inefficacious.”
“You are my lady, and I obey your command,” the knight said. He closed his eyes and in moments began to snore.
Malden shook his head. “Like an infant, he sleeps.”
“He believes that he has done a man’s work,” Cythera whispered. “He sleeps like the just. Come with me, Malden. I wish to speak with you.”
The two of them headed out onto the room’s balcony. It looked out over the remains of Hazoth’s villa. There wasn’t much left but a pile of ashes and a few scraps of useless lumber-the people of Ness had taken away everything of value, and their definition of value was quite broad.
“Tell me,” Cythera said when they were alone, “what reward has Kemper claimed?”
“I had Slag make him a new deck of cards,” Malden said.
She frowned. “But with his curse-the only way he could even hold the old deck was because it was so immured with his own essence. He had possessed those cards so long they had become parcel with his being.”
Malden nodded. “Aye. So the new deck had to be special. They’re made out of pure silver, beaten thin and etched with vitriol for the pips. They’re probably worth more than most of the stakes he plays for, but he can hold them easily, and even slip them up his sleeves or down his tunic.”
Cythera smiled. “And Gurrh, the ogre? What price did he charge you?”
“None at all. He wished only to serve the Burgrave. If every man had the nobility of that ogre in his heart, we would all live in Croy’s world.”
Cythera leaned out over the balcony. “Then it seems we all have been repaid for our trouble, and each of us came out of this nightmare better than when we began, and all unscathed.”
“All but one,” Malden said, his brow furrowing. “I did something, Cythera, that I am not proud of. I took away a man’s freedom. It’s the greatest sin I know.”
“You mean Ommen Tarness?” she asked. “He was a simpleton. And anyway-you saved his life. Had he appeared before the procession in his natural state, Vry would have had him killed afterward.”
“I know,” Malden said. That wasn’t the point, though. In the last moments before the crown was returned, Ommen had said something that struck Malden to the core. He was getting smarter, he claimed. The imbecility was wearing off. He had not been born mindless-only the crown stole his wits, and without it he was becoming himself again. And he had stopped that process before it could properly begin.
But that was his burden to bear. He decided not to share it with Cythera.
After all, there was one other thing to discuss.
“Come away with me,” he said without warning.
She turned around very fast as he put an arm around her waist. He leaned forward and kissed her. Hard.
“I don’t have to stay here anymore,” he said. “I can travel the world. Come with me, and be my wife.”
Cythera glanced into the room, toward where Croy lay in bed.
“Forget him. You broke off your betrothal already.”
“Not in so many words.”
Malden grimaced. “I was the one who freed your mother. Not him.”
“And you think that means I must marry you now?” she asked. “That’s how the stories end, isn’t it? The hero slays the dragon, and the damsel throws herself into his embrace. Who lives in old stories now, Malden? Isn’t that something you always despised about Croy? This is the real world.”
“And here, now, I love you,” he told her.
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, and for a moment he thought she would say it in return. Then she leaned her head against his chest. “Malden, you’re a thief. A man of property now, but still-a thief. You must understand-you have to understand-that people in the real world do what they must to survive. To make their lives better.”
“And that means you will stay with him,” Malden said.
“You have a strip of land unfit for human habitation. He has a castle. Servants and retainers. A title. My children will have all those things, too. Do you understand why that matters? Look at my life. Look what my parents gave me. Can you accept that I would do anything not to pass on that inheritance?”
Malden let her go. He strode to the far end of the balcony and looked uphill, toward the palace. All around him the city lay in its unalterable tiers, with the poorest people at the bottom and the rich up top. So it would ever be.
She started to go back inside, to the sickroom. He stopped her by calling her name.
“Do you love him?” he asked.
“What a silly question,” she said, and then went inside.
Chapter One Hundred
Cutbill made a single notation in his ledger, then crossed out two lines. “There,” he said. “You are now a journeyman in the guild, with all rights and privileges of that rank.” He glanced over the edge of his book at Malden. “There is, of course, the question of the money you owe Slag. And I expect you to start earning right away, to keep my good favor.”
And that was it. No thanks, no reward. Fair enough, Malden thought. He’d expected nothing more from Cutbill. He had caused a great deal of trouble for the man, but now he’d repaired the damage. They were even.
And he was in the guild. Croy’s deed had made him a man of property, and now he was a man of profession. He could start earning money for himself, having ransomed his place in Cutbill’s organization. He was beholden to no one, his own master. He was truly free.
“You may go,” Cutbill said. Then he held up one hand, rescinding that. He looked to one corner of the room, where a tapestry was shimmying as if blown by a wind Malden did not feel. “Wait. Use that door, over there.”
Malden looked at the indicated door and frowned a question, but Cutbill offered no explanation. Malden stepped through the door and closed it behind him. Beyond lay the spy room, where one could observe what happened inside Cutbill’s office without being seen.
Malden bent his eye to the spy hole and watched as a tall man wrapped in a plain brown cloak walked over to Cutbill’s desk. The newcomer sat down behind the desk as if he owned the place, then pulled back his hood.
It was the Burgrave. He wore his golden crown and his eyes were very sharp. What was he doing there, unaccompanied?
“Milord,” Cutbill said.
The Burgrave was silent for a while. Then he said, “It seems I am once again in your debt. I don’t like owing you things, thief.”
“Then allow me to say that the debt is all mine,” Cutbill responded. “You permit me to exist, and to carry out my operations. If those operations are occasionally to your benefit, I consider it my honor to serve so great a man.”
“Honeyed words never sound right in your mouth.” The Burgrave got up from the desk and stormed around the room. “I never doubted Anselm Vry. I always thought he was a clerk, and nothing more. Someone gifted with moving numbers around on a page, but wholly incapable of treachery.”
“You make him sound like me, milord,” Cutbill suggested. He continued to work at his notations.
“Hardly. You-I’ve never trusted you. But you saved me from a rather unpleasant fate, and you’ll have a reward.”
“Many thanks. Tell me, milord, have you decided what to do with the two heroes of the day? I speak of Sir Croy and of Malden.”
The Burgrave shrugged. “Croy proved his loyalty well enough. I don’t suppose I’ll make an issue of him. I’ll leave his banishment intact but not enforce it. That way, if he crosses me again I’ll have legal standing to hang him. Who is Malden?”
In the spy room, Malden cringed. He rather wished Cutbill hadn’t used his name at all-it could only lead to
