“They know the score,” Tyron said. He wasn’t laughing now. “If you leave here without my arm around your shoulders, they’ll know something’s gone wrong. They’ll stop you before you reach the street.”

“That,” Croy managed to growl, “will be of little comfort to you, as you’ll be dead back here before I open the door.”

“All right. All right. Take your ease,” Tyron pleaded. “Tell me what you want of me, and I’ll do it. I swear. Just take that cutter away from my throat.”

A service. The man would perform a service, in exchange for his life. It was like the old stories. Like the tales of demons bound to grant wishes. But what did he wish for at this moment? What could possibly help him? He was lost in the Smoke, away from all friends and aid. Away from anyone who could ensure his safety. Nor could he count on his friends anymore. The rich friend who he had been staying with—the fellow who was kind enough to loan his horse—would surely turn his back on him now. Before, Croy had been a figure of fascination, a symbol of the man’s generosity. Now he was a wanted criminal. No, even if his friend would take him in, Croy knew he would be doing him a great disservice by going back there. He thought of Murd-lin, the dwarf envoy. Murdlin had saved him from the gallows once. But he’d also said their account was square, that he had repaid Croy in full. Dwarves never forgot a debt—but they never gave anything on credit either.

Perhaps, though—perhaps he could call not on a friend but on an acquaintance. Someone with whom he shared the slenderest of links, but a link nonetheless. There was one man in the Stink, one man who cared for Cythera, just as he did. One thief. Tyron might even know him—or at least how to reach him.

“You like silver, don’t you? Don’t you?” Croy demanded.

“Oh, aye, and who doesn’t?” Tyron wheedled.

“Do me a service, and earn it, then. I have a message to send. And I think you might know how to deliver it.”

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Six

“It’s just as I said, ha ha,” Tyron told them. “Look, he’s weak as a kitten. Three against one, those are fine odds. We cut his throat while he’s sleeping, that makes even better sense. Then we take his silver and dump the body in the Skrait, yes? It’ll be out in the ocean to be nibbled by the fishes before anyone even knows he’s gone.”

Malden shot a glance sideways at Kemper. The intangible sharper kept his face as still as stone, no doubt thinking exactly what he was thinking.

“Keep your voice down,” Malden whispered. “If he wakes it’ll take more than us to put him to sleep again.”