Den of Thieves by David Chandler Page B

about leading him to his doom.
    Best, he thought, to break the spell and flee.
    Slowly he lowered the bodkin. “I don’t know what manner of creature you are,” he told her, “but I really must be going.”
    â€œOh no you don’t,” the swordsman said, coming upon Malden from behind. He grabbed Malden’s head under one massive arm and squeezed. Apparently the swordsman had recovered from his stumbling fall. There was no way for Malden to break the hold: the oaf had the strength of a bear. He rather smelled like one, too. “You and I,” the swordsman said, giving Malden’s head another squeeze, “are going to have our talk now. All right? Promise me you won’t,” yet another squeeze, “run off?”
    â€œI promise, of course, how could I have been so rash as to—as to—I promise! Just stop that! Your mail is digging into my neck.”
    â€œVery good,” the swordsman said. He let Malden loose to stagger around on the roof, grasping at his throat. “My name, by the way, is Bikker. We weren’t properly introduced before.”
    â€œI’m Malden.” The thief bent over double for a moment. “Well met.”
    â€œIndeed. So. Malden?”
    â€œYes?” Malden said, lifting his head.
    â€œThis is for the melon,” Bikker said, just before punching him right in the face with one massive mailed fist.

Chapter Ten
    A pproximately three hundred yards to the northwest, Market Square had erupted into a melee as angered citizens brawled with the watch in their eye-patterned cloaks. It didn’t take much to start a riot in a city of this size. The students of the university were deep in the thick of it, laying into the watch with bare fists, fueled by strong drink and the excitement of a day away from their dry and dusty studies. Most of the wealthier folk were attempting to flee the square, with varying degrees of luck.
    To Sir Croy, up on the gibbet, it was like looking into the pit. He could not believe that all of these people were battling because of him. He had spent his whole life defending these people, keeping them safe, and now they were warring amongst themselves. That they were arguing over his fate was too much to bear.
    â€œFriends! Please, I beg you, peace!” Sir Croy shouted. He wanted to wave his hands in the air to gain the attention of the throng, but of course could not, as his hands were bound. The noose around his neck didn’t help either. The executioner beside him looked confused, uncertain as to whether he should release the trapdoor that would drop Croy to his fate.
    Somehow Anselm Vry managed to climb up onto the gallows. The bailiff was the city’s chief administrator and keeper of the peace, answerable only to the Burgrave. Sallow-skinned and lean of features, Vry looked like the kind of man who should spend his whole life with his nose in a book, but Croy had known him once and could see beyond the man’s looks. Vry was an able administrator, a skilled organizer of men and matériel. He was above all a rational man. Croy couldn’t resist beaming at someone whom he had once called his friend. The bailiff whispered in the executioner’s ear, and at once the hooded man jumped down from the gallows and waded into the riot, aiding the watch.
    â€œAnselm!” Croy called. “I knew you wouldn’t let this— Oh.”
    Vry had taken up the executioner’s post, his hand on the lever that would release the trapdoor.
    â€œI see,” Croy said. “You’ve come to see me off personally.”
    â€œIndeed,” Vry said, shaking his head in disgust. “I hope you understand this was not my choosing. I pleaded with Tarness not to slay you, in fact.”
    â€œI’m much obliged.”
    Vry snorted. “I told him we could simply give you a commission and ship you off to fight barbarians in the eastern mountains. They would have killed you for us.