too-small cloak over his shoulders and let the tailor lead him through the dim corridors of the chancery, the unassuming building where the city’s administrative work was carried out. They came through a dark refectory and then down a short passage that led to a chapel. A gilded cornucopia, symbol of the Lady, hung there above a modest altar. There were no pews, just a scattering of straw-filled cushions on the floor where supplicants could kneel. This was not a chapel for the use of the Burgrave and his family, but for the clerks and scribes of Anselm Vry’s ministries-commoners, if well-paid commoners.
With a thin smile, the tailor bid Bikker to kneel. Perhaps he thought it would be amusing to see the knight in an attitude of prayer.
For Bikker it was anything but diverting. There had been a time when he stood vigil in far ruder churches. He’d been a sworn vassal of the king once. A champion of virtue. He took his place on his knees, the muscles of his back locking obediently into place. There was a certain method one learned to kneeling all night, a way of staying upright even when your body demanded sleep. He resisted the urge to place Acidtongue before him, his hands folded neatly on the pommel. He would not mock what he had once been, no matter what Croy might think of him now.
Croy. Croy was here. Bikker’s skin itched at the thought. The foolish knight could cause all kinds of problems if he chose to poke his nose in where it wasn’t wanted. Croy still considered himself one of the noble order of the Ancient Blades-which meant that whenever he discovered wrongdoing or malfeasance, he was honor-bound to root it out, uncover the criminals, and bring them to punishment. If Croy even guessed at the work of the cabal… but Bikker knew he could handle Sir Croy, if it came to that. He had trained Croy-had taught the younger knight everything he knew about holding a sword. But he hadn’t taught Croy everything he knew himself. Bikker still had a few tricks up his sleeve that Croy had never seen.
“It’s done,” a voice behind Bikker said, startling him. “The crown has left Castle Hill. Good.” Bikker did not turn to see who was speaking. His employer had been quite clear from the start that he did not wish his face to be seen. “Not as neatly as I’d hoped. But plenty of people saw the guardian demon before it was slain-that was to my liking. It will further humiliate Tarness.”
“If you like, I can ride tonight for Helstrow. There I can inform the king that the Burgrave of Ness has been harboring demons,” Bikker mused. He didn’t relish the prospect-he was not well-loved in the royal fortress just now. But it would further their aims, and it would get him far from Ness before things went to perdition.
“Not just now. We’ll hold that charge back as insurance. No, Ladymas is almost upon us. When Tarness appears in public without the crown, he’ll be unable to explain himself. If we’re lucky, the people will riot on their own, without further provocation. By manipulating their anger, we can inspire them to true revolt. The city will collapse under civil strife, and the king will have no choice but to intervene.”
Bikker frowned. He stared up at the cornucopia as he asked, “That’s the part I haven’t fully grasped. The Burgrave will look a fool if he appears without his crown, true enough. But he’s a man of formidable intellectual resources. Surely he’ll find some excuse and the people will believe it. They love him, after all.”
“They love him. They will not love what they see on Ladymas.” The voice seemed to find this highly amusing. “Trust me, Bikker. I’ve had years to plot this out. I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“I’m sure,” Bikker said. He wondered if he should tell his employer about Croy. But no. If the cabal thought Croy was a threat, they would take steps to slay the knight errant as a concerted front. Bikker didn’t want that. He wanted Croy all to himself. So he held his tongue.
“Now. You know what you must do next? What your role is now?”
“Aye, I’ll secure the crown. Get it to Hazoth’s villa where it can be hidden.”
“Exactly. Get the crown from the thief-pay him whatever he asks, it doesn’t matter.”
Bikker smiled. “Sure, since as soon as the crown is in my hands I can just kill the little fool and take the money back.”
“What? No, you mustn’t kill the thief. You’re already a wanted criminal after tonight’s endeavors. It’s still against the law in this city to kill a man, and I don’t want Anselm Vry’s watchmen to pick you up for such a minor infraction. Not while I still need you. No, just pay the thief and let him be.”
Bikker grunted in frustration. “This doesn’t sit well with me. The thief knows too much, and he’s hardly to be trusted. Leaving him alive is foolhardy.”
“Yes, I’m aware of it. Which is why Hazoth is going to kill him. No need to get your hands dirty when we have one of the world’s greatest sorcerers on our side.”
“As you wish,” Bikker said. Though it still rankled him. Not because he thought Hazoth wouldn’t do it. Because he had intended to give Malden-whom he had actually come to respect, after a fashion-a clean death. He could only imagine the particulars, but he was sure that what Hazoth did to the thief would be downright gruesome in comparison.
Chapter Thirty-One
Croy and Cythera spent much of the night in furtive silence, as they wended their way from Castle Hill all the way down to Parkwall. The city watch was out in force and looking for them, and they had to take great pains to avoid capture.
Twice they came close to discovery. They had docked their little boat in the Smoke, in a place where two tanneries discharged the contents of their vats directly into the Skrait. Cythera thought the smell would keep the watch away and they could debark unseen. They nearly walked right into an armed guard who stood watching a pile of untanned hides that had just been delivered. The guard challenged them as they came up the riverside stairs, and they had to run as he chased them with a club. Croy could have made short work of the man, of course, but that would have just drawn more attention.
The second brush with the watch was more serious. They had arrived nearly at the edge of Ladypark Common, within sight of Hazoth’s villa and the house where Croy was staying-only to find the grassy sward crawling with watchmen. The two of them retreated to a tavern a few streets away, where they were able to find out why the common was so heavily guarded. It transpired that a footpad had murdered the footman of a money-changer there earlier in the evening. It had been a particularly bloody killing, and the watch was called down in droves to find evidence and look for the assassin.
“They won’t find him,” Cythera said, when she and Croy could speak privately again. “That was Bikker’s work.”
“Are you sure?” Croy asked, looking as if he would grab his swords and run out into the night to find the big swordsman.
“No,” she said. “I can’t prove anything. But he was supposed to set a number of diversions, all the better to keep the watch away from Castle Hill. I didn’t think he’d be so… expedient about it.”
Croy settled down then. In his personal book of accounts, Bikker already had enough crimes under his name. One more didn’t change how he felt.
They took a room at the tavern under assumed names and spent the night waiting for a knock on their door or the sound of hobnailed boots rushing down the hall. No one came to arrest them, though, or even to ask them difficult questions. When morning finally came it seemed they were safe. The patrols of the watch had diminished in size and frequency, and both of them began to breathe easier.
“I have to go back soon,” Cythera said as she led Croy through the Ladypark Market, a winding street of shops and stalls just uphill from Hazoth’s villa. Fishmongers wheeled their carts from door to door-this early, the day’s catch had not yet begun to stink-as linkboys hurried home to bed, to wait out the day until their services were again required. Minutes before, the two of them had had the place virtually to themselves, but now the city’s throngs closed around them. Bakers and brewers were already at their stations, of course, long before the dawn. With the sun, the market truly came to life, however, filling with women getting their daily shopping done.
Croy found himself strangely unwilling to give up the heightened emotion of their night outrunning the watch. As fraught as it had been with apprehension, he’d savored the time with his lady fair. He supposed, though, that every night, no matter its freight of sweetness or of terror, must end. The morning had broken crisp and clear while they were renewing their old acquaintance-he had longed for the sun to tarry beneath the horizon, but alas, every day must follow in its course.
