“Thank you,” Croy gasped.
“We don’t have enough horses,” Mörget said. “I suppose we’ll need to buy some more.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
If Malden wasn’t going on Croy’s grand adventure, he needed to get back to work. He wasted little time finding his next assignment, though of course he had to tarry until nightfall before he could begin to work. Cutbill had a lead that took him into the Royal Ditch, the valley just north of Castle Hill that was formed by the course of the River Skrait. The narrow streets atop the ditch were lined with gambling houses and brothels, with drug dens and pawn shops that asked few questions. Old, familiar territory for Malden, though little that went on there was truly lucrative enough to interest him any more. What the Royal Ditch did possess to compel him was a scattering of old friends.
He found one shortly after dark, exactly where he expected her to be. Every part of Morricent’s face was painted, with the white lead caked so thick around her eyes that it hid all the wrinkles. She’d been at work in Pokekirtle Lane long enough to know all the tricks of her trade: she doused herself in sweet perfumes, she pitched her voice unnaturally high, like an infant’s, she wore her hair down with green ribbons woven amongst her curls, like a twelve year old girl celebrating her first chapel ceremony. Yet Morricent was old enough to remember Malden’s mother.
His mother, who had spent some time in Pokekirtle Lane herself, though she’d died before she needed to start painting with white lead.
Malden had been born in a whorehouse and had spent his childhood inside its walls, working first at cleaning it and then later learning how to keep its books. When his mother died during his adolescence he’d been forced to leave and find his own way in the world—a hard thing for a penniless boy with no family. Yet he had not been cast out without pity. The whores of Ness were a close sisterhood, and they stuck together better than any guild of workmen. Malden was guaranteed a warm welcome now whenever he stopped in at any brothel in the city, and even the semi-independent streetwalkers knew his face and always had a smile for him. Morricent was no exception.
“Malden! You’ve come to keep a girl company on a wretched night,” Morricent cooed, as he leaned up against her particular stretch of wall. The bricks were wet with mist, and dark clouds covered the moon. It was indeed a bad night to be out of doors, especially while wearing as little clothing as Morricent did. One more trade secret. “Such a warm-hearted fellow. Here, come help me chase away the cold.” Morricent’s hand was already under Malden’s tunic, plucking at the belt that held up his breeches.
He grasped her wrist and pulled it gently free of his clothes. As he lifted her fingers to his lips, instead, and placed a gentle kiss on the back of her hand, her eyes grew wide.
“Milady,” he said, “Nothing would please me more, save—I have business tonight, pressing business.”
He released her hand. She closed it fast enough to keep from dropping the coins he’d slipped into her down-turned palm.
“Gareth sent me to you, saying you might have some information for me.” Gareth was Morricent’s pimp. Not a bad sort, as they went—mostly his role was to collect the money his stable of women earned. He never beat them and was actually just a middle-man for a wealthy gambler named Horat, who paid the city watch to stay out of the Royal Ditch. Horat, in turn, answered to Cutbill, whose interests ranged far and wide.
“I’ll tell you anything you want to know, Malden, of course. You don’t have to pay for words.”
“Ah, but I impose on your valuable time. I understand you had a customer last night, a hairy fellow with a mole on his cheek just here.” Malden indicated the spot on his face. “Talkative cove. Wanted to brag all about something big he had planned.”
Morricent nodded and leaned close to whisper. “He said he would take me some place nice, next time. A room at an inn, even, with wine and sweetmeats, instead of a bare patch of wall and a sprig of mint to freshen my mouth after, like usual.” She shrugged. “I hear promises from that sort all the time, so perhaps I did not look sufficiently convinced. He wanted me to believe he was about to come into money, so I would fuss over him like a real lover. So he told me about this job he had lined up, told me all the angles, and I had to admit it sounded like a nice bit of work. Simple as sifting flour, he kept saying, and no crew to split the swag with.”
Malden got the particulars from her, then bowed and took her hand again. “He’s one of your regulars?” he asked.
Morricent nodded.
More coins flowed into her palm. Silver this time. “After tonight,” Malden said, “you may see a lot less of him. Even if he does come back I’m afraid there’ll be no room at an inn.”
Morricent’s fingers rubbed at one of the coins he’d given her. Malden knew what she was doing—even without bringing it to the light she could tell by the feel what denomination he’d given her. “Methinks I can get my own room, now, and all the sweetmeats I like, and a bed for just me. Now that’s a rare enough thing to be treasured. Thank ye, Malden,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek.
