And yet . . . what sweet justice it would be, wouldn’t it? It was almost maddening, it was so appealing. For a common thief, the son of a whore, to wear even for a moment the coronet of temporal power.

Malden began to raise it toward his head.

The thing was magic. Who knew what powers it might have? Maybe it would grant him wishes. Maybe it would turn him instantly into a man of estate, of power. Such things were told of in stories, sometimes, such things were . . .

. . . were . . .

. . . too good to be true.

Malden lowered the crown again. He didn’t let it go. No, that would be too much to bear. But he forced down the urge to put it on.

He had a horrible presentiment—a certain hunch—that if he put the crown on his head, he would never willingly take it off again. And that would have presented more problems than it was likely to solve.

He felt the thing pulse in his hands, a little jolt of anger. He had thwarted its design and it wasn’t happy. Malden had to fight with himself to contain his natural impulse, which was to do anything, anything at all, to make the crown happy again.

If you will not wear me, then carry me to the castellan. He will see to my safety.

“Be still!” Malden said, though he felt like a field mouse issuing orders to a lion. The strength in that voice, the resolute, firm quality of it, was hard to resist. “I’ll do no such thing. I’m leaving now, and you shall accompany me.”

Find the castellan.

“He would have me slain on the spot.” Malden shook his head. He could feel the disdain radiating from the crown. It cared not a jot for his life or well-being. It only wanted its orders carried out. As far as the crown was concerned, he deserved whatever he got. Was he not, after all, a thief? And were not thieves hanged in this city?

An upright citizen, a more honest man, would never have disobeyed. Any such would have marched to their doom, just for the honor of serving the crown—or been seduced into putting it on, whatever horrors that might entail. Whatever intellect might inhabit it, it remained a symbol of ordained power, a representative of an iron-bound class system where every man knew his place. Even in the Free City of Ness men were born into a system of rank and from childhood had one lesson drummed into them: know your betters, and respect their wishes to the letter. Those who disobeyed faced beatings and upbraidings. Those who went along were left alone. Though the free citizens were proud people, they were not unlike the bondsmen outside the city walls in this regard—they knew better than to challenge power.