M
alden’s candle fell from his hand and flickered out instantly. He could just see the last orange ember of its wick tumbling away from him. In the last guttering flare of the light he’d seen chains hanging around him, but beyond that nothing.
He was falling, weightless, a condition he knew could only end in a sudden stop—and very soon.
Desperately he lashed around him with his arms. His fingertips brushed the rough surface of a chain and sent it flailing away from him. His left leg hit another chain and he grabbed at it with his feet, trying to tangle himself in its length. It slipped free of his grasp—but not before he twisted around and got one hand on it.
He stopped falling with a wrenching jerk that nearly pulled his arm out of its socket. His fingers started to tremble but he managed to get his other arm wrapped around the chain so it would hold him up. Powdered rust sifted down across his face but he held on, just held on, until he could breathe again.
He couldn’t see a thing. There was no light at all inside the Chapterhouse. He couldn’t hear anything either. Not so much as wind whispering through abandoned eaves.
He could smell something, though. A sharp odor of stale oil. Perhaps it was just the smell of grease on the chains, gone rancid over the years. He didn’t like it, though.
Slowly, once his hand had stopped shaking, Malden began to climb down the chain. It swayed and shook as he moved—clearly it wasn’t attached to anything at the bottom. He had no idea what awaited for him at the bottom of the chain. Perhaps common sense indicated he should climb upward instead. Head back up through the whirling blades, get out of the Chapterhouse altogether.
But he had to know. He had to find Cutbill, and get his answer. The mystery was like a demon at the back of his brain, goading him forward. So he climbed down.
Eventually he reached the end of the chain, and had no idea what to do next. Stretching himself downward from its farthest extent, he still couldn’t find a floor beneath him. If he just jumped he might fall for dozens or hundreds of feet, and break a leg or his neck when he finally reached bottom. Or the floor could be just inches out of reach. He had no way of knowing without a light to see by.
He soon had more light than he wanted.
Above him, the broken pillar he’d used to stop the whirling blade had lodged in the clockworks. As the blade stuttered forward, it dislodged the pillar. It fell right past Malden, clipping his ear with a searing pain. It kept going, and eventually struck the floor below.
Malden heard a sound like pieces of metal grinding against each other, followed by a heavy splash. He heard the sound of air rushing into a vacuum. And then he was blinded by brilliant light.
He clamped his eyes shut. He felt heat rising up toward him, and smelled smoke. When he could see again, a little, he squinted downward and saw the cunning trap he’d been saved from only by his hesitation.
Upon the floor below him was an enormous tub filled near to the brim with lamp oil. Atop the tub had been lain a grid of interwoven strips of material. Half the strips were made of a dull gray material like stone. The other half were shiny metal, discolored here and there by rust.
The strips, he thought, must be made of flint and steel. Any pressure at all upon them made them to rub together, creating a spark that ignited the oil. Had he dropped the ten feet to the floor, his impact would have been enough to set off the trap and he would have been roasted alive. Instead the broken pillar ignited the oil while he was still up on the chain, still uncooked.
For the moment, anyway. The heat was intense and the fumes made his head spin. It was arguable whether he would swoon first from asphyxiation or if the sweat already beading on his hands would loosen his grip and he would fall into the flames.
As fast as he could, Malden started swinging back and forth on the chain, hoping desperately he wouldn’t be overcome before he could get down. There was a clear space of wooden floor visible on one side of the tub of oil. If he could just swing himself over there before he let go—
He landed badly, one ankle twisting beneath him. The bones didn’t break but he would be limping for a while. Down on the floor the heat of the tub was beyond intense. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck curling as they were singed off just by being near that conflagration. He looked around for any shelter from the heat. The tub was mounted on a wooden scaffolding, a few feet above the actual floor of the room. Looking between the struts of the scaffolding, he saw a spiral staircase leading down, directly beneath the tub. He ducked under the tub, careful not to touch its underside lest he be burnt, and hobbled down the stairs.
Below lay a corridor leading forward into darkness. He had no more candles. There could be something as basic as an open pit trap ahead of him, or something as insidious as a pressure plate he had to avoid to keep from being studded with poisoned darts. He had no reason to think he’d reached the end of the traps.
There were ways of dealing with such difficulties, but they involved spending enormous spans of time moving in the most careful way possible. Malden presumed he was not going to be given that much time.
His suspicion was borne out a moment later when the trap came following him down the stairs.
He heard a dripping sound, and the smell of oil billowed from the staircase behind him. A steady stream of oil was leaking down the steps. The fire must have melted right through the tub.
“No, no, no,” Malden groaned as the trickle turned into a steady stream—and the stream caught fire. A river of burning oil started inching toward him across the floor.
He ran forward, into the dark. He could just see the walls of the corridor on either side and, by the light of the fire, a little of the floor and ceiling. He tried not to look behind him to check how quickly the burning oil was catching up, but he did take one quick glance backward—
And had to stop stock-still as his left foot came down on nothing at all.
He shot his arms out to the side, desperately trying to keep his balance as his weight shifted back and forth, supported entirely on his weak ankle.
A pit lay ahead of him. The simplest, most ancient trap of all. It stretched six feet down the corridor and was not disguised in any way. At its bottom he saw broken wood and masonry. Plenty of exposed nails and sharp edges.
He looked up and saw nothing on the ceiling. The walls on either side were perfectly smooth, and showed no signs of tampering.
Behind him the river of burning oil had become a flood. He jumped for it, kicking off the floor with his injured foot, and sailed unhindered across the pit to the other side. The ceiling didn’t crash down on him in mid-leap. The floor on the far side wasn’t rigged to fall away from him as he landed. Behind him the oil poured into the pit, and couldn’t follow him across the gap.
