Kitabı oku: «Honour Among Thieves», sayfa 4

CHAPTER EIGHT

When Malden burst out of the inn, Cythera leapt to her feet fully intending to follow him. People pressed in on every side though and she just could not match the thief’s speed or nimbleness. Still she tried to push her way through the crowd—until Croy grabbed her arm and dragged her back.

“If they have a warrant for his arrest,” Croy said, “we must—”

“He’s our friend,” Cythera said, staring daggers at the knight errant. “I’m going after him!”

“If you must, then at least let’s do it the right way. We’ll speak to the proper authorities, and find out why they want him and how he can be freed. Just let me settle up our bill here, and—”

She stared at him with wild eyes. “I’ll go alone. You keep an eye on Balint.” She twisted her arm out of his grip and ducked under the elbow of the taverner, who had come to see what all the fuss was about. The people in the inn drew back when they saw the look in her face.

She would not lose Malden. Not now, when she’d just realized how she felt about him. That fate should take him away from her now was unacceptable.

Outside of the inn she sought wildly through the crowded streets, having no idea where she should look for Malden first. She knew he would likely have taken to the rooftops but she wasn’t as nimble and couldn’t follow him that way. When she heard the hue and cry go up, though, she knew to head in the direction of the shouting—and raced around a corner just in time to see Malden struck down. She called out his name in horror but couldn’t move from the spot, paralyzed in terror. She thought for certain he was dead, his head caved in by the blow, but instead he merely collapsed to the street, quaking like a man in the grip of a terrible seizure.

She wanted to run forward, to grab him up and take him away, to rescue him. But the square was full of kingsmen and the armored knight stood watchful and ready. There was no way she could help Malden now, not directly. There must be something she could do, though, something to—

“Daughter. You have been gone too long.”

Cythera’s jaw dropped. “Mother?”

Creeping dread made every muscle in her back ripple and tense. Slowly she turned around, expecting to see Coruth the witch standing in the alley behind her.

Instead there was a boy there, a little peasant boy with a dirty face. And several hundred birds.

Rooks, starlings, pigeons and doves all stood on the cobbles, or perched on the timbers of the houses on either side. More of them came down to land around the boy as Cythera watched. Some fluttered down to land on his shoulders, others to perch atop his head. The birds were all staring at her.

The boy, in way of contrast, looked at nothing. His eyes were unfocused and looked like they might roll up into their sockets. His arms hung loose at his sides and the muscles of his face were all slack, so that he slurred his words as he spoke to her again.

“You are required in Ness. You must come home immediately.”

Cythera knew what was happening. That didn’t make it any less unsettling. Her mother had set her spirit loose upon the ether, let it drift with the movements of birds, as was her wont. It allowed her to see things hidden from human eyes and to keep a watch on the entire kingdom of Skrae at once. Yet birds could not convey proper messages—their beaks and tongues were ill-formed for human speech. So Coruth must have overridden the boy’s consciousness with her own. It was a cruel thing to do and Cythera knew Coruth would only have turned to such magic if she had no other choice.

“Malden’s in trouble, mother. You and I both owe him a great debt—I can’t go anywhere until he’s safe. I just watched him get struck by an Ancient Blade.”

“Chillbrand,” the boy said. He did not nod. Coruth was controlling only enough of his functions to speak with. That was the difference between witchcraft and sorcery, sometimes. A sorcerer would have taken the boy over completely—and left him mindless and half-dead when the sorcerer was done with him. “One of the seven. Strange. I can see them all now, all seven of the swords. They are coming together, as if drawn by a magnet.”

“The swords are coming to Helstrow?” Cythera asked, intrigued despite herself.

“For a brief while. Hmm. This could be trouble. The future is not entirely clear right now. What is clear is that you must return to Ness. We must speak, you and I. Great events are unfolding. Some we care about will be brought low, while others are lifted to the heights. What was solid and eternal will become mutable. Malden … did you say Malden was in trouble? But that’s impossible. He has—he will—”

The boy’s lips pressed tightly together, and one of his hands twitched. Coruth was losing control of him.

