Thren chuckled. This was good. If he could get the man to feel a sense of kinship, things might go more smoothly.
“Maybe so, but even I wouldn’t assault a man with a spear wielding only a butter knife.”
“You know you would, Thren, if the price was right. You’d cut the man three times before he knew where you were, too.”
The flattery didn’t get him what he’d hoped. Thren waved a dismissive hand and set down his drink.
“Enough. The night is late, and you didn’t come here to banter, nor to make introductions. This is about that Watcher madman, isn’t it?”
“I must admit, I am curious as to your thoughts on the deal.”
“Deal? Deal? This is no deal. This is enslavement. This is the king severing our testicles and selling them to the Trifect. Do you know how this world works, Deathmask? The strong take what the weak cannot hold, and that is the proper order of things. The foolish and the naïve try to prop up the weak, to protect them with strength that is not their own. Babes, all of them, nothing but babes forever suckling their mother’s milk.”
“We would still make plenty of coin,” Deathmask said. “And we have accepted protection money before. Is that not a way of the weak voluntarily giving up what they have to the strong?”
“Never on this scale before,” Thren insisted. “They don’t just protect their own, but the entire city. What insanity led to this? I have watched them bleed before me. Entire nations could live and die on the wealth I have taken from the Trifect’s safes. Yet now they throw gold at me in a pitiful attempt to barter safety and peace of mind. At least Alyssa was willing to fight back, though even that moment of pride lasted only two nights before cowardice returned, no doubt replaced by this deal from the king.”
Deathmask saw an open bottle on a small stand, and he walked over and poured himself a drink. He sniffed it once, and was pleased by the scent of strawberries. Thren didn’t object, so he took a drink and set it aside.
“This is how I see it,” he said. “It’s been what, ten years? A man can only fight for so long, even the greatest of us. We need a break. We need a return to some shred of normality.”
“Says the man wearing a mask.”
Deathmask laughed. “Relative normality, then.”
He watched Thren carefully, though he knew it was pointless. The man could guard his emotions better than anyone, probably better than even him with his mask on. Thren was watching him as well, gauging his reactions, staring into his eyes as if he could divine the true purpose of his visit.
“This Watcher…” Deathmask said. “He claims he’ll kill everyone who refuses. Do you think he’ll succeed?”
“You and I are alive,” said Thren. “It seems to me he is doing a poor job. And it doesn’t matter. He could kill everyone, but he won’t kill me, and as long as I survive, the Trifect will never have a moment of peace.”
Deathmask tapped his forehead with a finger.
“As long as you are alive … that’s the clincher right there, Thren. Don’t tense up, I’m not here to kill you. That wasn’t a threat, just a statement. This war is yours, solely yours, and it is yours to end as you see fit. But you won’t have the ending you’re hoping for. The Trifect is too big. Yes, you’ve hurt it, killed many, and taken away their coin. But has it mattered? If an opponent is not allowed to surrender, they’ll keep fighting and fighting. Give them the option of defeat. That’s what this deal is, if you look at it from their perspective. They admit they cannot defeat you, cannot protect themselves from you. So they make it worth your while to instead do the protecting for them. It’s a bribe, nothing more, nothing less, and in a city where this is hardly an unusual circumstance.”
Thren looked tired of the debate, and Deathmask knew he was treading on thin ice. He’d lied, at least partially, when he said he hadn’t come there to kill Thren. Could Thren have read him correctly, despite his best attempts at subterfuge? More than anything he wanted a victory here without bloodshed. Other thief leaders could come and go, but if Thren died the Trifect might decide it didn’t need protection after all. Thren’s power had shrunk considerably over the past few years, but his reputation had not.
“Aren’t you tired of this?” he asked, letting his voice soften. “Every man and woman in this city has lost someone these past ten years. Despite the rumors, I know you are human, and lost as much as any.”
For a moment, so quick Deathmask thought he might have imagined it, Thren allowed himself to look exhausted, look torn with despair.
