problem as it first seemed. The men of Ness weren’t born warriors. If they had to fight the barbarians, most of them would perish in the first wave. The Burgrave would only have to pay the survivors.
That cunning bastard. But maybe that was what it took to be a ruler of men-you had to be a villain just to keep them in line. Malden had never had any use for authority, and had always hated those who called themselves his superiors. He’d met the Burgrave, and the man had confirmed all his prejudices.
Yet, still-this was more cynical than any man had a right to be. And that stood at odds with the whole point of raising an army in the first place. “I can’t believe that Ommen Tarness loves his king so much that he would spend his own money defending the country,” Malden pointed out. “What’s he really after?”
Loophole snorted. “He hasn’t seen fit to share his motivations with us.”
No, Malden thought. He supposed Tarness wouldn’t make his plans public. It wasn’t the man’s style. “I suppose it matters not. Let him get himself and half of Ness killed, if he wants to play at soldiers,” he said with a sigh. “Anyway. Once he’s gone and taken his army with him, that’ll just make it easier for us to steal what he leaves behind. It’s an ill wave that doesn’t wash something up on shore.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
“A ll right,” Malden said. “Well, that’s got me up to date. Now I imagine I need to think about the future. If I’m running this guild, I’ll need to get started. Did Cutbill leave me instructions, at least?” He had never run so much as a card game before. Surely Cutbill wouldn’t just assume he knew how to keep a criminal enterprise in motion.
“He said it’s all in the ledger,” Loophole told him.
Malden nodded and went to the lectern, where the infamous book lay open to a half-filled page. He saw columns and columns of numbers, each with a corresponding notation in a tiny, spidery hand. Very few of the notes meant anything to him, but he assumed they represented quantities of money brought in by various thieves, or paid out in bribes or other expenses. It wasn’t exactly a manual of instructions. Thinking Cutbill must have left him a message in plainer words, he flipped to the next blank page. And found what he was looking for-though it made him even more confused.
The top of the page was inscribed: FOR MALDEN, SHOULD HE RETURN. Those were the only words Malden recognized. The rest were in some bizarre alphabet he’d never encountered before. Or perhaps not in any kind of alphabet at all, but a cipher-for the words were inscribed in circles and triangles and congeries of dots. It looked more like dwarven runes than human writing.
“What do you make of this?” he asked the oldsters, showing them the encoded page.
’Levenfingers looked away. “Well, now, that’s really a private matter-”
Loophole nodded eagerly. “None of our business, properly-”
“None of us can read,” Lockjaw finished.
“Ah,” Malden said. “No, of course not.” It was not that common a skill. He had learned to read and write because he grew up in a brothel that required a bookkeeper. Expecting thieves-even learned, wise, and venerable elders like these three-to know the art was expecting too much. “I beg your pardon.” He took the page in hand and started to tear it from the book. He hesitated, because this was Cutbill’s ledger. In the annals of the thieves of Ness, it was close on being a holy relic.
Still. The page was addressed directly to him. He tore it out and stuffed it into his tunic, right next to Cutbill’s signed contract for his assassination.
“I want word sent to every thief in the city who hasn’t joined on with the Burgrave yet,” Malden told the oldsters. “Have them all meet me tonight. Midnight,” he said, because that was a fitting time for a conclave of thieves. He thought for a moment, then added, “At the Godstone.”
The oldsters agreed to do as he asked. Once he thanked them properly and handed each a bag of coins for expenses, Malden left the office and went back to the common room. Velmont and his crew had come down already and made themselves at home, lounging on the furniture with their dirty boots. That seemed less acceptable, now that it was technically his furniture.
“Velmont,” he said. “You work for me now. Is that a problem?”
“Where’s your famous Cutbill?” the Helstrovian thief asked.
“Gone. He left me in charge. I’ll ask again, is that a problem?”
Velmont held one hand out, palm upward.
Malden nodded and took a dozen coins from his purse. After what he’d given the oldsters, he had precious little left, but that was the cost of doing business. He laid the silver on Velmont’s palm.
“No problem a’tall,” the Helstrovian told him.
“Good.” Malden looked over and saw Slag at his workbench, sorting through his tools as if to make sure nothing had been taken. “Slag-show this bunch around. Find some food for them. I’m sure they’re all hungry after traveling so far.”
“Sure, lad,” Slag said, and rose from his bench. If he was at all surprised that Malden had just taken over the thieves’ guild, he showed no sign of it.
I wish I had the same confidence, Malden thought.
He started for the trapdoor, but Slag stopped him with a look. “Where are you headed?” the dwarf asked. “In case we need you.”
Malden thought of telling the dwarf to mind his own business. But he supposed Slag had a point. If the watch broke in and raided the lair in his absence, he would want to know about it, wouldn’t he? “I’m going to see the witch Coruth.”
“Your prospective mother-in-law,” Slag said with a grin.
That fact hadn’t occurred to him. Instead he’d thought that Coruth might be the one person in Ness who could decipher Cutbill’s instructions.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Croy brought the whetstone carefully up the iron edge of his sword. The sound it made grated on his nerves, which were at an especially fine pitch already. It was all right. The irritation would help keep him awake. He hadn’t slept in three days.
He brought the whetstone back down to Ghostcutter’s hilt. Touched it gently to the iron. Drew it back up toward the point. Ghostcutter required a very special kind of maintenance. The iron blade was cold-forged by an ancient and forgotten process that imbued a certain virtue to the metal. If the blade were ever exposed to high heat-even from the friction of a whetstone-its mystical temper would be lost. It would no longer be so puissant at its original purpose: slaying demons.
Not that any demons had presented themselves lately. At least none of the inhuman variety called up from the pit by mad sorcerers.
There had been a time when seven swords were needed, when demons had roamed the land freely and seven knights were required to vanquish them. Now they had become rare, as sorcery was slowly being wiped out. Now, more and more often, the Ancient Blades were being turned against human enemies-and even each other.
Was their time passing? Was this the dawning of a new age, when men fought only against men? The elves were all but extinct. Ogres, trolls, and goblins were becoming the stuff of mere rumor and campfire tales.
And at Helstrow, Croy himself had seen an Ancient Blade broken.
The swords had been forged with a certain destiny in mind. If that destiny had come to fruition, if they were no longer needed, then perhaps that explained how the impossible had happened. Perhaps it was a sign from the Lady, a warning not to depend on the things of the past.
Or perhaps there was a more worldly reason. The axe Morget used to cut through Bloodquaffer had been made of dwarven steel. That metal had not existed eight hundred years ago, when the blades were forged. There
