Free Honor Among Thieves by David Chandler

you. Running about the countryside slaying goblins and brigands, burning sorcerers at the stake, you know. All the usual thing. I found, however, that I couldn’t take being my own master. So I came back here last year and begged for my old job back. His Majesty took pity on me and let me captain his watch. Now the worst thing I face most days is a starveling who’s snatched a loaf of bread, but I have honor, true honor.”
    “I am so glad to hear it,” Croy said. A tear had formed in the corner of his eye.
    “Me, too,” Malden said. Croy hadn’t even realized he was standing there.
    Sir Hew turned to look at the thief with disdain. “You’re not one of us yet, boy. Not just because you hold a sword. Don’t forget that.”
    Malden laughed. “I’m just glad to not be hanged. But take a lesson from this, Sir Knight, and mark it well—not every street rat is what he seems to be.”
    Hew bridled and looked as if he was about to say something sharp in return, but his imprecation was cut short when the king cleared his throat. Remembering their instructions, the three men lined up against the wall, Malden trying to ape the posture of the two knights.
    “One last order of business,” the king said, “and then we can move on. Who’s she?”
    The king had turned and pointed at Cythera.
    “Your majesty,” Cythera said, and made a proper curtsey. “I am Cythera, daughter of Coruth. With Croy and Malden I brought Balint to you so that—”
    The king waved one hand in dismissal. “You should have stopped at ‘daughter of Coruth.’ So you’re a witch?”
    “Not exactly.”
    The king gripped the bridge of his nose. “Can you do anything . . . witchlike?”
    Cythera blushed. Then she put her hands in front of her, a few inches apart. Bright sparks burst between them.
    The king nodded eagerly. “Good, good—keep doing that! It’s almost impressive. Now, you four—your job in the next few minutes is to stand there, looking menacing. That is all. I don’t want you to speak. I don’t want you to move at all. Just look dangerous. Can you do that?”
    “Certainly, Majesty,” Croy said. “But for what purpose?”
    “I have a guest I need to entertain.” It was the only explanation the king would give. He hurried to the door again and nodded to someone outside. “Send her in now. I haven’t got all day.” Then he hurried back inside and took a seat in one of the room’s chairs.
    A herald in bright green livery strode into the room and made an elaborate flourishing bow. “Your majesty,” he announced, “I must present the lady Mörgain, princess of the eastern steppes!”
    The woman who came through the door wore very little other than a cloak of wolf fur. She stood taller than anyone in the room and was broader through the shoulders than anyone but Croy or Hew. Her face was painted to look as if the flesh had been stripped from her skull, and her hair was hacked short and stuck out in wild bunches. If she was the daughter of Mörg the Wise, then that made her the sister of Mörget, whom Croy had once called brother. Mörget was dead now, a fact that made him secretly breathe easier—he had no desire to test his prowess in a fight against Mörget. But by the look of her, Mörgain would be nearly as deadly.
    In her hand she held an iron axe, and she brought it around in a powerful swing that struck the herald in the small of the back. The small man went flying and crashed against the side of the hearth.
    “No man calls me princess,” Mörgain said.

Chapter Thirteen
    I nstantly Ghostcutter came to Croy’s hand. Beside him, he saw Chillbrand appear in Sir Hew’s grip. Croy glanced over at Malden and nodded at the thief’s belt. Malden made a rather clumsy draw of it, but he got Acidtongue into the air.
    Cythera drew her hands apart, and light jumped between her fingers.
    Yet even before Croy could take a step toward the barbarian, Mörgain had drawn her own sword and dropped into a defensive crouch.