will perform it.”
“You’re wounded,” Malden said. He did not allow the point of his bodkin to shift even a fraction of an inch. “Even at the fullness of your strength, you’re no match for Bikker. He would have bested you up at the palace if the demon there hadn’t diverted his attention. He would have killed you then. Are you so hot to die at his hand now?”
“Love will strengthen my arm,” Croy said. “Justice will be my shield.”
Malden chuckled, and the point of his knife bobbed up and down, just a hairbreadth. Apparently it was enough.
Croy shifted under Malden too fast to follow. One of his legs kicked out and knocked Malden’s feet from under him, and the thief fell backward against the bed. It was all he could do to stop his fall with his free hand, while keeping the bodkin pointed in Croy’s direction.
Before he had recovered himself, Croy was looming over him with his shortsword in his hand, the point just under his chin. The blade shone so bright Malden could see his own shocked expression in its surface.
“I may be wounded. I’m still an Ancient Blade. You can mock my ideals all you want, thief. You can’t deny my skill.”
“I suppose not,” Malden said. “Very well. Who am I to deny you your own destruction? You fool. Maybe you’ve cost us everything by this deception.” He wanted to spit in disgust.
“I can slay Bikker. I must!”
“As you wish it. Take the ogre’s place. Die, if that’s what you want. As long as you survive a minute against the retainers, that’s all I need.”
“You’ll find that even if I’m not as strong as Gurrh, when it comes to swordplay I am matchless. Anyway, you have no choice.” Croy lowered his sword. “It’s almost time to begin,” he said. “There’s no time to find a replacement. Not even a band of bravos.”
Malden nodded. He was still looking into the sword’s blade, meeting his own eyes in reflection. “Yes,” he said. “Strong. He’s still very strong, even if he can’t fight.” It was like the sun had just come up in his mind. He saw it now, a way to make this work. “Croy, I’ve just had an idea that might save both our lives. Can you get word to the ogre and give him new instructions? He may have his uses yet.”
Part IV
The Job
Interlude
Slag the dwarf climbed up into one of Cutbill’s chairs and puffed out his cheeks. “That boy Malden doesn’t have a fucking chance, does he?”
Cutbill had a great deal of respect for his dwarf. The diminutive craftsmen had a foul mouth, it was true, and a fouler disposition, but his work was immaculate and it allowed Cutbill’s thieves to do things that should have been impossible. So he showed the dwarf the signal honor of putting down his pen before he looked up and said, “Probably not.”
Slag nodded and scratched at his wild beard. “I just heard from Loophole. He thinks you don’t know that he’s been asking around, which is just fucking stupid. But he says Anselm Vry is turning half the city arse over eyebrows looking for the-”
Cutbill arched one eyebrow. His office was one of the most secure places in the city, and there should have been no chance of any unwanted ears listening at his doors, but in a world where the bailiff had a wizard with a shewstone at his disposal, no conversation was truly safe.
Slag nodded and held up his hands in apology. “-for the thing,” he concluded. “Vry’s watchmen are tearing open every damned door in the Stink, as if some poor bastard of a cobbler is hiding it in his privy. You think his wits are buggered? Seems like he’s lost his mind with terror.”
“Oh, no,” Cutbill said. “What he does makes perfect sense. He will fail to find it, of course, but then he can at least show the Burgrave that he made an honest effort. He’s looking in the Stink rather than the Golden Slope for the same reason he made no real attempt to recover it from its current location-because he’s afraid of the occupants. The rich citizens in their mansions up by Castle Hill would never put up with such outrages. The poor folk living under the Smoke can’t afford to be as particular.”
“So he won’t find it in time, and Malden doesn’t stand a chance either.”
“I wouldn’t say that. I’d say his chances are quite grim. But I picked Malden for a reason, Slag. It wasn’t because he showed such ability when he robbed Guthrun Whiteclay. It’s because he has a brain in his head. One sees that so rarely in the men who come through my door. If anyone can pull this job off, it’s Malden.”
“That why you’re sitting here, still scratching fucking notes in your fucking book?” Slag asked, gesturing at Cutbill’s ledger. “Like any other day. You might be dead tomorrow morning. Shouldn’t you be out whoring or drinking yourself sick?”
“I imagine if I am to have my throat cut on the morrow, a bad hangover or a case of the crotch rot would not, in point of fact, improve the experience. But no, I am not working so late because I expect Malden to succeed. I am working in case he does not. This ledger is more than just a record of accounts. It is my life’s work. It can never really be done, but I am attempting to make it as complete as possible. It includes a number of instructions that are to be carried out if I do meet my creator in the morning. I called you in here specifically because I need your help with that. Later tonight I want you to vacate the premises well before Anselm Vry and his soldiers arrive. And I want you to take this book with you. There are a number of people who should see it: the Pirate Queen of the Maw Archipelago will be most interested, for one. The Great Chieftain of the barbarians, Morg the Wise, absolutely must be allowed to read page three hundred and nine if we are to avoid a war with his people.”
“Such desperate fuckers as them need to see the guild’s records of payments and income?” Slag asked. The gleam in his eye was one of distinct curiosity. Few things could break a dwarf out of his dark moods, but a juicy mystery was near the top of the list. “What’s really in there, then?”
“You’re free to read it and find out,” Cutbill said. He turned the ledger around so it faced Slag. The dwarf made his way across the room and climbed up on Cutbill’s desk to see better. Reading along upside down, Cutbill watched as Slag’s eye ran down the endless columns of numbers to the spidery glyphs that appeared in the margins of each page. Slag stabbed the coded symbols with one delicate finger.
“Huh. Fucking clever. It’s in cipher.”
Cutbill favored Slag with a thin smile. “One I’m sure you could break, given enough time.”
“That’s not why you want me to take the book, though.”
Cutbill shook his head. “No. I’ve chosen you for this task for a very simple reason. When Anselm Vry comes here tomorrow, he will kill every member of the guild he can get his hands on-with one exception. The law will not allow him to kill you.” It was true. Any man who turned his hand against a dwarf, so much as to slap him in anger, would forfeit his own life. It was the treaty humanity had made with the dwarves when they allied against the elves at the end of the long-past wars. It was a treaty never broken or ignored, simply because only dwarves knew the secret of making steel, and that made them more valuable to the king than his own subjects. “Furthermore, you are allowed to travel anywhere in the continent you please, and no one can stop you. You are, my friend, the only one I can trust with this duty.”
“Sure. That’s what they always say about the shit jobs.” Slag squinted at Cutbill as if the guildmaster of thieves were either an exquisite gem or a worthless piece of paste and he wanted to decide which. “I never had a blasted clue before tonight. But there’s more to you than people think, ain’t there?”
“On the contrary. I am exactly what I appear to be.”
“Oh?”
“I am a man who has very good reason to keep his secrets safe.” Cutbill smiled once more. “Now I’ll ask you to leave me, if you’ll be so kind. I have a great deal to get down before they come for me. Oh, one last thing: if, despite the obvious odds, Malden does succeed somehow-I must ask you to never mention this conversation to him, or anyone else.”
