The Shadowdance Trilogy

by David Dalglish

  “Why the attitude?” asked a fat man from the corner.

  “Because Thren knows we’re here,” she said. “He won’t leave us be, not now, not ever.”

  “But we agreed to what he wanted,” said Jek. “Surely he won’t…”

  “The next person that argues with me gets a knife in the throat,” Veliana shouted.

  That shut them up, she thought as she stormed through the house, searching for a way upstairs. When she came upon a spiral staircase she grabbed the railing and used it to climb up the steps two at a time. Once on the second floor, she looked about, seeing a hallway leading either direction. She chose one, her head on a swivel. She stopped when a voice called her name.

  “Veliana?”

  She spun, stepped two doors down, and found James sitting on the edge of his bed, naked. Refusing to blush or even avert her eyes, she crossed her arms behind the small of her back. A young blonde lay sprawled out on the bed beside him, her slender form barely hidden by the thin blankets wrapped around her.

  “Apologies for the bad timing,” she said. “I hope I arrived at the end, and not the beginning.”

  James chuckled.

  “We Berens like to think of no before or after, just brief interludes in between,” he said.

  He stood and pulled on his trousers. His movements stirred the woman beside him. She pulled the blankets closer and then rolled the other way.

  “Who is that?” Veliana asked as James stepped out of the room and shut the door behind him.

  “One of Leon Connington’s maids. Why?”

  Her jaw dropped open.

  “Are you mad? She could tell him where our safehouse is!”

  James laughed.

  “You know how he treats them. He’ll be lucky if he even gets his maid back, let alone any information.”

  James’s joy drained away as he truly saw her face for the first time.

  “By Ashhur, what happened to you?” he asked, gently touching it with his fingertips. “Is it still tender?”

  “Hurts like a bitch,” she said. “It won’t heal, either. What is this I hear about you making a deal with Thren?”

  James sighed. He walked into the room opposite his own. There were no furnishings or portraits, just a single yellow curtain he pulled back so he could stare out at the city through the diamond-shaped window.

  “Thren’s plan may be suicide, but there’s still a good chance of it succeeding. If we opposed him any longer, we’d never last another night. They burned us out of our last two safehouses. Did you see?”

  She nodded. James shook his head, his hand curling as if he wished he had a drink to hold.

  “We’ve lost so many. Our territory is almost non-existent. Even after this, we’ll still lose most of our members to other guilds unless we get lucky and hit a large haul somewhere. What would you have me do, Vel? Stand and fight him, fight the combined might of the thief guilds?”

  “Other guilds must be getting nervous,” Veliana said. “Thren tried to recruit me to take your place. He feared others would abandon him if he tried to force anyone to his side.”

  James laughed.

  “He didn’t do any of this. He planted whispers, ideas, and let the rest of the guilds eat us alive. Those who were closest to the Spider Guild got the best territory…our best territory. He wanted you because it was easier. A quick coup, a few dead bodies, and then he’s got another puppet running another guild. Instead, he had to spill a bit more blood. It wasn’t hard. You know Kadish. His Hawks have wanted everything north of Iron Street for months. Now he’s got it. Five years we’ve fought that bastard’s war, five fucking years, and now because we don’t play along for once, we get thrown to the dogs.”

  “And the shadows, hawks, and serpents,” Veliana said. “We have no friends. We never have.”

  James gestured once more to her face.

  “Who gave you that? Is that why you barged in here looking for me?”

  Veliana turned away, suddenly self-conscious of the wound.

  “That, no, Gileas did it, but he’s dead, I killed…James, Gileas sold information to one of Thren’s men less than two hours ago. He gloated over letting Felhorn know where we were hiding.”

  “It means nothing,” insisted James. “It could be any number of things.”

  “But he was so certain,” Veliana said. “He also claimed to have told the king’s men about Thren’s plans for the Kensgold.”

  At this, James’ face darkened.

  “Thren won’t believe you,” he said. “He’ll think we’re trying to find a new way to sabotage his plan, all while agreeing to it. Damn that little worm.”

  Veliana knew she should have found that funny, but didn’t.

  “We can’t go through with this,” she said. “We can’t throw our lives away with him.”

  James wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close.

  “Tell me everything,” he said. “All that’s happened.”

  Veliana told her tale, of being captured, left for Gileas, and her encounter with the faceless women. She hid nothing, not even her trip to Karak’s temple. When she finished, his face was the calm, angry stone she most often saw when he was contemplating death.

  “So Victor betrayed you to the Spider Guild?” he said. “I knew he was gone, though I assumed he died in the ambush that had killed Walt, and presumably you. He must be laying low. We’ll find him in time and teach him the revenge of the Ash Guild.”

  “What do we do?” Veliana asked. “We tried feeding the king misinformation, but Gileas fucked that up and told him the truth. Now we’re sworn to a promise that means death, yet can’t back off from it else we find death in a whole new way.”

  James squeezed her shoulder.

  “We’ll play along,” he said. “I plan to survive, and settle our score with Victor and Kadish. But come the Kensgold, we will not be the ones dying that night.”

  “What do you mean?” Veliana asked. “Surely you don’t…”

  “I do,” said James. “What night will Thren be more vulnerable? What night will his entire reputation hinge upon? The Kensgold is the key, Vel. We wreck him, and everything he’s built fractures. We’ll negotiate our own peace with the Trifect. Let the others fight the mercenaries. We’ll make ten times their coin from our whores alone.”

  “I’ll trust you,” Veliana said, pulling out from his grip. “I’ll even help you, after I return to the faceless women. But first, you have to promise me something.”

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Leave his son, Aaron, to me.”

  Not even a moment of hesitation.

  “Done!”

  Gerand Crold sat in his chair, feeling particularly vulnerable even though the thick stone of the castle’s walls surrounded him. He went over his conversation with Gileas repeatedly in his head.

