Honor Among Thieves (58 page)
S
moke from the explosion of Slag’s weapon hung in the air, great choking clouds of it. Malden hurried forward into the gap in the city wall, his ankles twisting this way and that as he clambered over piles of broken stone and the bodies of dead berserkers. He heard movement up ahead of him and he drew Acidtongue from its sheath. There was no telling what lay out there, beyond the wall.
Behind him a mob of armed citizens had formed. They muttered and moaned among themselves, as terrified as he was, as desperate to learn how things stood beyond the wall. Ready for whatever came through, or as ready as they could be.
At least this time they weren’t calling for his blood. They weren’t demanding he sacrifice himself at the Godstone for the good of the city.
Malden trod on the shield of a dead berserker and it crackled under his foot. It had been so peppered with flying debris that the wood fell apart like hard cheese. Up ahead, in the dim smoke, something moved fast across his field of vision.
He lowered himself to a defensive crouch. He remembered the ill-fitting suit of armor he’d worn when he spoke to Mörg from atop the wall. As painful as it had been to wear, he would have been glad of its protection now.
Moving forward, he lifted his free hand and waved it behind him, ushering the mob forward, after him. He didn’t bother to look back to see if they complied. Another step, into the smoke. Another, Acidtongue’s point bobbing in the air as Malden sought for something to strike.
When the reaver came for him, he still wasn’t ready. The man was huge, a wall of muscle, his face red with blood, his axe raised high. He looked even more terrified than Malden felt, but the thief knew that fear could make a man more dangerous than a lion.
The axe came down before Malden could even react, its wicked pointed blade slicing through the air. Malden tried to dodge to the side but the blow was just too fast, just too brutal. Malden winced, expecting to be cut in two.
Instead the axe struck a stone near Malden’s feet, smashing it to powder.
“Where are you, you western bastard?” the reaver demanded. “I can smell you! I can taste your blood already!”
It was only then that Malden realized the reaver was blind. A sword stroke had cut across his face, ruining his eyes. Other wounds marred his arms and chest. The man must have been wounded in the fighting outside, then wandered in through the gap in the wall without even realizing where he was.
Malden felt pity well up in his chest for the barbarian, despite the fact the man had just tried to kill him. It was no kind of world for a blind man. “Surrender,” he said, almost pleading with the reaver. “Give in, and you’ll be spared, I promise—”
“Die, you fucker!” someone shouted from behind Malden and high over his head.
One after another five arrows pierced the reaver’s body. The barbarian winced and staggered backward under the blows, then sank to his knees and gasped out his last.
Malden turned and looked up at his archers atop the wall. They waved cheerily down at him, and he raised Acidtongue in a halfhearted salute. A bead of vitriol rolled down the blade and stung his fingers, but he made a point of not flinching.
He turned back to the gap and moved forward into the smoke, as carefully as he could. Soon he was as blind as the man he’d just watched die. His throat burned with the stink of brimstone and he would not have been surprised if he walked out of the cloud straight into the pit itself.
When he did emerge it was to find a scene not wholly dissimilar. Bodies littered the ground before him, bodies torn to rags of flesh and dropped without ceremony. Directly ahead an army of men—Free Men, but also knights on horseback—pressed an attack, driving home lances and pike heads as barbarians screamed and died. The horde was pushed up against the city wall with nowhere to run, hemmed in on two sides by advancing troops.
“In Sadu’s name,” Malden said. “Are we winning?”
He could scarcely believe it. Yet he had the evidence of his own eyes to prove it.
Barbarians were cut down in waves. Some tried throwing away their weapons and shields, but the Free Men ran them through anyway. The pikemen had to stop from time to time to shove the amassed bodies out of their path just so they could continue their advance.
“They’re giving way,” someone said from behind Malden’s shoulder. He turned and saw a hundred citizens of Ness—his own paltry troops—gathering to watch. “Ness is saved!” He could see the bloodthirst on their faces. The joy they took in this spectacle. He couldn’t blame them, in all fairness. How long had they lived in terror of the barbarian throng? How long had they been expecting that horde to come sweeping through their houses, murdering and savaging? Now they had their revenge. “This is your victory, Lord Mayor! Sadu be praised!”
