Honor Among Thieves by David Chandler

to the moon. She opened her eyes to look at him. Perhaps that would help her summon up the strength to do what was right.
    There were tears on his cheeks, but he was smiling.
    If she told him now, she would destroy him. It was wrong to keep this secret, all the same. She still felt that way. But it would have taken a saint to say the words, and Cythera knew she was no saint. So she did what a witch would do instead. What her mother would do.
    “You’ll be a hero, then,” she told him. “You’ll be a champion of Skrae. What woman could resist that?”
    He laughed, a sound of happiness in that dark hour. He kissed her on the cheek, and then he left her there. Hurried back out into the night, to do what he must.
    When he was gone she shivered for a while, though she was not cold. Then she went back to the window to continue her vigil—this time waiting for Malden to come and take her away.

Chapter Eighteen
    M alden never actually lost consciousness, but between the pain in his head and the fact that he was shoved through the dark streets by a group of angry men who beat him every time he faltered, he had little idea where he was taken. He saw torches and doorways pass by, now was looking down at cobblestones, now up at an empty, cold sky. He was bounced down a flight of stairs and thrown onto a surface of packed earth in a place that smelled of old mildew. He was turned on his side and saw a wall of stone, crisscrossed with the glittering tracks of snails.
    And then a bucket of stagnant water was dumped across his face, and he fought and spluttered and shouted as he desperately tried to sit up. The wooden bucket bounced off his shoulder and he drew back in fresh pain.
    But suddenly he could think clearly again. He could hear many men grumbling all around him and see them silhouetted against a fire at the far side of the room.
    He could hear their voices just fine.
    “Slit his throat. Bury him down here, aye. But what of his fuckin’ sword? Can’t sell that, any fence’d know it for a Ancient Blade, jus’ lookin’ at it. And then we’d have every bleedin’ kingsman in town down here, wantin’ to ask questions and crack heads.”
    “I say we cut off his fingers and toes, till he tells us who he really is.”
    “And I say—and my word is law, yeah?—I say, we don’t got much time till that knight comes lookin’ for him. So we settle this now, we do it quiet, and we all find someplace else to be till it blows o’er.”
    There were more grumbling protests, but the voices never grew too loud. And then a man with a knife no longer than his thumb came toward Malden, his free hand out to grab his hair and pull his head back. The size of the knife was not reassuring. They were going to cut his throat. It didn’t take a very big knife to slash a man’s windpipe.
    Malden scuttled backward until his back hit a wall. He was out of options. “Don’t you lot practice the ancient custom of sanctuary?” he demanded.
    The man with the knife stopped where he was.
    A much bigger man, with a head as bald and round as the moon, came stomping forward. “What’re you talkin’ about?” he demanded.
    “I’m assuming that Velmont brought me to the local guild of thieves. I very much hope I’m not mistaken. In Ness, where Cutbill runs the guild, we practice the custom of sanctuary. Any thief, no matter where he’s from, can demand the right to hide out in one of our safe houses, and he cannot be denied. As long as his dues are paid up.”
    The man with the knife turned to face the bald one. In silhouette, Malden could tell it was Velmont who’d been about to slit his throat.
    “He’s speakin’ true, boss,” Velmont said.
    “Aye, save for one thing. Sanctuary’s for thieves. And you ain’t no thief, kingsman. Now be quiet while we murther you.”
    “Velmont,” Malden insisted, “tell them. You and I spoke of many things this morning. Things only a thief would know. And tonight, after I’d engineered my own