Den of Thieves (30 page)

Chapter Sixty-One

M
alden spent the day drawing crude maps of the villa, showing all of its entrances and exits that he knew of, and the location of each room he and Kemper had seen. He studied them over and over with a feverish intensity. Endlessly he made corrections to them as he remembered something, as some detail that had previously seemed trivial suddenly offered new possibilities—or new hazards. His hands grew black with charcoal as he drew the maps again and again, then tore them up and made new drafts.

As confounded as he might seem to an outside observer, Malden was in his element. This was what he had been born for, he now knew. There were two kinds of thieves in the world, in his experience. There were those who turned to crime because they wanted money and they didn't want to work for it. Those were the kind of thieves who ended up very quickly swinging from a rope. The other kind were the sort for whom a perfectly planned burglary was a labor of love—a work, in fact, of art. The planning, the considering of angles, the second-guessing of one's own abilities and of one's opponents' motivations, the sudden inspirations that made the impossible seem, at least in theory, possible—these were what drew Malden to his profession, and in a way, he was quite happy poring over his maps.

Then again, perhaps he was just glad that for all of a day no one tried to kill him, or chase him across the rooftops, or threaten him with baneful sorcery. It was a nice change of pace.

The day fled, and night came all too soon. For hours he'd been thinking through every angle of his plan without bothering to rest or even eat. Now he took a pickled fish from a pot and chewed on its cold flesh without even tasting it. “Tomorrow morning,” he said, “we'll have four days until Ladymas. I'd like to get this done as quickly as possible. We don't know what will come in the next few days. Anselm Vry might have tricks up his sleeve still. Hazoth might be aware already of our scheming, and be taking steps to forestall us. So it behooves us to get it done soon, rather than later.”

“Agreed, lad, yet ye mustn't rush,” Kemper said. He had his deck of cards in his hands and he was rubbing each one with his thumb, which he said always brought him good luck. “That's been the endin' o' more thieves. This'll be hard enough.”

“I know,” Malden said. He scratched his head and thumped the table with his fist. “All right, let's go through it one more time.” He pulled the map of the villa's ground floor and the garden toward him. “The magic barrier comes this far, very close to the fence. I'll be here, and you'll be . . . here,” he said, pointing out a spot with his finger. “You can hide in these bushes. The guards relieve each other at midnight.” It had taken some dedicated spying to learn that much, but it seemed to happen the same time every night. Hazoth didn't seem to rely overmuch on his retainers, and hadn't trained them with military discipline. Malden had even seen one fall asleep at his post one night. It was too much to hope that they would all fall asleep at once, though. “When the night's sentries come out from the barracks, here, the relieved guards head inside, ready to fall into their bunks and sleep. It will take some minutes for the fresh batch to reach their stations. While they're all in front of the villa, we'll get Cythera to lower the barrier. It will be down only for a moment, just long enough for us to run up here, to the preparatory door.”

Kemper nodded. “And where'll yer titled friend yonder be, then?”

Malden looked over at Croy, who was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He had barely moved from the spot all day, and then only to pass water. “Him? I'm not counting on him at all. When we brought him in on this I thought he'd be useful, but I've seen now he'll never be one of us. He's wounded and can hardly run, and anyway, he makes too much noise even when he's trying to be quiet. He did his part by helping us contact Cythera. Now that's done. Forget him.”

“Just the twain o' us, then,” Kemper said, sounding doubtful. “ 'Tis much work for two, in the time we got.”

“I know. We'll just have to be fast. Once we're inside, you'll head to the front hall. There's likely to be a guard inside—I'm counting on it, in fact. You'll make yourself seen and he'll sound the alarm, drawing the rest of the guards inside.”

“I must say I like this bit not,” Kemper grumbled.

“You have nothing to fear. None of the guards has so much as a silver boot knife that we've seen—and even if they do have some way to hurt you, you can just slip through the wall and be gone before they catch you.”

“Mayhap Hazoth's got some charm 'gainst spectral folk,” Kemper said, shaking his head. “Some spell or other t'trap me.”

“Probably,” Malden admitted. “But if he's locked up in his laboratory, or better yet, in his bedchamber—remember those cold-forged iron chains—then he's not likely to come out just because one of the guards thought he saw a ghost. They know nothing of you, remember. It's my face they've all memorized.”

“So be it,” Kemper said finally. Malden could tell the card sharp was not satisfied, but Kemper owed him—if he hadn't freed Kemper from the Burgrave's dungeon he would be dead now. Besides, Kemper stood to benefit from this caper in more tangible terms. Hazoth had a full set of silver plate and cutlery, which Kemper could carry out of the villa and keep for himself. Malden wanted nothing of the treasures the house contained. He would be satisfied with the reward Croy had promised him. His efforts in the villa would be all about getting the crown back.

