David Chandler
Den of thieves
Prologue
Nearly one hundred thousand people lived in the Free City of Ness, stuffed like rats in a sack too small to contain them all. The city was less than a mile across and filled every cranny of the hill encircled by its high defensive wall. At midnight, seen from a hill two miles to the north, it was the only light in the nighttime landscape, a bright ember smoldering in the midst of dark fields that rolled to the horizon. It looked, frankly, like all it needed was one good gust of wind to stir it up into a great whoosh of flame.
Bikker grinned to see it, though he knew it was only a trick of perspective. He was a giant of a man with a wild, coarse beard and a magic sword on his belt. He did not know how the other two members of the cabal felt, but for himself, hed love to watch the Free City of Ness burn.
The lights he saw came from a thousand windows and the forges of a hundred workshops and manufactories. The city supplied the kingdom of Skrae with all the iron and steel it needed, most of the leather goods, and an endless river of spoons and buckles, as well as lanterns and combs made of horn. The guilds worked through the night, every night, filling the endless demand. Streamers of smoke rose from every chimney, rising like boiling columns of darkness that obliterated the stars, while half the windows in the city were illuminated by burning candles as an army of scribes, clerks, and accounters scratched at their ledger books.
On the near side of the river, gambling houses blazed with light, while whores marched up and down long avenues carrying lanterns to attract passersby. Half the city, it seemed, was still awake. Dyou suppose any of em know whats coming? Bikker asked.
For the sake of our scheme, I pray they do not, his employer said. Bikker had never seen the man. Even now the mastermind of the cabal was ensconced in a darkened carriage pulled by two white horses that pawed at the turf. The horses bore no brands or marks, and the driver wore no livery. The coach might have belonged to any number of fine houses-all its insignia had been removed.
A slender white hand emerged from a window of the coach, holding a purse of gold by its strings. Bikker took the payment-the latest of many such-and shoved it inside his chain mail shirt. For your sake, I advise sealed lips.
Dont worry, I can be discreet when I choose, Bikker said with a laugh. Though what a juicy tale I could tell! In a month the city will be torn in half, and the streets will be lined with the dead. How many lights do you think will show then? And no one will ever know what part I played in it all.
No, they will not, the third member of the cabal said. Bikker turned to face Hazoth, whose visage was covered in a thick veil of black crepe. As much as Bikker disliked this business of unseen associates, he supposed he was glad for that veil. It was not good to look on the naked face of a sorcerer. If you cannot maintain silence, I can enforce it on you. Dont forget your place. Your part in this is minimal.
Bikker shrugged. He knew that perfectly well. Hed been hired to perform a variety of small services, but mostly because he was probably the only person in the city who could stop these two, if he so chose. When hed agreed to meet with them-and then agreed to their tentative, secretive offer-theyd been comically grateful. His reputation preceded him, and they didnt dare offend his vanity. But they never truly let him forget that he was their lackey. I do what Im told when Im paid. Gold has a way of stifling the tongue. I know better than to ask of him, Bikker said, jutting one thumb toward the occupant of the coach, but what are you getting out of this, wizard? What could he pay you that you cant just magic up on your own?
Ive agreed to turn a blind eye to Hazoths experiments, the coachs occupant said, once I rule the city. Does that trouble you?
There had been a time when that would have given Bikker pause, indeed. Sorcerers could be dangerous. Hazoth stank of brimstone and the pit, and he was capable of things mortal men should never try. Sometimes sorcerers made mistakes and the whole world paid. The sword at Bikkers side was a testament to how high the price had once been-it was sworn to the defense of the realm against the demons a sorcerer could summon up but couldnt always control.
Thered been a time when Bikker was sworn to that same defense. But the world had changed. Times had changed. He too had changed. Any belief hed had in nobility or service was ground down by a mill wheel that moved very slowly, but never stopped. Once, hed been a champion of humankind.
Now he only shrugged. He peered down at the city. From here, it might have been a nest of termites clambering over themselves and their dung heap. Slaughter em all. Feed em to your pets, Hazoth, if you like! By then Ill be far enough away not to care.
Indeed. The gold in that purse will take you far. And there is more to come, once you have fulfilled your part of our design. You know the next step?