“Mother? Mother, what are you talking about?” Cythera demanded. Coruth could see the underpinnings of reality, she could even glimpse the future, but often what she saw was so cryptic even she could make no sense of it. Cythera understood maybe one part in ten of what Coruth told her of those visions. “Mother, please. I need to know more—if this will effect Malden, or Croy, I need to know!”

But Coruth had released the boy. His eyes slowly focused and his face regained something like normal muscle tone. Cythera knelt down to put her hands on his shoulders and help him return to full control of his body by stroking his forehead and rubbing his back. “Mistress,” he said, and blinked his eyes rapidly. “Mistress, I beg your pardon—I must’a come runnin’ down here and bumped you, and scattered me wits for a moment. I—I—where am I? I was s’posed to do somethin’, but I can’t rightly recall what. I can’t remember much, tell the truth. My head aches somethin’ awful.”

“You were supposed to give me a message. You did just fine.” Cythera took a farthing from her purse and pressed it into his hand. “You do look like you’ve had a shock. Best run home now and lie down.”

The boy took the coin and headed off, scattering the birds that bobbed and scampered around the alley. Cythera hoped he would do as she’d said—the spell he’d been under would leave him drained and scattered for days, and she would hate to find out he’d come to some mischief just for helping Coruth.

Slowly she rose to her feet again. She would return to the inn and find Croy. The knight-errant was Malden’s only hope, now. Before she headed back, though, she waited until one of the birds was turned away from her. Then she darted forward and grabbed it with both hands. It was a pigeon with iridescent wings and it was not so frightened as it should have been. That meant some piece of Coruth’s mind was still inside its head. “Mother,” she whispered to the bird, “you could have been more helpful. I got your message but all you’ve achieved is to scare me a bit. If you have any idea what I’m supposed to do now, I’d love to hear it.”

The bird struggled in her hands, and she released it. Without even looking at her it took to the air and flew away.

CHAPTER NINE

They dragged Malden through the gate to the inner bailey, then up a hill to the keep. No one spoke to him, and he was still too blasted with cold to ask any questions. When they arrived inside the thick stone walls of the keep he expected to be thrown into an oubliette and forgotten. He had, after all, threatened a knight of the king. Instead, however, he was taken into a spacious feasting hall where an iron collar was locked around his throat and then chained to a staple in one wall. The hall was already full of men, mostly young, mostly with the scrawny, shifty-eyed look of dire poverty. Malden thought he recognized a few of the faces—he had seen them being rounded up in the square. These, it seemed, were his people. Thieves and beggars, the seedy underbelly of Helstrovian society. Not that this knowledge was likely to help him—they didn’t know him from the Emperor of the South. Nor was he in any shape to introduce himself. He could barely keep his teeth from breaking, they chattered so much.

For a great while, Malden curled himself about his stomach and just shivered. He felt like all of winter’s chill had gathered in his bones. He felt his heart racing, booming in his chest. His fingers turned bright red as if they had been frostbitten. A fire burned in a hearth at one side of the hall, and he longed and dreamed of going to it, of shoving his hands directly into the flames, simply for the warmth he would feel before his flesh singed and burnt. Luckily the chain around his neck kept him from doing so.

In time, the supernatural chill withdrew from his bones. He doubted he would ever truly feel warm again, but his teeth stopped knocking together so much.

Blowing warm breath on his fingers, he struggled to sit up and look around. Nothing had changed over the last hour, save that more men had been brought into the hall. Very few of them were talking to each other. Mostly they sat in dull silence and stared at things that weren’t there. They came and chained up a man next to Malden, a middle-aged starveling whose eyes were quite mad. He stared at Malden without speaking until Malden turned to the man on his other side.

“You,” Malden said, to the surly fellow. He needed information and no other source provided itself. “What did they get you for, then?”

“What’s it to ye?”

“I’m a scholar of justice,” Malden told him.

That elicited a brief laugh, though little humor. “They never said why. Just grabbed me up outta me bed. Mind, I suppose I deserve to be here more’n some.”

