Honour Among Thieves

“Croy,” she managed to say, though her voice cracked. “There’s something—”

He wasn’t finished, though. “I had a teacher once, a fencing master, who told me there were only two ways to ride into battle. You could go in expecting to die, but wanting to die honorably, and the Lady would favor you and you would live. Or you could go to war with a reason to survive, a reason to keep going—and the Lady would make sure you were victorious. He said the latter was always better. I’m going to fight for you, Cythera. I’m going to fight to make sure I get that moment in the Ladychapel.”

“You,” she said. “You should know that … you should …”

The words were there in her throat. She could no more have conjured them forth, though, than she could fly to the moon. She opened her eyes to look at him. Perhaps that would help her summon up the strength to do what was right.

There were tears on his cheeks, but he was smiling.

If she told him now she would destroy him. It was wrong to keep this secret all the same. She still felt that way. It would have taken a saint to say the words, though, and Cythera knew she was no saint. So she did what a witch would do instead. What her mother would do.

“You’ll be a hero then,” she told him. “You’ll be a champion of Skrae. What woman could resist that?”

He laughed, a sound of happiness in that dark hour. He kissed her on the cheek, and he left her there. Hurried back out into the night, to do what he must.

When he was gone she shivered for a while, though she was not cold. Then she went back to the window to continue her vigil—this time, waiting for Malden to come and take her away.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Malden never actually lost consciousness, but between the pain in his head and the fact that he was shoved through the dark streets by a group of angry men who beat him every time he faltered, he had little idea where he was taken. He saw torches and doorways pass by, now he was looking down at cobblestones, now up at an empty, cold sky. He was bounced down a flight of stairs and thrown onto a surface of packed earth in a place that smelled of old mildew. He was turned on his side and he saw a wall of stone, criss-crossed with the glittering tracks of snails.

And then a bucket of stagnant water was dumped across his face, and he fought and spluttered and shouted as he desperately tried to sit up. The wooden bucket bounced off his shoulder and he drew back in fresh pain.

But suddenly he could think clearly again. He could hear many men grumbling all around him, and see them silhouetted against a fire at the far side of the room.

He could hear their voices just fine.

“Slit his throat. Bury him down here, aye. But what of his fuckin’ sword? Can’t sell that, any fence’d known it for a Ancient Blade, jus’ lookin’ at it. And then we’d have every bleedin’ kingsman in town down here, wantin’ to ask questions and crack heads.”

“I say we cut off his fingers and toes, ’til he tells us who he really is.”

“And I say—and my word is law, yeah?—I say, we don’t got much time ’til that knight comes lookin’ for him. So we settle this now, we do it quiet, and we all find someplace else to be ’til it blows o’er.”

There were more grumbling protests, but the voices never grew too loud. And then a man with a knife no longer than his thumb came toward Malden, his free hand out to grab the thief’s hair and pull his head back. The size of the knife was not reassuring. They were going to cut his throat. It didn’t take a very big knife to slash a man’s windpipe.

Malden scuttled backwards, until his back hit a wall. He was out of options. “Don’t you lot practice the ancient custom of sanctuary?” he demanded.

The man with the knife stopped where he was.

A much bigger man, with a head as bald and round as the moon, came stomping forward. “What’re you talkin’ about?” he demanded.

“I’m assuming that Velmont brought me to the local guild of thieves. I very much hope I’m not mistaken. In Ness, where Cutbill runs the guild, we practice the custom of sanctuary. Any thief, no matter where he’s from, can demand the right to hide out in one of our safe houses, and he cannot be denied. As long as his dues are paid up.”

The man with the knife turned to face the bald one. In silhouette, Malden could tell it was Velmont who’d been about to slit his throat.

“He’s speakin’ true, boss,” Velmont said.

“Aye, save for one thing. Sanctuary’s for thieves. And you ain’t no thief, kingsman. Now be quiet while we murther you.”

“Velmont,” Malden insisted, “tell them. You and I spoke of many things this morning. Things only a thief would know. And tonight, after I’d engineered my own escape, I came back for you. If all I wanted was to make trouble for you, why would I loose your chains? Why would I be so stupid as to put myself in your power? I’m no kingsman! I’m just a thief, like you.”

