Den of Thieves Read Free Page B

from their northern kingdom, looking for work, that Malden was jaded to their presence. They were master craftsmen, brilliant artificers who could make better tools and finer wares than any human artisan. Dwarves alone knew the secret of making proper steel and thus were highly prized and given special rights wherever they turned up in human lands. Like all his folk, this one was skinny, perhaps four feet tall, and his flesh was as white as the belly of a fish. He had a wild mop of filthy black hair and a tangled beard. He was dressed only in leather breeches and was sewing pieces of metal into a silk glove. He glanced up briefly at Malden, then shook his head and went back to work.
    Malden looked away and turned in a slow circle to make sure he’d seen all of the room. He did not want to miss some hidden threat, not now. Directly behind him, he saw the chute through which he had descended, a construction of thin hammered tin. It had been smeared with brown grease that glimmered dully in the candlelight. He could probably get back up that way, given enough time—and assuming no one tried to stop him.
    The man on the couch had a sword at his hip, and Malden did not doubt that the others were armed as well. Someone, he figured, would try to stop him. After all, he’d been summoned here for a reason. If he tried to run away now he would be thwarting that purpose. Based on what the oldsters had said aboveground, he would not be allowed to escape in one piece.
    A little stiffly, Malden climbed out of the coffin and regained his feet. He dusted himself off and strode over to the divan, intent on learning what he was expected to do next. The bravo on the divan looked up expectantly. “You must have made an impression on the three masters above,” he said. Malden instantly recognized his voice as the one that had spoken to him when he was inside the coffin.
    â€œOh?” he asked.
    â€œThey let you keep your clothes and that knife at your belt. Sometimes the ones they send down here come naked.”
    â€œI’m quite personable when you get to know me,” Malden said. “Now, if you’d be so kind as to direct me to your master? I’m told he wishes to speak with me.”
    The bravo’s eyebrows drew together. “And what makes you think the master of this place is not here, right before you?”
    Malden bowed in apology. “Organization like this, in such a secret place, leads me to believe only one man in the Free City might be master here. A man I know only by reputation, but that reputation leads me to believe certain things about him. I doubt he’s one of these gamblers, who kneel and dice for pennies. I am relatively certain he is no dwarf, and she—well . . .” Malden searched his memory. “Her name is Rhona. She’s one of Madam Herwig’s girls, from the House of Sighs up on the Royal Ditch.” The girl looked up at him with wide eyes, but he merely smiled at her in return. There were very few harlots in the city who Malden could not recognize on sight. “As for yourself, well, I do not think you are the chief here. While you cut a striking figure, sir, I will not believe you if you say your name is Cutbill.”
    At the sound of the name everyone in the room glanced over their shoulder. Even the bravo and his playmate frowned. Yet in a moment all concerns were forgotten again and the bravo laughed boisterously, which got the girl giggling as well. “You’re smarter than we credited,” he said.
    â€œYet not so arrogant in that wisdom, as to have avoided this summons in the first place,” Malden said.
    The bravo picked the girl up in his strong arms and put her back down on the divan as he rose and came bounding over to take Malden’s hand. “I’m Bellard. I serve the one you named on those occasions when subtlety has failed.”
    â€œWell met. I’m called Malden.”
    Bellard laughed again.