“You’re a thief, then?” Malden asked. The other bridled so he held up his hands for peace. “I’m in the trade myself,” he explained, “and will say as much to any man who asks.”

“Alright, then. Call me a thief, if ye like.”

Malden nodded eagerly. Then he ran his hands across the rushes on the floor. As expected there was a thick layer of dust underneath. He cleared some rushes away, then drew in the dust with his finger, sketching a heart transfixed by a key.

The other thief stared down at the image. Malden knew right away that the man recognized the symbol—he knew it for the mark of Cutbill, the master of the thieves’ guild in Ness. He had worried that the symbol might not be known in Helstrow.

The other thief slid one foot through the drawing, obliterating it before anyone else could see. “You’re his man?” he asked.

Malden nodded.

“We got our own boss here, though I shan’t say his name out loud, not in this place. You can have what they call me, though, which is Velmont.”

“Malden.”

The two of them clasped hands, but only for a moment.

The thief made a point of looking away as he spoke out of the side of his mouth. “Now maybe my boss has heard o’ your boss. Maybe they’s even friends. Well, men of business will come together, eh, and find ways to help each other out, from time to time. Still, I don’t know what you’re after, showing me that.”

Malden frowned. “Just a bit of knowledge, really. The watch here—the kingsmen—are rounding up every scofflaw in town, it seems. I’ve never seen such a complete sweep before. Unless you tell me this is a common occurrence in Helstrow—”

“It ain’t.”

“—then I can only wonder why they’re being so thorough. There must be a hundred men in this room. And why here? This looks like a banquet hall, not a dungeon. The only reason to put us here is if the gaol is already full. And that means there must be plenty more of us stashed in other places, too. Maybe hundreds of men. Surely the king doesn’t intend to hang us all. He wouldn’t need to slaughter so many just to improve public morale.”

Velmont scratched himself. “It started just a few days ago. Folks that’d been in the game far longer’n me—folks that shoulda been untouchable, like—got scooped up in the middle o’ the night. Then they started raiding the gambling houses and the brothels at dawn.” He shrugged. “No one tells us anything, o’ course. We’re just peasants, what do we need t’know? But ’twas at the same time, that all the honest men in town got taken outside the wall to learn how to shoot a bow.” The thief shook his head. “You just in town today? Your accent says you’re from Ness, is that right?”

Malden assented with a nod.

“You picked a lousy time to come see Helstrow, friend. Now, I don’t think we’re to be killed. No, not as such. But I’ve been wondering ’bout what they’re up to meself, and there’s only one conclusion I can draw. Conscription.”

“They’re going to press us into military service?”

“Give us a choice, like.” Velmont smiled wickedly. “The noose or the army. Well, I know my answer already.”

“I suppose we all do. That must be what they’re counting on. By law they can’t force freemen to fight for the king—”

“But a prisoner’s another story, aye.”

Conjecture was all Velmont had to go on, but what he said made sense to Malden. Why the king wanted an army now, of all times, Malden had no idea. The two thieves discussed various theories for some time, without coming to any further useful ideas.

They were still talking when the sun went down and darkness filled the hall. The only light they had came from the fire in the hearth. All around them men laid down as best they could and curled themselves in sleep. Those who still spoke softly amongst themselves all seemed to agree that they were to be kept in the banquet hall overnight at the very least. So when someone entered the hall with a lantern and started shining it in the faces of the imprisoned, everyone sat up and looked. Velmont and Malden fell silent and tried to look as if they’d never spoken to one another. They were in enough trouble as it was and didn’t need to be accused of conspiracy.

The lantern moved up and down the hall. The guards never spoke, just played their light over each face and then moved on, clearly not finding what they sought. As the guard with the lantern came closer, Malden somehow knew they were coming for him. When the light hit his face, he refused to blink. The guard beckoned to someone else—a kingsman—who came rushing up out of the darkness. Then the guard pointed one accusing finger at Malden. “Him.”

CHAPTER TEN

“This way, sir knight, milady,” the castellan said, and ushered them inside a low-ceilinged room. “Please wait here until you are officially presented.”

