Honor Among Thieves (54 page)
T
here was no time to think on all that had happened, no time to think at all. Malden ran from house to house, bashing at the doors, rousing the people inside. “To arms! To arms!” he shouted, and whenever he found a man with two working legs, he sent them forth, to carry the message, to spread the word. “At dawn we fight,” he told them. “At dawn there will be barbarians in Ryewall! To arms!”
“The priests say we can hold them back,” a boy with a withered leg told him.
“And so we shall,” Malden insisted, clapping the boy on the back.
“They say all it will take is giving Him His blood.”
Malden turned to say something but the boy was already gone.
He hurried to the arsenal and threw open the great doors. Already a crowd had gathered, perching on the ruins of the university cloister, milling in Market Square, wanting to be the first to get their pick of weaponry. Malden had worried his people would be too afraid to take up polearms and crossbows when the time came. It seemed he’d underestimated their patriotism—or perhaps their terror. They looked ready to fight. They looked ready to kill anyone who dared invade their home.
He watched them file in and out of the big building, each man and woman brandishing a rusty longaxe or a glaive with a rattling blade as they emerged. The crowd behind them cheered, intent on getting their own means of defending themselves and their families.
They would fight.
“For the Bloodgod!” one newly armed man shouted, and a great hurrah went up. “I’ll shed blood in Sadu’s name!” another called.
As long as they were ready, Malden didn’t care whose holy name they praised. He hurried next across the bridge to the Royal Ditch, to summon the harlots there, and make sure he could count on their bows. “Up on the walls—up to Westwall, and Swampwall. Stay away from Ryewall,” he told Herwig and Elody and all the madams. “It’s going to come down.”
“Just like that?” Elody asked, her eyes bright with fear. “They’ll magic it down?”
Malden shook his head. “Don’t ask me how it’s done. It’s dwarven trickery, not magic, though. The one thing we can count on is that it’ll come at dawn.”
One of the girls, a thin waif with dark circles around her eyes, whispered something to another, who nodded meaningfully.
“What are you saying?” Malden asked, pointing at the girl.
Herwig glared at her until she came forward.
The girl looked at her own feet, not Malden’s eyes. “Just, if it please you, Lord Mayor—we can count on one other thing.”
Malden sighed. “The Bloodgod?”
The girl nodded and simpered. “If He’s given the proper sacrifice, we’re told He will smile on us. The
proper
sacrifice is all—”
“Hush, you little twit,” Herwig chided. “Pay no mind, Malden. There’s those among us who know better.”
Malden frowned, not fully understanding. It sounded like the priests of Sadu had been hard at work, spreading some mischief. Maybe they had called for human sacrifice at last. He should try to stop that, but he hadn’t time at the moment to winkle out the mystery. He hurried on, through the eastern edge of the Stink. He used the rooftops to make his way quickly through that district, where criers were out calling all to arms. Many citizens, it seemed, had congregated in Godstone Square, perhaps looking for someone to tell them where to go. A priest was there, handing out loaves—surely the last of the food. Fair enough, Malden thought. Better to go into battle and die on a full stomach. He headed onward to the work yards of the Smoke, where he’d had the guilds working night and day on defensive engines. There had been diagrams of such in Rus Galenius’s
Manual
, improbable constructions of wood designed to slow, if not stop, an invading army. Great logs studded with spikes and mounted on wheels, to act as mobile barricades. Leather bellows that could squirt flaming oil across an invader’s path and force them back. Mantlets, giant wheeled shields behind which crossbowmen could shelter while they reloaded their weapons. “Get these moving toward Ryewall,” Malden called. “I don’t care if they aren’t finished, just shift them.”
A former journeyman in the wheelwright’s guild saluted him and promised he’d have the engines in place on time if he had to drag them himself. “Sadu helps those who help themselves,” he said, and gave Malden a knowing wink.
Malden had been about to race away, but he stopped himself. “I get the sense you’re saying more than you’re saying, if you catch me right.”
“Less said the better,” the journeyman said, and chuckled. “Just know, Lord Mayor—we all appreciate what you’ve done for us. And what you’re going to do, on the morrow.”
Malden was more confused than ever. “You’re welcome, then,” he said. “I hope tomorrow you’ll feel the same way.” Riddles! Too many riddles. There was so much left to do.
