Honour Among Thieves

Honour Among Thieves

Book Three of

The Ancient Blades Trilogy

David Chandler

Dedication

For J.R.R.T. and G.R.R.M., the Epic Overlords.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication Page

Map

Prologue

The Free City of Ness was known around the world…

Part 1

Under the Flag of Parley

Chapter One

On the far side of the Whitewall mountains, in the…

Chapter Two

There was a mountain, and then there was no mountain.

Chapter Three

At dawn—as promised—Croy returned, looking a little tousled after riding…

Chapter Four

On a map the fortress of Helstrow would have resembled…

Chapter Five

Inside the common room of the inn, food and wine…

Chapter Six

Bursting out into the sunlight, Malden turned his head wildly…

Chapter Seven

The marketers all fled or pressed into the doors of…

Chapter Eight

When Malden burst out of the inn, Cythera leapt to…

Chapter Nine

They dragged Malden through the gate to the inner bailey,…

Chapter Ten

“This way, sir knight, milady,” the castellan said, and ushered…

Chapter Eleven

Ulfram V was a year younger than Croy, but the…

Chapter Twelve

“Is this true, Croy?” the king demanded. “Did you—in fact—make…

Chapter Thirteen

Instantly Ghostcutter came to Croy’s hand. Beside him he saw…

Chapter Fourteen

After Mörgain left, no one spoke for some while. Croy…

Chapter Fifteen

After darkness fell, Malden and Croy headed back into the…

Chapter Sixteen

He made a point of saying no more until they…

Chapter Seventeen

Cythera stood by the window in their room at the…

Chapter Eighteen

Malden never actually lost consciousness, but between the pain in…

Chapter Nineteen

The bridge across the river Strow began and ended within…

Chapter Twenty

In the king’s own chapel in the keep at Helstrow,…

Chapter Twenty-One

The day after the gates of Helstrow were sealed, the…

Chapter Twenty-Two

Malden put his hand on Acidtongue’s hilt, but kept the…

Chapter Twenty-Three

T he woman from the milehouse turned out to be…

Chapter Twenty-Four

Croy’s rounsey whickered and bucked as he climbed onto its…

Chapter Twenty-Five

The king walked his horse up to where the two…

Chapter Twenty-Six

The king of Skrae spluttered in rage. Croy didn’t blame…

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Behind the portcullis, soldiers shouted at one another and men…

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Berserkers crashed up against the gate, straining and howling as…

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“Where do we take him?” Orne asked, when they were…

Part 2

The Sleeping King

Interlude

There was a place in the Free City of Ness…

Chapter Thirty

Helstrow burned for days. The barbarians were too busy celebrating…

Chapter Thirty-One

Just outside the gates of Ness a recruiting serjeant had…

Chapter Thirty-Two

Cythera found her mother down in Swampwall, where the river…

Chapter Thirty-Three

After Cythera went to find her mother, Malden led Slag…

Chapter Thirty-Four

“That’s ridiculous,” Malden said. How could he be Cutbill’s most…

Chapter Thirty-Five

“Alright,” Malden said. “Well, that’s got me up to date.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Croy brought the whetstone carefully up the iron edge of…

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Through the stout oak door, Croy could hear the voices…

Chapter Thirty-Eight

The river Skrait twisted through Ness, carving its way between…

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Walking through the brambles surrounding Coruth’s shack was disincitement enough,…