Which led to the far more difficult phase of the plan. “It's up to me to reach the third floor undetected. The crown is in the sanctum, at the end of this hall—Cythera told Croy as much. The hallway, we know, is full of traps. I'll have to overcome them somehow.” Without knowing what they might be, that was a lot to presuppose. But there was no way around it. “Then I can get into the sanctum, grab the crown, and beat a very hasty retreat. The guards will all be inside looking for you, so when we exit through the garden there'll be none there to stop us. Cythera will lower the barrier once more and we escape, both of us unscathed, me with the crown, you with all the silver you can carry. After that we split up. I'll go to Cutbill and you'll leave the city by means I don't want to know about.”

“Aye,” Kemper said, and shuffled his cards distractedly. The simple motion of his hands seemed to soothe him. It made Malden want to reach over and grab them away from him, throw them across the room, even tear them up and throw the pieces out the window.

He was under a bit of strain.

There were too many variables. Too many things he couldn't plan for. What if Hazoth took the night off from his studies? What if Cythera betrayed them? What if Anselm Vry was watching them right now, waiting for them to make a move—just so Vry could seize the crown as soon as he brought it out of the house, so that Cutbill couldn't claim to have recovered it?

“This plan will work,” he said, trying to convince himself.

“Aye,” Kemper replied.

“It's the best plan we've had so far.”

“Aye.”

“With a little luck—”

He stopped because Cythera was sitting on the sill of his open window.

“With a great deal of luck,” she said, “that plan will see you both killed very quickly. That way Hazoth won't be able to torture you. He's very good at that.”

It was midnight.

Four days left.

Chapter Sixty-Two

“M
ilady,” Malden said, bowing low. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart for coming, as—”

“Obsequiousness does not suit you, Malden,” Cythera said. She climbed down from the window and came over to the table where the maps lay. Malden noted that she didn't even glance at Croy. “This plan doesn't either. You've badly underestimated the villa's defenses.”

Malden stepped back from the table and let her peruse the maps. After a moment she went to the unlit brazier in the corner (Malden used it only in the wintertime), took out a piece of charcoal and began to sketch in parts of the map that neither Malden nor Kemper had been able to draw.

“I take it you've decided to help us,” Malden said when she seemed to be done.

“What choice do I have? If I betray you now, for the sake of peace, I will only be delaying the inevitable. He'll find some excuse to torture my mother regardless of what I do. No, her only hope is your foolish scheme. Which still won't work.”

Malden looked down at the additions she'd made to the map. Mostly she had drawn in the rooms on the second floor, which did not concern him overmuch, but she'd added two walls on the third floor he had not known were there—and which would have caused him significant problems when he got inside.

“And . . . how is your mother, if I might ask?” Malden said. “Is she at least safe, for the nonce?”

“You could say that,” Cythera told him without looking up. “She turned herself into a tree.”

“A what, lass?” Kemper asked.

Cythera looked up then. She had never seen the intangible scoundrel before. Yet she did not demand to know who he was. “A tree. A rowan, of course.”

“Of . . . course,” Malden said.

“The rowan is sacred to witches and magicians. Its wood is the only proper material for magic wands, and its berries are a potent charm against sorcery. Coruth has not fruited yet, though. She is still a sapling, for she lacks the strength to increase her size through magic. At first I thought she had a cunning plan—that she would grow, as a tree, and eventually her branches would break through the roof of Hazoth's house. In that way she might free herself in, say, fifty or one hundred years from now.”

“She expects to be prisoned that long?” Malden asked in surprise.

“She expects,” Cythera said, “to be held there forever. Hazoth does not age. As long as she is trapped in a magic circle, neither will she. He will never release her, of course—he draws power from holding her captive, for one thing. The demons he commands delight in her agonies, and make gifts of their magic to him in exchange. For another thing he knows that if she ever does free herself, her first order of business will be to annihilate him utterly.”

“Fer revenge,” Kemper said, nodding agreeably.

“For justice, call it.” Cythera turned to Malden. “It was just an hour ago that I realized another reason why she chose to make herself a tree. That was when I decided I would come here and aid you all I can.”

“Oh?” Malden asked.

“Cruel boys break the branches of trees all the time, but trees do not feel pain.”

“Ah.”

“Hark,” Cythera said, “I don't have much time. Hazoth is closeted in his bedchamber but he will emerge before the third hour of the morning. I was able to confuse the guards enough they did not see me go, but I must be back before he calls for me. He always does after consorting with demons. He knows the smell of brimstone nauseates me, you see. He is most subtle in his tortures, is Hazoth.”