“What are we waiting for?” Cythera asked. “I don’t understand. We wanted to talk to the magistrate, so we could find out where our friend is being held.”

“I was bidden only to bring you here, where you may await your audience,” the castellan told her. Then he stepped backward out into the hall and closed the door behind him.

Croy stared at the doors, wondering exactly what was going on. Why had they been brought here, of all places? Why now?

Cythera turned to him and asked, “This doesn’t look like a law court. Where are we?”

The knight cleared his throat. “The privy council chamber. This is where the king consults his closest advisors.”

“And—our audience? Who have we been summoned to see? One of those advisors?”

Croy could barely speak for the emotion he felt. This room—this very room. “I don’t know why we were brought here,” he said at last.

Cythera sighed deeply and went to sit down. It had been a very long day for her, Croy thought. They’d had to run from office to office in the inner bailey, looking for anyone who might tell them where Malden might be, or who might take charge of Balint so they didn’t have to keep looking after her. They had at least succeeded in the latter goal. They had been allowed to turn the dwarf prisoner over to the king’s equerry, of all people—the official in charge of the royal stables. It seemed there was nowhere else in the inner bailey that wasn’t already full of prisoners.

No one could tell them anything about Malden. But after they had approached the keep, where they were told some prisoners were being held, the castellan himself had come looking for them, and he had brought them here.

Here. To this room.

Croy had been inside the privy council chamber before, many times. There had been a time he had stood in this room every day. The Ancient Blades had been forged to slay demons, but by the time Croy received Ghostcutter from his father there had been too few demons left to justify having five knights just for that purpose. Instead the bearers of the Blades had been commissioned to be the personal bodyguards of the king—the previous king, Ulfram IV.

It was in this room that Ulfram IV had died. A villainous councilor had slipped poison into his mutton. The Ancient Blades had caught the councilor before he could escape but it was already too late. It was also in this room that his son, Ulfram V, current sovereign of Skrae, had blamed the bodyguards for his father’s death, and stripped them of their commission. He would have done far more to them, if he’d been able to prove they had anything to do with the assassination, but everyone knew the sacred honor of the Blades. All he could do was send them forth from Helstrow in disgrace.

Croy remembered that day very well. It had been the worst day of his life. In some ways he would have preferred to have been hanged rather than face that shame. That was the day he became a knight errant—a servant without a master.

He had never expected to enter this room again.

He looked around him and saw how little had changed. The shields hanging on the walls were a bit rustier than they had been. The upholstery on the chairs that lined the walls had been changed from red to green, that was all, really. Then he spotted the one significant change.

A tapestry map covered one wall of the chamber, a cunning depiction of the natural and political features of Skrae picked out in minute embroidery of silken floss. The Whitewall—the mountain range that formed Skrae’s eastern border—had been stitched from thread of silver, and it glittered in the firelight. Except for one dull patch.

Croy approached the map and looked more closely. It was as he expected. Someone had used the point of a knife to pick out all the threads that had made up the image of Cloudblade, the kingdom’s tallest mountain. Which only made sense, since the mountain wasn’t there any more.

Croy blushed to think of the part he’d had in that.

“Croy,” Cythera said, turning to him to speak in a hurried whisper, “I don’t know what we’re doing here. But I’m certain that once it’s done we should leave Helstrow as soon as possible. My mother sent me a message today, telling me to come home.”

“She sent a message here? How did the messenger find you?”

“She didn’t send me a letter,” Cythera pointed out. “She has other methods of getting her point across. It doesn’t matter how it was done. She said that things were about to change, that all seven of the Ancient Blades were coming here. She said many things I didn’t understand. We need to find Malden as soon as possible and—”

She stopped because there was a knock on the door, and then two prisoners were brought inside. Balint and Malden, both of them in chains. Croy rushed toward Malden’s side, intending to ask his friend what had happened, but he was not given time. The same guard who brought in the prisoners had an announcement to make.

“All bow for His Majesty Ulfram Taer, Fifth of that Name!”

