thought the thief was just being apathetic, that he did not care for their welfare. He saw now that Malden had arranged for this-he must have given the children notice of what was to come. The quality of life the children enjoyed would be enlarged tenfold overnight, and Croy was glad. One of the children, a little girl in a dress made of an old sack, came over and stared at him for a while. He smiled at her, and she pressed a tiny treasure into his hand. A single glass bead, blue in color, quite valueless, but pretty. He thanked her with all the courtly politesse he could muster before she shrugged and ran away.
Nearer to dawn the dwarf Slag arrived with a team of four horses and a massive wagon. He stared out into the darkness with alert eyes while a crew of human workers made their way through the wreckage with pry bars and block and tackle. It was not easy, but they were able to shift the half of the demon’s egg that remained unshattered. Rolling it on its side, they managed to get it into the wagon, and Slag hauled it away before anyone could see. What he wanted with several tons worth of pit-forged iron Croy could not imagine, but he was certain the dwarf would make good use of it.
Others came, people Croy did not know. The news must have spread quickly that Hazoth had fallen and his treasures were up for grabs. Footpads, rogues, and bravos combed through the wreckage and took away what they desired-loot and weaponry, mostly. A papermaker and his apprentices came and carried off great sheaves of scorched and torn paper and cloth, which they would pulp down for raw materials. Half of the chandler’s guild came and took all the broken glass away, and sawyers took those beams and wattles that had not already been ground to sawdust in the collapse. Just before dawn gleaners from the Stink came and carted away that which no one else deemed valuable.
It seemed impossible that anything would remain, yet one last looter did come. Gurrh the ogre, who had been sitting on the grass outside the gates the whole time, rose at dawn and made his way into the ruin. He picked through the debris until he found a leaden coffer, still sealed and barely dented. He tucked it under his armpit and then headed west, toward Swampwall and his home.
All according to plan.
As the sun came up, Cythera and Croy greeted it together, alone again. “It’s Ladymas,” Croy said, and Cythera kissed his cheek. “We prevailed,” he said, because he couldn’t quite believe it. “We won.”
Meanwhile, inside the Ladypark a wolf snarled and snapped at the air. Behind it a dozen more circled, waiting their turn to attack. Malden held his hands out toward the beast, trying to calm it. He wished it didn’t look so hungry. He wished he’d kept Acidtongue as a prize, so he wouldn’t have to rely on his laughable bodkin. He wished so many people didn’t want him dead. He wished he knew better how to fight.
He wished he could go home and go to sleep.
Instead it looked like his short career as a thief was going to end with him being devoured by a pack of wolves. All this for nothing, he thought.
The wolf took a step forward, its paw patting at the ground as if it were afraid of something, afraid to lunge. A hundred birds cawed and squawked behind Malden then, and he nearly jumped out of his own skin.
Then an old woman in a dark robe stepped around him. She held one hand down low where the wolf could sniff at it. The animal licked her palm, then laid down in the grass and rested its head.
“I think I know you,” Malden said to his rescuer. “I’ve seen you before.”
“Yes,” the woman agreed.
“Of course, at the time your complexion was more… barky.” He put his bodkin away. “You’re free, then. It worked.”
“Yes.”
“So… it’s over,” Malden said, because he devoutly wished that could be true.
“No,” she said.
“No,” he repeated. “No, I don’t suppose it is. Not quite yet.”
Chapter Ninety-Seven
Market Square was thick with crowds, people of every station and profession crammed together into the wide cobblestoned space, with cheers and prayers going up from every lip, with banners unfurled from every high place and gold or brass or tin cornucopias pinned to every hat and tunic. Since dawn the priests of the Lady had been out ministering to the faithful, leading long liturgical plainsongs and invoking the Lady’s blessings on the people, the city, and the king. They had to pick their way with care through streets so crammed with people there was no room to move freely. The citizens of Ness and all the pilgrims who had come for this holiest of days were all abroad, moving back and forth across the city as best they could, paying visits to each other or simply walking, taking in the fine weather while they uttered their prayers and thanks. In a riot of color and noise they praised the Lady.
It was the kind of crowd that could move mountains if it chose. It was the kind of crowd that could, with the slightest push, be inspired to riot. To tear up the city in its excitement. A little wrath, a little shocked surprise, and the whole Free City of Ness could erupt like a burst dam.
The throng gathered thickest and most fervent directly outside the Ladychapel, the great spired and vaulted church where the day’s grand procession would begin. The massive wooden doors were still closed, but men of the watch had to form a double cordon outside to keep the faithful from rushing in and seeing the icons before their proper time. With quarterstaffs and ropes they pushed the crowds back again and again. A few young devotees tried to climb up the heavily carved exterior of the chapel but were knocked down with long poles.
One climber, however, had the brilliant idea to ascend the back of the chapel, where the guards weren’t watching. Of course, he was not one of the faithful overcome by religious zeal. He didn’t want to fall prostrate before the Lady’s altar, nor did he wish to break in and steal the cakes and sweetmeats loaded in the giant golden cornucopia inside either.
Malden clutched at a gargoyle and hoisted himself up to one of the clerestory windows high on the side of the church. The window had been cranked open to let in some air-this close to midsummer, it was already hot just two hours past dawn-so he slipped inside and hid himself in the holy images mounted around the chapel dome.
The acoustics of that place were such, and his senses so sharpened by nervous dread, that he could see and hear everything that took place in the nave below. A red velvet carpet had been unrolled from the altar all the way to the massive doors. Anselm Vry was down there, dressed in a cloak of state. It had the repeating eye motif of a watchman’s cloak, but was brocaded with silver wire. It looked very heavy. The Burgrave was there as well in full regalia, though his head was bare. They stood surrounded by a clutch of green-robed priests who prayed and wafted holy smoke around the Burgrave, while young acolytes went about lighting hundreds of candles and dozens of censers until the icons shone like the sun.
“I said, leave us!” Vry shouted.
“Milord bailiff,” one of the priests insisted, “this is a holy precinct, and your authority here is-”
Vry established that authority by drawing a long dagger and pointing it at the priest’s face. “The Burgrave is not well. I must administer his physic before the procession begins, and I will not have you watch me do so,” he said.
The priest had turned deathly pale when the knife came out. Now he nodded and gestured at his fellows and the acolytes. They streamed out of the nave quickly enough.
When Vry and the Burgrave were alone, the bailiff sheathed his dagger and then turned to look at the Burgrave with disdain. Ommen Tarness was weeping softly, a horrible sound well-amplified by the dome of the chapel. Up on his perch, Malden peered down with unsympathetic interest.
“I don’t want to wear it,” Ommen said, his voice thick with snot. “I won’t! I’m free, finally free. Anselm, I feel… smarter today. I feel like-like I’m waking up from a very long nap, and I’m still groggy, but I feel-”
Vry slapped the Burgrave hard across the face. Then he drew the crown from inside his silver cloak-of-eyes. “We discussed this. You will put on the crown. You will go out there and make your speech. I have an archer standing ready to cut you down if you start to babble. When you’re done speaking the words I gave you, I will emerge and announce that you have been ill and are no longer fit to serve as Burgrave. Then I will take you away from all this, and you’ll never have to wear the crown again.”
“You… promise?” the Burgrave asked. He sounded like a naive child being promised a candy if he was good during a court ceremony. “Never again?”