“It’s for that loss I continue,” he said. “Why else would I go on? To accept anything less than total victory would be an insult, not just to myself, but my wife, my…”
He seemed to return to his senses, and he glared at Deathmask as if he were the reason for the sudden weakness.
“I will not agree,” he said. “And if that is your sole purpose here, get out now.”
Deathmask chuckled. The slightest misstep might cost him his life. But this was it. This was the heart of everything.
“That Watcher, I hear he is good, almost impossibly good. I also hear he fights like you. Did you know that? As if he might be your own son, but we both know that couldn’t be. He died in a fire, of course. I’m sure you saw his body…”
He looked to Thren, letting the guildmaster know there was far more he wasn’t telling. No lie. No bluff. Thren opened his mouth, then closed it. Those blue eyes barely moved. What firestorm of thought rages behind them? Deathmask wondered. Taking a deep breath, he tried his wildest gambit.
“If he succeeds, the Watcher will be a legend. He’ll have beaten both the Trifect and the thief guilds, all in a single night. He’ll have ended ten years of conflict with a stroke of his swords. The entire city will fear him, for he will be the King’s Watcher, enforcer of the truce. The night won’t belong to us anymore. It’ll belong to him.”
He swallowed. Now or never. Take the risk.
“He’ll have surpassed even you, Thren. How amazing must that man be?”
Thren looked like a heavy burden had settled upon him. His muscular frame wasn’t quite so strong anymore. The terrible will that had ruled him weakened, and a million questions died unspoken on his lips. For perhaps the first time ever, Thren Felhorn looked uncertain.
“Did he send you here?” he finally asked. Deathmask nodded. “So be it. Give him his chance. My guild will accept the terms, so long as the Watcher lives. This city is a cruel one, and even now it might have claimed him.”
“I doubt it,” Deathmask said, his heart pounding in his chest. “Given who he is and who made him. Come the morning we’ll count the bodies, and we’ll see what remains of those in power. I have a feeling, though, that tonight is when it all ends.”
“Leave my home,” Thren said. “And never speak a word of this to anyone, or I will kill you.”
Deathmask bowed low.
“As you wish,” he said, glad the mask could hide his enormous smile. More relieved than he’d ever been in his life, he exited the room, wove unguided through the halls, and emerged from the mansion, alive and victorious.
CHAPTER 31
Because of the breastplates the guards wore, Senke led the way, his flanged maces able to punch through if swung hard enough. Haern followed, watching behind them as much as ahead. The entire mansion was in chaos. Servants fled every which way, and several times he heard them cry out the names of thief guilds. His lips curled into a vile grin every time. No thief guild, not this time. They were worse than any guild. They’d come, live or die, to complete their mission, though so far it was only the guards who were doing the dying.
“Where might Leon be hiding?” Haern asked as he yanked his saber free from the armpit of a dead mercenary.
“Holed up in his bedroom?” Senke suggested. “He’s not the most mobile of men.”
“And where would that be?”
Senke gestured ahead, and then behind them.
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
> The cries of “Intruder” followed them as they rushed along. They shoved servants aside if they got in the way, but most were smart enough to cower or turn and run.
“Bottom floor,” Haern said as they passed a set of stairs. “I can’t imagine him climbing those every night.”
Senke opened another door, then slammed it immediately shut, and on the other side arrows sank into the wood with heavy thunks.
“I think we’re getting somewhere,” Senke said, and he grinned.
They backtracked, weaving through the corridors so they might curl around their ambushers. Sure enough, they found them at the intersection of another hallway, kneeling behind small overturned tables that had once housed vases of immeasurable wealth. All three held crossbows and wore boiled leather armor. Senke crashed into two, Haern the third. Making quick work of them, they turned left and continued along.
“It should be harder than this,” insisted Senke, needing to shout to be heard over the commotion.
“Don’t say it, or it might come true.”
