Cythera stood behind him, her eyes downcast. She looked as lovely as ever, even if Malden knew she’d betrayed him. She met his gaze and mouthed an apology, though she did not speak out loud. She looked so piteous, so sympathetic, that he wondered if he could summon up real anger at her betrayal.
He found he could not.
She had pinned her hopes to Croy’s star and been disappointed. She had hoped Malden could help her, and that appeared to have failed, too. Her life-and that of her mother-were bound in unholy union with Hazoth, and she could not free herself. She needed help so she had turned to anyone she could get, even a poor thief like him. He’d done his best, and she had helped him to the full extent of her ability. But they had both known it was a long shot. A suicide mission. No, he could not blame her now. Had she maintained her innocence, if she’d held her tongue, Hazoth would have taken out his rage on Coruth.
Malden knew Cythera would never let that happen, if she had any choice at all.
He glanced over at Coruth and the leaden box that held the crown. They were unchanged.
“Quite safe,” Hazoth said. He walked over to the magic circle and bent to inspect the chalk lines on the floorboards. While he was thus busy, Malden looked over at Cythera, trying to think of what signal to send her.
All he could do was shrug.
Cythera turned her gaze on the tree that was her mother. A single tear rolled down her painted cheek. Malden’s heart went out to her. She must have dared to hope when she saw how close he had come to rescuing Coruth. The plan had gone so smoothly, and now… Well. Things had changed.
He longed to speak to her. To reassure her, perhaps, though what words he would use to do so escaped him. Hazoth had not given him permission to speak anyway, so he kept silent. He tried to communicate with Cythera using just his eyes, but she would no longer look at him.
“One thing,” Hazoth said, rising to his feet again, “escapes me. I would like to have an answer before I decide what to do with you, little rodent.”
He came back over to Malden and stared down at him with unquiet eyes.
“What you are doing here is quite clear. You came to steal back that which you were paid for,” Hazoth said. “Why you would do so is no mystery. I imagine you think that if you can recover the item you will be able to bargain for your life with those who seek it. A logical conclusion, though there is one fallacy in your reasoning. The players in this game outstrip you in power and in intellect. They would be glad to have the thing back, certainly. But they would not let you live once they had it. Don’t you see? You’ve learned too much. An animal in possession of a secret is a dangerous animal. They would slaughter you even more readily than I.”
Malden bit his lip.
“You may speak,” Hazoth told him. “In fact, I insist. Tell me who sent you, and what they want from the crown?”
Malden frowned. “Surely you know the answer. The Burgrave wants what was stolen from him. He will be embarrassed if he appears tomorrow in the Ladymas procession without his crown.”
Hazoth smiled. “The Burgrave? Do you mean Ommen Tarness? I really don’t think he was the one who employed you.” He laughed at the thought. “No, not Ommen.”
“Why should he not?” Malden asked.
“Because Ommen Tarness is an idiot,” Hazoth answered.
Chapter Eighty-Four
“A fool, perhaps, but-”
Hazoth’s face clouded with anger. “I did not say you could speak!” he thundered.
Inside Malden’s chest his heart stopped beating. Pain lanced through his limbs and he dropped to the floor in a quivering heap. He could not draw breath, could not move, and every sound in the room was a distant echo – and then he recovered. He sat up carefully, unsure if he was still alive or had passed into the afterlife.
Hazoth went on as if nothing had occurred. “I do not use that word as a casual insult. Ommen Tarness is mentally an infant. He has been since he was thirteen years old, when his father died and he became the Burgrave-his brains stopped growing, even as his body developed. He can barely feed himself. I understand that getting him dressed each morning is a tiresome chore-he doesn’t like to wear state clothing, and throws fits of tantrums when the castellan tries to put a robe over his shoulders.”
Malden frowned in confusion. He’d seen Ommen Tarness in public many times, and the man had always struck him as highly intelligent and composed.
“Ommen’s father, Holger Tarness, was the same. And Holger’s father, and his father’s father-the line of Tarness is corrupted in the blood. There hasn’t been one of them that could wipe his nose properly in centuries,” Hazoth said. “It really isn’t proper to call Ommen the Burgrave at all. He is like a horse that carries a rider, and that rider is the true Burgrave. Who is currently sealed into yon leaden box.”
Malden turned to stare at the coffer tangled in the rowan tree’s roots.
“Tell me, rodent. Are you bright enough to know who I speak of? You may answer me, if you think you’ve worked it out.”
Malden considered the puzzle carefully. “I think perhaps I can work out your meaning. I have enough clues to piece together now. The crown spoke to me, when I held it. It possessed an air of command, as if it was accustomed to people accepting its orders without question.” He shook his head. He could still remember how it called to him-and how desperately hard it had been to ignore its commands. It wanted him to place it on his own head. He thought he understood now exactly how foolish that would have been.
He considered his second point. “Further, I saw the chamber where it resided when not in use, and that room was full of campaign banners and the trophies of war. Mementos of a military man, placed where no one would normally see them. Yet clearly they were treasured by someone. There is only one man I can think of who fits the bill.”
He nodded to himself. “Finally, I know that no other crown will serve Ommen Tarness. Bikker initially suggested that when the crown was stolen, the Burgrave could simply have a replica made and that he would not even come looking for the original, for fear of embarrassment should its theft be discovered. Since then, however, certain… others have told me that only this one will do. That it cannot be so simply replaced. But why not? No one ever heard the crown speak, except for me and presumably Ommen Tarness. A nonspeaking replica would be accepted by the people without question. So it must be that Ommen requires the crown to function as Burgrave.”
He met Hazoth’s gaze directly. “Based on these elements, I believe I have a conclusion. Are you saying that Juring Tarness lives on, eight hundred years after his supposed death, imprisoned inside his own crown?”
Hazoth’s eyes flashed with excitement. “Wonderful! You have it precisely. Juring Tarness, the first Burgrave, who founded the Free City of Ness. The general who handed his king a country, and asked for a cesspool as reward. Yes! But you have one subtle detail wrong. It is not Juring who is imprisoned by the crown-it is Ommen.”
Malden thought he understood the distinction, but he said nothing rather than risk Hazoth’s displeasure with his rudeness.
“Juring and I were fast friends, eight centuries ago. He came to me one night at the end of his life and begged me for my aid. He had a son at that time, an heir who would take up his crown and his title when he died. Sadly, the boy was a wastrel-all his energies were given over to petty entertainments, wine, and whoring. Anyone could see the son would never be a fit ruler. Juring loved his city and worried what would happen to it when his son took power. He had built a fiefdom for himself and ruled it ably. Perhaps his people thought him just and wise. Perhaps they only obeyed him because they knew what he was capable of when angered. His son could not command such respect. More importantly, the boy was incapable of holding onto money. He was a gambler and a drunkard, and Juring knew that if he was given free rein, he would bankrupt the city in a year. The king at that time feared Juring enough to stay out of his business, but once Juring was gone, the king would surely see the son’s weakness. One way or another it would end with the city’s charter being revoked, and everything that Juring had worked for would be lost.”
Hazoth’s eyes grew bright as he remembered the long-lost past. Malden was not so foolish as to think the wizard distracted enough to give him any chance of escape. “When he came to me, Juring was at the end of his
