the man’s arm. “Forgive him. He’s little more than a peasant. Sure a man as worldly and learned as yourself can rise above such petty taunting?”
“I assure you, my interest in his urine is purely professional!”
“Of course it is,” Malden said, “and professionals,” he added, taking coins from his purse, “are paid for their services.”
It was enough to make the physick return to his labors.
While he worked, Malden stepped aside with Kemper and spoke quietly. “You don’t care for medicos, hmm?”
“Oh, was I rude?” Kemper said with mock shame. “Nah, lad, I ne’er liked ’em, e’en back when I were reg’lar flesh. ’Specially not then. They’re more like t’kill ye than heal ye, if ye’ve anythin’ worse’n a bruise on yer li’l finger.”
Malden shrugged. “True, but if we do nothing, Croy will die. I at least want a chance to talk to him before that. He had something to say to me, and I can’t afford not to hear it right now. We only have five more days before… before Ladymas. Croy is connected to what we’re doing, somehow. I’d like to know how.”
“Aye,” Kemper said, looking almost contrite. “Yer in the right. Just don’t let that butcher near me.”
Eventually the physick straightened up and came over to Malden. Leaning close enough that Malden could smell the garlic on the man’s breath, he said, “The wound is deep, but it hasn’t festered yet. I’ve bandaged it properly, which is most of what I can do for now. He’ll want an electuary of borage root if he takes fever. Watch his stools for any sign of flux. At the first such movement he’ll need to be bled. Do not tarry or the poison will take him in hours. If he’s hungry, give him foods that bolster the blood. Black pudding, blood sausage, the like.”
“Very good. Anything else?” Malden asked.
“You may want to offer a prayer to the Lady. If he does survive through the night, it will be a marvel. If he’s to make it through tomorrow, his stars must be with him. If he survives three days-well, I doubt that will happen. He will almost certainly take to fever, convulsions, and black vomit. Now. My fee.”
He held out his hand and Malden poured the rest of Croy’s silver into it. Malden had never had a problem spending other people’s money. “Is this enough to buy silence?”
“It is. Though let me warn you-I’m not the only one who’s going to recognize a knight of the realm when I see him. Get him out of sight, and quickly. The bailiff has sent word down from Castle Hill that this man is a wanted outlaw.” With that the physick left.
“Did you hear that, Croy? You’re an outlaw,” Malden said, nudging the knight’s foot with his own. “Just like me now. And no better.”
Croy moaned and fell over on his side with a crash.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Croy didn’t die in the night. He didn’t wake up either.
By mid-morning, with time growing short, Malden resorted to desperate measures. He filled a basin with water and then dumped it over Croy’s face. The knight sputtered and coughed and his eyes flicked open. One of his hands reached over his shoulder, looking for a sword that wasn’t there.
The wounded man’s face hardened. He looked around the room, even sat up a little. “You moved me,” he said.
“You’re safe. Or perhaps it’s better to say-no one knows where you are,” Malden told him. Croy was lying on Malden’s own bed, in his room above the waxchandler’s shop. “That’s a good thing, because right now Anselm Vry has his watchmen searching for you in every district of the city. It could become a bad thing, because none of your friends know where to find you. It’s up to you, Sir Knight, if you wish to leave this room again.”
Croy nodded. He understood. “Who’s he?” he asked, looking across the room at Kemper, who was paring his fingernails with the silver edge of Croy’s unusual sword. He had trimmed his beard and his hair as well with the blade, for the first time since he’d been cursed. He’d never had access to a silver knife before.
“A friend. My friend,” Malden said. “You needn’t concern yourself with that right now. You sent a messenger to find me last night. Luckily for you he did. I had a physick look at your wound. He said it will most likely be your death. When he was finished treating you, I brought you here, to get you out of the public eye. So you owe me something, Croy. First off, you owe me an answer. Why did you send for me, of all people in the Free City?”
Croy pushed himself upright in the bed and put his feet down on the floor. Under Malden’s thin blanket he was naked. “Is it still raining out?”
Malden sighed. He drew his bodkin and showed it to Croy.
“You can do better than that rat-skinner,” the knight told him. “My shortsword should be around here somewhere. I assume you brought it when you moved me. It’ll make a cleaner cut, and kill me quicker.”
“Smart talk, for one’s weak as a kitten just now,” Kemper said. “Ye’d be wise to just answer the question, m’lud.”
Croy nodded. “You’re quite right, good sir. And I fully intend to do so, as soon as Malden stops threatening me with death. I have no fear of it now, so it’s hardly useful as a spur. I just wished to make that clear.”
Malden sat down on the windowsill and sheathed his knife. He’d seen the way Croy moved when the water hit his face. For a man with a life-threatening wound, he was still fairly quick. He’d heard, too, of what Croy had done up at the castle. A man that dangerous wouldn’t go down easily. Perhaps it was time to stop threatening him and start getting actual information out of him, after all. “I’m sure there’s something you’re afraid of. If I need to, I’ll find it. But for now, very well.” He sketched a mock bow. “I won’t kill you until I have a reason. Tell me first how you even know my name.”
Croy scrubbed at his face with his hands. “Cythera told me, of course. She told me that you stole the Burgrave’s crown and sold it to Hazoth. Ordinarily that would be a problem. I’m still technically the Burgrave’s vassal.”
“He banished you to the kingdom of the dwarves. Then when you returned he tried to have you hanged.”
Croy lifted his hands in resignation. “He never discharged me from his service. I swore an oath to defend him until my last breath.”
“And you still intend to keep it?” Malden asked.
The knight’s brow furrowed. “Yes, of course. How could I break that troth and still live with myself? I would die a thousand deaths before I dishonored myself.”
Malden stared at the knight. Then he looked to Kemper, who seemed as uncertain as he was. “So you came looking for me-why? To bring me to justice? Did you expect me to turn myself in, to show contrition now that the theft is done?”
“I thought you might know where Hazoth is keeping it. I thought you might know how I can recover it. If you stole something once, you might know how to steal it again.”
Kemper started to speak, but Malden held up a hand for silence. He had no reason whatsoever to let Croy know that he was already bent on that very endeavor. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it would be to try? Can you think of any reason I would even consider the job you’re talking about?”
“He’s askin’ how much yer payin’,” Kemper suggested.
“I can’t give you any money,” Croy said. “But you would have the greatest of rewards-knowing you struck a blow for justice.” Malden started to laugh, but Croy stopped him by speaking again. “Cythera is a prisoner of the sorcerer Hazoth. As long as he possesses that crown, she will never be free.”
“And what, exactly, should that mean to me?”
Croy blinked. “Everything, of course. You’ve met her. You know she doesn’t deserve that fate. When last we met, Malden, I got the sense you cared for her in some way. If I was wrong I’ve slit my own throat, clearly. But I don’t think I was wrong.”
“Let me get this straight,” Malden said. “You found yourself in the Smoke, all but dead, hunted by the entire city watch. You knew your only way of surviving was to get the crown back from Hazoth. So you sent for me, the thief who stole it, thinking I would help you simply because there’s a woman in peril who needs to be rescued.”