He was enough of a gentleman to wait until he was out of Pokekirtle Lane before wiping her white lead off his face.
The job was going to take place that very night, halfway across the City. Malden had to hurry if he wanted to catch Morricent’s client in the act. This wasn’t a typical house-breaking, either, and he had to think on how he would get his wrench into the would-be thief’s works.
Malden always thought best up in the clear air of the rooftops. He moved quickly, jumping across alleyways and making good time across the sloped roofs of the Smoke, the zone of workshops and tanner’s yards that separated the wealthy uphill parts of the City and the poorer districts down by the wall.
Some of the manufactories and smithies of the Smoke were open all night. The big furnaces there that smelted iron were never allowed to die down because it cost too much to get them back up to heat once they were cold. Similarly, there were some industries so in demand that the shop masters kept their apprentices working at all hours, taking their places at the workbenches or sleeping in their communal beds in shifts. Therefore Malden had to be careful as he ran along the roofline of a fuller’s shed and then up the brick side of a sifting tower beyond. If he was seen now he could get away easily enough, but any honest citizen who spotted him up on the rooftops would know he was at no legal business. They would call out “Thief! Thief!” and the hue and cry might alert his mark. That would ruin everything. The mark might run off, forgetting his scheme, thinking it too risky—or at the very least he would be overly-cautious, and be expecting someone to come up behind him at any moment and put a hand on his shoulder. That would make Malden’s work difficult. It could also make it dangerous. The mark would be armed, and desperate enough to attack at the first sign of trouble.
No, if Malden was to take this man he needed to have the advantage of surprise. It was the best lesson he’d learned from Cutbill—if your mark knew you were coming, the game was already fouled. Better the mark never saw him coming. Never, in fact, guessed that anyone was on to him.
Morricent’s regular was a wheelwright’s apprentice named Pathis. He’d reached the grand old age of thirty without ever advancing in that career—either he was too lazy to apply himself, or his master had no faith in his abilities. Trapped in employment of the most menial kind, knowing he was too old now to ever make a change, he must have spent every day scheming, trying to think of some way to get enough money together to start a new life. Perhaps Pathis had never heard of Cutbill, nor that there was already an organized army of criminals in the Free City. Certainly he had no idea that freelance larceny was frowned on by the powers that be.
So when an opportunity came along, an easy way to make some quick coin, Pathis had jumped at the chance. It might have been the first enterprising thing he’d done in his entire life, and it might well be the last. The shop where he worked stood next to a hire paddock, an empty lot between two workshops that was rented out to farmers bringing their livestock to market. He must have seen the vast number of animals that went through the paddock every day, and thought of the price each one would fetch. Of course, it wasn’t easy to steal sheep or cows or horses, since every animal was branded with its owner’s mark, and no one would buy livestock from a thief without knowing its provenance.
No one, that is, who wished to butcher said animals for their meat, or sell them on to others. Yet two roads down from the wheelwright’s shop there was a tannery. Pathis could hardly have avoided noticing that—the reek the place (and all the others like it) gave off, of death and acrid dissolution, was what gave the Stink its name and low rents. Tanners needed animals all the time, and weren’t likely to ask too many questions. Animals were their stock in trade. Dead ones, anyway.
And so one simple, ugly, brilliant, nasty idea had flourished in the otherwise barren garden of Pathis’ mind.
Malden climbed to the top of the sifting tower and had an excellent view of all the surrounding streets. He did not know if Pathis would come from his shop, or from his home down in the Stink, or from some tavern after building up enough liquid courage to carry out his foul employment. But from atop the tower Malden could be sure he’d see the would-be thief coming.
He did not have long to wait. Pathis appeared in Greenmantle Stair, coming up the hill from the Stink, not even bothering to keep to the copious shadows of that dark night. He looked exactly as he’d been described to Malden, and he already had his knife in his hand.
Keeping out of sight, Malden started to climb back down the side of the tower, toward a dark alley near the hired paddock. It was time to get to work.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The hired paddock filled most of the space between two multi-story buildings, a patch of trammeled mud surrounded by a sturdy wooden fence. Inside a few dozen head of swine were sleeping in the mud, huddled together for warmth. From time to time one would grunt, or a hoofed leg would twitch, but the animals suspected nothing of the grizzly fate Pathis intended for them.
