Kitabı oku: «A Thief in the Night», sayfa 3

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.