… wellll,” Malden slurred. His tongue could barely move in his mouth.
“Ny name is Prestwicke. I like all my kills to know my name.”
“Ki … k-kills,” Malden said.
“Yes. I was hired to slaughter you, Malden. It’s my trade.”
“H-h-who?” Malden asked, wanting to know who had commissioned this murder. He did not expect the assassin to answer, nor did he.
Malden had many enemies but he didn’t think a killer like this would come cheap. Most of the people who wanted him dead would have simply hired a bravo, some thug with an axe. Such a killer would simply have waited for Malden to walk into a dark alley and then make short work of him before he could cry out.
This man was something far more sinister. Something strange. You paid extra for that in Ness.
But who could have sent him? Malden racked his brains trying to think, because knowing who it was could make all the difference. It would at least let him know why he had been singled out. It had to be a rich man. The list of truly wealthy men who would want Malden’s life was a short one, but it started with the Burgrave, the ultimate ruler and lord of the Free City of Ness. Malden knew a secret the Burgrave would prefer to be kept.
In a fairer world, of course, the Burgrave would have owed Malden a favor. He had recovered the lord’s crown when it had been in the possession of Hazoth, and returned it to its proper head. In the process he’d saved the city from a usurper and insured the continuation of the Burgrave’s reign. In the process, though, Malden had learned things better kept secret, and that was always the best way to get one’s self killed. In the end it had been Cutbill who saved Malden from a quick death. The Burgrave did, in fact, owe Cutbill a favor—quite a large one—and Cutbill had used it up for Malden’s benefit. The Burgrave had promised Cutbill that he wouldn’t slaughter Malden. Of course, that only meant the Burgrave’s own guards and watchmen would not do the deed. If it could be done discreetly—and Prestwicke looked the discreet type—then perhaps the Burgrave was willing to break his promise.
It would not surprise Malden in the least.
Prestwicke reached up into one of his voluminous sleeves and pulled out a bundle wrapped in waxed cloth. He unrolled it on the ground and Malden saw half a dozen knives of various sizes and shapes inside. “I was paid a certain fee to take your life. It is customary that the client pays a small additional sum to ensure that it is done quickly, with a minimum of pain.”
“Thass … nice,” Malden said.
“I regret to say, in this case my client declined to pay the surcharge.” Prestwicke smiled broadly.
Malden’s head was packed too tight with wool to allow much fear to stir his brains, but he felt his breath come faster and his heart start to race. He could barely move, certainly could not stand up just then. He still had the bodkin at his belt, but his arm felt dead as a piece of wood. Even if he could manage to draw the weapon, he had little doubt Prestwicke could kill him before he could strike.
Think, he told himself. But he could not—his head hurt too much.
Talk your way out of this. But he could barely speak.
Was this how he was going to die?
Malden lived with constant danger. The penalty of thievery in Ness was hanging, whether one stole gems and jewels or a crust of bread. Every day he risked his neck. Yet he had never been more afraid than at that moment, never more certain that his jig was up.
There seemed nothing he could do, no way to save himself. But then a miracle happened and gave him a distraction.
Behind Prestwicke, the pigs screamed. The assassin looked up and away from Malden, just for a moment. It gave Malden a chance to glance down at the knives, laid out in careful order on their cloth. They were so close to his right foot, dim slivers of light in the dark.
He jerked out with his leg and kicked them away from him, sending them clattering down the alleyway.
Prestwicke growled in anger and punched Malden hard in the gut. Malden nearly vomited—the killer was far stronger than he looked.
“You dunce! Now I’ll have to go collect them. And they’ll be dirty!”
“Sssorry,” Malden managed to say, when he’d stopped wheezing.
“And these beasts, why won’t they be quiet? Don’t they understand a man is working here?” Prestwicke demanded. “The watch will be on us at any moment, and they’ll spoil everything. I’m of a mind to just strangle you now.” The assassin stared out at the street, and Malden saw beads of sweat had broken out on his chin. “But no. We’ll do this right. Next time I’ll do it right.”
The assassin stooped to grab Malden under the armpits. He hauled the thief upright onto his shoulders and carried him down the alley.
“Where?” Malden asked, deeply confused. Where are you taking me? he wanted to ask.
“I can’t let the watch find you, not now,” Prestwicke told him. “They would lock you away, and probably hang you. And I don’t share.”
Malden was too weak to resist as the assassin carried him far across the Smoke, well clear of the searching watchmen. Prestwicke seemed to have a real gift for evading pursuit—he ran mostly through dark alleys, but occasionally he had to cross a broad avenue, where even at this hour there were people abroad. Yet Malden would swear not a single eye fell on him and his captor as they hurried through the night. Whatever kind of man this Prestwicke was, he was even more gifted at clandestine work than Malden.
Eventually they came to an alley on the edge of the Stink, a dark way between two massive blocks of wattle-and-daub houses. Prestwicke dropped Malden on a pile of old rubbish there—broken furniture and sticks of unidentifiable wood kept there to feed the hearth fires of the houses all around.
“I’ll be back for you tomorrow night, when the proper hour comes again,” Prestwicke said, staring down at Malden. In Malden’s dazed state the assassin seemed to be looming over him from a great height.
“Where … should we meet? I’d hate to miss such a—oof.” Malden’s head felt as if it were full of rocks grinding together. “Such an important engagement.”
Prestwicke sneered at him. “Run where you like. I’ll find you wherever you go to ground. There’s nowhere in Ness you can hide from me.”
“That’s awfully … convenient,” Malden said. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open. “Since I—”
But Prestwicke had already gone. Malden didn’t see his would-be killer go, but one moment Prestwicke was there and the next Malden was alone in the alley, save for the rats that nested in the woodpile.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A drizzling rain rolled down Croy’s best loden cloak the next morning as he finished loading the wagon. He tied down a leather cover over the various supplies inside: barrels of smoked fish, rolled-up tents and camp gear, jugs of beer and a pail of milk for Mörget. Big coils of rope and mining gear—blocks and tackles, hooks and spikes, hammers and other tools—rounded out the load. The horses snorted in their traces, unhappy about being out in the wet, but
