Then there was a knock on the lid of the coffin, and he sucked in air at last. Anyone home? someone asked, the voice thick with mockery.
Let yourself in and have a look around the place, Malden replied.
The owner of the voice laughed wickedly but said no more.
It did not take Malden long to realize no one would come to release him from the coffin-that he would have to find his own way out. He was able to draw his bodkin easily enough, but then found it difficult to maneuver it within the coffin without stabbing himself. It was not much of a weapon, a triangular piece of iron that tapered to a sharp point. By law it was the largest knife he was allowed to own, the blade no longer than his hand from the ball of his thumb to the tip of his middle finger. It had no edge, just the point, and was only good for stabbing in a fight. But then, he wasnt a violent man by nature, and the bodkin was more than it appeared to be. Hed found many uses for it in the past, and killing had so far not been one of them. It served him well as he jabbed the point into the thin seam between box and lid. Without leverage it took some time to pry the lid upward, but when he did he was rewarded by a thin stream of light and-much more blessedly-a new breath of air.
The nails in the lid shrieked as he worked to free himself. Eventually he had the lid open enough to push it outward with his hands. Returning the knife to its sheath, he sat up and looked around.
The room was broad but low, its ceiling propped up on stout beams so it looked not unlike a mine shaft. The walls were bare, close-packed earth that glistened with condensation. The place was well lit by more than a dozen candles, some backed by reflectors of copper that added a rosy tint to the light. On a divan on one side of the room sat a man in a leather jerkin and particolored hose. He had the thick shoulders of a warrior, not a thief. Upon his lap was a redheaded girl with her bodice unlaced. She laughed prettily as he tickled her. Neither of them spared him a glance. In another corner of the room a group of men in colorless cloaks were throwing dice against a wall and cheering or groaning the result.
The final occupant of the room was a dwarf who might have been the epitome of his people. Dwarves were rare in Ness-rare anywhere in Skrae-but enough of them had come down from their northern kingdom, looking for work, that Malden was jaded to their presence. They were master craftsmen, brilliant artificers who could make better tools and finer wares than any human artisan. Dwarves alone knew the secret of making proper steel and thus were highly prized and given special rights wherever they turned up in human lands. Like all his folk, this one was skinny, perhaps four feet tall, and his flesh was as white as the belly of a fish. He had a wild mop of filthy black hair and a tangled beard. He was dressed only in leather breeches and was sewing pieces of metal into a silk glove. He glanced up briefly at Malden, then shook his head and went back to work.
Malden looked away and turned in a slow circle to make sure hed seen all of the room. He did not want to miss some hidden threat, not now. Directly behind him, he saw the chute through which he had descended, a construction of thin hammered tin. It had been smeared with brown grease that glimmered dully in the candlelight. He could probably get back up that way, given enough time-and assuming no one tried to stop him.
The man on the couch had a sword at his hip, and Malden did not doubt that the others were armed as well. Someone, he figured, would try to stop him. After all, hed been summoned here for a reason. If he tried to run away now he would be thwarting that purpose. Based on what the oldsters had said aboveground, he would not be allowed to escape in one piece.
A little stiffly, Malden climbed out of the coffin and regained his feet. He dusted himself off and strode over to the divan, intent on learning what he was expected to do next. The bravo on the divan looked up expectantly. You must have made an impression on the three masters above, he said. Malden instantly recognized his voice as the one that had spoken to him when he was inside the coffin.
Oh? he asked.
They let you keep your clothes and that knife at your belt. Sometimes the ones they send down here come naked.
Im quite personable when you get to know me, Malden said. Now, if youd be so kind as to direct me to your master? Im told he wishes to speak with me.
The bravos eyebrows drew together. And what makes you think the master of this place is not here, right before you?
Malden bowed in apology. Organization like this, in such a secret place, leads me to believe only one man in the Free City might be master here. A man I know only by reputation, but that reputation leads me to believe certain things about him. I doubt hes one of these gamblers, who kneel and dice for pennies. I am relatively certain he is no dwarf, and she-well Malden searched his memory. Her name is Rhona. Shes one of Madam Herwigs girls, from the House of Sighs up on the Royal Ditch. The girl looked up at him with wide eyes, but he merely smiled at her in return. There were very few harlots in the city who Malden could not recognize on sight. As for yourself, well, I do not think you are the chief here. While you cut a striking figure, sir, I will not believe you if you say your name is Cutbill.
