The watch lined the walls of the room, the points of their halberds almost scraping the ceiling. In the center of the room Cutbill sat at his ledger, quill pen in his hand—just as Malden remembered him from their last meeting.

Standing next to him was Anselm Vry.

Malden recognized the bailiff of the Free City, as would any citizen of Ness. After the Burgrave, Vry was the human face of the city. As bailiff he not only led the watch but also saw to every administrative detail of city life—enforcing the Burgrave’s edicts, seeing that weights and measures were kept scrupulously exact, overseeing the moots of the trade guilds. He was the second most powerful man in the city, and if he were here personally, it could mean only one thing. He knew the crown had been stolen, and he wanted to find it at any cost.

Malden had already seen the price that Bellard had paid.

“Is he one of yours?” Vry asked, staring at Malden.

The question was directed, however, at Cutbill. “One of my thieves? No, of course not,” Cutbill answered. He made a notation in his ledger. “Look at the state of his clothing. My fellows can afford to dress themselves.”

“And this money? This gold?” Vry demanded.

Cutbill did look up then. He glanced at the stacks of gold coins a watchman was placing on his desk. Then he turned his gaze on Malden and lifted one eyebrow. He was sending Malden a message, which was this: be circumspect and do not gainsay me. Malden was wise enough not to acknowledge that he had received the instructions.

Cutbill gestured dismissively with his pen. “The money is mine, yes. This boy is merely here to deliver it. Perhaps before we say anything else, he should be sent on his way.”

Vry studied Malden with concentrated disdain. “Very well. Give him his knife back—he’s no danger to anyone with that pig-cutter.”

“Boy,” Cutbill said, “if you leave by the door to my left, you’ll find yourself well on your way back to the Stink.”

Malden nodded and accepted his bodkin from the watchman holding it. He did not ask why Cutbill was sending him out through the door on the left, when it was the door directly behind Cutbill’s desk that led back to the surface. He pushed back the tapestry that hid the specified door and stepped through. Beyond was a tiny room with no other exits—a closet, really, empty of furnishings or ornament.

It did have one defining feature, however. Just to one side of the door, at the height of a man’s eyes, a very small hole had been drilled through the wall. Someone looking through that hole could see—and hear—anything that happened in Cutbill’s office.