A Dance of Shadows

by David Dalglish

  “Care for something to eat?” Victor asked Sef.

  “It depends on what I’m to eat,” Sef said. “And if I’m paying.”

  Victor grinned at his friend. “I’m buying, and you eat what you’d like.”

  “In that case,” Sef said, “I think me and my men here would be very much interested.”

  As the soldiers bought themselves honey-soaked bread, Victor leaned against a wall erected to help prevent the market from spilling out to the homes beyond. Casually he let his sight roam, let himself take in the people. These people, these desperate merchants, these tired wives, these worried fathers… they were whom he protected.

  And then he saw the cloaks among them.

  A gray armband here, a green cloak there. Children running through the crowds, with but the thinnest of thread about their wrists to show their allegiances. Even as he watched, one of them attempted, and failed, to steal coin from the pocket of a fat merchant busy haggling over the price of his furs. Victor’s hand fell for his sword, but then Sef returned, licking his lips, and Victor pulled it away.

  “Come on,” he told them, earning confused looks for his gruff tone but not caring to explain.

  Next was a park he’d played in often, one of the few places he’d been allowed to go with only a single escort. Who was it who’d gone with him… Burson? Barson? Some old man, graying hair, he’d always looked at Victor as if he were a troublesome pest, and would always be a pest. But that was hardly fair now, Victor thought as he traveled deeper into the rich north of Veldaren. Whatever the man’s name, he’d been responsible for the safety of his master’s son. Of course he’d been dour. Of course he’d taken things seriously. That was the price of responsibility.

  The park, a large area full of bushes, trees, and pathways to hide in, he instead found to be nothing but some grass and a few lone oaks scattered about. There’d always been kids there, he remembered, but he only saw two out despite its being midday. They were dirty, their clothes tattered, and upon seeing Victor arrive with his men they quickly bolted. Victor slowly let out a sigh.

  “I know how you feel,” Sef said, glancing about the park. “It’s always sad to see things change.”

  “Change,” Victor mumbled. “Perhaps. But what if the past was never what you thought it to be?”

  Sef shrugged. “That’s why it’s dangerous to live in the past, my lord.”

  “Indeed. Take me home, Sef.”

  Before his inn, with several of the king’s guards standing around him in a diamond formation, was the adviser, Gerand. The man looked bored, though at Victor’s arrival his eyes flickered with a bit of life.

  “Greetings, Victor,” said the adviser. “Your soldiers would not tell me when you might return, nor where you went. I’m glad you were not long.”

  “They could tell you neither for they knew neither,” Victor said, nodding curtly. “Might I ask what you’re here for?”

  From one of the inner pockets of his shirt Gerand pulled a thin scrap of paper rolled tightly and bound with wax. “For you,” he said. “I would risk it with no other.”

  Victor accepted the paper, making sure none of his confusion showed on his face.

  “I pray it is good news,” he said.

  Gerand motioned to his guards to leave. “Then you might need to be praying for a long time,” he said as they marched toward the castle. Frowning, Victor broke the wax, unrolled the paper, and read.

  Victor,

  Given the destruction over the past few weeks, the infighting between the guilds, and Stephen Connington’s death, the city’s safety does not feel improved by your presence. But even if those do not lay at your feet, I now hear one of the guilds fights alongside you. You are compromised, Victor, and the crown will not pay you to play your games anymore.

  Gerand.

  Victor crumpled the paper in his hands, tore it, crumpled it again, and dropped it to his feet.

  “Burn it,” he told one of his soldiers as he stormed inside. He went to his room, hoping for a moment of privacy, but was given none. Before he could even settle into the chair beside his fireplace there came a knock on his door.

  “Come in,” he said, rubbing his eyes.

  The door opened, and in stepped Henris Weeks. The old man was clearly excited, his scrunched face looking even more pinched. In his hand he held several withered documents.

  “My lord,” he said, “the payment did not arrive this morning as it was supposed to. Do you know…”

  “Gerand’s thrown us to the wolves,” Victor said. “There will be no payment.”