And so little of it that could make any difference. The barbarians wouldn’t be stopped by a rabble of townsfolk, no matter how desperate they were. Mörget wouldn’t stop until everyone was dead, everyone—
No. He would not give in to despair. Slag had been right. You had to keep fighting, or give in. And if he decided to give in now he would just go hide in some quiet place and shiver in fear and wait to be slaughtered. Keeping busy at least kept him from unmanning himself.
And who knew? Perhaps the Bloodgod
would
come to their aid, at the last minute. Perhaps He would open up the pit and a legion of demons would come boiling out, all teeth and claws and nightmarish shapes to save the city.
Malden laughed to himself as he hurried across the rooftops, down to the Ashes and the headquarters of Cutbill’s guild of thieves. He laughed because he’d half begun to believe it himself. The faith of the people was infectious, it seemed.
When he reached the burned-out tavern above Cutbill’s lair, he dropped to the street and stepped inside the ruin, looking for ’Levenfingers or Lockjaw. One of the oldsters should always be guarding the entrance, but neither of them was present.
It didn’t matter. Since there were no more watchmen in Ness, nor any bailiff to raid the place, security on the lair was of minimal importance. Malden hoped that the old men were out enjoying themselves, maybe having one last drink or enjoying the caresses of one last wench before the desperate moment came. He hurried down through the trapdoor into the lair and through the empty common room, heading for Cutbill’s office. Velmont should be there, collecting last minute reports from the thieves.
The Helstrovian was inside, as expected, which was at least something. Velmont sat in the chair behind Cutbill’s old desk, counting coins into a sack.
“It’s coming tomorrow, at dawn,” Malden said. “Send word around. I want every thief in the city on the rooftops before Ryewall. Make sure they have plenty of arrows, and—and—”
There were a
lot
of coins on the desk. And they were all gold.
Velmont hurriedly shoved them into his purse as if he didn’t want Malden to take them away from him. Odd.
“Where did you get those?” he asked.
“One last job,” the Helstrovian said with a shrug. “Surely you don’t begrudge it, boss. A man must get coin in this world where he can.”
“I’d be a sorry kind of thief if I disagreed,” Malden said. “Enjoy your newfound wealth while you’re able. Just make sure you get those archers in place before you go looking for ways to spend it.”
“They’ll be at it, sure enow,” Velmont said.
Something was wrong. The city was about to be overrun—sacked by the barbarians—but Velmont seemed calmer than he’d been in weeks. Almost like he knew he wouldn’t be around to see the end happen.
So many coins in that sack. So much gold. “You aren’t planning to run out on me now, are you?” Malden asked, laughing to make it sound like a joke.
“Perish the thought,” Velmont said. He rose from the chair and went to a side table to fetch a bottle of wine. “Quite the adventure we’ve had, eh? Not what I thought I was getting into, when I signed on.” He pulled the cork with his teeth.
“Hopefully it’s been sufficiently lucrative that you don’t question your decision,” Malden told him.
Velmont grinned broadly and poured a cup of wine. He handed it to Malden, then started pouring a second cup for himself.
“I’d love to stay and drink with you, believe me,” Malden said, sipping from his cup, “but I’m afraid there’s no time.”
“Certes there’s a moment for one mickle toast,” Velmont said. “Just swear one oath with me, is all, and be on your way.”
Malden sighed but raised his cup and touched its rim to Velmont’s. “And what oath will that be? To coin? To . . . loyalty?”
“To honor among thieves,” Velmont said, tilting his head to one side. “The most valuable commodity in this sorry world, eh?”
Malden laughed. “Because it is the rarest,” he agreed and drained his cup.
Something rattled around at its bottom. A whitish lump of something half dissolved. It slid forward on the dregs and touched Malden’s lips. Instantly they went numb.
Malden dropped the cup. He tried to grab the hilt of Acidtongue. His arm felt like a piece of rope. He could barely feel his hand at all.
“You . . . bass . . . yuh basst . . .” he slurred.
A tapestry hanging across one wall twitched aside, and half a dozen priests of the Bloodgod stormed into the room.
“G
et that iron off him,” Velmont commanded. His eyes stayed on Malden’s face. Malden tried to fight off the priests as they took Acidtongue from his belt, but he could barely slap at their hands. Already he was weak as a kitten in a sack.
“P-P-Poison,” he said, forcing the word out.
