A Thief in the Night by David Chandler Page A

warning.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œYes, 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.”
    â€œWe 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!”
    â€œYes, may you do that,” Malden said. He went to the table and picked up a pitcher of ale. “Should we drink to it?”
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œThere’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.”
    â€œAgreed,” 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 blackbirds that darted out the window, and before anyone could react or speak they were gone.
    â€œWitchcraft,” Mörget said, staring after them. There was a bloody look in his eye.
    â€œLet 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.
    â€œBut 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.
    â€œThe 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
    M alden scampered up onto the roof of the