  Henris looked taken aback. “My lord… then what are we to do? I can only pay a third of our men with what we have left.”

  Victor leaned back in his chair, put a hand on his chin. “How many men of mine are loyal?” he asked. “Men who would die for me, who believe in what I do?”

  Henris shrugged. “I cannot judge the hearts of men, my lord. But there are three hundred who have served you since you were but a child, and whose fathers served your father. Beyond that…”

  “Then pay them,” Victor said. “Tell the rest to be patient. I will find a way to pay them in time.”

  “They will not be pleased.”

  Despite his mood, Victor let out a laugh. “Do you think I care? If they cause problems, then I will deal with them in my own way. You need not worry away the last gray hairs you have, Henris.”

  “Of course, of course,” Henris said, bowing. Victor rubbed his eyes, then realized the old man was not leaving.

  “Is there something else?” he asked.

  “Indeed,” Henris said. “I have here documents given to me by Terrance Gemling, adviser to Lady Alyssa Gemcroft. They’re shipping manifests, recording their transactions with John Gandrem in regards to their mines farther north. If you’d look at the logs, particularly the third row…”

  “Spare me,” Victor said. “What are you trying to tell me, Henris? In plain words, preferably.”

  The old man licked his lips. “Plain words? Alyssa has been cheating the king out of taxes for the past four years, perhaps even longer.”

  Victor stood, feeling his jaw tighten. “You are certain?” he asked.

  “As I could ever be,” Henris said, offering him the documents. “It is all here, hidden of course, and cleverly so.”

  Victor paced before his fireplace, flicking through the sheets. They were just numbers to him, pages of names, places, costs.

  “Is this everything?” he asked. “If I’m to go to the king, I’ll need every bit of proof I can get to convict a lady of the Trifect. Is there anything else?”

  “You hold in your hands the only proof I could obtain,” Henris said. “The rest they themselves will surely have destroyed.”

  “Good,” Victor said. “Good.”

  He turned and threw the papers onto the fireplace. Henris let out a cry, took a step forward, and then stopped when he looked into Victor’s glare.

  “Get out,” he ordered, and the old man quickly obeyed.

  As the door slammed shut, Victor plopped back into his chair and stared at the paper curling and blackening in the fire.

  The king was a puppet, and his puppet master had turned on Victor. His men were fiends addicted to gold and nothing more. The guilds stabbed and bickered with one another, finding peace only when they could turn on a mutual enemy such as the Trifect. He was tiring of the games, and even worse, he was failing at them. But all was not lost. Both Deathmask and the Watcher had taught him something, a lesson he would use in the coming days. His stroll about the city that morning had only confirmed it.

  The city itself was infected, rotting away to the core. In all of its dark corners were monsters. And to defeat the monsters, he needed monsters.

  He thought of Alyssa’s beauty, her storied reputation, and, most important of all, her vast wealth.

  Monsters… and allies.

  Victor poured himself a drink, toasted the burning evidence.

  “To a wh
irlwind courtship,” he said, laughed, and drank.

  EPILOGUE

  No one had slept the rest of the night in the Connington mansion. Guards rushed about, suddenly without anyone in charge, and each one nervous about what the death of Stephen meant to him. Lord Gandrem assumed control with ease, settling into a role he’d known his entire life. He knew how to give men orders, how to instruct them, in ways others wouldn’t understand. His place in charge of them would only last a few days, at least until proceedings could begin, and a temporary steward could be placed in charge of the Connington fortune. Zusa respected him, yet feared him as well, for every time she looked she saw Melody there at his side, his hand in hers.

  Zusa walked down the hallway, glaring at any guard who looked twice at her. Morning had come, yet the tension remained. It’d been a long couple of years establishing Leon’s heir. With no remaining sons, illegitimate or otherwise, it’d be a terrible squabble among the scattered remnants of the Connington family. She felt anger directed at her in the guards, guards who had been treated and paid well, all of that potentially ended by her single thrust of a dagger through their master’s eye.