Oh, aye, Bikker said. He spat in the direction of the city as if he would put out all those fires with one gob. Next thing to do is find our unwitting fourth. A fool was required, someone who would have no idea what he was doing. Without such a pawn, the plan could go nowhere. I need to scare us up a thief.
Part I
Chapter One
There were evil little things skulking in the shadows, their eyes very bright in the gloom. In every burned-out shell of an old house, Malden could hear their tiny footsteps and the occasional whisper. No lights at all showed in this part of town, and the fog hid both moon and stars. The lantern Malden carried could paint a crumbling wall with yellow light, or show him where the cobblestones had been pried up and deep pools of mud awaited an unwary step. It could not, however, pierce the darkness that coiled inside the ruined houses and stables, nor show who was watching him so intently.
He didnt like this.
He didnt like the time of the meeting, an hour past midnight. He did not like the location: down by the wall, near the river gate, in the wasteland called the Ashes. In the same year he was born this whole district had been consumed by the Seven Day Fire. Because the doss-houses and knackeries down here belonged to the poorest of the poor, no effort was made since then to rebuild or even to tear down the gutted remains. No one lived here if they had any choice, and the Ashes had been abandoned to decay. Now limp weeds were sprouting from between the forgotten cobbles, while vines strangled the fallen roof timbers or slowly chewed on the ancient smoke-damaged bricks. Eventually nature would reclaim this zone entirely, and Malden, who had never set foot outside the city since he was born, found this distinctly uncomfortable-the concept that part of the city itself, which was his whole notion of permanence, could rot and die and be effaced.
Behind him something dashed across a forgotten street. He whirled to catch it with his light. Despite well-honed reflexes he was still not quick enough to see what it was, only that it disappeared through the gaping hole where a window had once looked out on the street. His hand went to the bodkin he kept at his hip but he dared not draw it. You never showed your weapon until you were ready to strike.
Malden stopped where he was and tried to prepare. If an attack was coming, it would come quickly, and being braced for it would make all the difference. His eyes showed him little-the scorched beams and the soot-stained street were all of a color by his little light. So he turned to his other senses in his search for signs. He heard nothing but the creaking of old, strained wood, the sifting of ash. He could smell the smoke of the fire, so many years gone.
Behind him he heard soft footsteps. The sound of bare feet slapping against charred timber. Only for a moment, before the sound stopped and he was left in silence again. Silence so profound-and so rare in the clamoring city. It sounded like a roaring in his ears.
He turned slowly on his heel, scanning the empty door frames on every side, the twisting little roads that curled between the buildings. He longed to get his back against something solid. There was a brick building up ahead, or at least the husk of one. Its roof was gone and one wall had come down. The other three still stood, however, and if he could get inside them, at least he would not have to worry about being attacked from behind. He hurried forward, his lantern held high-and then a noise from quite close by stopped him in his tracks.
One of the watchers had stepped out into the street behind him. He heard its feet splashing in a puddle. This time, however, it did not rush off as he turned to see it. This time it held its ground.
Even before he completed his turn his hand was on the hilt of his knife. He hesitated to draw, however, when he saw the creature he faced. It was a child, a girl no more than seven years old. She wore a stained shift of homespun and had rags wrapped around her feet in place of shoes. She also had a hammer clutched before her in both hands. Her eyes stayed on his face and they did not blink.
Malden spread his own hands wide, showing her they were empty. He took a step toward her, and when she did not flee, he took another. He reached down toward her and suddenly the street was full of ragged children. They seemed to emerge from the mist as if generated spontaneously from the cold and the damp, like fungus from a rotting log. They were of both sexes, and varied in apparent age, but were dressed all alike in torn shirts and tunics too big for their skinny frames. And they all held makeshift weapons. One had a carpenters saw. Another held a cobblers awl. Bits of wood with protruding nails. A length of iron chain. One of them, a boy older than the rest, had a woodsmans hatchet that he held down against his thigh as if he knew how to use it.
A gang of orphans, Malden thought. A band of urchins joined together in their poverty to waylay any traveler foolish enough to come here by night. A ragged little army. There were dozens of them, and though he was certain he could best even the older boy in a fair fight, he could see in their eyes they held no concept of fairness or justice, such things as impossible and mythical in their experience as the continents the sages claimed lay beyond the sea. They would be on him in a heap, slashing and hitting and pounding and mauling him until he was dead. They would offer no quarter or mercy.