A Thief in the Night

chapter Nineteen

The following day the sun was warm and rippled along the surface of the road, while a soft breeze bowed the heads of wheat. Croy rode on the wagon while Malden drove. Between the demands of watching the horses and the knight’s singing, Malden had no trouble staying awake this time. They made good time in the morning but had to slow their pace in the afternoon as foam slicked the backs of the hackneys and it was clear they were pushing the horses too hard. Still, by the time pink clouds began to gather in the sky, they could already see Helstrow on the horizon—the halfway mark of their journey.

The royal fortress stood in a wide bowl of land cleared of trees and rocks, to allow better fields of fire for the archers on its walls. In shape it looked like a great ship, with a sharp prow and a high stern castle—that must be the king’s palace, Malden thought, a stand of spires and high towers. The fortress stood astride the river Strow, from which it took its name. A hundred flags flew from its high places, and knights in bright armor rode in and out of its three massive gates on endless patrols.

East of the fortress, across the river, an ancient forest grew. Croy told Malden it was the last of its kind in Skrae, a thicket of ancient trees that cloaked the foothills of the Whitewall Mountains. To find a forest that old anywhere else, Croy said, you’d have to go as far north as the dwarven kingdom, for the dwarves cared little for the surface world and had never cleared their land in the endless demand for firewood.

“This forest,” Croy told him, “has survived only because no one is willing to get so close to the Vincularium just to chop down trees.”

Malden had a choice to make, whether to part company here and lose himself in the streets of Helstrow—where surely there were things to steal, and a living to be made—or to press on with the party and become a grave robber (and, likely, a meal for a demon). While he was pondering that, however, he was asked for his opinion on another matter.

“The only bridge over the Strow is inside the fortress,” Croy said. “We’d have to enter the gates to cross.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem—you’re still a knight of the realm,” Malden pointed out. “Even a knight errant should be able to talk his way in.”

“The difficulty is on Mörget’s side. A barbarian in Redweir or in Ness is a curiosity, even a wonder. Inside Helstrow, he’s an act of war. One reason the king stays here is to keep his army close to the Whitewall, where he can respond quickly in case the barbarians flood through the mountain passes.”

“Is an invasion really that likely?” Malden asked.

Croy glanced over at Mörget, but the barbarian was out of earshot. “The people of the East live by conquest. They do not farm, so simply to feed their people they must constantly raid the freeholds and villages of their neighbors. Mostly they harass the hill people north of here, on the border between Skrae and Skilfing, but they’ve long had their eye set on richer bounty. If they were allowed through the passes, though . . . yes. I am certain they would try to conquer us. The threat they pose is real—and kept in abeyance only by constant vigilance on our part.” Croy shook his head. “If Mörget is discovered in Helstrow, we’ll be taken as spies or traitors or worse. And you’ve seen him. He’s hardly inconspicuous.”

“Is there another option?”

Croy frowned, a rare expression on his face. “The Strow is too deep and runs too fast to ford anywhere on its length. We can head downstream a few miles, build a raft, and pole the horses across—but that’s not without its dangers. The current is so swift we could be capsized and drown.”

“When choosing between two evils,” Malden said, “my mother always said, make sure you get paid in advance. It seems to me we cannot predict what will happen if we enter Helstrow. Any number of things could go wrong. The river may be treacherous, but at least we know what we face.”

“I think you’re right. But it will add a day to our journey. Thank you, Malden.”

“For my counsel? I’m surprised you even asked for it.”

Croy smiled at him. “You count yourself so worthless sometimes. You’re one of the most canny men I’ve ever met,” he said. He reached over and slapped Malden on the back. “I know you weren’t born a nobleman, Malden, but you have true honor in your soul. I’ve seen it. There are great deeds in your future.”

Guilt washed through Malden’s veins, a feeling he’d hardly expected. If Croy knew what kind of dishonorable things he dreamed of, concerning Cythera . . . “I think you do me too much credit.”

Croy shrugged. “I suppose no man can take the measure of his own mettle. Once we’re across the river we’ll discuss this again.”

Malden wasn’t sure what to make of that. Did Croy suspect something? Was he trying to put him off his guard? There was no way to know.

Croy stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled loud enough to hurt Malden’s ears. “Ho, friends!” he shouted. “Up ahead the road forks. Turn south!”

“South?” Mörget asked. “Away from our destination?”

“Put faith in me,” Croy said, and the barbarian just nodded.

The two warriors trusted each other implicitly, Malden realized. Mörget didn’t question Croy’s instructions unduly, because he knew they shared a common interest. And now Croy was trying to bring Malden into that same confidence. It gave him chills.

