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.
He looks like a priest, Malden thought. Just like the man who had come to the Ashes, asking for Malden by name, and been turned away by the urchins. The attacker had a stone in his hand, and Malden understood that the missiles that brought him down from the wall were simply that—cobbles pried up out of the street.
That gave Malden little comfort. He’d seen the urchins in the Ashes arm themselves with just such stones. If you had no other weapons, you could kill a man with one of those cobbles.
The attacker brought his arm up and then smashed the stone against the side of Malden’s temple, so fast he couldn’t move to block the blow. Bright lights flashed behind Malden’s eyes and he felt his consciousness swim inside him, blackness surging up around his mind to carry him into nothingness.
“Oh no, not yet,” the attacker laughed, and slapped Malden hard across the face with a bare palm. Instantly Malden snapped back into his own head—and back into the pain that
