“I’ll get him,” Martin said.
“What’ll it be?” asked Peb. He was quick, and had big ears. They’d called him Mouse for a while, then switched to Pebble after Thren put a stop to it. No thief of his was a mouse. They were Spiders, lurkers, killers—even their smallest carrying dangerous venom.
“Hardest we have,” Thren said. By the time Peb gave him his glass, Murphy had arrived, a small box in hand.
“How bad is it?” Murphy asked.
“Bad enough.”
He downed the glass, then carefully removed his shirt so the stocky man could see. Of them all, Murphy was the only one with a modicum of training in the skills of the apothecary. A gap-toothed man with graying hair, Murphy loved to say he’d first learned to sew up cows, not people, but that the two were often the same. Deep down Thren believed Murphy had learned how to stitch and amputate because he loved causing pain while still getting praised for it. Had he been born of higher blood, he’d have been one of Connington’s gentle touchers for sure.
“What’s going on?” Thren asked as he motioned for Peb to refill the glass.
“Well, you’re bleeding, but it didn’t quite make it to bone.”
“I meant with the city.”
Murphy took out a long needle and some thread from the box. Thren grabbed his glass before Peb was even done pouring.
“I’ve been here all the while,” Murphy said, threading the needle. He nodded to the rest. “Ask them.”
“I have,” Martin said, taking a seat on the other side of Thren. “All we’ve got is a name. Lord Victor Kane. He’s been here hardly twenty-four hours, yet he’s already stirring up trouble.”
“What does he want?” Thren asked as the needle pierced his flesh. He didn’t let the pain show. Not in front of so many. Pain was only a tool, and right now he had no desire for it. As Peb poured his third glass, an ache swelled in Thren’s chest. There was a time when someone might have chopped off his right hand and he’d not have made a sound. Was he growing so weak that he needed the aid of alcohol for just a little cut?
Angry with himself, he pushed the glass away. Martin snapped it up for himself, drank it down, then let out a burp.
“That’s the thing,” Martin said. “We don’t know what he wants. Early this morning, while we were stalking Serpents, Victor’s men were rounding up merchants, lords, landowners… and then out they came again for us. From what I can tell, it’s all been orderly, controlled. No one’s been killed except those who resist. The rest are getting sent to the castle—whether for execution or interrogation, your guess is as good as mine.”
Thren felt the skin of his arm tightening as the needle did its work. He used it to focus, to force things into perspective.
“Edwin’s too much of a coward for this,” he said. “That, and the status quo has served him fine for years. Someone else hatched this plan, and right now, the obvious one is Lord Victor.”
“What about one of the Trifect?” Murphy asked, thread between his teeth.
“Victor might be in their pay,” Martin agreed. “An expensive gambit, but by bringing in this outsider, they pull attention away from themselves and onto him.”
Thren shook his head, then investigated the stitches on his arm. Clean work as always, but not quite done yet.
“Do it,” he told Murphy. The old man grinned, then grabbed the bottle away from Peb. The liquid poured down Thren’s arm. It burned like fire, but he gave no reaction beyond a tightening of his teeth. That done, he pulled his shirt back over his body. Despite his age, it was still pure muscle.
“We can do what we did before,” Martin suggested. “Declare war against them, and rally the rest of the guilds to counter this new threat.”
Thren met his eyes, saw the hopeful lie for what it was.
“We’re too few now,” he said. “Every night we’ve preyed on each other, and our numbers haven’t recovered from the chaos four years ago. Besides… these mercenaries aren’t normal scum with a sword. They’re too good, too well armed.”
Martin sighed, for he knew the same. Thren and Martin were easily the most skilled of all the Spider Guild, yet even they had suffered wounds in taking a squad down. The rest of the guild—clumsy men accustomed to threatening fat merchants for bribes—would stand no chance.