“Now that’d be folly pure, ain’t it?” Velmont said. “Killing you now, when these fine gentlemen have such plans for you?” The Helstrovian chuckled. “They’d hardly forgive me. No, I just done you a favor, boss.”
Malden tried to take a step toward Velmont but his legs felt like springs and he stumbled forward onto his knees.
“What I put in that cup’s only a bit o’ deadener. To take away the pain, like. Now when they stick you, you’ll feel nary a thing.”
Malden grabbed at the edge of the desk but his fingers were ten pieces of soft wood. Behind him two priests came forward to haul him upright and back onto his feet.
“M-Money,” Malden said.
“Aye, boss, they pay well, this lot. Enough to get me out o’ this pesthole and set up real nice aught where else. They’re e’en gonna help with that. Got me a boat, just a mickle skiff down in Eastpool, gonna send me out to sea while the barbarians is distracted tomorrow.”
Malden sagged against the priests holding him, but one of them pulled up on his collar and he got back on his feet. For the first time he looked at his captors. They were dressed in red, the color of their god, but he was surprised by how young they were. He’d never seen any of them before. Apparently Hargrove had been busy recruiting new acolytes. Malden wished he’d paid more attention to the growing priesthood—or stamped them out altogether when he had the chance.
“Bl-Bl-Bl,” he drooled. The drug left his mind untouched, but his body was feeling further and further away.
“Blood,” one of the priests said, for him. “
His
blood. In olden times, when the people faced certain peril, only one thing could save them—a sacrifice of proper magnitude. When the danger is the greatest, only the blood of kings will suffice. Your blood should be close enough. Did not Sadu pick you, of all men, to bring back the old religion? Has He not worked through you, lo, these many weeks? Your sanctified blood will anoint the Godstone and finish His holy work. You’re going to be a martyr, Lord Mayor. You’ll be remembered forever in the prayers of the faithful.”
Cold dread washed through Malden, fighting the drug. It wasn’t enough to give him back the strength to fight, but it bolstered his tongue.
“Trai . . . tor,” he said, and spat in Velmont’s face.
The Helstrovian wiped the spittle away with his hand. He did not look particularly offended. After a moment he smiled sadly. “You had your chance, boss. When Mörg offered up safe conduct, you could’ve jumped. Well, if this bunch is right, you’ll have one more go at savin’ your people, won’tcha? That’s what you wanted, ain’t it?” Velmont tied his bag of coin to his belt. It was so heavy it pulled down one side of his tunic, but he didn’t seem to mind the weight.
The Helstrovian went to the wall behind Cutbill’s desk and lifted aside the tapestry that hung there. “Fare thee well, boss. Can’t say it weren’t a pleasure, workin’ for you.” He gave Malden a mock salute, then disappeared behind the tapestry. A passage back there led back up into the Stink, many blocks away. Malden had used it often.
The priests walked Malden out through the common room, and between them they managed to lift him up through the trapdoor that led back to the Ashes. Outside the burnt-down tavern a wagon was waiting, drawn by a spavined horse with ribs protruding so far from its chest it looked like a skeleton. Malden was thrown into the back and held down by two of the priests, while a third perched on the front of the wagon to drive.
He could barely move his head to look around. It didn’t matter. He knew where they were headed. When he’d seen the crowd gathering around the Godstone, he thought they just wanted bread. Now he understood—they were waiting for the great spectacle of a human sacrifice.
And there was no way to stop it. He could as easily have fought off Mörget and the entire horde of barbarians single-handed as he could push away the men holding his arms. One of them wore Acidtongue at his own belt, now—did they intend to use it as the sacrificial blade? Malden knew if he’d had a little strength he could grab its hilt, pull it away from the man, slaughter them all before they knew what was happening. But he didn’t have that strength.
He could only look up at the cold stars and wonder how it had come to this. He’d never wanted to be Lord Mayor. He’d only wanted two things, ever, in his entire life. To have enough money to live comfortably, and to be a husband to Cythera.
He reflected that it was not the Bloodgod who’d brought things to this pass. One of the old names of the Lady was Fama. It was she who raised men from one station to another, whether they wanted to rise or not. She who, in her other role, as Fortuna, brought them crashing back down to earth again.
Sadu didn’t bother with such cruel games. He only brought justice—more often than not, the utterly equal justice of death.
