hand. “Miserly thieves. Half what they’re fucking worth.” He held out the gloves and Malden took them. “Now, that’s just for hire,” the dwarf informed him. “I take them back when I feel you’ve had ’em long enough.”
“But of course,” Malden said. He pulled on the gloves and hurried back to the lock. He had no doubt now they’d been made expressly for this purpose. The silk was quite delicate and would tear after even a little use, but it was also thin enough that it did not deaden the sensitivity in his fingers that was necessary for lock picking. The tin plates wouldn’t protect the hands from any but the feeblest blows-but when he attempted to pick the lock again, he found they easily blocked the needles from scratching his skin.
Even with the gloves, though, opening the padlock wasn’t easy. The lock was enormous and had dozens of pin tumblers inside. He had to tease each one into the proper position with his hooks, then hold it there with a rake while he applied just the right amount of torque with his wrench. It required perfectly still hands, but if he did not lapse in concentration even for a moment… yes… there. When the lock clicked again, he nearly jumped away a second time-but there was something different about this click. It was weightier, more solid, more final.
The needles retracted into their holes with a series of soft thunks. The shackle came loose and the lock hung swinging from the iron bar.
It was open.
Malden wound his picks back up into the hilt of his bodkin, then sheathed the weapon with a sigh. He removed the lock from the bar, though it was so heavy he could barely lift it, and set it down carefully on the floor. He stripped off the gloves, turning them inside out in case any of the poison had transferred to the tin plates. He tossed the gloves to the dwarf, who caught them easily. Then, going back to the door, he slid the bar out of the ring and pushed gently. The door opened with a creak.
He looked back at Bellard.
“He doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” the bravo said.
Malden nodded and stepped inside.
Chapter Five
B eyond the locked door was a snug little office, heated by a charcoal brazier and kept insulated by heavy tapestries hanging on the walls. A massive desk faced the door, carved out of some expensive wood that had turned black over time, a very large and detailed map of the city posted behind the desk, a basin for washing one’s face and hands, and a sideboard with a flagon of wine and several goblets. No one sat behind the desk, however. Instead, the room’s sole occupant perched on a stool in the corner, scratching entries in a broad ledger held on a lectern before him.
He was a very thin man with long, mournful features and eyebrows that arched high onto his bare forehead. His black hair had receded well back onto his scalp and was shot through with two streaks of gray. His eyes were at once very dark and very bright-narrow, merciless eyes that did not look up at Malden as he came in.
Malden closed the door behind him and waited patiently for the man to finish his task. There were chairs, but he did not sit down, unsure what to expect inside this cozy room.
The man’s quill pen scratched out a few more figures and then stopped.
“Your mother was a whore,” he said, quite without inflection.
Malden’s chest clenched but he understood what was happening. The man-who was certainly Cutbill, whether he looked like a mastermind of thievery or not-was testing him. Attempting to see if he would come at him in a fury or perhaps merely whine in offense.
There was no denying the truth of the statement, however. “She was. A good woman in a bad situation, who did her best to raise me with care and patience. She died of the sailor’s pox when I was not yet a man.”
Cutbill nodded, as if merely accepting this new bit of information as something to enter into his account book. “Your father?”
“Half the men in this city might claim the title, yet none ever have.”
“Sit down. You may be here awhile,” Cutbill told him. Malden chose a chair near the door. “You lived in a bawdy house for most of your youth, performing small tasks and running errands for the madam. In that time you probably saw your fair share of illicit activity. I daresay you might have engaged in some yourself-rolling drunks, cheating paying clients-or at least tricking them into overpaying-procuring small quantities of various illegal drugs for the harlots. It wasn’t until after your mother died that you began extending your activities to the larger sphere of the city, though.”
“There wasn’t much choice in the matter,” Malden confirmed. “There’s not much room in a brothel for a young man-not when there are so many unwanted boys around to clean the place and run errands. I was given a few coins but told to go forth and find my own fortune. I decided I’d see how honest folk lived. It turned out the city had little use for a whoreson with no estate. This place isn’t kind to those who were born on the wrong side of the sheet.”
If he’d been hoping to evince sympathy from Cutbill, he was disappointed. The clerkish man didn’t even look up.
“I looked for work in various trades. I was too old already-no guild would take me on for prenticing at the advanced age of fifteen. I tried to find occupation as a bricklayer, as a carpenter, even as a stevedore down at the wharves. Each place turned me away-or demanded bribes. The gang bosses who organized such labor all wanted a cut of the pennies I would earn.”
“And you were unwilling to pay such fees.”
“How could I, and survive? It takes money to live in this world, money to eat, money for rent, money for taxes and tithes. The pay that work offered would have put me in debt the first week, and it would only have gotten worse. I’d seen this scheme before, and the ruin it caused.”
“Oh?”
“It is exactly how the pimps keep their stables of women in line.”
“Indeed,” Cutbill said.
Malden fidgeted with the sleeve of his shirt. “There were no opportunities for one like me. None at all. Yet I needed money to survive. I could go out on the streets and become a beggar. Or I could turn to a life of crime. You know which I chose.”
“And found you had a flair for it.”
“You wish to know my life story entire?”
“I already know it. I’m simply confirming it. For the last five years you’ve been making a paltry living pilfering coppers from the unwary. Occasionally you’ve run a trick of confidence, but your real skills seem to lie in your fingers, not your voice. It was only recently you turned to burglary. For only a few months now you’ve been breaking into houses. Care to tell my why you changed your game?”
“People in this city know better than to carry much money when they go out. They know no purse is ever safe. The real money they leave behind, at home. It only seemed logical to follow the money, not the people.”
The master of thieves made a small notation in his ledger. “You know who I am,” Cutbill said. “You spoke my name outside.”
Malden waved one hand in the air. “All of the Free City knows the exploits of great Cutbill, master of thieves, procurer extraordinaire, purveyor of unlawful euphoria, betrayer of confidences, extortionist to the high and mighty-”
“Spare me.”
Malden sat back in his chair, a little dumbfounded. He had not expected the man to speak so plainly-or so abruptly. It was all he could do to keep up.
“You know that I run this city, or, at least, the clandestine commerce within it. That I have organized and consolidated the criminal class. That I have taken in hand the scattered gangs and crews that exist in any city of this size and made of them something more cohesive, something efficient.” Cutbill put down his pen and sat up on his stool, lifting his chin in the air. “You know my reputation. I recounted your history to show I know yours as well.”
Malden held his peace.
“I do not appreciate arse-licking, nor false modesty, nor unplain speaking. So I will say this simply: I have