“We can’t let this go unpunished,” Martin said, dropping his voice lower. “The gold the Trifect pays us dwindles every year. It’s not enough to keep everyone together, and I doubt we are alone in this. If every guild breaks, it’ll be anarchy…”
“We will not break!” Thren said. All around him, men quieted, hearing the ice in his voice, the strength of his conviction. He stood from his chair, slammed a fist against the bar. “This is our city—ours. No outsider shall come in, bare swords against us, and expect to live. All of you, cowering here… get out. Now. I want your ears at every wall. I want your eyes on every street. Whatever information you can find, I want to hear it. Where this Victor lives, where he eats, where he sleeps, where he shits—I want to know it all. And if you fear being caught, or arrested, then don’t come back. You aren’t Spiders. You’re worms.”
They filed out, grabbing swords and cloaks on their way. Even Murphy left, though Thren knew he would only go upstairs to wait. Should anyone return wounded, the surgeon must be ready. When Thren sat down, he noticed a single man remained in the far corner, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his beefy chest and his strange hat in his hands. Thren turned on him, thinking a savage killing might do wonders for his mood. Then he better saw the man’s face, and grinned.
“Grayson, you ox,” Thren said. “I’ll never understand how you can hide in a crowd.”
Grayson grinned back. He was an enormous man, dark-skinned, and stood at nearly seven feet tall. The thin clothing he wore did little to conceal the muscles beneath. A four-pointed star made of gold thread was sewn into his shirt. His head was shaved, and he wore nine rings in his left ear, running up and down the cartilage. Where he came from, each ring traditionally represented a kill, yet Thren knew Grayson had been forced to adopt a new standard, with each ring counting for ten, lest his ear fall off.
Grayson joined him at the bar, slapping him once on the back.
“You banished our barkeep,” said the man, his voice deep and rumbling.
“Would you make an injured man pour drinks?”
Grayson laughed. “I’ve never seen you injured, Thren,” he said. “Just sometimes you’re bleeding more than usual.”
Grayson leaned forward, his long arms grabbing bottles and glasses from the wall. Mixing two liquors together, Grayson tasted his drink and then let out a sigh of contentment.
“From all I’ve heard, I thought you’d have little better than donkey piss and water,” he said. “Looks like Veldaren might not be as bad as rumored. Either that, or you’re the richest thief left.”
Thren bit down a retort. Grayson was from the distant city of Mordeina, and was a legendary thief in his own right. In what felt like ages past, the two had worked together, building the Spider Guild into something fearsome. But then, one terrible night, it had all come crashing down…
“The gold still flows here,” Thren said, careful to control his tone. “The protection money from the Trifect alone keeps the liquor flowing.”
“That the lie you tell yourselves so you can sleep at night?”
Grayson took a shot, poured himself another. Thren’s eyes narrowed.
“Things are not the same,” he said. “Between the Bloody Kensgold, Alyssa’s mercenaries, and now the Watcher, I dare say no thief elsewhere has faced such hardships as we have here in Veldaren.”
“Ah yes, the Watcher. I’ve been thinking of hunting him down and seeing how good he really is. You know that word of him has reached all the way to Mordeina?”
“Is that so?” Thren asked, doing his best to sound bored.
“Yes. And you know what’s worse, Thren? That’s not the only thing reaching our ears. The nobl
es are hearing of your little setup, this game you play. It’s giving them ideas, ideas I don’t fucking like. Already they whisper of similar arrangements, of turning our guilds against each other in the name of protection money. Mordeina won’t turn into Veldaren. The priests alone give us enough trouble. I’m a thief, and a killer. I won’t let myself become some noble’s bootlicking bodyguard.”
Thren felt his blood turn to ice.
“Is that what you think I am?” he asked. “Some low-rent bodyguard for the Trifect?”
Grayson grunted. “That’s what I’m here to find out. A lot has changed over the past ten years, and I want to know just how much.” He stood, put a wide-brimmed hat made of leather on his bald head. “I have my own place to stay, so don’t worry about offering me a bed. Not sure how long I’ll be here, but I thought I’d drop in and give you my greetings.”
