For a moment they only watched each other, like duelists preparing to begin. He knew she felt something as well. She must! Yes, it was complicated. Yes, it was dangerous. But he’d been leading up to this for a very long time.
She took a step back. “One rough kiss would be all it takes to release the magic in my painted skin. It would destroy you.”
“I’m not afraid of the curses you’ve stored up,” he said. “A rough kiss would set them off, you say. Yet a gentle kiss is harmless, as we’ve seen.”
She laughed, delighted. “You are quite nimble, aren’t you?”
“I could show you just how deft I am,” he told her. “If you have an hour before you must return.”
“Malden, you dare much.”
“Do I offend? Then slap me across the cheek,” he told her, daring more.
He touched her wrist with one finger and traced a tattooed creeper that ran up toward her elbow. He kept his fingertip barely in contact with her skin, but enough so. He had lived among whores long enough to gain some basic knowledge of the erotic arts. For instance, he knew that a feather-soft touch on sensitive skin could be more maddening and arousing than a rough caress.
“Croy-” Cythera said, but then closed her mouth as a shudder ran through her body. “Croy-”
“Is not here,” he told her. He placed a soft kiss on the inside of her wrist. “How long has it been, Cythera, since you were touched like this?”
“Too long,” she said.
“But you remember how it feels, don’t you?” It was a careful way of asking an important question.
“Yes,” she said. “Before I met Croy, there were… others. They were brutes, for the most part. Too quick to take what they wanted, or they were cruel and wanted what I did not wish to part with.”
“But what do you want?” Malden asked her. He reached up and unpinned her hair, letting it fall down across her cheeks.
She sighed. “I don’t think any man has ever asked me that question.”
“Would you like to sit down? My bed is just over here.”
She laughed again, as if she didn’t know how to react. “If Croy knew what you were doing, his heart would crack like a badly forged bell.”
“Is there any reason why you would tell him?” Malden asked. “I’m no brute, Cythera. Nor am I cruel. You can stop this with a word. But if you remain silent… well. The choice is yours.”
Chapter Seventy
When Croy came in, an hour later, Malden and Cythera were sitting on opposite sides of the room, trying to work out between them who Bikker’s mysterious employer might be. There were plenty of likely suspects.
“The king wants the charter revoked,” Cythera pointed out. “So he can tax Ness. He must lose thousands of royals every year because of a promise his distant ancestor made to the distant ancestor of our Burgrave.”
“He has the motive, I’ll grant it,” Malden said, “but my money’s on Bikker himself.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think Bikker invented this phantom employer. I think he knew Hazoth would never take him seriously, or maybe he wanted a scapegoat if everything went wrong. When the city riots, I think he’ll present himself as its new ruler. A man with an Ancient Blade could rally the people to his standard-and end the violence. He’d be a hero, and a sure bet to be named as Tarness’s successor.”
“Is a magic sword all it takes to lead men? Why, then, Croy might be our hidden enemy,” Cythera pointed out. She and Malden both stared at Croy as if they’d discovered a dire secret.
Croy stared back as if they’d both gone mad. When they laughed at their little joke, he turned bright red and went to Malden’s washstand. “Does it even matter?” Croy asked. He poured water over his hands in the basin and scrubbed at his face. “It’s too late to make use of such information. It’s almost time to begin. The plan can’t be changed now.”
“I must go,” Cythera said. “You know I cannot aid you once things are in motion,” she said, glancing at Malden.
He nodded. “You must act as surprised as anyone. But you’ll know it has begun when the ogre appears on your doorstep.”
“An ogre,” she said. “You mentioned it before. Where in the world did you find one of those?”
“It was Croy’s doing, actually,” Malden said. “His contribution to the scheme. You should see this creature in calmer times, Cythera. It has the voice of a poet and a soul devoted to the Lady, but it looks a fright-twice as big as a man, covered in dark fur, its face engraved with ancient and baleful runes.” He laughed. “It should give the guards a good scare.”
“Yes, but maybe not much else,” she said, looking concerned. She glanced over at Croy, who didn’t meet her gaze. “Malden,” she said, “these runes. Do you remember what they looked like?” She took a piece of charcoal and drew on one of his maps. “Were they like this, do you think?”
“Yes, exactly.” Malden smiled. “I’m sure they say something menacing, like, ‘I am your death’ or ‘Face me at peril.’ ”
“Not exactly. It’s a curse your ogre wears on his face, but not for his enemies. It’s for himself. One of the simpler curses, actually, and very effective. Translated, the words you see here would read: ‘An you harm any, thou shalt perish.’ ”
Malden’s eyes went wide. “What’s the nature of this curse?”
“It’s commonly used on paroled prisoners or creatures who have killed men in the past. If your ogre hurts a human being-even in self-defense-the runes will grow hotter and hotter until they burn right through his skull.” She wiped her fingers quite carefully on the hem of her cloak. “I don’t know your plan. I don’t want to know your plan. But if you were counting on this ogre to fight the guards or Bikker, I only hope you have a contingency up your sleeve.”
“Thank you, Cythera,” Malden said, between lips pressed together to stifle a shout. She nodded and left his room, headed back toward the villa before she was missed. When she was well gone, Malden slowly turned to face Croy.
“You knew all this, of course,” he said, quite carefully.
Croy didn’t answer directly. Instead he went to kneel above the loose floorboards where his swords were still hidden.
Malden was faster. He drew his bodkin and had its point at the small of Croy’s back before the knight could reach for his weapons.
“The success of my scheme depended on that ogre,” Malden said. “There’s no time now to find a replacement. Have you betrayed me, Croy?”
“Are you calling me faithless?”
Malden almost concurred. Then he remembered that it was the same word Croy had used to describe Bikker-the word that started a blood feud between the two of them. “I’m asking a question. Did you make some deal with Hazoth, to foil my plans? Or perhaps you work for the same master as Bikker.”
“Never,” Croy said.
“Then why, exactly, did you not tell me that your ogre was hobbled?”
He watched the muscles in Croy’s neck tighten. “I am not a liar, by inclination or by practice,” the knight said. “But I was left with no choice.”
“Speak plainly!”
Croy sighed. “Don’t you understand? If I’m to recover Cythera’s trust, I must earn it. I must be the one who frees her and her mother.”
“I’ve been generous enough to let you play a part, but that’s all,” Malden pointed out.
“The role you’ve set for me in your scheme is meaningless. I am to stand as a lookout, and nothing more. How can that show Cythera the depth of my devotion to her? It should be me fighting for her freedom. It should be my arm, my sword, that strikes the telling blow. And no other man has a right to fell Bikker. That is my duty, and I