But for Malden, the vision was utterly sickening. Barbarians were being put to death out there by the hundreds. The soldiers were executing them. They weren’t even trying to fight back. Where was Mörget to rally them? Where was Mörgain? The mounted knights cried out and drove a wedge between two masses of pikemen, as if they were afraid the footmen would have all the fun without them.
“Look! There!” someone called. “It’s Sir Croy!”
Malden felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. Or perhaps like he was seeing a ghost. But there, yes—right there—was the knight errant, limping along in his armor, clutching his side. His colors, black and silver, were instantly recognizable, but even at a distance Malden knew that face. An empty scabbard bounced against his thigh. Where was Ghostcutter? Malden couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Croy without it.
More to the point—Croy was here? Croy had come to Ness?
At least, Malden thought, Croy would put an end to this slaughter. He would drag his men back from the brink of madness and keep them from butchering every single barbarian on the field. Any minute now, Malden was certain, Croy would raise his voice and call out to give quarter, to end the bloodshed. Surely honor demanded it.
Someone brought Croy a horse. Someone else helped him climb up into its saddle. It seemed to take forever, and all the while the wholesale murder continued. The barbarians tried to surrender en masse, lifting their arms high, their weapons piled in glittering heaps at their feet. It made no difference. The knights and pikemen might have been slaughtering wild animals out there.
“Come now, Croy,” Malden whispered. “For honor’s sake.”
Croy stood up in his saddle. His hand reached for a sword that wasn’t there. Instead he lifted one armored fist.
“No quarter!” he shouted.
The civilized armies took that as a sign to cheer and redouble their attacks, even as the barbarians howled for peace, for mercy, for justice.
Malden staggered back to the gap in the wall. Alone he slunk back inside the comforting embrace of his city. Slag came running up through the smoke and grabbed at the hem of his tunic with his one remaining hand.
“What is it, lad? What did you see?”
“We won,” Malden told him. He very much wanted to go sit down somewhere.
T
he Lemon Garden was far enough from Ryewall that Malden could not hear the sounds of the work crews busily repairing the fallen wall. Nor could he smell the bodies that lay beyond it, all that remained of the barbarian horde, unburied save by snow. In his private room upstairs he had a cheerful fire going, and while there was nothing to eat, there was plenty of wine to be had, or ale if his guests preferred it.
He made no apologies for asking them to attend upon him in a bawdy house. Nor did they express offense, at least not openly. Elody led them to Malden’s door and curtsied deeply, as if she was unsure what the proper show of honor would be for three such distinguished guests. None of their station had ever visited her humble place of business before—typically, had they required the services she provided, they would have gone instead to Herwig’s House of Sighs.
The soldiers who accompanied these three were of a different lot in life, and were happy enough to be entertained in the courtyard.
For a while none of the four men spoke or even looked each other in the eye. Sir Croy wouldn’t even sit down. He stood by the door as if guarding it. Such duty was, of course, far beneath him now—Malden had heard of Croy’s elevation. Somewhere he had found a circlet of silver that he wore upon his brow to indicate that he had become the regent of Skrae. Ostentation had never been Croy’s style, but he had to ensure that he looked at least the equal to Ommen Tarness, the Burgrave, who wore his own coronet everywhere.
Sir Hew, Captain of the Queen’s Guard, wore only the colors of his sovereign. His left arm was in a sling tied around his waist, but still he seemed the best pleased of the three to be there. While Tarness and Croy stared daggers at each other, he gladly took a cup of hot mulled wine.
“Just what these aching bones need,” he said, and drained the cup in a single draught. Malden poured him another.
“I understand you were wounded by Mörget in the battle,” Malden said. “Few men can make that claim. Few living men, anyway.”
Hew favored him with a warm smile. “I’ll heal. I dare say none of us came out of this unscathed. Though some certainly profited. Didn’t they, my Lord Mayor?”
