“I merely took advantage of an opportunity,” he whispered so only she could hear. She glared at Deathmask, suddenly wondering how many of his promises had been lies. Perhaps all of them. He’d set her up, she realized. She’d wasted time debating and discussing with Zusa when she should have killed the masked bastard. All attempts on his life had been made in secret, with every man involved dying as a result. No one could prove Garrick’s attempts. Once more, his word against hers. Damn it all!
“As you know,” Garrick said, raising his voice to a theatrical level as he turned his back to her, “our laws are clear for such an attempt. We cannot have anarchy within our ranks, not in this crucial time while we fight for our very survival.” He spun. “You will be made an example, Veliana, one for the entire guild to see.”
“Guildmaster, if I may make a request,” said Deathmask. Garrick seemed worried, but gestured for him to continue. “Since it was my life she tried to take, I ask that I be the one to carry out her punishment.”
“You fuck,” she said, her hands clenched tight into fists. “You sick little fuck.”
She feinted a lunge at Garrick and then hurled herself at Deathmask. She was unarmed, but Zusa had taught her a multitude of ways to kill with her bare hands. If she could strike him just right, crush his throat or snap his neck, then at least she’d die taking revenge. Her fist slammed into his mouth, just in case he attempted to cast a spell. With her other fist she doubled him over with a blow to the stomach. She heard men shouting, but she stepped closer and wrapped her arms around his neck. Just a single hard twist and then…
Something hard smacked the back of her head. Her stomach heaved, and her whole body went limp. Deathmask pulled free, and he shouted for the others to leave her be.
“She is mine,” he said. “Guildmaster, I ask, is your punishment for this madwoman execution?”
“It is,” said Garrick. He seemed amused by her display.
Her helpless rage grew. The men let her go, but it took all her strength to stand. Already a knot was growing on the back of her head. She felt ready to vomit. Deathmask closed the distance, and her wild punch missed. He grabbed her by the throat and flung her against a wall. A dagger flashed from his belt and pressed against her neck.
“Do you trust me?” he whispered into her ear. His grip tightened around her throat. Her eyes met his, and against all her instincts, something in those brown orbs gave her hope. She nodded, a barely perceptible movement because of how tightly he held her against the wall.
“Then stay perfectly still.”
He muttered a few more words, soft whispers hidden by his grin. At last he pulled back his dagger and stabbed her chest, in and out with such speed her blood was flowing before she ever felt the pain. Black dots cluttered her vision as he held her still.
“Sleep in darkness,” she heard him say as the Ash Guild hooted and hollered. No doubt Garrick was one of those cheering. She tried to curse his name as she died, but her whole body was turning rigid, refusing to cooperate, refusing to struggle, refusing to breathe…
And then the darkness came, and she could only obey Deathmask’s request.
Oric waited until midafternoon before heading out. He traveled south along the main road, ignoring the peddlers and the beggars. He veered off when appropriate, making his way to the mercenary guild. While it had once been a weak entity, the years of battle and constant work had filled its coffers, drastically improving its recruitment and influence. Anyone wanting to be a sellsword had to go through it. There were some advantages to the system, such as guaranteed minimums in rates, and insurance should some of the higher-ranked members fail to fulfill their duties. Mostly Oric thought it a grand scheme to jack up the cost of hiring mercenaries, but what did he know?
The building itself was still small, little more than a large cube to house records and provide the wealthy with a place to visit that was close enough to the main road that they might not be afraid. Oric entered, crossing his fingers as he looked about the office hoping to see an old friend. Sure enough, there he was, white bushy unibrow and all.
“Oric?” asked the old man as he came from a back room to the front at the sound of a bell ringing above the door. “Come closer, my eyes aren’t what they … so it is you! Good to see you, you ugly son of a bitch.”
Oric grinned. “Was worried you’d died off, or been replaced by someone who can still remember what happened more than an hour ago.”
