A Thief in the Night

chapter Fifty-two

The blue-haired creature walked on its knuckles toward Malden and started tapping on his foot. He pulled his leg back and drew Acidtongue from its scabbard. “What in the Bloodgod’s name is that thing?” he demanded.

“Just a . . . blueling, lad,” Slag groaned. “Harmless. Your human miners call them knockers. They’re blind but—”

He stopped to wince and try to cough. Nothing came up.

When Slag could breathe again, he went on. “They’re bloody useful . . . underground . . . can see through rock with their . . . their rapping. Can find pockets of . . . gas . . . and . . .”

The female dwarf rolled her eyes dramatically. “And he can tell me if anyone’s in a room before I open the door and get three feet of iron shoved up my arse,” she said. She yanked viciously on the blueling’s leash and it flipped over backward and groveled on the floor.

“All right, next question.” Malden walked around the simpering imp and pointed the tip of Acidtongue at the female dwarf’s throat. A drop of acid spilled from the blade and sizzled on the floor. She stared at it the way a jewelry appraiser might study a gem of a color she’d never seen before. “Who are you?” Malden demanded.

She smiled and bowed, careful not to impale herself on the sword.

“Balint’s my name. I work for the dwarven ambassador at Redweir.”

The city of Redweir—Skrae’s third largest—was home to the Learned Brotherhood, the monastic order that preserved all of Skrae’s knowledge. The city possessed the largest library on the continent, and also a thriving colony of dwarves, Malden knew. The dwarven embassy there controlled all trade between Skrae and the dwarven kingdom and was responsible for maintaining the treaty between dwarves and men. Balint could be a very powerful enemy to make, but Malden didn’t much care at that moment.

“Where are the barrels that stood here?” he demanded. “We want our property back.”

“Hmm, where could they be? Where, oh where? You can suck snot out of my mustache and have as good a chance of finding them. They weren’t yours to begin with, and they sure as f*ck aren’t his.”

She gave Slag a kick to the ribs. Slag cried out in pain and Malden brought his sword up to slash at her.

“Oh, now, that would be a f*cking shame, wouldn’t it? If you were to strike me down right now. Considering I’m completely unarmed, you bucket of puke.”

Malden glanced down at her belt. She had a scabbard on either hip, but they didn’t hold knives—the one on her left contained a screwdriver, while on her right she had a wrench.

“You know what human law says about pus-kerchiefs like you who kill dwarves, don’t you?”

Malden did. The treaty that guaranteed Skrae its only source of steel made the punishment for harming a dwarf quite clear. If he murdered Balint, he wouldn’t just be executed. He would be roasted alive and then fed to dogs. Of course, that would only happen if he was caught in the act.

“I don’t see any witnesses around here,” he said.

“I’ve got two of my kind outside this door, waiting for me to come back out. More up top, on the surface. You going to kill every last dwarf you can find? You going to tell them you just accidentally shoved that pig-sticker through my tits?”

“It might be worth a shot,” Malden growled.

Balint just stared at him the way she might look at a stain on an expensive carpet. Not a trace of fear showed in her features, even with a magic sword drooling acid inches from her heart.

“Malden,” Cythera said, “stand down.”

Malden lowered his sword, but he didn’t sheathe it. Cythera glared at him but he was damned if he would let this dwarf get away with poisoning Slag and stealing the most valuable treasure in the tomb, especially when he was in the process of robbing it.

“Please,” Cythera said, addressing Balint. “You have us at a disadvantage. We thought we were alone here. We did not know that any dwarves had come to reclaim their property. When we ran afoul of the revenants on the top level, we assumed—”

“Reve-whats?”

Cythera frowned. “The reanimated elves. The spirits seeking justice for past crimes. How did you get down here without encountering them?”

“She didn’t come . . . through the front . . . gate,” Slag said.

Balint brayed at the idea. “You did? I knew you were a fool. But just how stupid are you?”

“I’m guessing—oh, bugger, this hurts—I’m guessing you came . . . through the escape shaft . . . in the residential level,” Slag said.

Balint shrugged. “Why don’t you guess in one hand, and shit in the other, and see which one fills up first?”

“But why now?” Malden demanded. “This is no coincidence, all of us here at precisely the same time.”

“Hardly! We had to stick prods up our horses’ arseholes just to get here before you lot. We spent the last week breaking through the seal on one of the emergency exits, and just got here a few hours ago. We almost didn’t make it before you, but then, Urin here always was a tad off in his calculations.” She gave Slag another kick.

“Hold—you know Slag?” Malden asked. “Except you called him—”

“Not now, Malden,” Cythera cut in. “Please, milady Balint, tell me why you’re here. Maybe we can help you with your needs.”

The blueling tapped its way over to where Cythera stood. She allowed it to palpate her foot, though it looked to Malden like she was having a hard time not kicking it away.

Balint deigned to explain a few things. “About three months ago, some big futtock with a red chin like he was drooling blood came to Redweir. Asked a lot of uncomfortable questions about the Vincularium. Even knowing which questions to ask meant he knew too much already. Still, we figured he didn’t have an arsehole’s chance of getting inside this place, so we gave him one seriously nasty look and let it drop. Big mistake. Next thing we know, he’s seen in that piss-pot Ness. Well, they take all kinds in that place, don’t they? Isn’t that right, you whey-faced catamite?”

She kicked Slag again.

Malden took a step forward and raised his blade. “If you strike him again, I’ll shave you bald with this thing.”

Balint snorted in derision. “He deserves a lot worse than that, the f*cking debaser. Now, as I was saying, this big red-faced arsehole went to Ness, and there he found the one dwarf in Skrae who would even talk to him. Which meant he actually had a chance of finding a way in here. So we took it upon ourselves to make sure he didn’t get what he was after.”

“The barrels? But Mörget didn’t come for them,” Cythera said. “He came to kill a demon that he tracked here.” She shook her head. “Please. It doesn’t matter why we came. You have what you wanted. The barrels are out of our reach. I’m willing to accept that, and surrender them to you without further unpleasantness.”

“Oh, aye? Well, I’m not!” Slag grumbled.

Cythera closed her eyes. “Balint. Our friend was struck by a poisoned dart. I hate to say this, but—I believe you placed that trap.”

“Good one, too,” Balint agreed. “One of my best.”

“Now he’s sickening, and he’s going to die.” Cythera lowered her head. “Since you’ve already won—perhaps you’d be gracious enough, in your victory, to give us the antidote to your poison.”

Balint scratched at her mustache. “Antidote? Now why the f*ck would I have any of that on me?”