anything changes before then I’ll make sure you know it. I’ll have to come to you during the day, when I do my marketing.”
“I’ll be ready,” Malden told her.
Cythera left then. The three men watched her head up the lane toward Turnhill Bridge, which would eventually lead her down to Parkwall. When she was out of sight Croy walked over to the table and slammed it with his fist.
“What did she mean by that? Why would she ask for my forgiveness? What has she ever done to harm me?”
Malden bit his lip and went to sit on the bed. It was late and he just wanted to go to sleep.
“Lad,” Kemper said to Croy, sounding sympathetic, “ye’ve not much experience with women, have ye? I don’t mean with yer mother or sisters either. Ye don’t seem the type fer whorin’, but have ye e’er swived one?” He took his cards from inside his tunic and started shuffling them, rubbing each one with his thumb.
“I’ve spent most of my life learning how to swing a sword properly. She’s not the only woman I’ve ever… cared for, if that’s what you mean. There was the dwarf king’s daughter. I was her protector, and saved her from a fate worse than death. In reward, she allowed me a single kiss.”
Malden couldn’t resist asking the question he knew was probably foremost in Kemper’s mind as well. “Did she have a beard?”
Croy’s face went dark. “No. No, she did not. A bit of a mustache, perhaps. But no more than you’ll see on many a human woman’s face. And I’ll have you know,” he insisted, when he saw the two thieves were laughing behind their hands, “she would have given me her body, had I asked. But I had my oath to Cythera to consider.”
“Methinks that’s not a concern now,” Kemper said. He riffled his cards absentmindedly. “Mayhap ye should go back to yer dwarven princess.”
“Speak plainly, damn you,” Croy shouted. He was bright red.
“He’s saying that Cythera was asking your forgiveness for breaking off her betrothal to you,” Malden said.
“She… she…”
“She didn’t want to say it in so many words, because she was afraid of your reaction. She was hoping you would just understand.” Malden stared at Kemper. Why did the card sharp have to spell it out for Croy? Now the fool knight would probably spend another day lying abed and staring at the ceiling. Malden supposed if you were rich enough you could afford to be moody. “Enough,” he said. “Enough. I’m going to bed. Tomorrow morning I’ll need to make a whole new plan. And you,” he said, rushing over to Kemper, “quit shuffling those damned cards.”
“Here now, boy-”
Malden grabbed the cards out of Kemper’s intangible hands and shoved them in his own tunic. “I can’t think when you’re doing that. Now, to bed, all of us.”
He doused the lamp and pulled off his tunic, then got into bed and pulled the blanket up to his chin. He did not, however, get to sleep much that night. Croy made too great a racket with his sobbing tears, and Kemper kept grumbling about his cards.
Enough, enough, enough, Malden thought to himself. Kemper was largely safe from harm, no matter what came. And Croy would be nowhere near the villa when he broke into it. The knight would be useless in any scheme he could imagine.
It was up to him to get the crown back. He could put together a crew but he couldn’t truly count on them. He would have to pass the barrier, get through the hallway of traps, and retrieve the crown, all without being detected. He would then need to do that which might be harder, which was to escape with his skin intact.
Even then his troubles might only begin anew. Anselm Vry might be watching him at that very moment, waiting until he recovered the crown before swooping in and taking all credit for himself. Cutbill might have him killed regardless of what happened, just for causing so much trouble in the first place.
And Hazoth would still have his demon, and Bikker would still have his acid-drooling sword. And both of them would have reason to want him dead.
The problems seemed insoluble.
Well, they always had. He had to keep going.
He had to think of something.
Eventually Malden did sleep, despite the companions of his bedchamber. He sank deep and came back only when the first rays of dawn burst in through the gap between the shutters and the window. He opened his eyes, checked that his bodkin was under his pillow where he left it, and only then sat up.
“Good morning,” Croy said, smiling down at him.
The knight had never looked happier.
“Hmm,” Malden said. He rose and pulled on his tunic, slipped his bodkin into its sheath. Kemper was lying curled in one corner, snoring and farting, dead to the world. Croy, however, was fully dressed and looked like he’d just taken a bath. He had his shortsword out and was polishing it with a cloth.
Malden wondered if the man had gone mad during the night. Maybe Croy was going to kill himself. It was not something he wanted to witness. “You seem recovered from your cares,” he said cautiously.
“Oh, yes. Everything is better now,” Croy said.
“It is?”
“I had a dream, Malden.” He put the sword down and rose to his feet. “No. I tell a lie. It was a vision. I saw Cythera in her bridal veil. I saw myself standing before her, with flowers woven in my hair. And when I woke, I understood. Nothing is broken between us that cannot be repaired. She is merely testing me.”
“Is she, now?”
“Indeed. All the stories of knights and dragons and fair maidens go like this. The maiden refuses to accept the knight’s troth until he slays the beast. He must prove himself, in combat, before she can truly love him.”
“In the stories, you say,” Malden went on.
“Yes. So my path is clear. I will earn her love. I will do this by killing Hazoth. A sorcerer is in many ways like a dragon, is he not? I will slay him. And maybe Bikker as well. And anyone else who opposes me.”
“Even though she asked you not to,” Malden pointed out.
“That,” Croy said, with a gleam of insight in his eye, “is the crux of the test. I will free Coruth. And only then will Cythera look on me with favor once more. What do you think?”
“I suppose,” Malden said, “that anything is possible.”
Chapter Sixty-Five
Malden sent Kemper to keep an eye on Hazoth’s villa-discreetly-while he went over to the Ashes to see Cutbill’s dwarf, Slag. Croy insisted on coming along. “I must do all in my power to assist you. And when the time comes, it must be my swords that cut the sorcerer down,” he said.
“Fine. But for today, you leave them behind,” Malden told him.
The knight errant looked at the thief as if he were mad, but Malden stood firm. Eventually Croy did as he was told, unbuckling the swords from his baldric and stashing them beneath the loose floorboards of Malden’s room.
“Now,” Malden said, “walk from here to the bed and back.”
“This is folly,” Croy said, but he did it.
Malden listened to the man clank his way across the room as if he were a walking thunder crash. “Are you wearing a mail shirt under your jerkin?” he asked.
“No,” Croy said. “What is the point of this?”
Malden studied the man’s dress, then made him take off the baldric. The heavy leather sash was covered in buckles and hooks that clinked together when he moved. With the baldric off, Croy made far less noise than he had before-but somehow his swagger still made the floorboards creak and the room shake.
“You are the noisiest man I’ve ever met,” Malden told him. “You’ll never make it as a thief.”
“But-why in the Lady’s name should I want to be one?”
