’un, yet a mite imperfect, if ye catch me meaning. If I concentrate hard ’nough on it somewhat, I can grip it. With long practice, I can hold just about anythin’. Like me reed, and me cards, which I’ve had since afore ye first soiled yer bedclothes in the night. I’ve mastered sittin’ in a chair, and lyin’ abed, an’ food an’ drink are available t’me. Seems the wizard what did this wanted me livin’, and not allowed the peace o’ death. I’ve not touched a woman, nor e’en changed me clothes, since the day ’twas done.”
“It’s a pitiable condition,” Malden sympathized.
“Yet not without its consolations, y’know, for a gentleman of fortune like me an’ yerself. It’s a rare gaol that can hold me, an’ I can carry coins, if they’re silver. As ye see.” He flashed a coin between his fingers and twirled it for Malden.
“Only silver?”
“None as is livin’ can say why, I reckon. Yet silver’s a metal no magic e’er touches, y’see?”
“I’m not sure I follow,” Malden admitted.
The card sharp sighed. “Some virtue o’ the metal, some property arcane, or mayhap a fault in the way magic’s woven, who knows? Yet ’tis a fact. Silver’ll cut through any spell, and no curse works ’gainst it. So even if I’m t’be punished for me sins, still I can clutch silver coins.”
“Ah! Hence the silver chains-in the Burgrave’s dungeon,” Malden recalled. “I wondered why they would use such precious rope to tie you.”
“Aye, lad. Only silver can hold me, and most places’re too poor to afford so much as a silver bootlace. Ye can imagine the advantages this offers t’ a man o’ my profession.”
“And when you disappeared-I thought you had run up the dungeon stairs, but instead you must have just walked out through the walls.” Malden shook his head in wonder. “Yes, I can see how that would be advantageous.”
“Yer a smart lad, I can see,” Kemper said. “ ’Tweren’t easy, I don’t mind tellin’ ye. I had to walk through solid rock, aye, for what felt like leagues. Never really got a feelin’ for that. Ye’re blind as a bat the whole time, and wond’rin’ whether ye’ll come out sixty feet up over the Skrait.” The card sharp reeled a bit as he walked-clearly he’d been drinking himself and wasn’t quite sober. “Or, or, and this’d be worse, that ye’ll just keep walkin’, goin’ deeper and deeper into the world till ye come out again in the pit itself, with ugly old Sadu starin’ up at ye with them fiery eyes of his. I always figgered if’n that happened, I give him a proper salute, like, and walk right past like unto I owned the place. Confidence, confidence is key in our game. Hold up. Hold up, lad, I’m goin’ to piss.”
Malden stood at a corner and waited until the card sharp was finished. He had to admit a certain curiosity- would Kemper’s water be as immaterial as his body? He thought it impolite to ask, though.
“How d’you like the look o’ this place? Think they’d take kindly t’gamin’ inside?”
Malden looked up and saw that they had come to the door of another tavern. Such were not infrequently found in the Stink. He knew this one by its sign, which depicted an ogre’s severed head. “It’s where the local priest of the Lady comes to drink,” he said, shaking his head doubtfully. “Good honest folk come here.”
“Me favorite kind,” Kemper said with a smile. “Them’s as honest themselves never cease to doubt the honesty o’ their fellows. And if ye know a man don’t trust ye, ye know how to gull him, right enough.” He gestured for Malden to open the door for him.
There was much ale that followed, with Kemper graciously picking up the bill from his winnings. The night devolved from a continuous narrative into a series of isolated incidents, separated by muddy stretches Malden would not remember clearly in the morning. There was a lot of singing, he knew, and he was encouraged to add his own voice, which was untutored. There was a great deal of gambling, at which Kemper proved more than lucky.
Sometime during the night he confided in Malden his great secret for winning. “Now y’see these cards, they’re not marked at all, perish the thought,” he whispered as they crossed the river Skrait by the Turnhill Bridge. “ ’Tis as I said-if a man doesn’t trust ye, ye can take advantage. They expect me to cheat, y’see. They expect marked cards. I’ve seen marked cards afore, so cleverly done you’d think ’twould take a dwarf to find the spots. Yet always, always some clever fella’s goin’ to find ’em, for he’s lookin’ for ’em. ’Tis only a matter o’ time afore he sees how it’s done. An’ then the jig is up, ain’t it! Nay, me secret’s simpler. Y’see how grimy they got, with greasy fingers holdin’ ’em these many years, and general wear. I don’t need ’em marked by now! Ha, lad, smell this.”
