croy were already on horseback, looking impatiently toward the east, while Mörget and Slag had the wagon up on blocks. The dwarf was underneath its wheels, grunting and swearing as he worked on the wagon’s undercarriage with a hammer and a wrench. The barbarian stood placidly by, ready to lift the vehicle by one end as Slag requested.

Eventually Slag emerged from beneath the wagon and told Mörget to remove the blocks. The barbarian kicked them out of the way and the wagon dropped heavily onto its wheels—and bounced up and down for a while before coming to a stop. As Mörget strapped the two hackneys into their harness, the dwarf explained.

“I spent all yesterday trying to sleep in this thing and failed miserably. Every time we drove over a pebble in the road I got thrown against this berk’s pile of iron weapons,” he said, nodding his head in Mörget’s direction. “So I fixed it.”

Malden looked underneath the wagon and saw a cunning arrangement of leaf springs mounted to the axles. “So now it will bounce and rattle even more?” he asked.

“I fixed it,” Slag repeated, one eye squinting nearly shut. “I’m a dwarf. Trust me. You’ll be happier this way, too.”

They got underway quickly enough then. Mörget proved to have an easy hand for the reins, and while the wagon did sway more than it had before, Malden soon realized the dwarf had done something right. When the wagon wheels passed over deep ruts in the road, the wheels went up but the body of the wagon did not, and when the wheels dropped into ruts, the springs kept Malden from flying off his seat. It was almost like the wagon was suspended above the road, held up by invisible hands.

The only disadvantage of the rebuilt wagon was that it made it even harder to stay awake. After a mostly sleepless night, and unable to stretch his legs, Malden found himself dozing constantly, only to be awakened with a fright as he realized he was about to slump over to the side and fall from the wagon—or worse, to lean over and rest his head on Mörget’s shoulder. He was uncertain what the barbarian would do if Malden inadvertently touched him, but he was sure it would be painful.

Watching the fields of wheat go by on either side only made things worse. The mile markers were too far between to hold his attention. Cythera rode far ahead of the wagon, so he could not talk to her, and Croy was singing again. There was nothing for it but to talk to the barbarian.

Fortunately Mörget seemed to love the sound of his own voice. He told Malden many tales of his native land, few of which Malden could understand. Apparently there was no feudal system at all on the eastern steppes. No villeinage, no manorial obligations. No kings or knights or lords, either. That sounded fine—wonderful, in fact, to someone with Malden’s political sympathies—until you learned what the barbarians had in place of those institutions. “The strongest man rules, as chieftain,” Mörget said. “This is the basis of all our laws. If you disagree with his policies, you challenge him to a fight. If you win, you get to be chieftan and make your own rules.”

Malden frowned. “But surely some young fool with muscles but no brains could become king of you all, then.”

“Aye,” Mörget said. “And often does. But such rarely last long. No matter how strong a man’s arm may be, there’s always someone stronger out there, waiting.”

Malden frowned. “But what of justice? What recourse do the meek have, if the strong decide what is right?”

Mörget laughed, loud enough to make Slag shout for peace. The barbarian shrugged and told Malden, “In Skrae, I’ve met many such as you. Philosophers and priests, two things we have none of on the steppes. They’ve tried to explain this justice to me, and other abstract concepts, and yet all I hear is the voices of children saying, ‘it’s not fair, it’s not fair.’ Where they got this idea that life was meant to be fair remains a mystery to me.”

Malden tried to imagine how he would survive under barbarian law and the prospect made him queasy. “If every chieftain makes his own laws, what is to stop him from saying that murder is no crime, or that a man may lie with his sister if he chooses?”

Mörget shrugged. “In principle, I suppose, it is possible. Yet I’ve never heard of a chieftain that would ignore such basic laws. If a man kills in cold blood, we run him through with a sword, that’s always been the way. If a man rapes another man’s daughter or wife or mother, we strangle him.”

“What if … just hypothetically, here—a man were to steal another man’s property? Say, his horse blanket. Or something trivial like that.”

“What’s the penalty for such in your Free City?”

Malden shrugged. “Hanging.”

“Ah! You see, there’s where your civilization breaks down. You put a man to death for stealing? Regardless of why he did it? What if he only takes a loaf of bread, to feed his hungry family? That is senseless cruelty!”