Velmont lowered his knife hand, but he didn’t back off. “I saw that man you were with. For a thief, you’ve got some pretty funny friends.”

“I tricked that knight into helping me,” Malden told him. “I stole that sword and everyone just assumed I was one of them.” That made a certain degree of sense. No man in Skrae who fell below the class of freeholder was allowed by law to even touch a sword. Wearing one on your hip would automatically convince a lot of people you were of a certain social level, and deserving of a certain level of trust. “It was a long shot, but it was my only chance of getting out of the fortress alive.”

“But e’en then, why would some blasted knight help the likes o’ you?” the boss inquired.

“Because he wanted someone to smuggle his betrothed out of here, before the fighting starts. A woman named Cythera.”

The thieves looked at each other skeptically. There was some grumbling, but the boss cut it off with a gesture.

“A woman, I might add,” Malden went on, “who I’ve already swived.”

Laughter erupted amongst the gathered thieves of Helstrow. The boss tried to silence it but every thief enjoyed a good jest at the expense of a landed knight. By besmirching Cythera’s honor—though not by lying—Malden had just scored a point with the crew.

He needed to win over their leader, though. The boss went to one corner of the room where a thickly recessed window was set into the wall very close to the ceiling. They must be in a cellar, Malden realized. Probably beneath a tavern or a gambling hall. The boss stared up through the window as if expecting to see a kingsman staring back down at him. Then he hobbled back over to Malden. Malden saw that the man had a wooden leg. It would be difficult to convince a man like that to take a journey of a hundred miles on foot. Yet that was exactly what he needed to do.

“I need to get out of here. Tonight, with the woman. I’ll pay handsomely to anyone who can help me with that,” Malden said, softly.

Malden knew that in Ness the possibility of money changing hands never failed to get a thief’s attention. The Helstrovian crew seemed no different.

“The walls are sealed,” Malden went on. “And I’m a stranger here. I don’t know the secret ways of this place. But the man who does could be very rich once I’m free.”

“Mayhap I know a way out,” Velmont said.

“Shut it, Vellie!” the boss thundered. “I’ll hear no more o’—”

“Ye’ll hear what I have to say, by the bloodgod’s guts,” Velmont shot back. “If there’s silver to be had—or at very least, the promise o’ silver—I’m listening.”

Malden nodded. He had no money to give these thieves, not now. But at least they’d stopped talking of slitting his throat. It also sounded like there was still a chance at escape. He’d hoped for this—that Velmont or his organization would have some secret route out of the fortress. “I’m glad to hear it. Maybe it’s good for you, as well. Maybe you should come with me when I leave. By tomorrow it’ll be too late. Every one of you will be conscripted. Forced to fight. And believe me—you don’t want to face what’s coming for you. The barbarians are only ten days from the river, and coming fast.”

“Barbarians?” one of the thieves asked, and suddenly the clamor in the cellar made Malden’s ears hurt. He realized with a start that the thieves had no idea why their king was girding for war. Most likely no one had bothered to inform the populace of the news from the east. “How many of ’em? Are they on horseback? I’ve heard they got witches that can curdle a man’s blood with one nasty look!”

“There’s still time for all of us to flee. It must be tonight, though. If we do it now, we’re refugees. If we do it tomorrow we’re deserters, and they hang deserters,” Malden pointed out.

“Why don’t you just tell me where your lady’s at,” the boss asked Malden. “I’ll make sure she gets where she oughta be, eh?”

“Do you think me such a fool? I leave with her—and any of you that want to come. Any of you who want to live through the next fortnight, that is.” Malden shook his head. “The barbarians are fearsome enemies. Some of them paint their faces red, to show they’ve drunk human blood. Their women paint their faces like skulls, because they say it’s the only way to get the men to kiss them. Come with me, now, and we’ll travel together to Ness. There Cutbill will grant you more than sanctuary. He’ll make you full members in our guild. He’ll shower you with gold.”

Malden was barely aware of everything he was saying and all the promises he’d made. He would have said anything to get the thieves on his side.

“Listen, boss,” Velmont said, “I think he’s tellin’ the truth—”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Vellie,” the boss told the thief. “It’s my decision to make. And I say we stay put.”

