A Thief in the Night (46 page)

Chapter Ninety-one

T
he elves dragged Malden back to the gaol. It was exactly the same as before, except this time he was alone.

In the dark, sitting in the wet silt of the floor, he could only lay his head in his hands and try not to weep. Sometimes he failed.

It was over—all his dreams, all his plans. He had failed. He was going to die down here under the ground, of that he was certain. The elves would never slip up, would never stop watching him. Even now they had a half dozen revenants guarding him. If he could get through the bars, he had no doubt they would strangle the life out of him with their bony claws.

Perhaps that was better than waiting to see what Prestwicke would do to him. The murderous little bastard was going to cut him up with those little knives. Already he could feel his skin tingle as if they were slicing away at him, carving him up piece by piece. It was too much to bear.

“I demand to see Aethil! I demand an audience with the Hieromagus!” he screamed, running to the bars and grabbing them with both hands. It was pointless, but he couldn't help himself. “Does a condemned man have no rights in this place? Where is the rule of law? You call yourselves civilized! I demand to see your queen!”

“Very well,” someone said.

Malden jumped back in surprise as a light appeared at the top of the stairs and he heard footfalls coming down toward him. Had his time come already? No. No, it couldn't be. Surely he had a while longer before they turned him over to Prestwicke.

Surely.

Aethil appeared at the bottom of the stairs, an oil lamp in her hand. She waved one slender hand at the revenants and they moved to one side to let her pass.

“You called for me,” she said. “Now I am here.”

Anger deranged her fine features, and made her as ugly as any weathered old fishwife of Ness. Her tiny nose scrunched up as if she was disgusted by the stink of the gaol, and the light streaming upward from her lamp made her features alien and ghastly.

“I—I only wanted to apologize,” Malden said, standing well clear of the bars. Had she come to torture him, before he was to die? “My actions were foolhardy, and . . . and ill-considered. I never meant you any harm.”

“You
touched
me,” she said. As if it were an unpardonable violation. “Now you won't go to the ancestors with your friends. You won't live forever. You'll simply die.”

“You think that bothers me?” Malden asked, regaining some of his composure. “You think I wanted to be absorbed into your ancestral slime? Fie on that.” He turned away from her. If she was going to torture him, clearly nothing he said would change her mind. Not now.

“It's a great honor—”

“It's just another way to kill us, you stupid cow,” Malden shot back. “Your council of lords doesn't give a damn about adding our memories to your stock. They just want us dead, but they know you wouldn't let them just hang us!”

“Cow,” Aethil said. “Cow,” she said again, as if she'd never heard the word before. “That's a kind of domestic animal, isn't it? Like a cave beetle. So. You're not only a violent beast. You're also rude.”

Malden sighed and sat back down.

“One more vice my people do not share with yours,” Aethil said. “I came down here to give you one last boon, and instead you insult me. I'm of half a mind not to let you see Cythera at all.”

“Cythera?” Malden asked. “She's here?”

“I am, Malden,” Cythera said from the top of the stairs. “Aethil, may I come down? I beg you to forgive my friend. I know if Sir Croy were here he would say the same. Malden's merely frightened—you must understand that.”

“Of course,” Aethil said. “Please, join us.”

Cythera came down the stairs then. She looked very pale. When she saw the revenants she flinched, but then she rushed over to the bars and grabbed Malden's hands through them. “Such a stupid man,” she said.

“I only—”

“Such a stupid, brave man,” she said. She was weeping.

“I'll leave the two of you alone,” Aethil said. “You don't have much time, but I'll see what I can do about delaying the execution a few minutes.”

She turned to go. Malden called her name through the bars, and she looked back.

“Aethil—thank you, for this.”

The queen looked no less haughty, no less angry. But she nodded. “I know what love is, now that I've met Sir Croy. Even a human deserves to say goodbye.”

She left them then, but Malden had already forgotten she was ever there. He could only stare into Cythera's face, for what was surely the last time. He tried to memorize every curve, every wrinkle, the down on her cheek. If he was going to the pit of souls this day he would at least have that face to take with him.

“There's not much time,” Cythera said. He barely heard her. “Slag is working on Aethil as best he can, trying to persuade her to forgive you, and help us in some way. I don't know how much luck he's having. Croy is here somewhere, and Mörget as well—that was the deal this Prestwicke made with the elves, apparently. Croy and Mörget were killing every elf they could find, and the elves couldn't stop them, and then Prestwicke showed up and just captured them. I have no idea how he could do that. He certainly doesn't look like much of a warrior.”

“Cythera,” Malden said, almost a whisper.

“The important thing is they're here, somewhere close by. I'll try to reach them somehow, at least get a message to them. Our chances don't look good, but we'll do everything we can to—”

“I'm so sorry,” he said.

“Malden, there's no time for that,” she pleaded.

“I've been nothing but a hindrance for you since we left Ness. I've gotten you in terrible trouble. Please. There's no way out for me now. But you and Croy—you'll find a way to get free. To get out of here. And when you're back in the world above, I want the two of you to—”

“Malden, be still!” Cythera hissed.

“You deserve happiness,” Malden said.

“I beg of you, stop it! I can't marry Croy now!”

The thief blinked in confusion. “But—”

“I met Croy when I was still a child, a girl of eighteen. I thought he was some kind of demigod come to walk the world, and I believed what I felt for him was love. Later on I dreamed of all the things he could give me. Things you never could, Malden, and I thought that mattered. When I was convinced he was dead I saw my entire future die with him, and I thought I had to honor that memory. I thought I owed him. But now . . . Malden, when the elves first captured you I said it, and it was true. It's you I love.”