  Alyssa lay on her bed, Nathaniel at her side, when Zusa stepped into the bedroom.

  “Is all well?” she asked. Nathaniel glanced up at her, and she saw the exhaustion in his eyes, which were bloodshot and wet with tears. Zusa smiled at him, wishing she could lend him strength… not that she had much left to lend.

  “I’ve known better days,” Alyssa said. A cloth was over her face, hiding the empty sockets. “The priests say they can do nothing. I’ve sent Terrance to find the finest glass-smith in the land. I may not be able to see, but I’ll have eyes, damn it, beautiful green eyes…”

  She was crying, and no squeezing of her hands by her son seemed able to stop it. Zusa felt a burden growing in her chest. She wished she could say something, do something, to make it all better. But she could perform no miracles with her daggers and cloak.

  “Nathan, I need a moment with your mother,” she said. Nathaniel instinctively held his mother tighter, and Zusa smiled to show nothing was wrong. “It is no worrisome matter,” she insisted. “I just wish a few words in private.”

  “You can wait outside the door,” Alyssa told him.

  Nathaniel nodded, then blushed upon realizing she couldn’t see it.

  “Yes, Mother,” he said.

  Zusa shut the door behind him, then turned back to Alyssa.

  “He’s so frightened,” Alyssa said, putting a hand on her forehead. “I can’t blame him. Even with Stephen dead, he thinks the guards will turn on us at any second.”

  “A wise boy to fear it,” Zusa said, sliding up beside the bed. “We should return to our own mansion whenever you are well. I would entrust your life to them no longer.”

  Alyssa nodded. “I’ll tell Terrance to make the preparations.”

  Zusa sat down, and she struggled to find the proper words. “I killed him,” she said. “Not just Stephen, but the man who gave him orders. I tried to make it painful, but I didn’t have time. I had to get back to you.”

  Alyssa reached out her hand, and Zusa took it, pressed it against her cheek. “I’m sorry,” Zusa whispered. “I should have been here. I should have been faster, shouldn’t have gotten caught…”

  “It’s not your fault,” Alyssa said. “I shouldn’t have been so… blind.”

  She laughed, laughed even though she could hardly breathe, even though she sniffled from her tears, which soaked into the cloth. Zusa squeezed her hand tighter, then kissed her fingertips. “Not again,” she said. “I won’t let you ever be in danger again. I failed you before, but I swear to fix this. I swear I’ll find a way.”

  “Forget me,” Alyssa said. “Nathaniel is all that matters now. His role in our dealings needs to be increased tremendously. Every vulture will be circling. If Nathaniel is to be my heir, he needs to take it now, and show Dezrel his strength.”

  “But he’s so young…”

  “And he’s endured more than most have in their lifetimes. Gods help me, I’m blind, and he’s lost an arm. The vultures won’t just be circling, they’ll be pecking at our corpses.”

  Another bitter laugh. Zusa hated to see her so, but she also couldn’t deny her argument. Everyone would be searching for weakness now. Potential replacements for Nathaniel would come out of the woodwork.

  “I’ll kill them all,” Zusa whispered. “Any challenger, any threat. I won’t lose you, Alyssa. I don’t think I could endure it.”

  Alyssa reached out, and Zusa leaned close so she could wrap her arms about her. As they embraced, Alyssa kissed her neck, then pressed her forehead against Zusa’s breast. “You can’t kill the world,” Alyssa told her. “And they must come to fear Nathaniel, not you. Just promise that if something should happen to me, you’ll raise him as your own.”

  “Shouldn’t your mother be the one…”

  More grim laughter interrupted her. “Melody?” Alyssa said. “I lost my eyes because of Stephen’s love of her. My torture was punishment for her own. I cannot prove it, but deep down I find it hard to believe Stephen acted on his own. The timing is too perfect. Stephen said it took him a year to discover who my mother really was… but what if it wasn’t a year, Zusa? What if her return and Stephen’s madness as the Widow were connected, and now she clings to John Gandrem, his wealth, his power…”

  “If what you say is true, then we house a dangerous threat to you and your family.”