In the next hallway they met six mercenaries, all wielding short swords and small circular shields of wood latched together with iron. Senke laughed and rushed the six with wild glee, as if he could see Haern’s glare behind him. Despite his exhaustion, Haern couldn’t help but feel energized, and he raced to Senke’s side so they might crash into the mercenaries in a single brutal collision. Every turn might house more men ready to kill them. Every door might hide archers ready to shoot barbs into their throats. And neither could care less.
The shields proved difficult, mostly because Haern had little experience dealing with them. A shield was hardly standard issue for the men who stalked the night. He kicked and stabbed as he and Senke slammed into the mercenaries, cutting the tendons of one guard’s arm and tripping another. Before Haern could finish this one off, another was there, and his saber slapped harmlessly against the wood of his shield, not even drawing a splinter from the finely polished surface. The soldier thrust for his midsection, but Haern parried it aside with his left hand, leaped closer to the wall, and then kicked off it to give his maneuver speed. His saber crashed into the guard’s neck, punching through the leather armor and into flesh.
Swords stabbed for where he should have been, but he dropped to the ground and rolled. Senke, as if in some mental link with him, saw and jumped over him, blocking blow after blow with his maces. Haern leaped to his feet, slamming his left shoulder against the wall to painfully kill the rest of his momentum. Only one guard remained within reach, and Haern desperately shoved one of his sabers in the way. The guard’s short sword deflected the saber and stabbed the wall, close enough that Haern could see his reflection in the blade. And then his sabers were thrusting in, and the shield could not block all his attacks.
Senke took down the last mercenary, hammering his shield with his maces until the guard made a mistake, not surprising given how the rest of his fellows had fallen and panic was surely crawling through his veins. His sword slashed, but he over-extended, and Senke broke his elbow with an upward swipe of his mace. A kick to his neck blasted him against the wall, and he slid to the ground unconscious.
“You hurt?” Senke asked. Haern shook his head. “Good. One of those sons of bitches cut my leg. Delysia’s going to be pissed at me.”
Deeper and deeper in they went, until at last they found Leon’s bedroom. It was empty.
“Slap me silly,” said Senke, looking around. “Where could that giant tub of lard have gone off to?”
He took a step forward, not seeing the thin string laced across the door. Haern did, and he pulled Senke back by his cloak just before the entire room erupted in flame. The fire swirled about in a momentary funnel before fading away, leaving nothing but ashes inside, the rest of the house safely intact.
“A trap?” Senke asked, his eyes wide. “A fucking magical trap?”
“You’re welcome,” Haern said. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, wishing he could just order away the headache pounding in his forehead.
“Damn traps. Where to now? He might have left, Haern, and then what the fuck do we do?”
“Stay calm,” Haern said, eyes still closed. “He slept here until an alarm sounded because of your wizard friend, and so he gets up, activates the trap. He’s in a hurry, but not moving fast. The rest of his guards are ushering him along. Where do you go? Where is safe, close, and defensible?”
“You take him where no one could have gotten to yet, where there couldn’t possibly be an ambush waiting. You take him to the mercenaries’ quarters.”
Haern opened his eyes and shot his mentor a wink.
“Good a guess as any. In the back, and away from the other quarters. He wouldn’t want their low-class manners upsetting any of his privileged guests.”
“You going to make it, Haern?”
“Worry about yourself.”
They rushed along, and this time Haern pushed himself to the front. Despite the help, this was still his task, his responsibility. If anyone should be walking into traps, it should be him. But there was only one trap left, and they sprung it together. Finding a long corridor leading to a thick set of double doors, they rushed into it only to have doors behind them fly open. Out rushed mercenaries, five in all.
“Leave them to me,” Senke cried. “Go after Leon, now!”
Haern accepted the order without delay. He rushed toward those double doors, and when he reached them he leaped feetfirst, wanting to go crashing in with a frightening display of skill and strength.
His foot slammed into the door, followed by the rest of him, and then he dropped to the ground. His whole body aching, he realized the doors opened outward only. Feeling far more humble, he grabbed a handle and pulled. Instead of making a vicious display of skill and strength, he walked inside a hurt, calm, exhausted man.