Chapter Forty

Malden moved out of the way as Coruth swept into…

Chapter Forty-One

When dinner was finished Malden took his leave. He was…

Chapter Forty-Two

The thieves of Ness gathered just before midnight, when the…

Chapter Forty-Three

A few murmurs drifted up from the crowd regardless of…

Chapter Forty-Four

Perhaps there was a second reason why Cutbill had chosen…

Chapter Forty-Five

“I have grand plans for the people of Skrae,” the…

Chapter Forty-Six

The sky glowed a deep blue-black that made Malden’s head…

Chapter Forty-Seven

The air in Coruth’s house felt like it had been…

Chapter Forty-Eight

Mörget whirled his axe through the air and brought it…

Chapter Forty-Nine

The bandit camp proved a sorry affair. Two dozen men…

Chapter Fifty

Barbarian pickets controlled the road between Helstrow and Redweir, but…

Chapter Fifty-One

The Baron sighed and looked down at his maps and…

Chapter Fifty-Two

Money kept coming in, as it always had, and that…

Chapter Fifty-Three

It didn’t take long for the thief-takers to make their…

Chapter Fifty-Four

Slag followed Malden all the way across the Sawyer’s Bridge…

Chapter Fifty-Five

“Protection?” Malden repeated, when Herwig had told him what she…

Chapter Fifty-Six

Croy knelt low in the brambles by the side of…

Chapter Fifty-Seven

I didn’t want this job, Malden thought. I never asked…

Chapter Fifty-Eight

It wasn’t easy getting the word out so late in…

Chapter Fifty-Nine

An old fishwife with a face like a rotten parsnip…

Chapter Sixty

Coruth did not wait to hear if he would follow.

Chapter Sixty-One

In a muddy field just off the Helstrow road, Baron…

Chapter Sixty-Two

Mörgain’s barbarians were distracted by the archers and turned outwards…

Chapter Sixty-Three

Spittle flecked their red-painted lips. They came running with blood…

Part 3

A Change of Station

Interlude

“Halt, here,” Mörgain said, and the paltry remnants of her…

Chapter Sixty-Four

Malden grabbed onto a window ledge and hauled himself upward.

Chapter Sixty-Five

Malden leaned down and kissed Cythera gently. She wrapped her…

Chapter Sixty-Six

Loophole would never walk easy again. When the mob seized…

Chapter Sixty-Seven

He already knew what his Helstrovian second-in-command wanted, but still…

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Dead bodies littered the forecourt of Easthull manor. Not a…

Chapter Sixty-Nine

“The king is dead,” Coruth said, plucking at long blades…

Chapter Seventy

A thousand barbarians marched north, pulling wagons full of books…

Chapter Seventy-One

“The Godstone is cracked. The cracks need to be repaired.

Chapter Seventy-Two

“Be of good cheer, lad,” Slag said, as he led…

Chapter Seventy-Three

Croy kept his horse to a walk as they crept…

Chapter Seventy-Four

Malden reached up and grasped the snout of a gargoyle.

Chapter Seventy-Five

Malden lowered himself through the trap door by his hands.

Chapter Seventy-Six

Malden’s candle fell from his hand and flickered out instantly.

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Malden closed the door behind him and bent low to…

Chapter Seventy-Eight

“Malden, no one loves me,” Cutbill said. He poured two…

Chapter Seventy-Nine

“The barbarians will arrive within the week,” Cutbill told Malden.

Chapter Eighty

Mörget tramped up the frost-crackling hill, naked axe in hand,…

Part 4

The Siege of Ness

Interlude

In theory there were no officers in the Army of…

Chapter Eighty-One

North of Helstrow, Croy took to the road.

Chapter Eighty-Two

“Nock! Draw! Fire!” Herwig the madam shouted, beating time against…

Chapter Eighty-Three

“Halloo! Halloo! Ness! People of Ness! Is someone in charge…

Chapter Eighty-Four

“Get me out of this ridiculous stuff,” Malden growled, trying…

Chapter Eighty-Five

Malden hurried through the streets, headed for the bridge to…

Chapter Eighty-Six

“Fascinating. In the space of one night they built three…

Chapter Eighty-Seven

Bethane slumped down to sit on a rock and rub…

Chapter Eighty-Eight

The whispers became murmurs. The murmurs became disgusted looks in…

Chapter Eighty-Nine

The rocks kept coming, though not as frequently as when…

Chapter Ninety

The rider had come very close, now. He could descend…

Chapter Ninety-One

The Skilfinger knight wore a byrnie of chain mail that…

Chapter Ninety-Two

Mörg was no fool.