The wagon bounced on over the cobbles, Malden rocking back and forth with its motion, unable to brace himself. He barely felt the jars and bumps, and was only peripherally aware that at some point the wagon stopped. This was it, then. They must have arrived at the Godstone.
Yet he couldn’t hear the roaring of the crowd or the chants for blood that he’d expected. He glanced from side to side with sluggish eyes and saw the wrong buildings. The wagon had stopped somewhere in the Smoke, well short of its destination.
“You,” the driver of the wagon called. “Old man. Please clear the way. We are on sacred business and can’t be delayed.”
One of the priests holding Malden let go of him and stood up in the bed of the wagon. “What is this botheration?” he asked.
A crossbow bolt suddenly appeared, sticking out of his left eye. The wickedly barbed point protruded from the back of the priest’s head, along with a thin spurt of blood.
Malden watched the man fall. It seemed to take a very, very long time.
He heard a groan of pain and looked forward, as best he could, to see the driver of the wagon tumble toward the street. The third priest, the one wearing Acidtongue, grabbed for the side of the wagon in panic. The wagon rocked as someone else jumped into the bed. The last of the priests drew Acidtongue clumsily from its sheath and held it out, point forward. Malden could see the point trembling as the priest’s hand shook.
A drop of acid spilled from the blade and fell to the bed of the wagon, mere inches from Malden’s face. He tried desperately to turn his head away, to avoid the next drip, but he could barely twitch to the side.
His head rolled—and he saw who it was who’d killed the other two priests. Who now stood in the wagon, facing down Acidtongue.
It was Cutbill. The old guildmaster of thieves, dressed like a peasant in a shapeless russet tunic.
Cutbill grabbed the priest by his baldric. The priest tried to bring Acidtongue up to defend himself but he was too slow. Cutbill launched his head forward, connecting his forehead viciously with the priest’s nose. Cartilage snapped with a sickening crunch and blood splattered down the front of the priest’s tunic, turning its red fabric black in the moonlight. The sword fell uselessly to the bed of the wagon in a pool of its own acid.
Cutbill had a knife in his hand, no bigger than the belt knife he might use to cut and eat his food. He struck with it three times, perforating the priest’s neck in three precise, almost surgical cuts. The priest fell backward, out of the wagon, without a sound. Malden had no doubt the man was dead before he hit the cobbles.
Then Cutbill grabbed Malden and hauled him out of the wagon. He pushed him toward a disused horse trough that had frozen over in the night. With his bloody knife, Cutbill smashed up the ice and shoved Malden’s face into the bitterly cold water.
The effect was immediate. The cold shocked his system—left him feeling still weak as an infant but at least able to gasp for breath and look around him. He saw the wagon standing exactly where it had stopped, the starveling horse waiting patiently for a command that would never come. He saw the deserted streets, saw the three bodies lying on the cobbles.
“How . . . did,” he said, but lacked the strength to finish his thought.
How did you know they would do this? How did you know where to find me?
Those were only his most pressing questions.
Cutbill, though, never gave away his secrets. Rather than answering, he grabbed Malden’s face and slapped him mercilessly. “Fight it, son,” the guildmaster told him. “You’re going to need to walk in a moment. After that, you’ll need to run.”
Malden forced his left hand to clench into a fist. It didn’t quite make it, but he felt the blood surging through his fingers. He tried again. Cutbill nodded and went back to the wagon. When he returned, he had Acidtongue, its scabbard, and Malden’s sword belt. He helped Malden strap it back on.
“Not . . . your usual . . . style,” Malden forced himself to say. He’d never actually imagined Cutbill capable of leaving his various lairs and bolt-holes. Certainly never thought the guildmaster of thieves capable of such a daring—and savage—rescue.
“In fact this was exactly my style, once upon a time,” Cutbill assured him. “In a less decorous era. These days I find it more to my advantage to plot and scheme from the shadows, yes. But I’ve done my share of desperate things in the past, when plans fell apart. I need you still, Malden. I’m not done with you, not quite yet. I still need a hero to save my city tomorrow.”
“Too bad you only . . . have me,” Malden joked.
“You know I hate false modesty. You’re exactly the man for the job. If only because no one else is here to do it. Bend this knee,” Cutbill said. “Farther. Does it pain you to bend like that?”
Malden shook his head. “Nothing hurts.”
“It will. When the drug wears off it’s going to hurt a lot. Now. Bend the other knee. Good. Again.”