Malden recoiled as the cursed card sharp shoved the ten of bells toward his face. He did have to admit it had a certain aroma of unwashed clothing.
“It’s fouled,” Malden said.
“Hardly! Smells like me armpit, aye, don’t it? An’ when any man holds that card, why, I can smell it ’cross the table. An’ each of ’em’s got their own partick-uler odor, don’t it? Why, with me discriminatin’ nostrils I can tell ye’ve got a high card, or a low. From long use and practice I know these cards a fair sight better than the back o’ my hands, in troth.”
“Brilliant, simply brilliant,” Malden laughed, for by that point he’d reached the point where everything seemed admirable, the world was a lovely place, and death was never farther away.
The night provided all manner of diversions. At one point they were chased by the watch, but escaped easily-Malden by ducking into a shadowy alley that was mostly used as a privy, Kemper by simply walking through a wall.
They were ejected, sometimes by force, from any number of drinking establishments. On one such occasion it was because Kemper had grabbed at the buttocks of a passing serving wench. His hand went right through her skirt, of course, but she felt something. Her face had gone quite white and she dropped her tray and then whirled around in bitter anger to confront her molester-only to find Malden sitting alone on a bench, looking innocent. It was all he could do to stumble his way out of that place-only to find Kemper in the street outside, laughing boisterously. At the first sign of trouble, the card sharp had merely ducked backward through the wall and to safety, leaving Malden to bear the barmaid’s wrath.
When he realized what Kemper had done, he could only laugh, and laugh, and laugh.
Then he was sick, over the side of a bridge. Afterward he felt weak and queasy, and Kemper assured him the best cure for what ailed him was more ale. Malden enthusiastically agreed.
The carouse ended only slightly before dawn-but on a sour note. They had wended their way down to the city walls without really meaning to, and Malden came up short when he saw the green common of Parkwall ahead of him. He was right back on Hazoth’s doorstep.
“Kemper,” Malden said. “Kemper.”
“What?”
“The wizard who cursed you, who made you like unto-unto… The sorcerer who cursed you, was his name Hazoth?”
Kemper laughed until he wheezed. “Hazoth? Ye think ’twas him, the grandmaster of sorcerers, the auld bastard? Sadu’s eight index fingers, save me skin from such a fate! Oh, laddie, nay. Nay, it was but some hedge wizard, in a blighted village a hunnerd miles from here.”
“But this hedge-hedge wizard-must have been, you know. Very powerful. To do this to you.”
Kemper shook his head violently. “Nay, in comparison, the bugger who got me-that is, compared to yer Hazoth-he was like hawkin’ a gob o’ spit next t’the ocean.” He sat down hard on the grass. “Magic’s strong stuff, it is. E’en a mild curse’s no joke. Yet what Hazoth could do t’ a body, I shudder t’think. Strip the flesh right off o’ your bones and make it dance a jig, maybe. Or just crack th’earth open, right at yer feet, and drop ye into the pit like a pebble in a well.”
“Oh,” Malden said, and threw up again. Partly from strong drink. Mostly from fear.
“Izzat his place, then?” Kemper asked.
“This is the place,” Malden said, pointing across the grass toward the sorcerer’s villa. “The crown must be inside.” Over the course of the night he’d told Kemper everything-including the fact that he had no choice but to break in there and steal the crown back. “It’s not like he’ll just give it to me,” he said.
Kemper shuffled his cards with one hand, no mean feat considering how drunk he was. He seemed to think of something then. “Have ye asked?”
Malden blinked and tried to clear his head. He wasn’t sure if what Kemper had just said was a stroke of genius or utter folly.
“Bikker would kill me the moment he saw me,” he said finally, shaking his head.
“Then ye wait till Bikker’s na’ a’ home,” Kemper said. Then he started hiccupping and had to sit down for a