“You must hate him,” Malden said.

Cythera stared at him with burning eyes. As if he could not comprehend what she felt for the man. He supposed in many ways he couldn't, so he looked away.

“One thing I don't understand,” he said. “Forgive me, but—you have so much power bound up in your painted skin. Couldn't you simply . . . I don't know. Strike him? Grab him forcefully. Wouldn't that be enough to destroy him? Surely that would satisfy justice.” And save me a great deal of trouble, too, Malden thought.

It was Cythera's turn to avert her gaze. “Not all of his protections are magical,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “But there is a simpler reason. The magical link he has with me would make such a gesture futile. I could release the curses I have stored up against him, yes. But the link would simply send them back to me.” She shook her head. “There's no answer there. You must find another way.”

“I've been working on a plan,” he told her, and showed her the papers on the table. “You heard the gist of it, and said it would fail.”

“Yes. Look. Here,” she said, and pointed to the map. Her finger was aimed at the great hall on the first floor.

Malden knew exactly what she was pointing out. “The great iron sphere there, by the stairs. I wondered about it, but knew not what it might be.”

“It's another power source for Hazoth's wizardry. He has many, and I do not know them all.”

“But what is it? It's made of iron. Doesn't iron discomfit demons? I would hardly think they would put their power into such an object.”

“Cold-forged iron is their bane,” Cythera said. “Iron forged in great heat actually strengthens them. It is why normal iron weapons, and even more so, dwarven steel, don't hurt them. This iron was formed in the heat of the pit itself. But it is not the iron that is magical. It is the pit-thing inside the iron.”

“There's a demon in there?” Malden asked.

“Sure, an' it's like a magic circle, which'll hold a fiend, aye, only this 'un's in three d'mensions 'stead o' two,” Kemper insisted.

Malden and Cythera both stared at him.

“D'you think me a simpleton?” Kemper asked, looking hurt. “Or mayhap you think me unversed in magics? D'you think one o' my affliction wouldn't learn a thing or two?”

“That's Kemper. He's cursed,” Malden explained to Cythera.

“And largely correct,” she said, shrugging off her surprise. “Yes, the iron is there to contain the demon. But not because Hazoth fears it getting loose. You see, the demon inside the iron sphere is an embryo, still. It has yet to be born. The iron sphere is not its prison, but its egg.”

“It's like a babe in the womb?” Malden asked.

“Yes. But do not be fooled into thinking it weak or helpless. Demons are born fully formed and are quite dangerous the moment they are hatched. Otherwise they would never survive in the pit. Demons have no bonds of affection for one another, not like humans do. Even a mother's love for a child is unknown among them. A she-demon will devour her own brood with glee if she gets the chance.”

“That's horrible,” Malden said.

“It's just how things are done there. The demons see it as natural. As a result, those demons born weak and mewling like human infants don't live long. The ones that do survive are the ones born already strong. This demon is a perfect example. I've seen full-grown examples of its kind, and they are unstoppable slaughterers. The moment this one emerges from that egg it will be ready to hunt. Even before its proper time it will be a terrible thing to behold. I don't know how close it is to being born, but I know it will be hungry, and it will be ready to kill. Hazoth can release it any time he chooses. If he detects you inside his house, even for an instant, he can force the creature to hatch—and to give chase. It will follow you to the ends of the earth, if it must, and devour you. Do you understand?”

“I think I do,” Malden said. His hands were suddenly very cold—his blood had turned to ice.

“You won't be able to fight it. Its claws will be sharper than any steel you bring to bear. Its teeth will rend through solid stone. Even with an Ancient Blade in your possession—and I doubt Croy will just loan you Ghostcutter—you would never stand a chance against it in single combat, Malden. You won't be able to hide from it either. It will be born blind, but with an exceptionally keen sense of smell. You could try to douse yourself in perfumes, or cross running water, or any of the stratagems that might drive a dog from your trail. None of them will work with this creature. Once it has your scent it will find you. And kill you.”

Malden went to the bed and sat down on its edge, careful not to disturb Croy. “What infernal pact did Hazoth make to contract such service?” he asked, because asking questions was much easier than contemplating what a newborn demon would do to his tender flesh once it had him. “Did he get this thing from torturing your mother?”

“No. He earned its service the oldest way. By siring it.”

“Hold, now,” Kemper said.

For the first time Croy sat up in the bed and spoke. “You can't be saying that—”

Cythera looked down at the maps and met no one's gaze. “You saw the chains in his bedchamber. I see you've even drawn them in here on your diagram. That is how he entertains his succubi. The demon in the egg was the fruit of one such union. It is his child. It is not his first.”