A Thief in the Night

chapter Ninety-three

“Not like—not this way—the thief doesn’t—doesn’t die like this! History—so much history—all here—so long. So long! The chains cannot be broken . . .”

Malden shook his head to clear the blood that threatened to roll into his eyes. He craned his head farther to the side to see better what was happening. The Hieromagus slumped forward, his body wracked by spasms. He was caught by a pair of elfin soldiers who looked terrified.

“The Hieromagus!” a lord shouted. Malden recognized him—he was the same one who had wanted to watch him bleed, and who was only kept from that pleasure by Slag’s sudden attack of vomiting. It seemed he’d finally gotten his wish, but he was too distracted to enjoy it. “The Hieromagus is undone—lost in time! Quickly, bring jugglers, and dancers, and . . . anyone, sing a song, call him back!”

Musicians gathered on the flagstones before the delirious priest-wizard and started into a jaunty tune, but the Hieromagus did not look up.

“Bring perfumes and spices. Put pepper on his tongue,” the lord pleaded.

“Hold still,” Prestwicke told Malden. “That does not concern us.”

But then Aethil stood up and rushed forward. “Wait!” she called.

The gathered elves fell silent. Even the musicians ceased their playing. It seemed that in the absence of the Hieromagus, Aethil could still command a certain respect.

“Stop the execution,” she commanded.

“But—your highness,” the lord pleaded. “Now? We must see to the Hieromagus, and—”

“You heard my order,” Aethil said. “Will you defy me?”

The lord looked confused. He reached for the Hieromagus, perhaps intending to simply ignore his queen.

“I asked you a question!” Aethil shouted.

It was another lord who answered, however. One Malden didn’t know. “The human assaulted your person.”

“And he shall die for it,” Aethil agreed.

Malden’s heart sank.

The elf queen wasn’t finished, however. “But let his death serve some purpose. Let him fight the other human. That should be diversion enough to arouse the Hieromagus.”

“A fight to the death?” the lord asked. “But we’ve never stooped to bloodsport for his amusement before.”

“Exactly. It will be a novelty, sure to bring him around.”

Malden frowned in confusion. He had no idea where this sudden inspiration had come from. It didn’t seem Aethil’s style at all. Then he looked over at Slag, and the dwarf winked back.

Malden started to laugh.

He still expected to die. He still had no hope of ever leaving this place. But at least he wasn’t going to be butchered like a hog. It was funny what you could be grateful for, when fate played its tricks.

“No!” Prestwicke screamed, a strangely high-pitched noise. “No,” he repeated, in a more measured voice. “This is not what I was promised. I made a deal for this man’s life. I intend to see that deal honored.”

“If you feel slighted, human,” Aethil said, “you may seek redress from the Hieromagus. Once he comes back to himself, of course.”

Prestwicke seemed near to tears. “I was promised—”

“I made you no compact,” Aethil said. “Unbind the prisoner! Bring out the iron swords!”

A gasp rose from the audience.

An elf in a tattered smock came running toward Malden and Prestwicke. The Bloodgod’s priest raised his knife high and the elf flinched back, but then Prestwicke turned away and wiped the blood from the knife with his sleeve. The elf untied Malden’s bonds and then ran off again as fast as he could.

Malden staggered forward and rubbed furiously at his wrists. His hands ached with being tied for so long.

Next, an elfin soldier hurried into the hall, carrying a burden wrapped in rough cloth. As if he was afraid to touch its contents himself, he opened the bundle with a flourish and dumped three swords onto the flagstones.

Ghostcutter, Dawnbringer, and Acidtongue.