they backed out of the library, as if begging them to take it with them and free it from Hazoth’s villa. Cythera knew what the book contained and didn’t blame it. Still, she bent to retrieve it, and running one calming thumb along its spine, slotted it back in its place on the shelf.
What’s taking so long? Malden wondered as he toyed with the bodkin at his belt.
They’re being thorough, at least, Croy told himself as he clutched his hands together and leaned forward in his chair.
The last part of the house to be searched was the third floor. The chains in the master bedroom drew the watchmen’s attention, and they made a brave try at searching the laboratory, despite the noxious fumes. Other rooms barely drew their notice. By daylight most of the truly dangerous parts of the third floor were subdued and harmless, for which Cythera was glad-she would not have liked to explain some of the things the watchmen would have seen had they come after dark.
When they reached the sealed and locked hallway that led to Hazoth’s inner sanctum, they didn’t even glance at the door, just kept walking past.
“Here, I can open this for you, though you must be careful inside,” Cythera told them. “I believe he disarmed all the traps, but still it would be well if you-”
“Milady?” a watchman said. “There’s no door there.”
Cythera frowned and pointed out the door again. “This one.”
“Don’t see nothin’,” one of the others said. “Nothin’ there.”
She studied their faces-especially their eyes-looking for any sign that their minds had been clouded by magic. Hazoth must have enchanted them not to see the door, she thought-and she did not dare to try to break that spell. As for the watchmen, they just stared back at her, blinking occasionally, as if they were bored and wished to return to their work.
Chapter Fifty-Two
An hour or so later the watchmen trooped down the stairs to the great hall again, where they apologized to Hazoth for any inconvenience and then took their leave. Hazoth headed back upstairs to return to his studies, telling Cythera along the way that she should return to her normal duties.
As the watchmen stepped back out onto the gravel forecourt of the villa – and Croy jumped up, his chair tumbling out behind him – and Kemper and Malden leaned forward to get a better view – and Cythera clutched a silver serving fork to her chest, bracing herself for she knew not what – absolutely nothing happened.
The watchmen were allowed to exit the villa without any further delay. They marched back to the tent, where they reported at some length to their serjeant. Then the porters returned to take down the tent, and all departed together, heading up the Cripplegate Road toward the Stink, and thence back toward Castle Hill.
And still nothing happened.
Hazoth returned to his studies. He did not leave his laboratory for the rest of the day. Cythera went about her duties. Normally she would have been glad for Hazoth’s preoccupation. Any time to herself-any time when he wasn’t demanding things of her, or torturing her for his amusement-was precious. Now, though, she was more frightened than ever. Hazoth might or might not realize her part in summoning the watchmen, but it didn’t matter. When he finished with his day’s labors he would want someone to blame for the interruption, someone on whom to take out his anger. What was coming would be terrible, even worse than the punishment of the night before. There was nothing for it, though. All she could do was keep at her work. If her head was slightly bowed, if her hands lingered on the familiar knives and spoons in the silver cabinet as if she were lost in gloomy thoughts, it didn’t stop her from finishing the task.
Up by the trees, thoroughly sodden with rain, Malden clucked his tongue in disgust and looked over at Kemper. The intangible card sharp was dry as a bone-the raindrops had passed through him without stop. “I need to get dry,” Malden announced. “Come, I have a spare cloak back at my rooms. We’ll make a fire. And then we need to confer.”
“I don’t unnerstand it,” Kemper said, trailing after Malden as he hurried up the street leading out of Parkwall. “He just let ’em in? Let ’em ransack his spread?”
“They didn’t find the crown,” Malden told his associate. “That much is certain. If they had they would have dragged Hazoth out of his hole and conveyed him forthwith to the palace dungeon. Or rather, they would have tried. He would not have gone easy.”
“Now that, I would’ve paid t’witness,” Kemper chortled.
Malden was thinking out loud. “Vry said he would search every house in the city for the crown. Yet I cannot believe that he would start here without some reason. I would think he would avoid Hazoth’s wrath if at all possible. So he must know. He must have some sign that the crown is in there-and yet, his watchmen left without it, and without a fuss.” He shook his head. “Perhaps he has another scheme in mind, and this was only a feint. Which only tightens our schedule. We must steal the crown back before he gets it-or all is lost.” He shivered inside his wet tunic. “We need to sit somewhere and think hard on this.”
“Aye, lad, and sure.”
“Perhaps a brandy or two wouldn’t hurt.”
That seemed to cheer Kemper immensely.
The two thieves were around a corner and gone before they could see the one real consequence of Anselm Vry’s raid. In the stables of a rich man’s house just across the way from Hazoth’s villa, voices were raised and a horse was starting.
“Just be reasonable, friend, it’s your death out there!”
Croy turned on his host with flashing eyes. For a second he thought he might strike down the merchant who stood in his way. Then he gripped the man’s forearms and leaned close to speak. “Forgive me. You’ve been so very kind, taking me in like this. I know I’ve put you in danger just by being here.”
“Think nothing of it-but think of yourself now. If you go riding up there in this state of excitement they’ll arrest you on the spot.”
“Anselm Vry will listen to logic. When I show him I am his only hope, he will give me what I need to finish this,” Croy said, and released the man. He grabbed up a saddle from a tack locker and threw it over the back of his host’s most hot-blooded stallion. As his host pleaded with him, he cinched the girth tight. He reached back and checked both his swords, making sure they were tied down in their scabbards and wouldn’t shake loose. Then he pulled a long felted cape over his back-the teased wool would keep out the rain, and protect his steel from rust. He grabbed the pommel and made to mount, but a hand on his arm stopped him.
“They won’t just arrest you,” the merchant said, shaking his head. “They’ll cut you down like a dog. Once they see your blades, they will not show mercy.”
“I will move their hearts with my plea.” Croy hoisted himself up over the horse’s back and dropped heavily into the saddle. He grabbed up the reins and jerked the stallion’s head around so it faced the road.
“You say two different things. Is Vry a man of reason, or a man with a good heart? I’ve found them to be contraries not often reconciled in a single nature.”
Croy shrugged. “One way or another I’ll convince him. And if I don’t-then maybe I’ll die today. But I’ll perish in the name of justice.”
“Then do me one favor, before you die.”
Croy grimaced at the delay, but he nodded. He never failed to pay his debts.
“When you reach the castle gates-dismount. Turn my horse around and give him a good whack on the hindquarters. He knows the way home. If I’m to lose a friend today, I can at least get my best palfrey back.”
Croy laughed bitterly and dug in his spurs.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Despite the cool day, the palfrey was panting and its flanks were dripping foam by the time Croy thundered