At the sound of the name everyone in the room glanced over their shoulder. Even the bravo and his playmate frowned. Yet in a moment all concerns were forgotten again and the bravo laughed boisterously, which got the girl giggling as well. Youre smarter than we credited, he said.
Yet not so arrogant in that wisdom, as to have avoided this summons in the first place, Malden said.
The bravo picked the girl up in his strong arms and put her back down on the divan as he rose and came bounding over to take Maldens hand. Im Bellard. I serve the one you named on those occasions when subtlety has failed.
Well met. Im called Malden.
Bellard laughed again. Oh, I know your name all right. And youre correct, the master is waiting on your pleasure. Hes just through there. Bellard made a sweeping gesture toward the far wall, where a stained curtain hung.
So I just go through there, do I? Malden asked.
The bravo smiled. If you can, youre well on your way.
Malden bowed and headed to the curtain. Twitching it back, he found a wide door set into the wall, made of stout oak with massive iron hinges. A thick iron ring would open it. There was just one problem. A thick bar of iron passed through the ring and was anchored in either wall. It was held shut by the largest padlock he had ever seen.
Chapter Four
Well. He knew what to do with locks.
Malden drew his bodkin and held it by the blade. The grip was formed of a very long piece of stout cord wrapped countless times around the hilt, ostensibly to create a more comfortable handle for the weapon. In fact the cord served far less obvious purposes. He picked at it until one end came free, then spooled it out with a practiced motion. Woven into the cord were his tools: picks, rakes, hooks, and a pair of tension wrenches. Two different skeleton keys for different size locks. These tiny pieces of steel were the most valuable things Malden owned, worth far more than their weight in gold. Worth his life if he were ever caught with them, for they had no legal use-their only function was to allow locks to be opened by someone who lacked the proper key.
He placed the tools carefully in order on the floor beside him, then knelt before the door to examine the lock more closely.
Right theres a famous example of the locksmiths art, Bellard said from behind his shoulder. Originally it secured the door of the seraglio of the northern chieftain Krolt. Imagine the exotic and untamed beauties it locked away, eh?
Malden wondered if they had been half as comely as the lock itself. It was a thing of exquisite craftsmanship, no doubt-probably built by a dwarf, considering its complexity. The recurved case was wider than his two hands put together. It was made of bronze worked with copper, which sadly had grown furry with verdigris over the ages. The front was lined with rivets of brass sculpted to resemble handsome female faces. So profoundly intricate was the workmanship that each face had recognizably different features, and each was more lovely than the next.
The locks shackle, also of brass, was cast in the shape of a maidens braided hair. The massive keyhole was covered in a sliding plate to keep out dust and moisture that might foul the mechanism inside. When Malden drew the plate back he saw that the keyhole was big enough that he could reach inside with two fingers-if he dared. The key that opened this lock must have been the size of a shortsword.
The rooms fitful light did not permit him to see much inside the lock mechanism, but picking a lock was a skill of the fingers, not of the eyes. He selected a saw rake from his tools and the larger of his tension wrenches. He hoped it would be large enough. He willed his hands not to tremble as he inserted the rake most carefully inside the keyhole and began feeling around for wards or tumblers.
When his rake made contact, the entire lock seemed to thrum as if a spring had been released inside. He just had time to see the rivets move before he jumped backward and caught himself with his hands on the floor. His picks went flying and clanged musically on the stones, but for the moment he forgot all about them.
Youre quicker than we credited, as well, Bellard said. He did not laugh this time.
The rivets shaped like the faces of women were not rivets at all, Malden saw. They were more similar to the dust plate covering the keyhole in that they could slide away from concealed holes in the face of the lock. From each of these holes now emerged a needle as big as a carpentry nail. Had he not jumped back in time, those nails would have scratched his hands in a dozen places. He looked closer and saw that the tip of each nail was coated in a straw-colored fluid.
Youre quicker than we credited, as well, Bellard said. He did not laugh this time.
The rivets shaped like the faces of women were not rivets at all, Malden saw. They were more similar to the dust plate covering the keyhole in that they could slide away from concealed holes in the face of the lock. From each of these holes now emerged a needle as big as a carpentry nail. Had he not jumped back in time, those nails would have scratched his hands in a dozen places. He looked closer and saw that the tip of each nail was coated in a straw-colored fluid.