“Sounds terrifying,” he said, without a trace of flippancy.
“It is my destiny,” Mörget insisted.
“Well, that explains what you’re doing in the west,” Croy said. “But not why you came to the Free City. The mountains of the Whitewall are a hundred miles from here.”
“I knew I could not storm the mountain on my own,” Mörget said. “I learned many lessons on my travels. I learned when I could rely on the strength of my own back, which is almost always. And I learned that there are some few occasions when I must find help. This demon is stronger and more dangerous than any creature I’ve fought before. Even with Dawnbringer in my hand it will be a challenge. I came for others who might help me defeat it—others sworn to that cause, in fact. I came looking for you, Croy. To ask for your assistance.”
Croy leapt to his feet—and nearly slipped and fell on the slate tiles of the roof. “Of course,” he said, “of course I will help! I am honor bound.” He drew Ghostcutter and pointed it at the sun. “How could I refuse? Truth be told, I’m grateful for the chance. We had some trouble with demons here in Ness a while back, but since then I’ve heard nothing of them. I’d thought they were killed off, every last one, and all the sorcerers who might summon them.”
“There is at least one more,” Mörget said. “Perhaps we will have the honor of slaying the last one in the world.”
“That would be a tale to tell,” Croy agreed. “I am at your service, brother. Ghostcutter and Dawnbringer will drink demon ichor once more. I wonder—should we summon the others? Sir Orne, Sir Hew and Sir Rory are all here in Skrae—the bearers of Crowsbill, Chillbrand, and Bloodquaffer. They would rally to our cause on the instant.”
Mörget looked sheepish. “If it’s all the same, brother … it is hard enough for me to admit I need the aid of one fellow Ancient Blade. Glory shared amongst two is glory halved. Split five ways …”
“I understand,” Croy said. “But two of the swords are kept by your people. What of Fangbreaker? I’d have thought you would go to its wielder, first.”
“The one who bears Fangbreaker is not my brother,” Mörget said, in a tone that suggested he would not explain further.
Croy looked almost relieved—maybe he didn’t want to share the glory, either. “Very well. The two of us will leave as soon as possible. Ah—and there will be traps.”
“Aye. The Vincularium is full of ’em,” Mörget said. “Or so say the books at Redweir.”
“Well, then, your luck is with you today. When it comes to traps, and defeating them, there’s none more skilled than Malden.”
The barbarian turned a suddenly interested eye on the thief. His red mouth split open in a wide grin and he started to laugh.
“I beg your pardon?” Malden asked, looking up at Croy.
“It’ll be good sport,” Croy told him, with a wink. “You’d be doing a work of great worth. And of course, the Vincularium is rumored to be stuffed full of treasure.” He looked down at the thief as if that final word was the goad that would move him to acts of unrivaled heroism.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“So of course, I told him to jump in the river. Head first,” Malden said, when he’d finished recounting the barbarian’s story.
Cutbill had wanted to hear everything, and Malden had not stinted on any detail. The guildmaster of thieves had listened attentively, all the while scribbling long strings of figures into his ledger, as if Mörget’s tale was a matter for scrupulous book-keeping. “You said that? To the barbarian?” he asked, finally looking up.
“Yes! I did. Or, rather, I told Croy to do that. I told Mörget I wasn’t the man he was looking for, but thanked him very much for considering me. I’m not stupid.”
“Hmm,” Cutbill mused. He flipped to an earlier page of his ledger. “Well, that’s settled, then. There are demons afoot once more. Of course, something will have to be done about that—we can’t have such creatures at large.”
“Yes, yes, it must be vanquished. But they hardly need my help with that. The two of them have their magical swords. They’re perfectly adequate to the task.”
Cutbill shrugged dismissively. “Still, I can see why they’d like to have someone along to take care of the traps. A sword—even a magical sword—is of little use to a man who has fallen into a bottomless pit. But you turned down their offer, quite reasonably. It does sound like a dangerous undertaking.”
“Positively foolhardy,” Malden agreed.
“Quite. Though I imagine that for Sir Croy the risk is half the reward. This will give him the chance to prove, once again, just how heroic he is. He’ll reap a great bounty of honor and glory.”
“I suppose such things are what you desire if you’re a titled man’s son, and there is no need to ever work a day in your life.”
“I imagine that would be nice,” Cutbill said.
“He’s going to get himself killed. Him and the barbarian both. As for Mörget, well, good riddance. That man is a threat to decent society. It’s just a matter of time before he kills someone just being here in the City.”
“It’s for the best, then, that he leaves soon.” Cutbill put down his pen and rubbed his chin. “And yet I do not wish him ill.”
“Well, of course not,” Malden said, raising one eyebrow. He wasn’t sure what Cutbill was on about but he could tell the man was already forming a scheme. “I mean, at the very least, I hope he survives long enough to save us all from the demon, but—”
Cutbill lifted his pen for silence. “Hmm. He wants someone to deal with the Vincularium’s traps. I’ll have to think of someone I could send his way. Just in the interest of getting him out of my town faster.”
“Much joy it gives them both, I hope. I’ll have nothing to do with this tomb. As I told them, in no uncertain terms. Of course, then Croy had to go and suggest the place was full of treasure. As if that was all it would take to make my ears prick up. There’s more to life than money.”
“There is?” Cutbill asked, as if he’d never considered the possibility.
Malden had to think about that for a moment. “Yes, there is. There’s living to spend it.”
“Interesting,” Cutbill said. He picked his pen back up. “Just the other day, you were telling me that you needed a large sum of money for a specific reason. Tell me, how is that project going?”
“I thought it was dashed to pieces,” Malden admitted, thinking of Cythera. She had not signed the banns of marriage, after all. “But there may be some new hope. All the same, there are easier ways to get the money to buy a house than crawling around in haunted tombs.”
“Most assuredly. Though … I might suggest, Malden, that you go and ask someone about the Vincularium. Specifically, about who is buried there.”
“Some moldy old king or other, I have no doubt,” Malden said.
Cutbill frowned. “The treasure is likely to be … considerable.”
“The entire interior of that mountain might be made of gold, for all I care. I’m no grave robber.”
“Ah. So it’s because of your deeply felt respect for the dead that you won’t go.”
Malden wrestled with himself. He didn’t ordinarily lie to Cutbill. The man had a way of seeing through to the truth no matter how honeyed a tale one spun. This time, however, he found himself completely incapable of telling the truth.
“Yes,” he said.
“Very