One Hundred and Four
Mörget raced back into the camp, Balint at his heels,…
Chapter One Hundred and Five
Malden ordered Velmont to search for other survivors in the…
Chapter One Hundred and Six
Malden looked to Cythera. She was drained, and worse than…
Chapter One Hundred and Seven
In her bed, Coruth struggled for every breath. Her hair…
Chapter One Hundred and Eight
On the march, it is far too easy to slip…
Chapter One Hundred and Nine
There was no time to think on all that had…
Chapter One Hundred and Ten
“Get that iron off him,” Velmont commanded. His eyes stayed…
Chapter One Hundred and Eleven
An hour before dawn, the snow burned a deep blue.
Chapter One Hundred and Twelve
As soon as Malden could stand on his own two…
Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen
The crowd of devout citizens gasped and ran as a…
Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen
Croy brought Ghostcutter around and disemboweled a gray-bearded reaver, then…
Chapter One Hundred and Fifteen
When Ryewall collapsed Malden was thrown from his feet. He…
Chapter One Hundred and Sixteen
“What in the Lady’s name was that?” Hew asked.
Chapter One Hundred and Seventeen
Slag crowed and danced and shouted up to Malden where…
Chapter One Hundred and Eighteen
Mörget shouted in pain and for a moment froze in…
Chapter One Hundred and Nineteen
Smoke from the explosion of Slag’s weapon hung in the…
Chapter One Hundred and Twenty
The Lemon Garden was far enough from Ryewall that Malden…
Epilogue
He’d made his decision. He’d been forced to pick between…
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by David Chandler
Copyright
About the Publisher
Map
PROLOGUE
The Free City of Ness was known around the world as a hotbed of thievery, and one man alone was responsible for that reputation. Cutbill, master of that city’s guild of thieves, controlled almost every aspect of clandestine commerce within its walls—from extortion to pickpocketing, from blackmail to shoplifting he oversaw a great empire of crime. His fingers were in far more pies than anyone even realized, and his ambitions far greater than simple acquisition of wealth—and far broader-reaching than the affairs of just one city. His interests lay in every corner of the globe and his spies were everywhere.
As a result he received a fair volume of mail every day.
In his office under the streets of Ness he went through this pile of correspondence with the aid of only one assistant. Lockjaw, an elderly thief with a legendary reputation was always there when Cutbill opened his letters. There were two reasons why Lockjaw held this privileged responsibility—for one, Lockjaw was famous for his discretion. He’d received his sobriquet for the fact he never revealed a secret. The other reason was that he’d never learned to read.
It was Lockjaw’s duty to receive the correspondence, usually from messengers who stuck around only long enough to get paid, and to comment on each message as Cutbill told him its contents. If Lockjaw wondered why such a clever man wanted his untutored opinion, he never asked.
“Interesting,” Cutbill said, holding a piece of parchment up to the light. “This is from the dwarven kingdom. It seems they’ve invented a new machine up there. Some kind of winepress that churns out books instead of vintage.”
The old thief scowled. “That right? Do they come out soaking wet?”
“I imagine that would be a defect in the process,” Cutbill agreed. “Still. If it works, it could produce books at a fraction of the cost a copyist charges now.”
“Bad news, then,” Lockjaw said.
“Oh?”
“Books is expensive,” the thief explained. “There’s good money in stealing ’em. If they go cheap all of a sudden we’d be out of a profitable racket.”
Cutbill nodded and put the letter aside, taking up another. “It’ll probably come to nothing, this book press.” He slit open the letter in his hand with a knife and scanned its contents. “News from our friend in the north. It looks like Maelfing will be at war with Skilfing by next summer. Over fishing rights, of course.”
“That lot in the northern kingdoms is always fighting about something,” Lockjaw pointed out. “You’d figure they’d have sorted everything out by now.”
“The king of Skrae certainly hopes they never do,” Cutbill told him. “As long as they keep at each other’s throats, our northern border will remain secure. Pass me that packet, will you?”
The letter in question was written on a scroll of vellum wrapped in thin leather. Cutbill broke its seal and spread it out across his desk, peering at it from only a few inches away. “This is from our man in the high pass of the Whitewall Mountains.”
“What could possibly happen in a desolated place like that?” Lockjaw asked.
“Nothing, nothing at all,” Cutbill said. He looked up at the thief. “I pay my man there to make sure it stays that way. He read some more, and opened his mouth to make another comment—and then closed it again, his teeth clicking together. “Oh,” he said.
Lockjaw held his peace and waited to hear what Cutbill had found.
The master of the guild of thieves, however, was unforthcoming. He rolled the scroll back up and shoved the whole thing in a charcoal brazier used to keep the office warm. Soon the scroll had caught flame and in a moment it was nothing but ashes.
Lockjaw raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
Whatever was on that scroll clearly wasn’t meant to be shared, even with Cutbill’s most trusted associate. Which meant it had to be pretty important, Lockjaw figured. More so than who was stealing from whom or where the bodies were buried.
Cutbill went over to his ledger—the master account of all his dealings, and one of the most secret books on the continent. It contained every detail of all the crime that took place in Ness, as well as many things no one had ever heard of outside of this room. He opened it to a page near the back, then laid his knife across one of the pages, perhaps to keep it from fluttering out of place. Lockjaw noticed that this page was different from the others. Those were filled with columns of neat figures, endless rows of numbers. This page only held a single block of text, like a short message.
“Old man,” Cutbill said, then, “could you do me a favor and pour me a cup of wine? My throat feels suddenly raw.”
Cutbill had never asked for such a thing before. The man had enough enemies in the world that he made a point of always pouring his own wine—or