Chapter Ninety-Three

The workshop stank of brimstone and urine, enough to make…

Chapter Ninety-four

“They’re scaling Ditchwall now, and there’s no one to stop…

Chapter Ninety-Five

There seemed to be no end to the berserkers willing…

Chapter Ninety-Six

Malden followed the dwarf down a flight of stairs to…

Chapter Ninety-Seven

Croy could stand, and if he used Ghostcutter as a…

Chapter Ninety-Eight

A single trebuchet stone arced over the city that day.

Chapter Ninety-Nine

Malden wrapped a loaf of bread in a silken cloth—the…

Chapter One Hundred

The Lemon Garden could no longer hold all the supplicants…

Chapter One Hundred and One

The wailing of Mörgain’s female warriors set Mörget’s teeth on…

Chapter One Hundred and Two

“Come forth! Step up, and receive Sadu’s bounty! Food for…

Chapter One Hundred and Three

Croy rode at the head of an army of two…

Chapter One Hundred and Four

Mörget raced back into the camp, Balint at his heels,…

Chapter One Hundred and Five

Malden ordered Velmont to search for other survivors in the…

Chapter One Hundred and Six

Malden looked to Cythera. She was drained, and worse than…

Chapter One Hundred and Seven

In her bed, Coruth struggled for every breath. Her hair…

Chapter One Hundred and Eight

On the march, it is far too easy to slip…

Chapter One Hundred and Nine

There was no time to think on all that had…

Chapter One Hundred and Ten

“Get that iron off him,” Velmont commanded. His eyes stayed…

Chapter One Hundred and Eleven

An hour before dawn, the snow burned a deep blue.

Chapter One Hundred and Twelve

As soon as Malden could stand on his own two…

Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen

The crowd of devout citizens gasped and ran as a…

Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen

Croy brought Ghostcutter around and disemboweled a gray-bearded reaver, then…

Chapter One Hundred and Fifteen

When Ryewall collapsed Malden was thrown from his feet. He…

Chapter One Hundred and Sixteen

“What in the Lady’s name was that?” Hew asked.

Chapter One Hundred and Seventeen

Slag crowed and danced and shouted up to Malden where…

Chapter One Hundred and Eighteen

Mörget shouted in pain and for a moment froze in…

Chapter One Hundred and Nineteen

Smoke from the explosion of Slag’s weapon hung in the…

Chapter One Hundred and Twenty

The Lemon Garden was far enough from Ryewall that Malden…

Epilogue

He’d made his decision. He’d been forced to pick between…

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Other Books by David Chandler

Copyright

About the Publisher

Map

PROLOGUE

The Free City of Ness was known around the world as a hotbed of thievery, and one man alone was responsible for that reputation. Cutbill, master of that city’s guild of thieves, controlled almost every aspect of clandestine commerce within its walls—from extortion to pickpocketing, from blackmail to shoplifting he oversaw a great empire of crime. His fingers were in far more pies than anyone even realized, and his ambitions far greater than simple acquisition of wealth—and far broader-reaching than the affairs of just one city. His interests lay in every corner of the globe and his spies were everywhere.

As a result he received a fair volume of mail every day.

In his office under the streets of Ness he went through this pile of correspondence with the aid of only one assistant. Lockjaw, an elderly thief with a legendary reputation was always there when Cutbill opened his letters. There were two reasons why Lockjaw held this privileged responsibility—for one, Lockjaw was famous for his discretion. He’d received his sobriquet for the fact he never revealed a secret. The other reason was that he’d never learned to read.

It was Lockjaw’s duty to receive the correspondence, usually from messengers who stuck around only long enough to get paid, and to comment on each message as Cutbill told him its contents. If Lockjaw wondered why such a clever man wanted his untutored opinion, he never asked.

“Interesting,” Cutbill said, holding a piece of parchment up to the light. “This is from the dwarven kingdom. It seems they’ve invented a new machine up there. Some kind of winepress that churns out books instead of vintage.”

The old thief scowled. “That right? Do they come out soaking wet?”

