“Mother,” Cythera said, spreading butter on a piece of brown bread, “if you know that from personal experience, I’d prefer not to hear the story.”
Heavy footsteps came clomping up the stairs, and the two swordsmen bustled into the room. The barbarian had a fresh bandage around his forearm but the bleeding wound on his chest was left exposed. He had one massive arm around Croy’s shoulders.
“Everyone,” Croy said, “I’d like you to meet Mörget.”
Malden rose from his chair and wiped his hands on his tunic. He glanced toward the window, wondering how fast he could get out of the room if he had to. It wasn’t that he felt he was in any particular danger. Looking to the nearest escape route was simply his natural reaction when being introduced to a very large man covered in weapons.
Croy introduced his new friends to the ladies, and then to Malden, who stuck out one hand to grasp. The barbarian stared at the hand for a moment, then looked away.
“I beg your pardon, sir, if I have offended,” Malden said.
“Little man, forgive me. In my land we touch only those we love, or those we plan on killing.”
“Like … Croy,” Malden said, nodding at the arm that held the knight. “Do the two of you know each other from some previous battle?”
“We never met before today,” Croy assured the thief.
“Then—”
“Mörget is an Ancient Blade.”
“Oh!” Cythera said, and Malden nodded, because that explained everything.
Croy bore the sword Ghostcutter, and it defined his life. Before it had been given to him his father had carried it, and before his father there had been a whole succession of knights who had wielded the sword. Each of them had groomed his own replacement, so that the sword would always have a noble bearer. Croy had spent his entire youth training just to be worthy to hold it. To listen to him talk of his sword, the knight was far less important and less valuable than the piece of iron he wore at his belt, so when people asked him what kind of man he was, he claimed he was an Ancient Blade—speaking for the sword, which had no voice of its own.
The wielders of those swords were sworn to various oaths, one of which was that they would aid each other in noble quests. Another was that if they ever broke their vows the other six were bound to hunt them down and slay them, so that the blade they had dishonored could be recovered and passed on to a more worthy owner.
Which meant that Croy and Mörget would either be fast friends from now on, or Croy would have to kill Mörget without warning.
“I believe I told you once that only five of the swords were accounted for here in the west. Two others were lost to us, among the—the barbarians.”
Mörget pursed his lips and tsked. “The clans of the east,” he corrected.
“Yes, of course,” Croy said, “the clans of the east. Well, it turns out they weren’t lost at all. The clans have had them for centuries, and they’ve been honoring the blades just as we have, and keeping them for their holy purpose.”
“We have sorcerers beyond the mountains,” Mörget added, “just as you have them here. Someone must fight them. I, myself, have slain more than one dozen with Dawnbringer.” He drew the sword from its sheath and jabbed it toward the ceiling. “May I live to slay a dozen more, or die with blade in hand!”
“Yes, may you do that,” Malden said. He went to the table and picked up a pitcher of ale. “Should we drink to it?”
“I never drink spirits,” Mörget insisted, putting his sword away. “They dull the senses, ruin the body, and make a man unfit for battle. Do you have any milk?”
“There’s cream here,” Cythera suggested, and pointed out a ewer.
The barbarian picked it up like a cup and quaffed a long draught. Then he grimaced and shook his head. Cream was smeared all around his mouth, obscuring the red paint there.
It did not, in Malden’s eyes, make the man look comical. He could have been wearing a wig of straw and a fake pig snout over his nose, and still Malden would not have thought the man looked like a clown. Not when he knew how much iron Mörget was carrying under his fur cloak.
It was not that Malden was a coward, after all—he was not opposed to personal risk if there was any benefit to be had from it. It was merely that he understood that courage in the face of certain doom was folly. He would no sooner laugh at this barbarian than he would put his head inside a lion’s mouth to prove his manhood.
While he was brooding on this subject, Malden heard the door of the tavern open with a crash. He glanced at the window again. “I believe the watch have arrived,” he said, and was proven right when a voice below demanded to know what had happened. “As well met we may be, we would be just as well advised to be elsewhere now.”
“Agreed,” Coruth said. She stood up from the table and grabbed for Cythera’s hand. “It’s time to go home.”
Cythera began to protest but the witch had already started to change shape. She and her daughter transformed into a pair of black birds that darted out the window, and before anyone could react or speak they were gone.
“Witchcraft,” Mörget said, staring after them. There was a bloody look in his eye.
“Let us follow them, by more prosaic means,” Malden suggested. He went to the window and saw its ledge was wide enough to stand on. “The roof of this tavern is connected to the roof of a stable next door. From there we’ll have to cross Cripplegate High Street.” He looked over at Mörget. “Do you know how to climb, milord barbarian?”
The barbarian opened his mouth and let out another booming, murderous laugh. “Like a goat, boy!” he claimed, and threw himself out the window with abandon.
The watchmen were already coming up the stairs. Malden followed Mörget, with a trace more care. Standing on the ledge outside, he looked back in at Croy and gestured for him to follow.
“But the banns—we never signed them,” Croy protested, staring at the parchment on the table. Black ink had soaked into the contract and obliterated half of its calligraphy.
“The wedding will have to wait,” Malden said. “Such a shame.” Then he reached in to grab Croy’s arm, and pull him toward the windowsill.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Malden scampered up onto the roof of the tavern and braced himself against a chimney, then reached down a hand to help Croy up. This was not the first time Malden had brought the knight up onto the rooftops of the City. Always it was a painful process. Croy could never seem to find proper handholds, and the boots he wore were wholly unsuited to running on uneven surfaces. Always Malden had to help him over every obstacle and show him where to hold on and where not to put his weight. Making matters even worse the knight didn’t seem capable of moving quietly even when walking down a crowded street. His baldric slapped against his chest with every step, his sword clattered in its scabbard.
Mörget, it seemed, was different. He was already halfway across the roof of the stables when Malden caught sight of him. The barbarian leapt from the roof ridge of the stables to a broad lead gutter as nimbly as a bird, and perched there on hands and feet in such a way that even his great bulk didn’t strain the drainpipes. Malden scurried across a bank of shingles to join him, then beckoned for Croy to come as well.
The knight looked game enough, but halfway across his foot slipped and he began to tumble. Malden raced toward him to try to steady him but Mörget beat him to it, rushing over and picking up Croy in his two giant hands while Croy’s legs still flailed in the air. The barbarian set Croy down carefully and they all