Malden returned his smile, but said nothing.
The three visitors intended to strip him of that title, one way or another. The Burgrave wanted his city back. Having ruled it for eight hundred years, he seemed to think it belonged to him. Croy and Hew wanted Ness as a staging ground—a fortress they could hold through the winter, until spring cleared the roads and they could mount an attack on Helstrow and take it back from Mörgain.
So far Malden had managed to keep them all out. He had refused to unseal the gates until he was given guarantees of safety for himself and his people—as well as certain other considerations. Chief among them, the right to worship whichever god they pleased, a right to be added to the city’s charter in perpetuity. For himself and his thieves he’d asked immunity from prosecution for the murder of Pritchard Hood, the burglary of the entire Golden Slope, the seizure of the arsenal, and so many more crimes.
Hew and Tarness had been happy to accept these terms, and each had sent messengers indicating that anything else Malden desired would be made his. In response, Malden allowed the three and a small number of bodyguards inside the wall so they could discuss terms.
Of course, all this politesse was just for show. The gates might be sealed, but until the gap in the Ryewall was repaired it would be simple enough for either army to storm the city. Malden had forestalled that kind of drastic measure in a way that should make Cutbill proud. Rather than threaten two armies he could not beat, he had held out the promise of a reward they both desperately wanted.
“Perhaps,” Hew went on, “you might profit further. I see you wear Acidtongue, still.” The knight nodded at the sword on Malden’s belt. “I’m sure you haven’t forgotten how you fared when you tried to use it against me.”
Malden laughed in good humor. “Forgotten that? Hardly. I sometimes wonder if I feel winter’s chill, these days, or simply remember the touch of Chillbrand.”
It was not lost on anyone in the room that neither Hew nor Croy had a sword on their own hips.
“Perhaps you would do me the signal honor of training you in your weapon’s proper use?” Hew asked. “I’ve seen your potential. You’re as fast as the wind. It would only take a little practice to make a first rate swordsman of you. And as an Ancient Blade, you would be entitled to all manner of privileges. Houses, lands, perhaps a manor of your own to profit by. Why, Malden, you could become quite the gentleman, in time.”
Malden tried to catch Croy’s eye, to determine how much of that would have the backing of a royal decree. It was well within Croy’s power to appoint him to any knighthood or lordship he saw fit. There were very few limits now as to what Croy could do—at least until Bethane reached her majority.
What Croy might be thinking at that moment, however, remained a mystery. The knight-turned-regent’s face might have been chiseled from marble for all it revealed.
Hew cleared his throat and smiled when Malden turned to face him again. “I suppose what I’m saying is that you’ve proved yourself a hero, and a man all Skrae can be proud of. I’d like to repay you for your impressive work. Yet before any of that reward can be granted, I do require that you open the gates to our Skilfinger friends. And, of course . . .”
“Yes?” Malden asked. The bait was wriggling. The fish were biting.
“We’d like to speak with your dwarf.”
There it was. They’d taken the hook.
Slag had invented something terrible and strange. A new weapon, one that could change the way wars were fought. One that could change the world. Whichever army came into possession of the secret formula would be nigh invincible.
“It would be a terrible shame if his knowledge were to fall into the wrong hands,” Hew said. “Hands, to be blunt about it, which would only divide this land further. Can I call upon your patriotism now? Can I ask you to aid me, in one simple, effortless way, to save your country, as you have already saved your city?”
The Burgrave snorted in derision. “His city? It isn’t his city.”
“It’s not yours either,” Hew said, his eyes suddenly very sharp. “Not right now.”
“It belongs to no one. And to everyone,” Tarness replied. “To every free man. Give me the dwarf, Malden. Open the gates to my army.”
Malden sat down on the bed. He meant to suggest nothing by his choice of perch, but he saw Croy’s chin jerk round as if he’d violated some holy taboo. For a moment no one spoke, yet everyone must have been wondering the same thing. What had just passed through Croy’s mind?
