Cutbill might have even considered him for this position.
He knew every man in the square. Knew their names, knew their specialties. He knew the difference between the ones in the dark cloaks-burglars and confidence men, good earners but rarely to be trusted-and those in poorer clothes, drab tunics and patched hoods: pickpockets, false beggars, dippers, silk-snatchers, boothalers, thimbleriggers, filchers, and smash-and-grab men. Strictly small-time operators, who lived and ate on the pennies and farthings they managed to scrape together. Men for whom the guild was the only authority in their lives, and Cutbill the closest thing to a father any of them had ever had. Those men he could trust-as long as they accepted his ascension.
Many, from both sorts, he had recruited for the guild himself. Some of them still had grudges against him for how that had gone-entry to the guild was often by way of subtle blackmail or coercion. Some he could almost call his friends. He knew which were which, and who would speak against him when the time came.
He knew what these men wanted, and what they feared, and what they were willing to do to get the one and avoid the other.
And he could see, forming already in his mind’s eye, the plots and stratagems that would neutralize his enemies and make his friends closer.
And despite the fact that he still didn’t know what advice Cutbill had left him, he knew exactly what to say.
“Evening, men,” he said with a grin. “Thanks for dropping by.”
Relief passed over many of the faces below like a cloud across the moon. They had been looking for something in Malden’s countenance-perhaps simply confidence, or even just good humor-and they’d found it. Cutbill’s disappearance must have left them all feeling vulnerable and exposed. Anyone who stepped up now and promised them continuity-that they had not just been hung out and left to dry-would at least get their attention.
“You’ve heard by now that the boss has scarpered. Gone south, perhaps, in search of better weather. Someone will have told you he chose a replacement before he left. Now, in most honest trade fraternities like the Coopers Guild or the Bakers Guild, there’s simple rules for a change of leadership. There are practices to follow, formulae to keep. Our kind are different. We don’t have that. Generally, when a guild like ours changes hands, there’s those who see in it an opportunity to shake things up. Maybe pick a leader closer to their heart’s desire and back his number like in a dice game, laying bets for one man or another to win. That’s when guilds like ours tear themselves apart-every man is for himself, at first, but that doesn’t last long. Men with common interests form crews for protection from other crews. Crews get together and form gangs. But gangs don’t make money. Gangs exist for one real reason, and that’s to fight other gangs. You know who always wins in a war like that? The city watch. They just love it when a fraternity like ours turns on itself. Because they’re lazy. In a war of gangs, they don’t have to go chasing after villains in the night. They just need to come ’round in the morning and collect the bodies.”
Malden watched the faces below carefully. He saw Velmont, at the edge of the crowd, looking away. He saw ’Levenfingers, sitting on a horse trough, nodding as if he’d seen it happen before, many times. The oldster probably had.
“We have a whole other kind of opportunity coming,” Malden went on, “if we can just stick together. The Burgrave’s about to ride out through Hunter’s Gate with half the city trailing along behind him-including every single man of the watch. Oh, I have no doubt he’ll leave a few one-legged halberdiers behind to watch his own stash. But we’ll have our pick of jobs-empty houses are easy to burgle. Purses are child’s play to snatch when there’s no watchman eyeing your back. We all stand to make a pretty farthing.
“But only if we work together. That’s why the old boss brought us in, remember? It’s what he promised us. Work together. Work for each other, and we’re all safer. We all get richer than we could on our own. Honor among thieves. The rest of the world thinks that’s a joke. A thing that couldn’t possibly exist. The old boss knew better. He also knew honor among thieves isn’t free. It has to be earned. But where it exists, we’re all safer. We’re all a little wealthier. And we can all breathe easy.”
Malden sat down on the top of the Godstone, his legs dangling in the air. He looked and saw Slag in the middle of the crowd, starting to raise one fist in the air. The dwarf wasn’t the only one-but Malden knew that a halfhearted cheer now would hurt his cause more than help it.
He held up his hands for peace. “Don’t answer me now. Don’t say a word, anybody. Go home. Or go to the tavern, or a bawdy house, wherever you might normally go at this time of night. I don’t want lauds and acclaim-yet. I haven’t given you anything yet but words, and we all know what words will buy you. What I want is a chance to prove everything I just said. Give me that chance. And when the time comes, we’ll all cheer together, for what we pulled off-together.”
Chapter Forty-Three
A few murmurs drifted up from the crowd regardless of his plea for silence. Most likely the most vocal would be the naysayers, the rebels, the ones who hated him and wanted to take his place. It didn’t matter. If he couldn’t hear what they were saying clearly, that meant they weren’t shouting it. Not yet.
One member at a time, the guild of thieves started filing out of the square. Some of them turned and gave him encouraging nods. Some left without looking back. When they were all gone, Malden started climbing down the Godstone. Though the sides of the obelisk were smooth, runes had been carved into the stone centuries ago and he found handholds enough if he took it slow. When he was six feet off the ground, he jumped the rest of the way and landed on the cobblestones as silent as a cat.
He did not intend to head straight home, though he had nowhere else in particular to go that night. He was certain that at least one spy had been among the crowd, someone who would report to the Burgrave what he had said. That was unavoidable. He figured if he went where the Burgrave expected him to go, he might very well arrive to find a watchman with a knife waiting at his door.
He considered a tavern, but knew he was tired enough already and that if he started drinking now he’d be asleep before the hour was out. Instead he decided to head out to the Lemon Garden, a brothel he knew out on Pokekirtle Lane. He longed for the companionship he’d find there. Not the traditional kind of companionship one sought in brothels, of course-Malden never paid for sex. But he’d been raised in a house much like the Lemon Garden, and some of the women there remembered his mother, who’d been a colleague. They would take him in and feed him and give him a soft and-if he asked politely-an empty bed.
He made his way quickly through the streets, headed for the Sawyer’s Bridge that would take him down into the Royal Ditch. He kept to the street level rather than the rooftops only because it was darker on the cobbles.
Thus, when he realized he was being followed, he was a little surprised. He couldn’t see his pursuer but he could hear soft footfalls behind him. From more than one set of feet, too.
He frowned in the dark but didn’t worry overmuch. He’d spent enough of his life running away from people that he felt confident he could lose this bunch. He ducked down the first alley he could find, a blind turning that emptied into a close-a clutch of houses built so near one another that in places their upper stories met above street level. Normally no one being followed would be so stupid as to enter a close, with only one way out. But Malden knew this particular close, and knew the ivy clutching to the walls of its courtyard was strong enough to hold his weight. He could climb to the roofs and be gone before his pursuers even got to the alley. They had no chance.
Except, of course, if they had a man waiting in the yard of the close, standing by a fire and holding a halberd in his hand. His cloak was embroidered all over with eyes, making him a man of the watch.
Malden backpedaled with all due speed, darting back out of the alley and up the first street that presented itself. The men who were following him started running to catch up. Just ahead, starlight showed Malden an intersection with a high street. Plenty of opportunities for escape there But before he could reach it, an elegant carriage pulled to a stop just in front of him. It was drawn by snow white horses and the driver wore fancy livery, though in the dark the colors were hard to make out.
The side door of the carriage opened and a man leaned out into the night. “Malden,” he said, “I’d have words with you. Do my men really need to chase you all night?”
Malden swallowed, his throat suddenly tight.
