A Thief in the Night by David Chandler

the form of what appeared to be tattoos. Later on she could discharge it as well, once sufficient malefic energy had been stored.
    â€œCythera, I beg you, forget this folly,” he said. “The place we go to is one of the most dangerous in all of Skrae—in all the world. If something happened to you there how could I go on living? How could I ever forgive myself? I love you more than my own life.”
    â€œI know you do,” she said, “but—”
    â€œDo you not love me?” he asked.
    Her face went pale.
    Croy was not a man given to manipulation, and preying this way on her feelings made him feel soiled. Yet how could he give in to her mad demand? He could understand why she was angry, but he could only hope she would get over it before he returned.
    She took her time framing her reply, yet when it came, it was devastating. “Let me make this plain, Croy. I will not sign the banns until you have safely returned from this venture. I have no desire to be a widow even before my wedding ceremony. To ensure that you return safely, I will go with you, and protect you from threats that Snurrin’s armor cannot. I’m afraid you cannot gainsay me now.”
    â€œI—but—you can’t—” Croy sputtered.
    â€œMörget,” Cythera said, “I am asking you directly. May I join your expedition?”
    Mörget frowned. “I see one problem with it.”
    â€œThank you,” Croy gasped.
    â€œWe don’t have enough horses,” Mörget said. “I suppose we’ll need to buy some more.”

Chapter Thirteen
    M alden knew if he wasn’t going on Croy’s grand adventure, he needed to get back to work. He wasted little time finding his next assignment, though of course he had to tarry until nightfall before he could begin to work. Cutbill had a lead that took him into the Royal Ditch, the valley just north of Castle Hill that was formed by the course of the river Skrait. The narrow streets atop the ditch were lined with gambling houses and brothels, with drug dens and pawnshops that asked few questions. Old, familiar territory for Malden, though little that went on there was truly lucrative enough to interest him anymore. What the Royal Ditch did possess to compel him was a scattering of old friends.
    He found one shortly after dark, exactly where he expected her to be. Every part of Morricent’s face was painted, with the white lead caked so thick around her eyes that it hid all the wrinkles. She’d been at work in Pokekirtle Lane long enough to know all the tricks of her trade: she doused herself in sweet perfumes, she pitched her voice unnaturally high, like an infant’s, she wore her hair down with green ribbons woven amongst her curls, like a twelve-year-old girl celebrating her first chapel ceremony. Yet Morricent was old enough to remember Malden’s mother.
    His mother, who had spent some time in Pokekirtle Lane herself, though she died before she needed to start painting with white lead.
    Malden had been born in a whorehouse, and spent his childhood inside its walls, working first at cleaning it and then later learning how to keep its books. When his mother died during his adolescence he’d been forced to leave and find his own way in the world—a hard thing for a penniless boy with no family. Yet he had not been cast out without pity. The whores of Ness were a close sisterhood, and they stuck together better than any guild of workmen. Malden was guaranteed a warm welcome now whenever he stopped in at any brothel in the city, and even the semi-independent streetwalkers knew his face and always had a smile for him. Morricent was no exception.
    â€œMalden! You’ve come to keep a girl company on a wretched night,” Morricent cooed as he leaned up against her particular stretch of wall. The bricks were wet with mist, and dark clouds covered the moon. It was indeed a bad night to be out of doors, especially