The crowd of thieves fell silent. Dead silent. Malden felt the blood in his veins jumping as his heart sped in his chest.

“I lived right here me whole life, and I ain’t runnin’ now,” the boss said. “War’s good for our kind. They send all the kingsmen out to fight, and leave us here, alone with all the pickin’s. No, we’re not leavin’. And if he won’t tell me where this lady is, and this knight’s pile o’ gold, I’ll find ’em me own way. Now. I believe I told you once already. Cut ’im.”

Velmont looked down at the knife in his hand.

“Sorry ’bout this, but it’s hard times,” he said.

Malden flattened himself against the wall. There was no escape.

Then Velmont took a step to the side—and slashed his knife across the throat of his boss. Blood flew from the wound and misted the far wall, as bright as the snail tracks there. The boss clutched at his neck but made no sound whatsoever as he collapsed. The other thieves drew back in terror, pressing themselves up against the far wall. They didn’t shout or make a peep of surprise or fear, though. These were men who’d seen murder before, men who knew when to keep silent. For a while the only noise in the cellar was the drumming of the boss’s wooden leg on the earthen floor. Eventually that, too, stopped.

Velmont turned to face his fellow thieves, gory knife still in hand. “He was a good boss, in ’is way, but he was gonna get us all killed. I’m sidin’ with the fella that wants to save our skins. Any man of you have a problem with that?” he demanded.

His question evoked more silence.

“Good.” He put his knife away. Then he bent down to offer Malden a hand up. “Now. Let’s talk about how I expect to get us all out o’ Helstrow, without marchin’ us through the front door.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The bridge across the river Strow began and ended within the walls of the outer bailey. No one crossed the river without the king’s approval—at least, not from above.

Underneath the bridge a complicated sparwork of stone beams held up the road surface. An agile man unafraid of heights could cross from one end to the other without having to climb up top.

Malden had both those qualities. It didn’t bother him in the slightest to hang from his hands by a stringcourse of granite, thirty feet above the foaming waters of the river. Velmont and his crew took their time about it, but managed to make the crossing without slipping. Yet when Cythera began to climb across, she made it a third of the way and then stopped, clinging hard to a stone pillar, her eyes clenched tightly shut.

Malden looked up. He could hear horses drawing heavy loads across the timber surface of the bridge. It creaked and rattled under the strain. He swung back over to where Cythera waited and put an arm around her back. Slowly, unwillingly, she opened her eyes and looked at him.

“This is your stock in trade, isn’t it?” she asked him, in a very small voice. “I thought I would be fine. I’ve been on rooftops before, climbed towers—”

“This is different. I understand,” Malden said, in a soothing voice. He looked across the underside of the bridge and saw Velmont staring back at him. The Helstrovian thief made a pushing motion with both hands.

Malden tried not to take offense at the notion. They were, in fact, pressed for time. Dawn was only an hour away and they needed to be outside the walls by then, outside and well clear of the eyes of Helstrow’s kingsmen.

“Take it slowly. Don’t look down,” Malden said.

“I can’t move my arms. They won’t let go,” Cythera told him.

Malden fought down the impatience and fear in his heart. He thought of what he should say. He couldn’t very well carry Cythera across. Perhaps he should coax her on like a stubborn mule, or a frightened child, or—

—no. This was Cythera. She was no blushing virgin, afraid of specters in the privy and spiders in the basin.

“You are the daughter of a sorcerer and a witch,” Malden said.

“I can’t magic my way over there!” Cythera shouted at him. Her voice was nearly lost, all the same, in the rushing of the water. She looked down. “If I fall from here, how far do you think my body will be carried before the current before I wash up on some distant bank, my lips blue, my eyes cloudy, my bones shattered by rocks?”

“You are the daughter of the witch Coruth,” Malden said again. He was sure he was on the right track. “You went willingly into the Vincularium. You fought demons and elves and undead things there. This,” he said, carefully, “is a very sturdy bridge. Stonemasons work tirelessly to keep it from falling down. Now. Come with me. I expect you to follow my every step.”

Then he turned away and jumped to a ledge of stone no more than three feet away. With one hand on a beam for support, he used the other to gesture for her to follow.

