feint and bluff, mostly.”
Croy bowed low. “Perhaps I’ve been taking lessons from the master of deception,” he said. “You taught me much of that style.”
“Just as I taught you how to hold that piece of iron you call a sword.” Bikker took a step toward Croy. “Tell me. Why are you here? For Cythera, truly? I daresay right now she could fight better than her champion.”
“I’ve come for the crown you stole. The one you paid to have stolen, rather, at the behest of the man who holds your leash.”
Bikker shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps that’s why you came. But you must know you won’t leave here with it. I think you came for another reason, though. I think you came to apologize and beg my mercy. To make amends for the time you impugned my honor.”
“Do you mean when I called you faithless, because you sell your sword to any man with a purse?” Croy laughed. “A gross insult indeed. Though how, may I ask, did I besmirch your honor-when I spoke nothing but the truth? You were sworn to defend the Burgrave, just as I was. Now you’ve received a better offer and you work for the man who would unseat my lord.”
Bikker’s face darkened with rage. “Wake up, Croy. Put away your dreams, your naive ideals. We are Ancient Blades! The Burgrave doesn’t deserve our service.”
“It isn’t a question of merit. It’s a question of loyalty. Of duty. You may call those things fancies, but I will not. I believe in them and I will fight to prove it.”
“When you die by my sword, what will that prove?”
“That honor is immortal,” Croy replied.
Bikker’s hand went to his scabbard, and Acidtongue leapt free. Its pitted and corroded surface glinted wet in the moonlight. A droplet of acid formed on its tip and fell to the ground, where it smoked and bubbled. “Draw your sword,” the big swordsman said. He held Acidtongue almost straight out at his side.
Croy bowed his head. He uttered a short prayer to the Lady, that She might strengthen his arm in Her service. Then he reached behind him and drew his shortsword, bringing it down over his shoulder to point directly at Bikker. Ghostcutter remained safely in its sheath.
“You bastard,” Bikker said. “Draw your real sword.”
“Ghostcutter is for killing demons,” Croy said, “or worthy opponents. You are neither, only a churl whose blood will befoul even this length of simple steel.”
It was a harsh insult indeed, but it had the desired effect. Bikker’s wrath bubbled over and he slashed wildly with Acidtongue, bringing the blade up high and then driving it down toward Croy’s quillions.
That might have been enough-that one blow could have carved right through the dwarven steel of the shortsword and had enough momentum left to drive Acidtongue right through Croy’s body. It could have been the stroke that killed the knight.
But he still had his shield on his left arm. He brought it up high and took the blow hard on his forearm. The acid-wet blade burned through the oak shield and cut through its iron boss as easily as it cut through the air, but Croy rolled his arm under the cut and sent Acidtongue driving down into the grass and dirt between his feet.
Bikker leapt backward, pulling his blade free and out of range of a counterattack. He laughed maniacally. “Very good, Croy. Very good.” The rage drained out of his countenance. Had it been a ruse? It had looked real enough. “You might survive five minutes if you keep fighting defensively. Will that be long enough?”
“Long enough for what?” Croy asked.
“For your friend Malden to reach the crown. After all, the real reason you’re here is to distract me, isn’t it? To keep me out of the house while your pet thief robs the place.”
Croy could not help but let his face show his surprise. How could Bikker know that?
“You didn’t think we would leave the crown unguarded, did you? How very foolish of Malden. Hazoth is a sorcerer. He has many ways of watching what goes on inside his own house. He knows that Malden is in there right now, and he knows what Malden is trying to do. Ah! There, look!”
Bikker pointed up at the rose window on the third floor of the house. Multicolored light burst from inside the glass.
“Hazoth is greeting his uninvited house guest even as we speak,” Bikker announced.
“No,” Croy breathed. “No.” It could not be. If Hazoth caught Malden red-handed and killed him as a trespasser, then who would retrieve the crown? Who would free Coruth, and by so doing, Cythera?
“No!” Croy shouted again, and ran at Bikker, his shortsword flashing up and around for a desperate cut.
Chapter Eighty-Three
Malden scrubbed at his eyes with the balls of his thumbs, trying to clear away the burning smears of light that flickered in his skull. His eyesight returned very slowly-whatever caused that flash of light had been strong enough to blind him. He could only hope it wasn’t permanent.
His hearing was unaffected. He could sense there were other people in the sanctum now. He could hear them walking around him. And he could hear someone applauding.
“Very impressive indeed. I thought it was a clever trick that a gutter ape had learned to read! Now I see that animal cunning can evolve to handle basic problem-solving as well, given an adequate stimulus. Though of course, I should not be surprised. Last summer we had a mole that burrowed into the garden, coming through the barrier from underneath the ground, where I never thought to extend it. Vermin will always find a way.”
“Good evening, Magus,” Malden said, because the voice belonged to Hazoth. Fear washed down his back like a spill of icy water, but he tried to keep his voice level.
“Did I say you could speak? No. Still. You’re a bold rodent, aren’t you? Courage is admirable, even in lower orders of life. So I’ll forgive that breach of manners. I’ll forgive your insolence, if only once.” Hazoth strode over to stand before Malden, who was hunched over, still rubbing at his eyes. He could see nothing in detail, just vague shapes and shadows.
“You bested the Eye of Klaproth,” Hazoth said, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. “I wonder-did you somehow see through its illusions, or is it simply that your simple mind was incapable of providing the imagery it works with? Either way, your primitive brain has served you quite well. You might have actually succeeded-I was preoccupied, and I might have remained ignorant of your presence if Cythera hadn’t warned me.”
“Wh-What…?” Malden managed to ask.
Cythera?
“Even a fool of Sir Croy’s caliber would not think he could cut his way into my house, not with the magical barrier in place. It was a noisy diversion you had him make out front, but I could not figure out why he was doing it. So I summoned Cythera and demanded she tell me everything. Every detail of your ambitious little plan. And she did, without much hesitation.”
Cythera had betrayed him? Malden could scarcely credit it. She had so much to lose-but then he supposed Hazoth had ways enough to get information from her. He moved one hand down toward his belt, inching it toward the hilt of his bodkin.
But… no. He could barely see. Striking out blindly now would be foolish. He fought down his immediate reaction, the rage at being discovered, the terror of what was to come next. It wasn’t useful to him. He could deal with it later, if he lived through this.
“Interesting. Look, look at this, Cythera. You can see his thoughts as they grow ever so slowly in his head. Watch his hands, and his mouth. They give him away. Fascinating, really.”
Malden held his tongue.
“You’re a rodent, my friend, and nothing more. A verminous little animal. Yet you do amuse me, after a fashion. I thank you for bringing a bit of excitement to my tedious routine. Here. You shall have a reward-I will return to you your eyesight.”
Instantly Malden’s eyes cleared. He blinked a few times and then looked around him. The room had changed little. The flames burned a healthier hue now, and the light was better so he could make out more of the sanctum’s contents, though he saw little to recommend the improvement. Hazoth was exactly as Malden remembered him, though now he was wearing a nightshirt and a fitted leather skullcap.