It was to be a royal audience, then. They had been brought here to wait for the king himself. It made no sense. Yet Croy knew exactly what to do. He drew his sword and held it before him with the point on the floor, then knelt behind it. He lowered his head as far as it would go.

“Oh, do stand up, Croy,” the king said. “And put that thing away before you scratch up the floorboards.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Ulfram V was a year younger than Croy, but the strain of ruling a nation had aged him prematurely. The hair on his chin had turned gray since the last time the two had seen each other, and a constant diet of rich foods had swollen his belly. It was held almost in check now by a steel breastplate and gorget that he wore over his state robes.

When Croy saw the king’s armor, he knew at once the explanation for many of the strange things he’d seen since coming to Helstrow. The king of Skrae only wore such protection in times of war.

“My liege,” Croy said, “I beseech your mercy, and honor your rank, for—”

“Shut up,” the king said, in a tone that could not be argued with. “I told you never to come back here, didn’t I? Don’t bother answering. I know I did. But here you are. I could have you hanged, right now. Unfortunately for me, however, it turns out I have need of you, Croy. So I’m going to let you live.”

Croy said nothing, only lowered his head further.

“I have very little time for this audience, so we’ll dispense with formal salutations, I think,” the king told him. “I seem to recall that when I took away your commission, you said some pointlessly devout thing about never forgetting your vows anyway. Is that right?”

“It is,” Croy said, and dropped to one knee again. “The vow I made to you is a sacred bond. I swore it on the name of the Lady, and to break that promise would cost me my utter soul. I will forever be your vassal, your majesty.”

The king sighed and waved for Croy to stand again. “Very well. As of now you’re reinstated as one of my knights. I suppose you’ll want a ceremony for that or something, but I don’t care. You’ll report immediately to Sir Hew at the gatehouse. He’ll give you your orders. You may leave me now—I have these others to account for.”

“Majesty,” Croy said. He almost knelt again, but thought better of it. “I came here for a reason. It’s of these two prisoners I wished to speak.”

The king had started to turn away, to address Balint. Now he stopped and for a long moment he stood in silence, a confused expression on his face. “I beg your pardon? You wished to speak to me?” he asked. He seemed more surprised than angry. “You have been errant a long time, knight. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that a vassal does not speak to the king unless he is bidden.”

Croy lowered his head. “Your forgiveness, Majesty. Yet you must know of the crimes of this dwarf, and the innocence of this man. Justice demands that I speak.”

The king crossed over to one of the chairs against the wall and sat down. It was a chair like any other in the room, but by virtue of Ulfram V’s presence, it legally became a throne at that moment. Croy knelt before it.

“Just make haste,” the king said. “I’m quite busy at the moment.”

Croy kept his head bowed. “This dwarf is an oathbreaker. I’ll bear witness to the fact, in any court you decree. She is a murderer and a despoiler. A … poisoner,” he added. Ever since his father’s death, the king had been especially frightened of poisoners. It was cruel of Croy to even speak the word in this room, but it was the truth, and it needed to be aired. “She took up arms against humans and … others. She laid waste to an entire city, by deceit, by design, and by use of weapons.”

Ulfram turned to look at the dwarf. “Is this true?” he asked.

“Every fucking word of it,” Balint told the king. She rolled her eyes. “Do your worst, and send me on my way. I’ve an itch on my buttocks I can’t scratch, not with my hands tied like this.”

“Another pointless delay!” the king screeched. Pressing his fingertips against his temples, he called out to his servants in the hall. “Fetch a scribe! Have him bring parchment and ink. And someone unchain her. What is your name, dwarf?”

“Balint.”

Croy glared at her. “When addressing the king, you will call him, ‘your majesty’, or—”

“Or not. I certainly don’t care,” Ulfram said. Croy’s shoulders tensed. He’d always thought kings should be slightly aloof, detached at least from the lesser folk they governed. Ulfram V clearly thought otherwise—he’d always disdained the careful phrases of court etiquette and spoke plainly as a peasant. That was his right, of course—the king could speak how he chose to whom he chose. If Croy found it unseemly that was his own problem.