And she did.

Moving carefully, one step at a time, they swung across the beams, jumping where necessary, walking sideways on thin ledges, always moving forward so momentum helped carry them along.

Cythera did not fall.

At the far side, a thick pipe stuck out from under the bridge. It drained the dungeons and cellars of the keep into the river. An iron grate covered its end, but Velmont already had that unlocked and pulled back on its hinges. Inside they had to crawl a ways before coming to a wider space. It was so dark inside Malden felt the blackness pressing against his eyeballs. He reached back, and Cythera took his hand.

This was the perfect place for a betrayal. If Velmont wanted to kill him, it could be done with no trouble at all.

Instead the Helstrovian made fire and lit a torch. Malden saw that they had come to a junction of many pipes, some no wider than his fist, some high enough to walk through. “Smugglers use this route all the time,” Velmont explained, gesturing at one wall. Hundreds of marks and sigils decorated the bricks, names and columns of numbers scratched into the niter-thickened stone of the walls. It looked like whole generations of thieves had been through this way. “There’s an outflow pipe what fetches up at the base of the outermost wall, just o’er here.” He pointed down a broad pipe that led away into darkness. Malden started to lead Cythera toward its mouth, but just then Velmont grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

“Your Cutbill,” Velmont said, “had better come through for me and mine. I ain’t leavin’ behind e’erything I ever knew, just to end a beggar in some pisspot o’ a free city.”

Malden nodded, but said nothing.

It was not long after that they pushed open another iron grate and stepped out into moonlight. Above Malden’s head the wall of Helstrow stretched high. He was outside that wall, out in the country beyond the king’s fortress. Free.

Looking up he could make out lights among the battlements. There were guards up there, keeping watch. They’d crossed an important barrier, but this was no time for exultation. Not yet.

Velmont extinguished his torch and gestured for Malden to keep moving. The outflow pipe emptied in a narrow ditch that ran straight away from the fortress-town. Malden didn’t look back until they were a quarter mile away. Then he looked to see lights burning in the keep and palace. He looked to see the sealed gates of Helstrow, and the empty villages that stood outside each portal. No lights there—the people who lived in those villages had all been herded inside the walls—either for their own safety, or so they could be conscripted.

He saw Velmont looking back, too. He wondered if Velmont had ever in his life been beyond that wall before. It could be a terrifying experience, first setting foot in a countryside of which you knew nothing. Malden should know—until his recent adventure, he’d spent every day of his life in Ness, and the first time he’d left he’d felt like he’d been picked up by a great wind and thrown out into the middle of the sea. He’d never quite gotten used to country life. “In a few months,” Malden told the Helstrovian thief, “the war will be won. You’ll return richer than when you left—and you’ll like Helstrow all the more for the money you bring back.”

“Assumin’ your barbarians don’t stink my city up too much, after they turn it into one o’ their tent camps.” Velmont’s face contorted through a variety of emotions. “There’s a piece of me, not a big ’un, mind, but a piece—wishes I could stay to see what’s goin’ to happen.”

“You want to remain here and fight for your home?” Malden asked, a little surprised. Thieves as a rule were not known for their patriotic sentiment.

“Nah,” Velmont said, with a chuckle. “I kinda wanna stay and watch it burn.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

In the king’s own chapel in the keep at Helstrow, Croy knelt before the altar of the Lady, hands clasped in supplication. He did not see the burning censers set all around him by the acolytes, or smell the pungent incense they contained. He did not see the golden cornucopia that hung on the wall before him. He saw nothing but the Lady in his mind’s eye, a woman of supernal radiance clothed all in green and white. His ears heard nothing but the whispered prayers that came from his lips, faint rustlings barely recognizable as sounds after a night without wine or even milk to sustain him.

He did not hear the clank of Sir Hew’s armor as the Captain of the Guard entered the royal chapel, nor the polite clearing of Sir Hew’s throat. Nor even his own name, spoken in hushed tones, as Hew tried to get his attention.

It was not until Hew’s hand fell on his shoulder that his vigil was broken.

“It’s dawn, Croy,” Hew said, not unkindly. “You’ve been here long enough.”