The old man laughed. His name was Bill Trett, and in Oric’s former sellsword life he had been a respected colleague. Bill had killed until his strength failed him, but by then he’d acquired such a wealth of knowledge of his various employers that the guild taught him his numbers and set him in charge of its transactions.
“You see this mess?” he asked, pointing to the various shelves stocked with expensive paper. “Only I know where everything’s at. They’ll keep me on until I die, and perhaps a little bit longer than that if they can figure out a way.”
“Gods know they need you,” Oric said. “The Trifect still filling your purses?”
Bill waved a dismissive hand. “The money’s steadied, nearly every one of them just wanting the bare minimum. Not like when this mess first started, when I saw more gold change hands than I could count. Blood really filled the streets then, didn’t it?”
Oric smiled, remembering the many thieves he’d cut down while in Leon Connington’s pay. It’d been a very good year.
“I think Alyssa’s going to give everyone some work later today, so be prepared,” Oric said. Bill raised his eyebrows but didn’t inquire further. “But for myself, I need a favor, Bill.”
“What’s that? Not that I should be doing you any favors. Last I remember, I saved your life up in Felwood, not the other way around.”
“If not for favor, then for gold,” he said, dropping a bulging coin purse atop the desk. “I need the best you have to hire, and I don’t mean who the guild thinks is the best through their stupid rankings. You know every sellsword from here to Angelport, and I want your real opinion. I need someone who could find a mouse in a forest before an owl could; that damn good.”
Bill rubbed his chin as his milky eyes stared off into nowhere.
“I suppose you don’t mind if he’s a bit unsavory?”
“He can be the ugliest, meanest bastard you know. Prefer it, even. We’d get along.”
Bill laughed, but it was lacking in humor.
“I know of one, and he’s good, Oric. He’s all the way over from southern Ker, though some say he ain’t even from Dezrel. Out of the nine jobs he’s done for me, he’s never once failed to catch his prey, and always done it with days to spare. Been tough getting work lately, though. Charges twice what anyone else does.”
“What’s his name?”
“He calls himself Ghost. I’m not brave enough to tell him to pick something more original. Besides, with this guy, it’s fitting once you see his face.”
Oric crossed his arms. “What’s that mean?”
“No point in me telling you. You’ll find out for yourself. He’s costly, he’s dangerous, but he’s the best. You still want to meet him?”
Oric thought of the six men he and Arthur had lost when this lone Watcher had ambushed them along the northern road. He also thought of how Alyssa might execute him if she found out his and Arthur’s role in her son’s death.
“Yeah. I need the best. Where can I find this … Ghost?”
“Know where the Mug and Feather is? No? Lousy tavern built to the far south, just off the main road. Head there a few hours from now. The barkeep’s a cheat, but he’ll point Ghost out for you … though I’m thinking you won’t need him to.”
Bill opened the purse and dumped the coins across his desk. After he counted them up he nodded.
“You’ve got a few extra in here.”
“Keep them,” Oric said, heading for the exit. “Consider it a gift to an old friend for keeping things quiet.”
“Understood. S
afe travels, Oric.”
Though Bill had told him to wait, Oric had no such plans. He wanted to be there when this Ghost showed up for a drink. Besides, if he had enough time he might glean some information from the regulars there. Just after midday anyone in there would certainly be a frequent drinker.
Finding the tavern was easy enough, given the sign hanging above the door: a poorly drawn mug and an even uglier feather. Owner had probably been cheap enough to draw it himself. Inside stank of vomit and alcohol, and the lighting was abysmal. In one corner was a fire pit, no doubt the only source of both heat and light at night. Among the various tables he saw a few stragglers, most eating. They glanced back at him as he entered and squinted to see in the dark. None stood out, at least not as dangerous assassins.
The barkeep was a thin man with a blond beard that reached to the bottom of his neck. He nodded at Oric and then waited for him to take a seat before coming over.