“It seems I’m to be merciful today,” the king said. “Believe me, it’s not by choice. Any other day if you came here under these accusations I’d exile you on the spot. I have very little patience for those who won’t do as they’re told.”

Balint said nothing. Her face was a mask of nonchalance, though Croy could see her bound hands were trembling.

“Tell me,” Ulfram said. “Can you repair a broken ballista?”

“Any dwarf could do that,” Balint assured him.

The king nodded. “And you laid waste to a city. That’s what Croy said. He does tend to exaggerate, but you don’t deny the charge. So you know how to conduct a siege. Do you know how to defend cities, too, or is it just destroying them you’re good at?”

“I’m trained in all manner of siegecraft,” Balint said. “I can work either side.”

“Sometimes the Lady drops Her blessings right in our laps.” The king reached down and put a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “I’m going to give you a pardon for all crimes you may have committed in the past,” he told her.

Croy’s jaw fell.

“I assume that will earn me some gratitude. Perhaps,” the king went on, “you’ll consent to come work for me. I am in desperate need of sappers and engineers. Are we agreed?”

“Do I have to kiss your royal fucking codpiece or something to seal the deal?” Balint asked.

The king studied her carefully, then raised one eyebrow. “No.”

“Then I’m all yours.”

“Your majesty!” Croy objected. “I—I can’t believe that—”

But then he stopped. He couldn’t finish that thought out loud. He wasn’t a knight errant anymore. He had lost certain freedoms the moment he was recommissioned. Questioning the king’s word was one of them. “I beg your pardon, Majesty. I will be silent now.”

“That’ll be a nice change of pace,” the king told him. “Very good. Milady Balint, you’ll report to the keep. Sir Goris is the master of the armory there—tell him I want a full inventory of every trebuchet, battering ram and mantlet in our possession, and how many more of the same can be constructed in short order. Goris is a fool of parts. He knows the difference between a besagew and a rerebrace, but I’m not sure he can tell his hundreds from his thousands, so double check every number he gives you. We’ll have much to discuss later, so stay close by.”

Balint bowed low and said, “Your majesty.”

“One thing,” the king said, before dismissing her. “Sir Croy may be an idiot but all the same if he says someone’s not to be trusted he’s probably right. Serve me well and we’ll forget about your indiscretions. Betray me and I’ll send you back to the dwarven kingdom sealed up in a barrel like salt pork. Do you understand?”

Balint nodded agreeably. Then she marched out of the room with her chin up. She couldn’t resist giving an evil snicker as she walked past Croy.

“Now, this one—your name is Malden, is that right? And you’re a thief?”

“My name is Malden, your majesty,” Malden said, glancing over at Croy and Cythera. He pleaded silently with his eyes.

Yet what could Croy do? If he tried to free Malden now, he’d be breaking his promise to the king. And that was unthinkable.

“Sir Hew took you into custody this morning. Ordinarily he would have sent you to the magistrates, but he told me there was something special about your case, and of course, my time is valued so little around here that he insisted I judge you personally. Apparently you were in possession, at the time of your arrest, of one of the famous swords. The blasted Ancient Blades.”

“The one called Acidtongue, highness,” Malden confirmed.

“A rather valuable piece of iron.” The king frowned. His eye took in Malden’s cheap cloak, the lack of flesh on his bones. “Look, lad, it’s clear that you stole the blade. You’re no more a swordsman than I’m a fishwife. So I’ll give you the same choice I plan on giving every criminal and vagrant in this city. You can go back to the gaol and wait until I have time to hang you properly. Or—if you prefer—I can enlist you in my army as a foot soldier, and you can earn forgiveness through military service. Assuming you survive.”

“Begging your majesty’s pardon, I like neither of those options,” Malden said.

“No, I don’t suppose you would. But that’s what I’m offering.”

“To a guilty man, yes. But I am innocent. I did not steal the sword. It was given to me freely by its rightful owner—Sir Croy.”

Every eye in the room turned to stare at the knight.