Croy blinked and looked up. He saw everything, heard all. His senses felt tuned to an agonizing pitch.

Slowly he shifted on his knees. Brought one leg up and put his foot on the floor. His knee joint popped and clamored in pain. Every part of his body was stiff as he rose carefully to his feet.

There had been a time when he could kneel in vigil for days on end, and leap to his feet when he was done, without so much as a groan or an ache. There had also been a time when he could meditate on the Lady for just as long—and not see Cythera’s face when he looked into his goddess’ eyes.

“I’m getting old,” he said to Hew, with a weak smile.

The Captain of the Guard clapped him on the shoulders. “Knights so rarely do. Ancient blades even less often. Take it as the Lady’s blessing that she let you live this long.” Hew steered him toward the chapel’s door. “Don’t complain overmuch, man. We have a full day ahead of us, and I don’t want to catch you napping. Where’s your squire—what was his name, Malden?”

“He should be here attending me. Perhaps asleep in one of the pews,” Croy said, looking around as if he expected to see the thief at once. “That’s odd. I don’t see him here anywhere.”

Hew raised one eyebrow. “I knew that boy was no good. If he’s run off—with an Ancient Blade on his belt … I’ll have the guard look for him. Damn my eyes. He won’t get far.”

“Make no curse or oath in this place,” Croy chided.

Hew laughed as he led Croy out of the chapel and down toward the armory in the cellar of the keep. They passed down a long stair, their weapons and armor clattering in the enclosed space. “The same old Croy, I see. Most devout of us all—and the most trusting. Are you sure this Malden is worth your faith?”

“He’s a good man. I’ve seen true honor in him, though he denies it if he’s asked.”

Hew scowled. “If I find him down by the gates trying to bribe his way out, I won’t ask your permission before I have him beaten. What were you thinking, giving Acidtongue to that boy?”

“He saved my life, and my honor, which I value more,” Croy told Hew. He needed to change the subject. If Hew found out he’d sent Malden away, there could be real trouble. “What work do you have for me today?”

“I want you fitted for a proper suit of armor.” Hew slapped Croy’s ribs. “What are you wearing, a brigantine? That’s infantry stuff.” He pushed open a door at the end of a dim hallway and gestured for Croy to go through. “Here, meet Groomwich, our armorer. He’s a dab hand with a hammer and tongs, no matter what he looks like.”

The armorer bowed low as the knights entered his domain. He had the permanently blackened skin of a metalsmith, save on the left half of his face which was a horrid expanse of burnt tissue, white and rugged in the light of his forge.

“Get this one in a proper coat of plate,” Hew commanded. “And ready another suit, for a boy the same height but about half his size. You stay here, Croy. I’ll go roust out Malden. After you’re done here you need to go down to the archery butts and say some inspiring words to the new recruits. That’s what the king feels we Ancient Blades are best employed at—rousing speeches.”

Croy frowned. “He’s never had faith in our strength of arms. Not since our father died. I worry he won’t use us to best advantage.”

“Well, I suppose our time will come soon enough, to show him what we can do.”

Hew left him, then. The silent armorer got to work right away, fitting various pieces of steel to Croy’s body. The work required Croy to stand perfectly still for long stretches of time, and wasn’t that different from the vigil he’d just completed. As each piece was measured and marked, Groomwich would hammer it into the right shape and size. He never said a word. In the heat of the armory, Croy soon found himself falling asleep, rising only when he was called upon to stand and be measured again.

It must have been hours later when Hew came back, his face red with anger, to say that Malden was nowhere to be found—nor Cythera. How they had escaped the fortress of Helstrow was a complete mystery, but Hew did not hesitate a moment to blame Croy for what he considered a crime of the first magnitude: Malden had taken Acidtongue with him.

“The thrice-damned barbarians already have two of the seven,” Hew said, spittle leaping from his teeth. “Now some frightened boy has another—Croy, how could you let this happen? How could you give such a treasure to someone so clearly untrustworthy? If it were anyone else, I’d have you drawn and broken as a traitor. If it was anyone else I’d think you were trying to undermine us! But I know you too well, Croy. I know you’d never be capable of such folly. If only you had as much brains as you do honor!”