“I always did think the penalty too harsh,” Malden agreed.

“Yes, in the east we are far more humane. We do not kill our thieves. We simply cut off their feet and leave them crawling in the dirt like the dogs they are.”

“Oh,” Malden said. “But then—how would such a thief feed his family after that? He would be reduced to begging.”

“We have no beggars in my country,” Mörget said.

“No?”

The barbarian laughed again. “If a man cannot feed himself, we make him a slave. We would never let someone starve!”

“Ah,” Malden said.

“You know—sometimes I think if my people overran this country,” Mörget said, gesturing at the fields of wheat, “it would be a good thing for your people. You’re so soft! You need a good war to toughen you up. Make you remember what is important in life.”

“You’ll forgive me,” Malden said, “if I hope it never comes to that.”

The barbarian laughed. “Don’t worry, little man. You’ve got a whole mountain range protecting you. A wall to keep us out.” He chortled so exuberantly he nearly dropped the reins.

“And knights like Croy to defend us,” Malden pointed out.

The barbarian stopped laughing on the instant. He turned a shrewd eye toward Croy, who was singing some old ballad, a duet with Cythera. “It’ll be interesting to see what he’s made of, when we face our demon. Whether he can fight or not.”

He wasn’t laughing when he said it. A fact that made Malden uneasy for reasons he couldn’t quite explain.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

They covered twenty miles that day, pushing the horses near their limits. “I always thought men rode horses to go farther and faster than they might afoot,” Malden told Mörget, when they came to a stop outside another milehouse. “But I think if we walked we’d make better time.”

“Bah! Horses are meant for running short distances, not this ambling gait we force them to. A man walking can cover more ground than a horse in a day,” the barbarian said. “Yet not while carrying so much on his back.” Mörget reined in the horses by the stables—this milehouse looked almost identical in design to the Cow—and thumped the side of the wagon to wake Slag. The dwarf came stumbling out into the dusk and squinted at the place’s sign.

“This place is called the Sheaf of Wheat?” Slag asked. “First the Cow. Now the Wheat. I wonder what will be hanging on the wall inside? What fucking wonderful imaginations these farmers have.”

Croy leapt down from his horse and slapped the dwarf on the back. Slag nearly sprawled forward in the dust. The knight explained, “There are seven milehouses between Ness and Helstrow. They are named after the Seven Munificent Blessings of the Lady. Come, you’ll forget the name once you have a quart of ale down your throat.”

Croy headed inside, with Cythera following so close behind Malden didn’t even have a chance to catch her eye. Clearly she’d meant what she’d said last night.

“Lad,” Slag told him, softly, “if your rival was any less trusting than Sir Croy, you’d have a long piece of steel sticking out your back already. Let her be.”

Malden felt his cheeks burn. He shot a look toward Mörget, but the barbarian was already leading the horses away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said to Slag.

“Fine. But if you go slipping out of the room again tonight, try not to be so damned noisy about it, alright?”

Inside the common room of the Sheaf of Wheat Malden found familiar surrounds—right down to the dozy alekeep behind the bar. This time at least the place wasn’t completely deserted. A man in a dusty cloak sat near the fire, drinking brandy from a wooden cup. He glanced up as they entered and studied each of their faces, then glanced towards their belts to see what weapons they carried.

Either a thief or a watchman, Malden thought, judging by the professional efficiency of the man’s scrutiny. Malden glanced at the man’s own belt and saw a stout cudgel there, painted white and kept where it was visible. The symbol of a reeve, an overseer of peasants—but this was no mere farm supervisor. He must be a shire reeve, then. The local enforcer of the king’s laws.

Eating in the same room as a lawman made Malden uneasy, but he hadn’t broken any laws since leaving Ness so he tried to ignore the feeling. It didn’t help that the shire reeve kept glancing his way, as if he recognized Malden from somewhere.

When he had finished his pottage and ale, Malden announced he was exhausted and would go to bed right away. Slag came with him. “You’ve been sleeping all day,” Malden pointed out, when they were alone together in their room.

“Aye, as is only natural for a dwarf. I don’t intend to sleep tonight, but read. Do you mind a bit of light while you take your rest?”

