Cutbill made another entry. “It is to be placed in the thief’s mouth. After his tongue has been cut out to make room. Then his throat is slit. Normally, Bellard does the honors, but he isn’t . . . available today. Would you be so kind as to perform the necessary operations yourself, with that rather silly dagger you carry?”

Malden couldn’t breathe. He tried to speak but no words would come. Unable to bear his own weight, he sat down on the edge of Cutbill’s desk.

“In your own time, of course,” Cutbill said without looking up.

Malden drew his bodkin and held it before him.

He could—he could kill Cutbill, now. He could strike the guildmaster down. There was no one in the common room to come to Cutbill’s defense. He could kill the man, and then run—and run—and—

And yet, he didn’t do it. Cutbill must have considered the possibility when he ordered him to self-slaughter. There must be good reason for Cutbill not to fear his blow. Perhaps . . . perhaps Cutbill had some defense that was not immediately apparent. A charm against blades. A spell up his sleeves. Or a cunningly hidden archer, ready to pierce him through with an arrow at the first sign of violence.

Yes, that was exactly the sort of thing Cutbill would have.

Malden lowered his weapon.

“You,” Cutbill said, “have achieved something Vry could never do. You have single-handedly destroyed my organization. All by making one phenomenally poor choice. You chose not to tell me what you were going to steal.”

“I—I didn’t wish to implicate you, or the guild,” Malden protested. “Already that has paid dividends—the shewstone found no lies in your heart. And now Vry has no proof I was working on your behest.”

“Proof? Proof is for the rich. When a man of property must be taken to court, and tried by his peers, then proof is required.” Cutbill glanced up at Malden for the first time. “When the bailiff comes for me the next time, there will be no trial. He will have my name because he will torture enough people until one of them names me merely to make the pain stop. And then he will do as he promised.”

“He only has seven days, though. He won’t be able to find the crown in that time.”

“Everyone knows that perfectly well. That will not stop Vry from destroying me.”

“I know where it is,” Malden said. “Right now. Or at least, who has it.”

“That would be useful information. Too bad a dead man can’t provide it.”

“But you could simply tell Vry where it is, and—”