Читать книгу Den of Thieves - David Chandler - Страница 21

As they hauled away from the Smoke and up the river toward the Golden Slope and the Spires, the docks and piers that stuck out into the water grew fewer in number. The river narrowed and grew faster, so they had to row all the harder. The water turned clean again, with only the occasional floating bit of sewage or debris to mar its churning surface. The river Skrait had driven its channel right through the northern half of Castle Hill, creating a winding canyon through half the Free City. Conforming to the slope of the hill, the ground along the riverbanks grew higher until it had to be held back by retaining walls, so that eventually they traveled between two high and sloping walls of ancient brick, with moss slowly eating away its mortar. Here and there a tree had taken root directly into the bricks, and its branches swayed over them, its leaves making the moonlight flicker through the mist that hung over the water.

The river bent away from them, concealed by the rising wall. Malden saw a glimmer of light. “Hold, someone’s coming,” he whispered, and reached back to grab Cythera’s arm. He was strangely hurt when she yanked her arm away before he could touch it.

What he saw took all his concentration and kept him from thinking why. A long boat came nosing around the corner—little more than a dugout, really, its sides well-patched. An old woman stood in the stern, poling the boat downriver, while half a dozen children leaned over the thwarts. They skimmed the water with long hooks, snatching at every piece of jetsam they passed. One held an oil lamp just above the surface, illuminating a milky patch of water.

“Move aside and let them go past,” Malden said. Cythera steered her boat over toward the last of the docks on the southern side of the Skrait. One of the children raised his dripping hook in thanks.

“What are they looking for?” Cythera asked, her voice a tight whisper, no louder than the rustling of leaves.

“Anything they can sell. A cloak dropped into the water from the bank of the Royal Ditch. Waste leather from one of the tanneries in the Smoke.” Malden shrugged. “A dead body that might still have a purse on its belt.”

He heard Cythera gasp. “Truly? They might find such a gruesome haul? Those poor children!”

Malden frowned. He knew she had money to spare, but could she really be so sheltered by it that she didn’t understand basic necessities? “They would cherish it. It would mean they could eat for a week.”

The old woman waved cheerily at them as she pushed past. Malden waited until the boat of mudlarks was gone from view, then signaled to Cythera that they could move again.

“It’s not well that they saw us,” she suggested, but as if she hoped he would reassure her.

“Even if the city watch found them and asked what they saw this night,” he said, “they’d never describe us. They know if we’re abroad this late we’re of their kind—of the great confraternity of desperate folk. They’d never betray us.”

Behind him, he heard her sigh in relief. He wished he could assure himself so easily. But there was nothing for it—they couldn’t turn back now. Pushing on, they made their way up the river until the walls surrounded them on either side.

There was no sound but the dripping and knocking of their oars. They saw no more boats, not at that late hour. Malden kept an eye on the tops of the retaining walls, making sure no one was looking down to follow their progress. He did not see anyone.

It was hard work, rowing upriver, and for a while they did it in silence. It was boring work, too, however, and eventually Malden started talking just to have something to do. He kept his voice very low, knowing that sound travels far over water, but she did not try to silence him.

“I’d pay good coin to know how you pulled that trick yesterday. When you just appeared like that on the roof of the university. It was magic, was it not?”

“If you could define what magic is, and what it is not, you would be wiser than the world’s great sages,” she told him. “It was simply what you called it. A trick.”

“Hmm. And do you know many such?”

“Not many.”

Malden saw that up ahead a zigzagging set of stairs had been carved through the wall, which at this point was nearly thirty feet high. The stairs ended at a solitary dock, but there were no boats at it. All the same, he held his tongue until they were well past.

“And the way you held my gaze? I could not look away, even with that great mountain of a man coming up behind me. Surely that was wizardry.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked. There was no guile in her eyes.

“You charmed me,” he said, looking over his shoulder, intending to take her to task for enchanting him. Yet she looked as puzzled as he. “You used some spell.”

“You give me too much credit. I know no such incantation.”

Yet of course it had to be a spell she’d cast on him. Didn’t it? What else could have explained his sudden interest in her eyes, her hair? What explanation would satisfy the facts, other than that she had ensorcelled him?

Malden had grown up in the company of harlots, and knew well the ways of physical love. He’d often heard them talk of the other kind, of romance and true love. They’d even talked of the fabled love-at-first-sight, though most had considered it a myth. He himself had never considered he might feel that way about another human being, much less an enchantress covered in tattoos.

