…”
The words were there in her throat. She could no more have conjured them forth, though, than she could fly to the moon. She opened her eyes to look at him. Perhaps that would help her summon up the strength to do what was right.
There were tears on his cheeks, but he was smiling.
If she told him now, she would destroy him. It was wrong to keep this secret, all the same. She still felt that way. But it would have taken a saint to say the words, and Cythera knew she was no saint. So she did what a witch would do instead. What her mother would do.
“You’ll be a hero, then,” she told him. “You’ll be a champion of Skrae. What woman could resist that?”
He laughed, a sound of happiness in that dark hour. He kissed her on the cheek, and then he left her there. Hurried back out into the night, to do what he must.
When he was gone she shivered for a while, though she was not cold. Then she went back to the window to continue her vigil-this time waiting for Malden to come and take her away.
Chapter Eighteen
Malden never actually lost consciousness, but between the pain in his head and the fact that he was shoved through the dark streets by a group of angry men who beat him every time he faltered, he had little idea where he was taken. He saw torches and doorways pass by, now was looking down at cobblestones, now up at an empty, cold sky. He was bounced down a flight of stairs and thrown onto a surface of packed earth in a place that smelled of old mildew. He was turned on his side and saw a wall of stone, crisscrossed with the glittering tracks of snails.
And then a bucket of stagnant water was dumped across his face, and he fought and spluttered and shouted as he desperately tried to sit up. The wooden bucket bounced off his shoulder and he drew back in fresh pain.
But suddenly he could think clearly again. He could hear many men grumbling all around him and see them silhouetted against a fire at the far side of the room.
He could hear their voices just fine.
“Slit his throat. Bury him down here, aye. But what of his fuckin’ sword? Can’t sell that, any fence’d know it for a Ancient Blade, jus’ lookin’ at it. And then we’d have every bleedin’ kingsman in town down here, wantin’ to ask questions and crack heads.”
“I say we cut off his fingers and toes, till he tells us who he really is.”
“And I say-and my word is law, yeah? — I say, we don’t got much time till that knight comes lookin’ for him. So we settle this now, we do it quiet, and we all find someplace else to be till it blows o’er.”
There were more grumbling protests, but the voices never grew too loud. And then a man with a knife no longer than his thumb came toward Malden, his free hand out to grab his hair and pull his head back. The size of the knife was not reassuring. They were going to cut his throat. It didn’t take a very big knife to slash a man’s windpipe.
Malden scuttled backward until his back hit a wall. He was out of options. “Don’t you lot practice the ancient custom of sanctuary?” he demanded.
The man with the knife stopped where he was.
A much bigger man, with a head as bald and round as the moon, came stomping forward. “What’re you talkin’ about?” he demanded.
“I’m assuming that Velmont brought me to the local guild of thieves. I very much hope I’m not mistaken. In Ness, where Cutbill runs the guild, we practice the custom of sanctuary. Any thief, no matter where he’s from, can demand the right to hide out in one of our safe houses, and he cannot be denied. As long as his dues are paid up.”
The man with the knife turned to face the bald one. In silhouette, Malden could tell it was Velmont who’d been about to slit his throat.
“He’s speakin’ true, boss,” Velmont said.
“Aye, save for one thing. Sanctuary’s for thieves. And you ain’t no thief, kingsman. Now be quiet while we murther you.”
“Velmont,” Malden insisted, “tell them. You and I spoke of many things this morning. Things only a thief would know. And tonight, after I’d engineered my own escape, I came back for you. If all I wanted was to make trouble for you, why would I loose your chains? Why would I be so stupid as to put myself in your power? I’m no kingsman! I’m just a thief, like you.”
Velmont lowered his knife hand but he didn’t back off. “I saw that man you were with. For a thief, you’ve got some pretty funny friends.”
“I tricked that knight into helping me,” Malden told him. “I stole that sword and everyone just assumed I was one of them.” That made a certain degree of sense. No man in Skrae who fell below the class of freeholder was allowed by law to even touch a sword. Wearing one on your hip would automatically convince a lot of people you were of a certain social level and deserving of a certain level of trust. “It was a long shot, but it was my only chance of getting out of the fortress alive.”
“But e’en then, why would some blasted knight help the likes o’ you?” the boss inquired.
“Because he wanted someone to smuggle his betrothed out of here, before the fighting starts. A woman named Cythera.”
The thieves looked at each other skeptically. There was some grumbling, but the boss cut it off with a gesture.
“A woman, I might add,” Malden went on, “who I’ve already swived.”
Laughter erupted among the gathered thieves of Helstrow. The boss tried to silence it, but every thief enjoyed a good jest at the expense of a landed knight. By besmirching Cythera’s honor-though not by lying-Malden had just scored a point with the crew.
He needed to win over their leader, though. The boss went to one corner of the room where a thickly recessed window was set into the wall very close to the ceiling. They must be in a cellar, Malden realized. Probably beneath a tavern or a gambling hall. The boss stared up through the window as if expecting to see a kingsman staring back down at him. Then he hobbled back over to Malden, who saw that he had a wooden leg. It would be difficult to convince a man like that to take a journey of a hundred miles on foot. Yet that was exactly what he needed to do.
“I need to get out of here. Tonight, with the woman. I’ll pay handsomely to anyone who can help me with that,” Malden said softly.
He knew that in Ness the possibility of money changing hands never failed to get a thief’s attention. The Helstrovian crew seemed no different.
“The walls are sealed,” Malden went on. “And I’m a stranger here. I don’t know the secret ways of this place. But the man who does could be very rich once I’m free.”
“Mayhap I know a way out,” Velmont said.
“Shut it, Vellie!” the boss thundered. “I’ll hear no more o’-”
“Ye’ll hear what I have to say, by the Bloodgod’s guts,” Velmont shot back. “If there’s silver to be had-or at very least, the promise o’ silver-I’m listening.”
Malden nodded. He had no money to give these thieves, not now. But at least they’d stopped talking of slitting his throat. It also sounded like there was still a chance at escape. He’d hoped for this-that Velmont or his organization would have some secret route out of the fortress. “I’m glad to hear it. Maybe it’s good for you as well. Maybe you should come with me when I leave. By tomorrow it’ll be too late. Every one of you will be conscripted. Forced to fight. And believe me-you don’t want to face what’s coming for you. The barbarians are only ten days from the river, and coming fast.”
“Barbarians?” one of the thieves asked, and suddenly the clamor in the cellar made Malden’s ears hurt. He realized with a start that the thieves had no idea why their king was girding for war. Most likely no one had bothered to inform the populace of the news from the East. “How many of ’em? Are they on horseback? I’ve heard they got witches that can curdle a man’s blood with one nasty look!”