Of course the paddock was guarded by night. No place in the Free City of Ness was left unwatched, given the constant threat of thievery. The guard here was just a boy, perhaps the son of the owner, perhaps just some local youth looking to gain an extra coin or two. He carried a stout quarterstaff and he stood his watch near the gate, leaning up against the fence. If he was not asleep standing up, he was certainly dozing—Malden could see that his head slumped forward on his chest and his shoulders were slack at his sides.
Malden slipped around the corner of the wheelwright’s shop and into an alley that ran behind it, intending to take up a position where neither Pathis nor the guard could see him. He silently cursed the mud that sucked at his leather shoes, but he was an old hand now at lying in wait and had camped in even dirtier spots for longer than this would take. He kept his cloak wrapped around himself, covering his bodkin and anything else that might gleam even in the near perfect darkness. The cloak was a deep green, dark enough to look black, and he knew he was almost invisible where he perched behind the fence. He settled down to wait.
And wait. And wait. Where was Pathis? Malden had seen him no more than half a block away, coming hither with clear intent. He should have arrived already. Other than the dreaming pigs, nothing moved in Malden’s vision. Nothing at all. Malden had expected the would-be thief to come in from the street, to accost the guard directly and then slip through the gate to get at the pigs. Would Pathis come from the rooftops, instead, thinking he could slaughter the animals and haul them out of the paddock without waking the guard?
Malden glanced upward at the roof of the wheelwright’s shop. Nothing there. He turned slightly to get a view of the lastmaker’s on the other side of the paddock. The roofline was clear. What was taking Pathis so long to—
—with a muffled thump, a heavy weight fell from the roof of the wheelwright’s and splashed in the mud of the paddock. Malden didn’t so much as flinch, but his heart pounded in his chest. He shot a glance up at the roof of the wheelwright’s again, and saw nothing there. Without rising above a crouch, he circled around the edge of the paddock to get closer and see what had fallen.
Through the slats of the fence, Pathis stared up at him with glassy eyes. The fool’s throat was cut from ear to ear.
The sudden intrusion had woken the pigs. They stirred noisily, grunting and squealing in their fear. Some were struggling to their feet, slipping in the wet mud. Malden was certain the noise would wake the guard, but the boy didn’t stir.
Oh, no, he thought. No, it cannot be.
Legs bent double beneath him, Malden circled around the paddock a bit farther until he had a better look. The guard was dead as well, his throat cut just as savagely as Pathis’. The boy had been tied to the fence, his arms fastened around his quarterstaff to keep his body propped upright. In the darkness, anyone would have thought the boy was only sleeping.
Malden certainly had.
The pigs were all standing now and whimpering in their fear. They knew the smell of death and no one was left to calm them. The noise they made was like thunder crashes in Malden’s ears. Surely anyone in the neighboring buildings would hear it, and wonder what had agitated the animals. Surely someone would come to investigate in short order.
When one is bent on criminal enterprise, and one discovers that even the slightest thing has gone wrong with the plan, the wise thief has but one recourse—to forget the night’s business, and run as fast as possible to a place of safety. The city watch was never far away, especially in the Smoke. If Malden were discovered near the paddock he would be blamed for two murders and clapped in irons, thrown in gaol, and hanged with very little to say about it.
He stood up straight and dashed for the lastmaker’s shop. Up the wall and away over the roofs, that was the best course. He dared not go up the wall of the wheelwright’s, for fear of whatever had killed Pathis. The lastmaker’s shop was a two-story, half-timbered building with plenty of windows. An easy climb for one as nimble as Malden. This would be alright. He merely needed to escape. As for the mystery of what had gone wrong, he would gladly leave the pleasure of solving it to the watch. He grasped a timber and started hauling himself upward, and was ten feet off the ground before something hit him hard in the back and he slipped.
You didn’t learn how to climb as well as Malden if you didn’t first learn how to fall. Malden twisted in mid-air and got his hands and feet under him, ready to take the impact with the muddy ground below. Before he could land, however, a heavy, blunt object struck him in the stomach and he collapsed in a heap, winded and in pain.
He could hear someone coming toward him. Moving fast. Malden got his knees down in the mud and started to spring up to his feet. A forearm like something carved of stone smashed across his throat, and he fell down to sit in the alley, his back against the wall of the lastmaker’s shop.
He had learned his lesson, and did not attempt to get up again. Instead he looked up at his attacker.
The man was short, almost as short as Malden, and even more slender. He wore an undyed woolen habit like a monk’s, with a matching cowl covering much of his head. His face was round and merry, though his eyes were very small and very dark.