“Whatever’s cheapest,” Oric muttered, tossing him several coppers. When the barkeep came back with a third of his mug froth, Oric rolled his eyes. A cheat indeed. Deciding he needed information more than he needed to administer a good beatdown, he let it slide.
“Need anything to eat?” the barkeep asked.
“What’s warm?”
“Haven’t started the soup yet. Got a bit of bread, though, and butter if you’re willing to pay.”
“That’ll do.”
He kept his eyes to himself as he waited for his food. Just in case Ghost was already there, he didn’t want to make it seem like he was looking. When they met, he wanted to have the upper hand, just in case this Ghost tried to haggle for more pay, which he might, given the target. When his bread arrived he smothered it with butter and ate. When he caught the barkeep watching, he pulled out a silver.
“Keep the rest,” he said. “Care to answer me a question?”
The barkeep held the silver piece close to his eyes as he inspected it, frowned, and then put it away.
“Of course,” he said. “Not so busy I can’t stay away from the bar long enough to talk with a customer.”
Oric chuckled, then lowered his voice.
“I’m looking for a man who calls himself Ghost.”
The barkeep wiped his hands on his pants and laughed. “Not too many go looking for him. Usually he’s got to go to those making offers no one else is dumb enough to accept. What business you have with that dark-skinned monster?”
An actual dark-skin from Ker? thought Oric. Interesting.
“No business of yours,” he said. “Now fill the rest of my mug, and with ale, not foam, got it?”
The barkeep glared but obeyed. Oric washed the rest of the bread and butter down, then glanced around once more. No dark-skin in the tavern. Shit, he wasn’t even sure if he’d seen a dark-skin in all of Veldaren. The people down south in Omn, particularly along the coast, were known for their darker skin, but it looked more like a deep tan. Those from Ker were claimed to have skin as black as obsidian. No wonder the guy had trouble getting work. Settling in for a wait, Oric moved from his table to the one farthest from the door. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. He didn’t actually sleep, but let it look like he did. If anyone was dumb enough to try to rob him, well, they’d get a nice surprise.
As the sun moved across the sky, with dusk steadily approaching, more men filtered into the tavern. Oric thought it might be one of the very few taverns left in southern Veldaren since King Vaelor’s edict banned all caravans from entering the southern entrance, forcing them to enter through the east instead. All the merchants, and their wealth, had shifted farther and farther north. The men who entered looked tired and haggard, and he guessed many of them worked the nearby fields outside the city walls. The ale was terrible, same as the prices, but they were probably far closer to home and among friends.
“You’re in our seat,” he heard someone say. He opened his eyes to see three men, their tanned skin covered with soil. All three of them combined might still be skinnier than he was.
“That’s a damn shame,” Oric said, shifting so they could see the sword sheathed at his side.
“Ain’t no swords allowed in here,” said one of them.
“Like to see him stop me,” Oric said, nodding toward the barkeep.
The men scowled, but armed with only their fists, they dared not challenge him and his blade. They backed down to another table, and as they moved out of his way he finally saw Ghost. He sat alone in the center of the tavern. His skin was indeed darker than Oric had ever seen on a man. His head was shaved, and he wore loose clothing more appropriate for a warmer climate. His enormous strength was obvious, his arms thick as tree trunks. Most shocking, though, was the brilliant white paint he wore across his face.
Oric stood, glared at the men who’d wanted his seat, as if daring them to try, and then approached Ghost.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked.
The man looked up, and he flashed a smile, revealing clean white teeth.
“I have a seat to spare, so take it if you wish.” His voice was deep, intimidating. Oric sat and leaned back in his chair. If not for the white paint, this Ghost might have been handsome. Oric tried to decide why he wore it, yet could not. Was it because of his name? A pathetic attempt to fit in?
“Not much need to ask, but I assume you’re the one called Ghost?”
The mercenary chuckled. “I am.”
“They say you’re good.”
“Who is they? That blind fool running the guild’s coffers? Or the rest of my colleagues? I’d be surprised if any bothered to speak of me except in disdain.”