Sir Hew broke the silence by clearing his throat. “He seems to offer you nothing in return,” he said, tilting his head toward the Burgrave.
“Is that correct?” Malden asked.
“It is, in fact. I offer you nothing, Malden. I don’t owe you anything. You protected this city because you were one of its citizens. Any man of Ness would have done the same.”
“Hmm,” Malden said.
“So I offer you nothing, save freedom. Freedom not just for yourself. For every man willing to reach out and grasp it.”
“Tread carefully, Tarness.” Sir Hew rose to his feet. “You’re talking mutiny. Insurrection.”
“I am talking of rights. Not just rights granted by some antiquated charter signed by a king long dead.” The Burgrave frowned and looked upward. “I speak of rights every man has, by virtue of being born.”
Malden drank some wine. He waited to hear if there was anything else. Any further offers, any further appeals. There were none. The three of them had said what they’d come to say.
And so there it was. He must choose, it seemed, between one ruler or another. He could allow the Burgrave to return to Castle Hill (he would have to rebuild his palace, but that was a minor detail) and restore Ness to what it had once been. Or he could turn the city over to Hew and Croy and declare for the kingdom, and become a lord in his own right.
Or—and the thought made Malden smile despite himself—he could refuse both entreaties. He could keep the gates sealed. He could stay on as Lord Mayor. Oh, they wouldn’t like it. The Burgrave and the regent would want to take Ness at any cost. But Malden could buy them off. He could turn Slag over to one or the other, and in return he could have Ness as his very own fief.
The people would stand behind him. They loved the Burgrave in their way—just as they always had, loved him just as much as they hated him. And they were all Skraelings, and loyal to the flag and Queen Bethane—as loyal as free people in a free city that didn’t pay taxes could ever be. The Lord Mayor, though, was their hero. He had saved Ness in its darkest time. He had worked miracles with nothing, and he had delivered them from certain death.
It would be a hard fought thing, but he could stay exactly where he was.
And in truth that had a certain appeal. He had been born the lowliest of Ness’s citizens. The son of a whore, and then a thief. Now he was a great man and well beloved and he held all the power of the city in his hands. As much as every day of his reign had been misery and toil, beset by endless problems (very few of which had gone away—the city was still starving and his thieves were still restless with nothing to steal), for a moment, for just one moment, he had become more than what he’d been born into. He’d been respected, and adored. And he had possessed power, which, it seemed, was the closest thing to freedom a man had in this world.
In the process he’d lost Cythera. He’d nearly lost Slag. Velmont had betrayed him and Cutbill had used him to his own nefarious ends. But everywhere he went in the city, people had smiled and lifted their hands and been glad to see him.
“Perhaps,” Malden said, “you’d be kind enough to let me sleep on this decision,” he said, patting the bedclothes by way of jest.
He did not expect what came next.
“No, damn you,” Croy said, storming across the room. He leaned over Malden and for a moment their eyes locked. “You’ll give us your answer now.”
Malden heard the words. They did not register within his brain, however, because Croy had communicated something far more important with a look.
He knows, Malden thought.
He knows about what Cythera and I had
.
He glanced down at the bed on which he sat. The same bed where he and Cythera had played at being man and wife for a few precious, irrecoverable nights.
Croy growled, low in his throat, like a barbarian.
Ah. Well. That changed everything, didn’t it?
“Very well,” Malden said, and rose carefully from the bed. Croy did not take a step back, so Malden had to snake around him. “Very well. You need a decision now. I understand you must be very impatient, after having been through so much.” He went over to the table where the wine bottle stood. A broad casement window above the table looked out on the dwindling sunlight of afternoon.
He was a thief. He thought, still, like a thief.
When he entered the room he’d made sure that window was unlatched. Just in case.
“Here is what I have to say, then.”
The three of them leaned close to hear it.
“Work it out between yourselves, you bastards.” He threw one foot up on the table and vaulted out the window, which flung open under his weight. Three faces rushed to watch him as he scrambled up to the roof of the Lemon Garden, then danced away across the rooftops.