  Alyssa’s smile was so bitter, so sad, it made Zusa’s heart ache. “It wouldn’t be the first time,” she said, reaching out and clutching Zusa’s wrist with a grip like iron. “Promise me. Promise me he’ll be your son before anyone else’s.”

  Zusa swallowed, and it felt like nails were caught in her throat. “I promise,” she said.

  Alyssa leaned back in the bed, and it looked like she relaxed for the first time since her encounter with Stephen. “I need some rest,” she said. “Send Nathaniel in if he’s still upset.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  Zusa left, and felt a pall settle over her. The walls of the mansion confined her, and she headed for the exit, wanting fresh air, wanting to be alone. At the doors to the mansion, Zusa stopped, for a great commotion had started. Soldiers, at least a hundred, were streaming into the mansion, shouting and joking with one another as if they’d arrived for a feast. Every single one bore the Gandrem family crest. Servants ushered them down various hallways, trying to find spare rooms.

  In the center of it all stood John Gandrem, greeting his men. And with her arms wrapped around his waist was Melody.

  “Our family will be kept safe,” Melody said, noticing Zusa standing there amid the sea of confusion. “Do not worry for my daughter, nor her son. You’ve done much to protect us, but it’s time we do this the right way.”

  Zusa said nothing, just continued to count the men. When the number reached two hundred, she returned to Alyssa’s room and hid above the door, her body awash in shadows, her daggers at the ready.

  Never again, she thought.

  Tarlak could hardly believe what he was hearing, and even if he believed it, he certainly didn’t like it.

  “Are you sure he wasn’t lying?” he asked, plopping down in his chair. Haern stood at the door to his room, hands on the hilts of his swords. “Priests of Karak aren’t exactly known for their truthfulness.”

  “Trust me on this,” Haern said, shaking his head. “He didn’t lie. Whoever this Luther is, he’s set his sights on nearly every major player in Veldaren. The Gemcrofts, the Conningtons, myself, the thief guilds…”

  “Why Thren in particular, you think?”

  Haern shrugged. “The Suns and Thren have a connection, though I know little more than that.”

  Tarlak frowned while rocking back and forth. “Every major player,” he said. “Every single one but the king…”

  Haern chuckled. “Perhaps he thought the king too inept to pose a problem?”

 
Tarlak shot him a look. “This is no laughing matter. What you’re talking about is beyond dangerous.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t think you do,” Tarlak insisted. “You want to travel all the way to Ker so you can infiltrate the Stronghold, to interrogate a priest whose name you can’t be sure is real, and who might not even be there. And this isn’t some ordinary building, either. This is the dark paladins’ home, their training ground, their own little private fortress. Damn it, Haern, I’ve heard horror stories about their dungeons that make Thren seem like a pretty butterfly.”

  He stood, waved a finger. “And most importantly about this nonsensical plan… there’s no money in it!”

  The wizard plopped back down in his chair and rubbed his forehead with his fingers.

  “I won’t help you,” he said. “None of us will.”

  “I thought not.”

  Tarlak sighed. “You’re still going, aren’t you?”

  Haern nodded. “They wanted us dead, Tar. You know I can’t leave us in danger like that. What happens if he tries again? We still don’t know what Luther wanted to accomplish. The Sun Guild was attached to it, and I doubt we’ve seen the last of them either. But why? What does Karak have to do with any of this? I have to know, no matter the danger.”

  “So you’ll go alone? They’ll kill you, you have to know that.”

  Something about the way Haern stood there felt off. His determined words belied nervousness. There was something he was missing, Tarlak knew, but what…

  “I know it’s suicide to go alone,” his friend said after a pause. “That’s why I’m not going alone.”

  Haern stepped away from the door, revealing Thren Felhorn leaning against the doorframe behind him, arms crossed, an amused expression on his face.

  “I must say,” he said, glancing about Tarlak’s room. “I think I expected something more. And forgive me if I may be so bold, wizard, but I don’t think anyone has ever referred to me as a pretty butterfly in my entire life.”