“But now—”

She leaned forward and kissed him. Deeply, passionately. “I can't have any kind of life with Croy. Every day of it I would think of you, and what I'd lost. Instead I'll go to my mother and have her teach me to be a witch. It will burn, Malden, what I've lost will always burn, but it won't be a lie. It's you who should forgive me. Forgive me for wasting our time together. Forgive me for how I've failed you.”

“There's nothing to forgive,” Malden said. His heart was so full he thought he might perish on the spot, and cheat Prestwicke out of his due. “Just—kiss me again. Just once more, before they come for me. Please.”

Chapter Ninety-two

T
hey dragged Malden through their twisting stone tunnels and brought him to a wide hall, a place where massive columns fronted buildings that were full of nothing but cobwebs. A gallery let out onto the central shaft, and the red light of the dwarven sun cast the place in sunset hues.

Malden was tied to a marble column thicker than his waist, and left there, all alone. Not for long, though.

One by one elves in patchwork smocks or the finest beetle-silk livery came to the hall's many entrances. At first they arrived only to peek inside at the man who had assaulted their queen, but soon they grew bolder. Elfin maids perched on high cornices while dandies leered out from behind archways. Soon groups of them lined up around the far walls of the grand hall, and Malden realized that his execution was to be a grand spectacle. An event not to be missed in an underground world where diversion was a rarity.

Soon enough the hall was half filled with elves of every station. The humblest mushroom farmer and the grandest nobleman of elfinkind had come. The soldiers in their bronze breastplates, the jugglers and musicians and duelists, the Hieromagus and, yes, Aethil, all were in attendance. And then the others were brought in. Cythera and Slag were hauled out onto the flagstones for the elves to jeer at. They each wore a silver chain around their neck. There seemed to be no more doubt that they were kept as pets for the queen. Malden tried to catch Cythera's eye but she was too far away. Besides, she was watching the archway through which she'd entered the chamber. It seemed there were more guests yet to arrive.

A great booing and hissing commenced as three more trespassers were wheeled out. Malden gasped in surprise to see Mörget and Croy—still alive, though worse for wear. The warriors were bound to a cart, their arms bent up behind their backs and tied to a post. They looked drugged—their faces slack, drool sliding down their chins. At their feet lay Balint, her eyes wide open and staring up at nothing.

“Together,” the Hieromagus said, and the murmuring crowd fell instantly silent. “Together . . . at last . . . all of them.”

The throng held its collective breath as they waited to hear what their wizard-priest had to say. Yet the Hieromagus seemed even more distracted than usual. His eyes were as vacant as Balint's, and his hands occasionally flew up around his face, as if to drive away bothersome insects. He was ushered to a good viewing spot, then left alone by his attendants.

Last to arrive, Prestwicke entered the hall and strode across the flagstones, bowing deep as the crowd cheered him on.

“This is not how I wanted things to end, dear Malden,” he confessed, coming close enough that he could speak to the thief in a conversational tone, though the marble walls around him reflected his voice so that Malden was sure the elves could hear him, too. “I wanted to do things
properly
. There are forms to follow, rituals to carry out. I wanted to make this
clean
. But you forced my hand.”

“So sorry for the inconvenience,” Malden said, intending the words to come out clear and defiant. Instead they sounded like a panicked mumble.

Prestwicke drew an oilskin bundle from inside his woolen habit and unrolled it carefully. Inside, his knives gleamed as bright as polished silver.

“What are you?” Malden asked, in his desperation. “You're no assassin. I've known bravos before, jaded men who would cut a throat for the price of a cup of wine. Stupid, brutish fellows with no imagination. You're different from them.”

Prestwicke smiled broadly. “Flattery,” he said, “will not save your skin, Malden. But I'll answer your question. I am exactly what I look like.”

“A priest?”

Prestwicke bowed again. “Exactly. I serve Sadu, the Bloodgod. I do not assassinate my victims. I sacrifice them, in His exalted name.”

Malden frowned. In Ness there were still plenty of people who worshipped Sadu, of course. The Lady was the official religion of Skrae, but her tenets meant little to the poor, and they had kept the old religion alive through centuries of persecution. It was hardly an organized faith, however. “There are no priests of Sadu,” Malden said.

“Not now. Yet once there were, and there will be again. I will be the first,” Prestwicke said. “I will renew the church. I will bring back the old ways.”

“I'm no scholar of theology,” Malden admitted, “but I know Sadu's priests never took gold for their ceremonies.”

“You're assuming I will be paid in coin. Malden, I will gain so much more than that from your death! My employer claims to have certain books that were long thought lost. Books I would give anything to see. The secrets I will learn—the prayers, the ceremonies, the sacred lessons, will bring great honor to Sadu. But I say too much.” He took a knife from his pouch. “I shouldn't waste time with chatter, when there's work to be done.”

He brought his knife up to Malden's forehead. Malden tried to jerk his head backward but Prestwicke grabbed his chin and held him in a viselike grip. He had forgotten how surprisingly strong the killer was.

The knife touched Malden's skin. He tried his hardest to keep his eyes open, to stare his hatred into Prestwicke's face while he was slaughtered, but the pain was too much. He squeezed his eyes shut and gasped as blood rolled down through his eyebrows.

Prestwicke moved his knife to Malden's cheek.

Before he could press it home, though, a terrifying shriek split the air. The gathered elves murmured and cried out in surprise, and even Prestwicke stopped what he was doing to look.

The Hieromagus had jumped up from his chair and was clawing at nothing as if he were beset by wild animals.

Chapter Ninety-three

“N
ot 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.