Fair enough, he thought. He’d take it.
Slowly, cautiously, he rose to his feet and headed farther down the corridor. It only ran another twenty feet before it came to a door. A nice, normal, wooden door with no lock. He hesitated quite a while before touching its latch.
Behind him the pit was filling up with burning oil. He did not know how long it would take to overflow.
He pressed down on the latch, and the door swung open ahead of him. Beyond was a pleasantly appointed room lit by many candles, with a fire burning in a hearth. He stepped inside, wondering what deadly ploy Cutbill would unleash on him next.
M
alden closed the door behind him and bent low to look at the gap between the door and its jamb. He didn’t want the burning oil to come seeping in after him. Fortunately it seemed the pit was deep and wide enough to contain the oil—it never came over the edge. The volume of oil in the tub must have been less than the capacity of the pit, something he was sure had been taken into account when the traps were installed.
He heard movement in the hidden apartment and stood up straight to see what was coming. He was not entirely surprised when Cutbill emerged from another room, a cup of wine in one hand. The guildmaster of thieves evidenced no shock whatsoever to find Malden in his hiding place.
Cutbill held up one finger for a moment’s silence. Then he finished his wine and placed the cup on a small, elegantly carved table. Smiling—Cutbill almost never smiled, and when he did, it put Malden’s teeth on edge—he walked toward Malden and then knelt on the rush-strewn floor before him. Without saying a word, Cutbill lowered his head to expose the back of his neck.
Cutbill was not an imposing man, physically. He was slight and small of stature, and his features betrayed a clerkish sensitivity that didn’t quite jibe with his station. Malden thought about the ogrish one-legged boss of the thieves in Helstrow—the one Velmont had butchered when they came to a disagreement. He could not imagine two more different men, even though they were opposite numbers.
Of the two, Malden knew Cutbill was the far more dangerous.
Cutbill had hired an assassin to end his life. Malden had the proof inside his tunic—a warrant for his own murder signed with Cutbill’s symbol, a heart transfixed by a key. He expected Cutbill to make another attempt. He expected another cunning trap, one even he would not be able to avoid. A hidden blade, a dozen killers hidden in a nearby closet just waiting to spring out and attack. Perhaps a trip wire at ankle height that would bring down the whole Chapterhouse on his head.
He had the sneaking suspicion he was facing something even more devious. Cutbill did not move or speak. He simply knelt there, waiting for Malden to make the next move.
“What are you doing?” Malden demanded.
“Presenting myself for execution,” Cutbill told him. His voice was calm and level, quite matter-of-fact. As it always had been. “You’ve brought your sword. I assume you’ve come to exact your revenge.”
Malden’s blood burned inside of him. “Damn you,” he said, biting off the words. “You could at least have the decency to cower.” He pulled Acidtongue from its scabbard. Drops of vitriol hissed on the rushes.
“You’re well within your rights to lop my head off this very moment,” Cutbill said. Was it an apology? Malden couldn’t make any sense of this.
“So you don’t deny it? It was you who sent Prestwicke the assassin to slaughter me?”
“Oh, yes,” Cutbill said.
Malden brought the sword up high, as he’d seen Croy do when he wanted to make a devastating cutting stroke. He gripped its hilt with both hands, ready to bring it down fast. The blade could slice through anything, if it was driven with enough force. Cutbill’s flesh and bones wouldn’t stop it for a moment.
One cut—and he would be avenged. He would have satisfaction for the great injustice this man had done to him. Perhaps more important, he would be safe. Cutbill would never be able to turn on him again.
So why did it seem the exact wrong thing to do?
“I never harmed you!” Malden gasped. “I lined your pockets with gold. I strengthened your organization.”
“You were my best thief,” Cutbill agreed. “Perhaps the best I ever saw.” He glanced up at Malden for a moment. “You’ll want to move your left foot back an inch or two. It will give you a better swing. And please, aim for the thinnest part of my neck, here, just below my jawline.”
“I never plotted against you, if that’s what you think. I would never have betrayed you! So why in the name of Sadu’s eight elbows would you turn against me like that? I trusted you. I—I honored you. And you repaid me with treachery!”
“Is that what I did?” Cutbill asked.
“Yes! Unless—” Malden’s face was sweating. What wasn’t he seeing?
“Unless?”
The traps in the rooms above had been deadly, Malden thought, but not quite deadly enough. He’d believed that Cutbill’s summons was merely a lure to lead him into a place where he was certain to die. Where the job could be completed, the task that Prestwicke—Cutbill’s hired assassin—had been unable to finish. The coded message was itself the first trap, an irresistible lure to bring Malden to a place that would be his death. Yet—Cutbill must have known that he could overcome the blade, the tub of oil, certainly the pit in the hallway. In his career as a thief Malden had gotten past far more sinister snares.
But no one else could. Anyone without his experience would have been slaughtered. Anyone less quick than he. Anyone less lucky.
“Unless it was all a test,” Malden said. “Unless you meant me to come to this room. At this moment.”
“In truth, I’d hoped you would come sooner. I didn’t think it would take you so long to figure out my cipher.”
“Don’t anger me!” Malden shrieked. “Your life is forfeit!”
Cutbill laughed. “I think not. Not anymore. A moment ago you might have done it. But not now. You have to know. You have to know the
why.
Which might be explanation enough in itself why I chose to do this to you. Because you are wise enough, Malden, to never react to a misfortune until you know why it had to happen.”
Malden relaxed his grip on the sword. He could still do it. He could still bring the sword down. Take the bastard’s head.
But no. No, he would not. If he killed Cutbill now, he would never learn the truth.
He put the sword in its sheath.
“Get up,” Malden commanded. “Get up, and start talking.”
Cutbill raised his head. “Nothing would give me more pleasure.”