“I imagine that would be a defect in the process,” Cutbill agreed. “Still. If it works, it could produce books at a fraction of the cost a copyist charges now.”

“Bad news, then,” Lockjaw said.

“Oh?”

“Books is expensive,” the thief explained. “There’s good money in stealing ’em. If they go cheap all of a sudden we’d be out of a profitable racket.”

Cutbill nodded and put the letter aside, taking up another. “It’ll probably come to nothing, this book press.” He slit open the letter in his hand with a knife and scanned its contents. “News from our friend in the north. It looks like Maelfing will be at war with Skilfing by next summer. Over fishing rights, of course.”

“That lot in the northern kingdoms is always fighting about something,” Lockjaw pointed out. “You’d figure they’d have sorted everything out by now.”

“The king of Skrae certainly hopes they never do,” Cutbill told him. “As long as they keep at each other’s throats, our northern border will remain secure. Pass me that packet, will you?”

The letter in question was written on a scroll of vellum wrapped in thin leather. Cutbill broke its seal and spread it out across his desk, peering at it from only a few inches away. “This is from our man in the high pass of the Whitewall Mountains.”

“What could possibly happen in a desolated place like that?” Lockjaw asked.

“Nothing, nothing at all,” Cutbill said. He looked up at the thief. “I pay my man there to make sure it stays that way. He read some more, and opened his mouth to make another comment—and then closed it again, his teeth clicking together. “Oh,” he said.

Lockjaw held his peace and waited to hear what Cutbill had found.

The master of the guild of thieves, however, was unforthcoming. He rolled the scroll back up and shoved the whole thing in a charcoal brazier used to keep the office warm. Soon the scroll had caught flame and in a moment it was nothing but ashes.

Lockjaw raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Whatever was on that scroll clearly wasn’t meant to be shared, even with Cutbill’s most trusted associate. Which meant it had to be pretty important, Lockjaw figured. More so than who was stealing from whom or where the bodies were buried.

Cutbill went over to his ledger—the master account of all his dealings, and one of the most secret books on the continent. It contained every detail of all the crime that took place in Ness, as well as many things no one had ever heard of outside of this room. He opened it to a page near the back, then laid his knife across one of the pages, perhaps to keep it from fluttering out of place. Lockjaw noticed that this page was different from the others. Those were filled with columns of neat figures, endless rows of numbers. This page only held a single block of text, like a short message.

“Old man,” Cutbill said, then, “could you do me a favor and pour me a cup of wine? My throat feels suddenly raw.”

Cutbill had never asked for such a thing before. The man had enough enemies in the world that he made a point of always pouring his own wine—or having someone taste it before him. Lockjaw wondered what had changed, but he shrugged and did as he was told. He was getting paid for his time. He went to a table over by the door and poured a generous cup, then turned around again to hand it to his boss.

Except Cutbill wasn’t there anymore.

That in itself wasn’t so surprising. There were dozens of secret passages in Cutbill’s lair, and only the guildmaster knew them all or where they led. Nor was it surprising that Cutbill would leave the room so abruptly. Cautious to a nicety, he always kept his movements secret.

No, what was surprising was that he didn’t come back.

He had effectively vanished from the face of the world.

Day after day Lockjaw—and the rest of Ness’s thieves—waited for his return. No sign of him was found, nor any message received. Cutbill’s operation began to falter in his absence—thieves stopped paying their dues to the guild, citizens under Cutbill’s protection were suddenly vulnerable to theft, what coin did come in piled up uncounted and was spent on frivolous expenditures. Half of these excesses were committed in the belief that Cutbill, who had always run a tight ship, would be so offended he would have to come back just to put things in order.

But Cutbill left no trace, wherever he’d traveled.

It was quite a while before anyone thought to check the ledger, and the message Cutbill had so carefully marked.