“What are you really here for?” Thren asked as the big man was about to exit. “If all you wanted was information, you’d have sent an underling, not traveled across Dezrel yourself. You’re here for more than that. What is it?”
Grayson stopped, looked back at him with a dangerous grin on his face.
“What if I don’t feel like answering? Will you make me, Thren?”
Thren swallowed, and his hand drifted down to the hilt of a short sword. Grayson saw this, smirked.
“Careful,” he said. “I have no desire to cross swords with you. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair. After all… you’re injured.”
When he was gone, Thren took his glass and smashed it across the counter. The glass cut his hand, and he stared at the mixing blood and alcohol. His fury grew. Grayson had sensed weakness, and Thren could not refute it. Despite all his best efforts, his guild was weaker than it had ever been. All the guilds were. And if the Suns, or the Stars, or any other guild from Mordeina decided to move in…
Thren shook his head. No, there was no if, only when. Grayson would not have traveled such a distance without good cause. The only question was how the foreign guilds planned to make their attack, and how great their cooperation would be. Their first move, though, Grayson had stated clear as day. The truce between the Trifect and the guilds would have to be broken, and the easiest step to that was obvious: ending the life of the Watcher.
“Good luck, Watcher,” Thren said softly, doing everything to subdue his anger, to think clearly and carefully as he knew he must. Despite his frustration, he felt pride. All the way to Mordeina, Grayson had said. The Watcher’s reputation had spread throughout the four nations, coast to coast.
“Good luck”—he wiped his hand with a cloth—“my son.”
CHAPTER
4
The parade of men in chains seemed endless as Victor stood before the king’s dungeon, a large, ungainly block attached to the side of the castle. They’d even started tying people with rope, having run out of manacles. An excellent day, Victor thought. He doubted it could have started any better.
“Milord,” said Sef, leader of Victor’s guard. He was heavyset, bearded, and had been a battle-worn servant of the Kane household for almost two decades. “Sir Antonil Copernus wishes to speak with you.”
“Send him over,” Victor said.
Sef bowed, hurried away. Moments later Antonil arrived, wearing the regal armor of his position as captain of the guard and protector of His Majesty’s city. His long blond hair peeked out from the lower limits of his helmet. Scars of battle marked his face. A shield hung from his back, and his long sword swung at his hip. The guard captain bowed low, and addressed him with sincere respect.
“Milord Victor, I come at behest of my king,” he said, standing straight. “He thought it best I help oversee your endeavor, as well as ensure my own guards assist you in any way they can.”
Victor grinned at the knight.
“Are you sure about that? I thought our gracious king might fear giving too much assistance, lest he earn the ire of both the guilds and the Trifect.”
Antonil’s smile hardened, and his voice lowered. “Perhaps. In all things, I protect the people of this city. You’d best remember that. Your men may carry weapons, and the king’s blessing, but upon my word they lose both, and join the men they’ve arrested in a cell.”
“All I do, I do for the people of this city, Antonil.”
Antonil nodded, but did not respond. Victor felt his respect growing. The man looked tired, frustrated, but hid it well. An air of authority hovered over him, and whenever he cast his eyes about, even Victor’s own men stood at attention.
“There are so many,” Antonil said, turning to the lines before the dungeon entrance. “We cannot fit them all.”
“We don’t need to,” Victor said. “Follow me, and I will explain.”
Victor led the way. There were five lines, all steadily shuffling forward as Victor’s soldiers brought in their latest catch. Though some wore the cloaks of the guilds, most did not. They were merchants, peasants, prostitutes, even the homeless and the beggars. Antonil took in the sight, and his frown deepened.
“They are not under arrest,” Victor explained. “At least, not most. We are here for answers, Antonil, and to get them we must ask questions. Information is our greatest weapon against the shadows these scum cloak themselves in. It should please you greatly to know we fully abide by the law.”
They stopped at the head of one of the five lines. An older man sat at a desk, a lengthy parchment before him, along with a large inkwell and quill. Before him was a fat merchant on his knees, two soldiers holding him still. His clothes were smeared with mud, and across his right cheek was an angry cut that oozed blood. At their arrival, the merchant glanced their way, and paused.
