did impress me. So we’ll start you off as if you were a journeyman, the next rank and title in our hypothetical guild. But there is another bar to entry at that level. One must pay one’s guild dues, to be considered a member in good standing. So I’ll expect a payment from you immediately, before you may enjoy any privilege of your new employment.”
Malden clamped his mouth shut. What he wanted to say was this:
Why, you loathsome double-dealing toothfish of a blasted cheat, is there no limit to the depths of your ignobility, your mendacity? You’ve held me here at threat of death, and bled me dry, and now you wish a gratuity for the service?
What he actually said was this:
“How much?”
Cutbill flipped through the pages of his ledger. He consulted an entry near the beginning of the book, then looked up and for the first time directly into Malden’s eyes. “I think one hundred and one golden royals should be enough. Or do you think that too little, after all the trouble you caused me tonight?”
“I …” Malden was briefly unable to speak. “I imagine … I think that I will laud your generosity to all I meet.”
“Good. You can go now.” Cutbill picked up his pen again and returned to writing in his book.
Malden rose from his chair. His legs shook. His hands had been steady when he picked the poisoned lock. He had not flinched when an arrow passed through his shadow. Yet now his body was rebellious to his commands. He turned toward the door. “You know, you never actually gave me the chance to say yes or no.”
“I never do. In any business negotiation, if the outcome is not certain before you even begin, then you are fated to get the lesser hand. Remember that, Malden. Oh, and don’t go through there.”
Malden looked at the door. It was the only exit from the room that he could see. “But of course. You haven’t given the all-clear signal.”
“There is no such signal. If you walk through that door, Bellard will run you through, no matter what I do or say. I think that might sadden him—he seems to have a liking for you. So go through there instead.” Cutbill flicked his pen toward one of the tapestries behind him. When Malden lifted it he found a very long corridor ending in a flight of stairs leading upward. Not looking back, he climbed until he found a trapdoor that opened on an alley in the Stink—the district of poor people’s homes that lay just inside the city wall. The neighborhood of his own home, though he still had a long walk ahead of him.
He had only one thought as he headed there.
One hundred and one royals.
It was a fortune. It was a bondage—until he paid it, he would be Cutbill’s slave, working for nothing but the payment of that blood price. It might take him a year to earn as much, even if he redoubled his efforts, even if he picked only the richest plums—plums, he was certain, that were already on Cutbill’s list of protection.
One hundred and one! Royals! Coins so valuable the average journeyman in an honest guild might earn but one for a year’s work. All of the plate and cutlery he’d taken from Guthrun Whiteclay, if sold to a very forgiving and generous fence, would earn him but two royals, perhaps three.
One hundred and one!
He reached his lodgings barely cognizant of the path he’d taken. He had a room above a waxchandler’s shop, not much at all, but it was clean. He had a mattress full of straw which he went to as soon as he arrived. The plates and silver he had stashed underneath, below a loose floorboard. He was not surprised to find them gone. One of Cutbill’s thieves must have broken in here to get them back. In their place was a bottle of cheap wine. A strip of paper was wound around its neck. When he unfolded the note he read:
Welcome to the guild.
It was signed, of course, with a crude drawing of a heart transfixed by a key.
CHAPTER SEVEN
He drank the whole bottle and got rather drunk and lay in his bed with the world whirling around him, alternately cursing and blessing Cutbill’s name. The guildmaster of thieves had held him to ransom—a ransom so large as to be absurd. Only a fool would take the offer, only an idiot would think he could make a hundred and one gold royals before he was stooped and old.
And yet … and yet … he kept coming back to what Cutbill had said. Freedom. Not a slave, but a prisoner. But he could break those shackles. Free himself, if he had the cash. Money meant everything in Ness, just as it meant everything the world around. A man with money was his own—he could buy fine clothes, buy a house of his own, buy, in short, respect. The good honest folk spat at him in the street now. With enough money they would tip their hats when he walked past. No, when he rode past, in a fine carriage, with a liveried servant driving the horses …
It was unimaginable. Impossible. And yes, alone, he could never do it. He could never be more than a petty thief, a second story man, fated to an ignominious death. But with Cutbill, with the power of the guild of thieves behind him …
His whole life could change. It could mean something, just like his mother had always wanted. Just like she’d dreamed of. Despaired of, on her deathbed.
All that was standing between him and that future was a stack of gold coins.
What could he do, then, but go back to work? But what kind of work, ah, there was the problem. His brain was seized by a fever of schemes and plans, but none of them paid off. At first he thought to burgle his way out of the debt, but that turned out to be … problematic. All the wealthiest citizens of the Free City were already on Cutbill’s protection list. His options were therefore limited, and a couple days later he was back at the old routine, in the city’s central Market Square. Right in the shadow of Castle Hill and its twenty foot wall.
No better place for the game he had planned.
“Forgive me, good sir, and the blessings of the Lady upon you!”
It was the oldest trick in the book, but that was how they got so old: they still worked. Malden had his right arm in a sling tied around his neck. Three mangled fingers and a fourth badly infected stump protruded beyond the edge of the cloth—a grotesque wound that would make most people look away rather than risk a closer inspection. With Market Square as crowded as it was that day, it was inevitable that the splinted arm would bump the occasional passerby. So far he had accidentally jostled a lady of quality with her hair in cauls at the sides of her head, the liveried servant of a noble house in black and green, and a fat merchant in a plumed hat wider than his shoulders.
“Pardon me, miss, it’s this blasted arm,” he would say, or “May the Lady save your grace, sir, I am sorry.” They would turn to sneer and perhaps kick him away, but once they saw the arm they tended to murmur some words of empty forgiveness and then hurry off before he could start begging.
By then, of course, he already had their purses open. The broken arm was a fakery. Slag the dwarf had carved it from wood and then painted it to perfectly match Malden’s skin tone. It was hollow inside and open at the bottom, so his real arm fit easily into the gap. In his actual right hand he had a tiny pair of sharpened shears and a square of damp felt. It was the work of a moment as his mark was turning away from him to cut open their fat purses and let the coins inside fall soundlessly into the cloth. Mostly he was securing pennies, groats, and farthings, nothing too worthy. At this rate, he calculated, he would pay off his debt to Cutbill in about twenty years.