“You,” said Leon from the far side of the room. Rows of bunks were built into either side. Four personal guards stood before him, forming a human wall of protection.
“Me,” Haern said, bowing low.
“Who is paying you for this?” Leon asked. Sweat dripped down his thick neck, and blotches covered his face. To Haern he looked like a pig that had been overfed and then stuffed into fine clothing. “Thren? Alyssa? Maybe the king? Tell me, what did they offer you?”
Haern laughed. He couldn’t help it. Would Leon even believe the truth? Could a man in his position understand there were things beyond wealth and influence? Could he understand a desire for atonement, for a single moment of rest and relief from a life devoted to slaughter and revenge? Or would he just see a madman? Would he hear only nonsense and lies?
“I do it because I want to,” he said, figuring that if there was anything Leon might understand, it would be that. “And you have the ability to make me not want to. Last chance, Leon. Accept the terms, or accept my blades.”
“Neither. You’re just a rabid dog, and my men will put you down.”
Two of the guards pulled out crossbows. In a single smooth motion Haern unclasped the cloaks from his neck and spun them into the air, just before the guards pressed the triggers. Twisting behind the cover, he made himself as small a target as possible. The arrows punched holes through the cloaks and sailed on, neither hitting flesh. As the cloaks fell, Haern rushed the mercenaries, his sabers feeling light as air in his hands, just extensions of his body, keen edges of his will. This was it. This was the last. His night was done. The men would die, Leon would die, and he would have his truce.
The two abandoned their crossbows and drew swords, falling behind the others, who pushed ahead. There was only enough space for two to stand side by side, and that only barely. Haern used his greater mobility to his advantage, weaving like a snake preparing to strike. He smacked down every thrust and then struck with the other saber, cutting thin slashes across their faces and necks. Each hit made them angrier, until at last they tried rushing as one.
Haern wrapped an arm around the post of a bunk, whirling acr
oss the mattress and to the other side. A whirlwind of steel, he cut down two mercenaries from behind, then turned on the other two, who were unprepared for the sudden assault. A third fell before lifting his sword into position, and one versus one, the last stood no chance. He was only a sellsword, and had maybe killed a handful of men in his lifetime. Haern had killed twenty just breaking into Leon’s mansion.
When Leon realized he was alone, he fell to his knees and pleaded in his high-pitched voice.
“Please, you’re a reasonable man. You can listen, yes? I’ll pay you, double, triple whatever you were offered. That deal of yours, that’s it, right? I’ll accept, of course, anything you want!”
Haern approached him, his sabers dripping blood.
“You’re lying,” he said. “I see it in your eyes, your lips, your trembling hands. Besides, I’m just a rabid dog.”
He cut Leon’s throat, and he watched the life leave the fat man’s eyes as the door behind him opened.
“He dead?” he heard Senke ask.
Haern turned. He wanted to smile, but he felt exhausted, and he knew getting out of the mansion might not be any easier than entering. Senke stood in the doorway, and he seemed happy enough, but something was wrong. Something was moving…
And then the sword pierced the front of Senke’s chest. The man arched back, his eyes wide. His limbs trembled, and blood dribbled from his lips. As his body collapsed, slipping free of the blade, Haern was too stunned to even scream. Behind him, now occupying the doorway, stood Ghost, the white paint on his face speckled with red. His grin was as wide as Senke’s had been.
“I found you,” he said, his deep voice rumbling in the confined room.
“Why?” Haern asked. It was the only question he seemed able to think. “Why? Why now?”
“Because I have a reputation to keep, Watcher. I’ve been paid to kill you, and so you’ll have to die. It’s the way things work.”
He lifted his swords into position, and slowly, as if in a dream, Haern did the same. In the back of his mind he felt anger building and building, like it belonged to someone else yet would soon be given to him whether he wanted it or not.
A Dance of Blades Page 33