So it must have been magic. There was no other possibility. Was there?

He decided to talk of anything but, rather than continue in that line of thought.

“You intrigue me, Cythera. You seem a lady of quality, yet you associate with the likes of Bikker.”

“He’s not so bad. Honest, in his way.”

“He’s a ruffian. Cheerful, perhaps, but uncouth. I don’t think you chose his company. You work with him because you were ordered to do so. I think you both work for someone else. Someone who wants my services, who—”

“Who shall remain nameless.”

“Very well. Though the number of citizens who could afford your services must be small.”

“Not every wage is paid in coin.”

It was a funny kind of thing to say, and it birthed all manner of questions in Malden’s mind. But it was clear it pained her to speak of it, so he let it go. He had another thing to ask her about anyway.

“Those tattoos on your face and your arms—”

“They are not tattoos.” Her voice grew sharp when she said it.

“The designs, then. Did I really see them move?”

“Yes. They are never still.”

“What artist paints them? What kind of pigment does he use?”

Cythera sighed. “No artist. No paints. They are a curse. Or rather, they were imposed on me as a gift by my mother. Or perhaps she meant to curse another.”

“Your mother was a sorceress? I can believe that, for you certainly enchanted me.” There it was again. That thought he couldn’t explain.

She seemed unwilling to discuss it herself. “You’ll hold that scoundrel tongue of yours, if you know what’s good for you. My mother was never a sorceress. And she still lives. She is a witch.”

“Naturally,” Malden said.

Cythera sighed. “Must you always be so glib?”

“It’s part of my charm.”

“Oh, you have charm? I hadn’t noticed.” But she was smiling.

“You wound me to the heart,” he said. “But it’s all right. We’ll find some way you can make it up to me. When this is over, what say you we both—”

“Stop,” she said, interrupting his half-serious attempt at courting. “Ship your oars.”

He did as she said. “Is this the place? Have we really come so far?”

“Conversation makes any night fly. Yes—look. There is the pipe I was told to seek out. This is exactly the right spot.”

The pipe in question stuck directly out of the wall. Filthy water drained from its end in a constant trickle. It was big enough around for a man to climb through, if it hadn’t been closed by an iron grating. Such a man would have been a fool, of course, for the pipe led nowhere but into the dungeons of the Burgrave.

Malden looked up—and up. The gentle cambered wall above him rose no less than one hundred and fifty feet into the air. Straight to the top of Castle Hill. Up there, far, far in the air, was the Burgrave’s palace.

Malden knew one thing for certain. On Cutbill’s secret protection list, the Burgrave’s name did not appear. The Burgrave, of course, had his own garrison of troops for protection and did not need the aid of the master of thieves.

Malden had never been given a reason why he could not break into the house of the ultimate ruler of the Free City of Ness and pilfer his most prized possession. Most likely this was because no one had ever thought him so stupid as to try it.

At least not until Bikker and Cythera had come along.

“When you reach the top, do not scamper over the parapets directly,” Cythera whispered. “Remember—Bikker will create a diversion in the courtyard. The guards up there will rush to investigate. That is your only chance to get in unseen. Move quickly, though not so quickly you fall prey to a trap. Recover the … the item we asked for, then come back here as fast as you can. Do not take anything else. It is critical that you do not leave any evidence you were there, or create any suspicion that the thing is gone.”

He was very aware she would not say aloud what it was she wanted, not now when they were so close to it. He filed that away under the myriad things about her he found curious and interesting.

“Start your climb now. I’ll make sure Bikker knows when to do his part.”

“How about a kiss for luck, before I go?” Malden asked.

Cythera laughed.

“From me, such a kiss would token anything but good luck. Quickly, now!”

Malden carefully stood up in the back of the boat. He waited for Cythera to brace herself, both her oars in the water to steady the tiny craft. Then he took a quick step and jumped at the wall, his hands out and fingers spread to find whatever purchase was there.

It was not difficult. The bricks were sturdy, but the mortar between them had crumbled away over time. His fingers fit easily between each row of bricks, so that it was like grabbing at the rungs of a ladder.

Once she saw him dangling from the wall like a lizard, Cythera bent to her oars and got her boat moving away from the wall. Malden didn’t waste time watching where she went. Instead he started to climb, hand over hand.

Straight up.