“It was Bill,” Oric admitted. “And is it true? I’m starting to have my doubts.”
“Is that an attempt to make me boast? No boast. There is none better. Now tell me your name, and your business, otherwise I might decide I prefer to drink alone.”
“Sad man that’d prefer to drink alone.”
Ghost grinned again, and there was something wolfish in his brown eyes.
“Come now, stranger, do you think I am unused to being alone?”
Oric felt put off guard, and he cursed his verbal clumsiness. Arthur would have been so much better at milking information from the man, figuring out who he was, what made him tick.
“Fair enough. My name’s Oric. Who I work for is my own business. I need you for a job, and I’ve already paid Bill for your services.”
Ghost leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. Oric saw two hilts just below his elbows. It seemed Ghost didn’t care much for the barkeep’s no-weapons policy either.
“I can refuse if I wish, so don’t think I am already in your pocket, Oric. Do you wish someone found, killed, or both?”
“Both.”
Again that wolfish smile.
“Excellent. Who?”
“They call him the Watcher.”
Oric was surprised by the sudden burst of laughter. It seemed the rest of the tavern winced at the sound, as if they expected Ghost to explode any second.
“The Watcher?” asked Ghost. “Now that is interesting. I’ve heard a rumor of him here or there, but they make him sound as real as the Reaper. But now you come and ask me to kill him? Do you have anything for me other than a name?”
“I saw him with my own eyes,” Oric said, annoyed. “He wore gray, and kept his face hidden with the hood of his cloak.”
“You describe nearly every beggar in this city.”
“He wielded two swords, one for each hand.”
“I’d be more impressed if he wielded two swords in the same hand.”
“Enough!” Oric slammed his hand against the table. “I won’t be intimidated by a freak like you.”
The entire tavern quieted at his words. Ghost leaned closer to Oric, not angry, just amused, but something lurked in his smile, something dangerous. His voice dropped to a whisper.
“A freak?” he asked. “Why is that? Is it my skin? There are thousands like me in Ker.”
“Only a freak would paint his face to look like a dead whore,” Oric said, still trying to rein in his temper.
“Ah, the paint.” His voice dropped even lower, as if he was about to say something intimate for only Oric to hear. “It itches like ivy, and does not come cheap here. Do you know why I wear it?”
“Because you’re trying to fit in?”
“Fit in?” He laughed loudly, a boisterous eruption that startled the nearest tables. Oric felt himself jump, though he didn’t know why. He’d lost control of the conversation, he knew that much. If he wanted to be in charge of any further negotiations, he needed to get his act together, and fast.
“No, not to fit in,” Ghost continued. “I wear it to stand out. When people see this paint, it only reminds them of why I must wear it. People cannot hide from me, Oric. That is why I am the best. Everyone I talk to feels fear, for they know nothing of who I am, only that I am different. Do you see that farmer over there? I could find out the name of his wife faster than you could introduce yourself. When you ask questions, they’ll evade, they’ll delay, they’ll hope for bribes or favors. When I ask questions, they wish me gone, because I make them afraid without a single threatening word. Fear is stronger than gold. All the wealth in the world cannot make someone conquer their fear, not when it comes to death and blood. They will tell me everything so I’ll let them go back to their safe little existence. Fit in? What an unimaginative man you are.”
“Enough,” Oric said. “Will you accept the job or not?”
Ghost took a drink of his ale and set down the glass.
“Triple what Bill told you,” he said. “I won’t accept a copper less.”
“I could hire fifty men for that price!”
“And all fifty would stomp about unable to find their own assholes. Triple.”
Oric stood, having had enough. “I won’t, you damn mudborn. I refuse. Either accept your standard pay, or nothing at all.”
Ghost drew a sword and slammed it onto the table. Oric jumped, but instead of reaching for his sword, he realized he had turned to run for the door. His cheeks flushed, and he knew Ghost had seen it as well.
A Dance of Blades Page 11
