Croy clapped Malden on the back. “He had a royal pardon. The Burgrave had to respect that. Nor would he evict Gurrh if he could. My friend here does a great service to the city, by keeping the pipe clean and making sure the Skrait flows unchecked into the city. Should any spy or sapper try to come in through the pipe, Gurrh would be here to stop them. He keeps to himself down here in the swamp, living on the wildlife, and shuns human society. Every month or so an envoy is sent down from the palace to check up on him and make sure he has what he needs.”

“It must . . .” Malden rethought his words. He had been about to say that it must be difficult, being hated and feared by the people you guarded. He didn’t know, however, if the ogre was aware that children told stories of the monster in the pipe and dared each other to see how close they could get before running away. If the ogre didn’t know about his own legend already, it would be cruel to enlighten him. “It must be very lonely down here,” he said instead.

The ogre shrugged. “I hath the birds to singeth me lullabies, and the trees to whisper their orisons o’er me at night.”

Ah, Malden thought. So he has gone mad with the solitude.

“Tell me,” Croy said to the thief, “would Gurrh be a useful addition to your crew?”

Malden thought it over. Ogres were notoriously difficult to slay, at least according to the stories. They could shrug off the blows of iron weapons, and only steel had proven capable of piercing their thick hides back in the old days—back when steel was rare as gold was now, before the dwarves started selling it to anyone with enough coin. And Malden had to admit that even Bikker would flinch when facing a rampaging ogre coming toward him with claws a-snatching and teeth a-gnashing.

He looked at Croy and nodded shrewdly.

“Gurrh,” Croy said, “the Burgrave has need of you once again.”

“Hath he? Certes, an’ that pleaseth me, Croy. I serve at his pleasure,” Gurrh said, and made a deep bow.

Malden frowned. “You don’t want to hear what we’re paying?” he asked.

“Thou speak of gold? When milord hath need of me? My arm’s his, for the asking, and always shall be. Service hath its own reward.”

Definitely crazy, Malden thought. But perhaps—usefully so.

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Sixty-Nine