“Continue,” said the old scribe before him. “Their names, if you know them.”
“I… I don’t.”
“Then their descriptions. And remember, we will talk to them as well.”
The merchant glanced their way. Victor put a hand on his shoulder.
“The law will protect you,” he said. “Speak the truth, and hold faith. It will only be a matter of time. They cannot hide forever.”
Their eyes met, just for a moment, and then the merchant turned to the scribe.
“The bastards’ names are Jok and Kevis, both in the Wolf Guild.”
His voice trailed off as Victor led Antonil away.
“I don’t understand,” Antonil said beside him. “We cannot just arrest anyone in the guilds. Our arrangement forbids it, for it is they who police the streets…”
“It should be you who polices the streets, not them,” Victor said. “And you are no fool, so think. It doesn’t matter if the guilds hold to the agreement, and do not steal. They still extort. They still kill. They demand bribes of merchants, smuggle goods to avoid tariffs, and flood your streets with powders and leaves that addle the minds of your people.”
He gestured to the lines.
“Right now we gather evidence against them. We get names. We list crimes. When we capture them, we steadily move upward. We take everyone we can, then repeat the process. All of it, written and stored forever, unable to be killed or silenced. Time will not save them from their crimes. I will find them. All of them.”
“But why here? Why in the open streets?”
Victor grinned, and gestured to the dungeon behind them.
“If they refuse, or lie, that is where they go. When their eyes wander, they see the fate awaiting them for such transgressions. Besides, let the whole city watch what we do. Let them know I am here, and will not stop. I will never stop, not until this city is a place of lambs instead of leeches.”
Antonil swallowed hard, looked back to the line.
“You release them after you’re done, correct?” he asked.
“The innocent ones, yes.”
“And then they go home, having been seen by all, known by all to have talked. You know what will happen to them, Victor. You’re sentencing them to death!”
Victor whirled on Antonil, leaned in close.
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“If they die, it isn’t by my hand, but the hands of murderers and thieves who should have never been allowed to live as long as they have. I do what must be done to save Veldaren from itself. I am no fool. This is a new kind of war, but blood will still be shed. If your guards do their jobs, those men and women will live. Stop cowering in fear of the dark corners.”
Antonil met his gaze a while longer, refusing to back down. Victor’s respect for him continued to grow. As the silence stretched, a man in a green cloak was led toward the dungeon door, then around to the side. Antonil noticed this, and gestured in that direction.
“Where does he go?” he asked.
“I shall show you.”
Victor led Antonil around the back, to where two elderly men stood before a tall table. To the side was a hastily constructed platform, and in its center was a thick wood block. Seeing it, Antonil clenched his jaw, and his eyes widened.
“Calm yourself,” Victor said. “They are your judges, those appointed by Edwin, not myself. They hear our evidence, read what we have collected, and then offer sentencing.”
While the man with the green cloak was dragged before one of the judges, another climbed the two steps of the platform. His face was ashen, and his eyes remained locked on the floor. By Victor’s guess he was fifteen, sixteen at most. Two of Victor’s soldiers led him to the block, where a heavyset man waited, ax in hand.
“How many?” Antonil asked quietly as the thief was flung atop the block, his arms tied by ropes looped through holes in the platform.
“Seventeen today,” Victor said. “By tomorrow it should be twice that. The list of crimes grows by the hour.”
“Seventeen,” Antonil whispered. “How many executed, and how many sent to the dungeon?”
Victor shook his head. “You still don’t understand, do you? Your judges do. Mercy has been extended long enough here. All seventeen have met your executioner’s blade. The dungeon is only for those who refuse to cooperate, who would rather bite their tongues than reveal the guilty. This is war, Antonil. War against the very culture that has twisted and perverted everything great about Veldaren and turned it into something wicked. We have no time for prisoners.”
A Dance of Shadows Page 4