CHAPTER ONE

On the far side of the Whitewall mountains, in the grasslands of the barbarians, in the mead tent of the Great Chieftain, fires raged and drink was passed from hand to hand, yet not a word was spoken. The gathered housemen of the Great Chieftain were too busy to gossip and sing as was their wont, too busy watching two men compete at an ancient ritual. Massive they were, as big as bears, and their muscles stood out from their arms and legs like the wood of dryland trees. They stood either side of a pit of blazing coals, each clutching hard to one end of a panther’s hide. On one side, Torki, the champion of the Great Chieftain, victor of a thousand such contests. On the other side stood Mörget, whose lips were pulled back in a manic grin, the lower half of his face painted red in the traditional colors of a berserker, though he was a full chieftain now, leader of many clans.

Heaving, straining, gasping for breath in the fumes of the coals, the two struggled, each trying to pull the other into the coals. Every man and woman in the longhouse, every berserker and reaver of the Great Chieftain, every wife and thrall of the gathered warriors, watched in hushed expectation, each of them alone with their private thoughts, their desperate hopes.

There was only one who dared to speak freely, for such was always his right. Hurlind, the Great Chieftain’s scold, was full of wine and laughter. “You’re slipping, Mörg’s Get! Pull as you might, he’s dragging you. Why not let go, and save yourself from the fire? This is not a game for striplings!”

“Silence,” Mörget hissed, from between clenched teeth.

Yet his grin was faltering, for it was true. Torki’s grasp on the panther hide was like the grip of great tree roots on the earth. His arms were locked at the elbows and with the full power of his body, trained and toughened by the hard life of the steppes, he was pulling as inexorably as the ocean tide. Mörget slid toward the coals a fraction of an inch at a time, no matter how he dug his toes into the grit on the floor.

At the mead bench closest to the fire a reaver of the Great Chieftain placed a sack of gold on the table and nudged his neighbor, a chieftain of great honor. He pointed at Torki and the chieftain nodded, then put his own money next to the reaver’s—though as he did so he glanced slyly at the Great Chieftain in his place of honor at the far end of the table. Perhaps he worried that his overlord might take it askance—after all, Mörget was the Great Chieftain’s son.

The Great Chieftain did not see the wager, however. His eyes never moved from the contest. Mörg, the man who had made a nation of these people, the man who had seen every land in the world and plundered every coast, father of multitudes, slayer of dragons, Mörg the Great was ancient by the reckoning of the east. Forty-five winters had ground at his bones. Only a little silver ran through the gold of his wild beard, however, and no sign of dotage showed in his glinting eyes. He reached without looking for a haunch of roasted meat. Tearing a generous piece free, he held it down toward the mangy dog at his feet. The dog always ate first. It roused itself from sleep just long enough to swallow the gobbet. When it was done, Mörg fed himself, grease slicking down his chin and the front of his fur robes.

A great deal relied on which combatant let go of the hide first. The destiny of the entire eastern people, the lives of countless warriors were at stake—and a debt of honor nearly two centuries old. No onlooker could have said which of the warriors, his son or his champion, Mörg favored.

Torki never made a sound. He did not appear to move at all—he might have been a marble statue. He had the marks of a reaver, black crosses tattooed on the shaved skin behind his ears. One for every season of pillaging he’d undertaken in the hills to the north. Enough crosses that they ran down the back of his neck. Not a drop of sweat had showed yet on his brow.

Mörget shifted his stance a hair’s breadth and was nearly pulled into the fire. His teeth gnashed at the air as he fought to regain his posture.

Nearby his sister, herself a chieftess of many clans, stood ready with a flagon of wine mulled with sweet gale. Mörgain, as was widely known, hated her brother—had done since infancy. No matter how hard she fought to prove herself, no matter what glory she won in battle, Mörget had always overshadowed her accomplishments. Letting him win this contest now would be bitter as ashes in her mouth. Nor did she need to play the passive spectator here. She could end it in a moment by splashing wine across the boards at Mörget’s feet. He would be unable to hold his ground on the slippery boards, and Torki would win for a certainty.

“Sister,” Mörget howled, “set down that wine. Do you not thirst for western blood, instead?”

Mörg raised one eyebrow, perhaps very much interested in learning the answer to that question.