Malden shrugged. “I think I’ll be asleep soon as I lie down. A candle won’t bother me.” In the brothel where Malden grew up he had learned how to sleep through noise and other distractions. Yet despite what he’d said he did not go to sleep right away. He watched the dwarf take a hand-sized book out of his pack. It looked very old, the leather cover worn bright orange at the edges and cracked along the spine. Like any book it must be quite valuable, and Malden had an eye for expensive things. “What book is that?” he asked.

Slag shook his head. “Naught for you, so keep your thieving hands off it. If you must know, it’s a classic of dwarven literature. Harnin’s Stone Surfaces and Bond Griding Manual. A masterpiece of strength of materials ratios and specific density tables. Every placer miner and stone carver in my country owns a copy. It’s also the only written work to mention the Vincularium.”

Malden was bone-tired but this interested him. Despite Cutbill’s suggestion, he’d never managed to ask anyone about their destination. There had been two main reasons for that: for one, he’d been afraid to demonstrate his ignorance in front of Cythera, and for the other, he didn’t actually plan on going as far as the Vincularium. He intended to part ways at Helstrow, where he’d be safe from Prestwicke and also from the demon Croy and Mörget were chasing.

Yet he had to admit a certain free-floating curiosity about the place the rest of them were headed. “It’s a tomb, yes?” he asked, because he figured the dwarf had to know.

“Aye,” Slag said, and turned a page. “You certain this light isn’t keeping you awake?”

“Certain. A tomb for a dwarf, I think—which would explain why you’re so intent on going there. You don’t want to see your ancestral crypts defiled.”

“There you’re wrong. Dwarves built the place, but we weren’t the last to live in it. You called it a tomb, and aye, it is. But before that it was a prison.”

Malden’s eyes widened. He had no desire to rob graves, but breaking into prisons was perhaps worse. The thing about prisons—and this was common knowledge for a thief—was they were hard to get out of once you were inside.

“Was it a prison for dwarves?” Malden asked.

“No. For elves.”

Malden sat up on his mattress and stared.

“Aye, the fucking elves,” Slag said, putting his thumb in the book to save his place. “What do you know about the elves, Malden?”

The thief searched his memory. It was a common enough expression to say that someone or something was “dead as an elf”. Everyone knew Skrae had been infested with elves once, and that now they were gone. But that was almost all they knew. “Pointy ears, right? And evil, they were supposed to be evil. Sometimes people say ‘sharp as an elf’s ear’, and I’ve heard a man called ‘wicked as an elf’ for beating a whore.”

“The ears, yes, those were pointed. As for evil, well, let me tell you something you can learn from. When a man speaks ill of the dead, and calls the corpse evil, you can bet your fundament he killed the poor fucker, and needs an excuse. I don’t suppose the elves were any more evil than you or me. Well, me anyway. But they fought a war with the humans, and they lost, so now they’re remembered as wicked.”

Slag looked up at the ceiling as if reading a page of history there. “In truth, I know little more than you do about them. They lived long lives, it’s said. If they didn’t die in battle they could expect to see their eightieth birthday.”

Malden gasped. That was twice as long as a human’s average span in Skrae. Eighty years seemed to him an eternity. “But they’re dead, now. What happened to them?”

“Men did. Humans forced them out of their lands. They tried to make a final stand in the Vincularium. The last of their kind went into that place eight hundred years ago, and never came out. They starved to death, most like, or turned on each other. A prison and a tomb, as I said.”

“A place like that must be haunted.”

“It’s fucking likely, yes.”

“Death would wait for anyone who ventured inside.”

“Almost assuredly. Now, unless the sound of my voice is lulling you to sleep, perhaps you’d do me a favor and let me read, hmm?” Slag asked. “I want to plumb this volume for any clue as to what awaits me.”

“You want to know how you’re going to die?”

Slag gasped in frustration and slammed the book down on the floor. “At least that way I won’t look so surprised when it happens, now will I? Shut your gob, lad, and let me read!”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The following day the sun was warm and rippled along the surface of the road, while a soft breeze bowed the heads of the 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. We’d have to enter the gates to cross,” Croy said.

“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 all 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 Malden 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 asked, 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 gave the stew a measure of flavor. Malden downed his bowl in a hurry and ordered another, as well as more ale.

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