And a very strange sort of pride. Not that he intended to live up to this newfound trust. But it was . . . nice, perhaps, to have a man like Croy think highly of you.

Malden laughed to himself. He’d been spending too much time with the knight errant. He was starting to believe in Croy’s folly himself. Best to nip that in the bud.

The road duly forked, and Croy wheeled the wagon to the south, so that the setting sun was on their right shoulders. The horses were dragging their feet by the time, a mile later, they pulled into the stable yard of a milehouse. They were on the road to Redweir now, and Croy told Malden that the milehouses on this road were named for the Nine Learned Arts. The sign out front depicted the constellation known as the Troll, and the house was called the Astrologer.

Inside, the walls and ceiling were decorated with tin stars, and instead of the usual dreary room they found music and warmth and a boy carrying two flagons of ale. He nodded them toward one of the available tables. This place was not crowded by any measure, but at least it saw some decent custom. The men gathered at the tables were mostly merchants and tradesmen, travelers on the road between Redweir and Helstrow. Men who might have a coin to spend. They were laughing and their faces were bright with drink.

“Now this is more to my liking,” Malden said, and called for food. What came to the table was pottage again, but a bit of bacon had been stirred into the bowls to give the stew a measure of flavor. He downed his bowl in a hurry and ordered another, as well as more ale.

It might, after all, be the last meal he shared with the dwarf and the knight. It might be the last time he ever saw Cythera. He intended to get drunk.

Croy went to bed early. Cythera stayed long enough to watch a band of musicians strike up their first song. The music was as rustic as the instruments—a shawm, an old plucked dulcimer, and a fiddle—but boisterous and full of life, and the songs retained their traditional, and therefore mildly obscene, lyrics. Malden found himself slapping the table in time, and even Slag nodded his head to the rhythm.

When the first song ended, to much cheering, Cythera rose from the table and took her leave. “If I stay, I’ll be dancing before long, and shan’t sleep at all,” she told them.

Malden nearly fell over his chair as he jumped to his feet. “Pleasant dreams, dear lady,” he said.

She looked quizzically into his eyes for a moment, but when he added nothing more she nodded to Slag and headed back to her private room.

“You haven’t an arsehole’s chance with that one,” Slag said when Malden sat back down. “What woman would trade a knight for a thief? Unless human women are so different from the dwarven kind.”

Malden shook his head. “Some of them, perhaps. Slag, tell me, does Cutbill have an agent inside Helstrow?”

“If he does, he never told me,” the dwarf replied. “You think I’m privy to his secrets? And why do you even ask?”

“A wise man would never set foot inside the Vincularium. A wise man would run now, while he still had the chance. Oh, I know you have your reasons for going onward with this crew,” Malden said. “Even if you won’t share them. Probably a hoard of dwarf gold hidden in there somewhere, left behind an age ago.”

Slag’s face refused to show any emotion. Which told Malden he’d come close to the mark, at least.

“Yet,” the thief went on, “I’m more likely to die than get rich if I go. I had considered the possibility of making my own way from here.”

“You mean to run off without a word of explanation, is what you’re saying,” Slag said.

“I’ll head for Helstrow and find my fortune there,” Malden whispered. “Better a live thief than a dead hero, no?”

“Well, if you do go,” the dwarf said, and pursed his lips as if he’d bitten into a lime, “good luck go with you, son.”

“There. It’s not so hard to wish a man fortune, is it? I know curses are easier for you, so I’ll ask no further benediction.” Malden rose unsteadily from the table. He should have taken his time with that fourth pint of ale, he thought.

“You’re going right now?” Slag asked.

“No, no, no, no,” Malden said. “Just outside. For a piss.”

The dwarf looked like he didn’t believe this, but it was true. Malden was in no shape to walk a dozen miles that night, not without some sleep. If he did run off, he would do it just before the dawn.

He stepped out into the cold night air, leaving the music and the fire behind him, and wandered down the dooryard of the milehouse toward the privy. Overhead an army of stars marched across a perfect dark blue sky.

Malden had built a kind of life for himself in Ness. He could do it again in Helstrow, he was sure of it. The decision would be easy, if not for—

But he did not finish that thought. Just as he was about to take down his hose, he heard a sudden sharp crack behind him. He jumped in the air and spun around.

Standing behind him was a man dressed in a heavy cloak with a hood that masked his features. He had a white stick in his hand, which he slapped against the wall of the milehouse. “Going somewhere?” he asked.