  “He knows you know about the Kensgold,” the ugly worm had said.

  “How?” Gerand had asked him.

  “Because I told him. He’ll come for you, tonight. He won’t change his plans. It’s all he has. So he’ll kill you before you can alert the Trifect. When he arrives, consider that proof of the words I told you. Assuming you live past tonight, of course.”

  Gerand still could not understand why Gileas had told Thren of his knowledge, and then subsequently warned him about Thren knowing. It made no sense. The ugly man was playing a game, but what it was, he didn’t know.

  However, if he were telling the truth, an assassin from the Spider Guild would soon make an attempt on his life. It should have been ludicrous. His quarters in the castle were small but luxurious, and more importantly, extremely safe. He was surrounded by guards and protected by sheer walls of stone and roving patrols of soldiers. Never before had he worried for his life when his door was locked and his window barred.

  Yet for years he had listened to the wild tales of Thren Felhorn’s exploits. The man had killed an entire royal family, two if the rumors were true. He had stolen the family je
wels from Connington’s very head without the man noticing. He had killed Ser Morak, the greatest swordsman from the nation of Ker (though whether fairly or not was under constant debate). To a man like that, what were a few walls or a door?

  Gerand put down his glass and started pacing the room. He wished his wife were there, but he had sent her away, and not to their small estate, either. Deep in the southern district he owned a modest jewelry shop, and he had instructed her to hide there for the next two days. Now he wondered if that would be safe. Sure, they had some guards, enough to deter any regular thieves and cutpurses…but Thren?

  “Damn it,” said Gerand, striking the top of his dresser. “He’s a man, not a ghost. Walls and doors mean the same to him as any other man.”

  Strong, angry words, but they did little to calm him. Therefore, he walked over to his bed and pulled his rapier off of its wall-stand. Holding the cold hilt in his hand, he felt a little better. Perhaps he wasn’t as good as Ser Morak, but he was a fine bladesman in his own right. At least he might die fighting instead of gagging on poisoned food.

  The hours crawled by. He read when he could calm himself enough to focus, his rapier spread across his legs as he turned the pages. Other times he looped the weapon through a few stances, trying to remember the last time he had sparred. It had been a year or two, he decided, and that was a year or two too many. He’d have to find a partner, and a good one too. Perhaps Antonil Copernus, the guard captain, would suffice…

  A knock on his door sent Gerand spinning, his blade cutting air. When he realized the door was still closed, and no specter had come for him, he felt incredibly foolish. He slid his rapier into his belt and put his hand on the handle.

  “Who is there?” he asked.

  The door blasted inward, wrenching his hand painfully. The solid oak slammed his forehead. As he fell he tried to draw his blade, but then his back smacked atop the small chest at the foot of his bed. The rapier clattered uselessly along the stone floor. He reached for it, only to have a heavy boot slam atop his fingers.

  “Get up,” said a voice. Rough hands grabbed the back of his clothes, yanking him to his feet, and then flung him into his chair. Clutching his wounded hand to his chest, Gerand got his first good look at his attackers. One was a woman with raven hair tied back. The other was most certainly Thren Felhorn. Gerand had never met the man before, but he’d both heard and read many descriptions.

  The woman drew one of many throwing daggers from her belt and twirled it in her fingers while Thren shut the door to the crowded room. When Gerand’s eyes flitted over to the rapier, the woman threw her dagger, piercing the chair so close to his skin it cut the cloth of his robe. She shook her head at him but said nothing.

  Thren gently pushed the woman out of the way and then stood before Gerand with his arms crossed. He frowned down at Gerand. Death was in his eyes.

  “Do you know who I am?” Thren asked.

  “I do,” Gerand said, doing his best to sound brave. How many times had he belittled Thren to the other nobles, even the king? He took every word back. Gods damn it all, where were his guards?

  “Do you know why I’m here?” Thren asked.

  Again Gerand nodded.

  “I do,” he said.

  “Kayla, could you hand me his rapier, please?”

  The woman retrieved the sword and handed it hilt-first to Thren.

  “Thank you,” Thren said as he quickly inspected the blade. “Solid craftsmanship, if a bit on the self-indulgent side. I know many men and women who could live for a month on what this single ruby in the hilt would fetch them. I’ve known of you for some time, Crold. Your family line has been as decadent and pointless as the hilt of your rapier. Always aspiring to be boot lickers and ass kissers, never to be leaders.”

  Thren drew one of his shortswords and held it in front of Gerand’s face.

  “You see this?” he asked. “Plain, but well made. Nothing beyond the necessary. You have forgotten you are a tool, Gerand Crold, and nothing more. To pretend to be something else can lead to…dangerous circumstances. Tell me, my dear advisor to the king, which would you rather be pierced by: my shortsword, or your rapier?”

  Gerand glanced between the two blades.

  “My rapier,” he said.

  “A good choice,” said Thren before stabbing Gerand in the chest with it. He made sure to hit nothing vital, just the meat near the shoulder. Gerand choked down his pain as blood spilled across the violet of his robes.

  “People will always fear me over you,” said Thren. “That is why I am more powerful than you, more powerful than the Trifect, more powerful than even the king. I will not have you interfering in my affairs. You play games, I deal in blood, and my son is not one of your pieces!”

  Son! thought Gerand. He’s here because of his son?

  The blood drained from Gerand’s face. Suddenly there were multiple reasons for Thren to kill him. He hoped the torture would not last long.

  “He looks like he’s going to pass out,” Kayla said.

  Thren twisted the rapier, flaring pain in all directions throughout Gerand’s body.

  “I should kill you,” Thren said. “But I won’t. You are too useful to me where you are. I want the Trifect humiliated. You are in a position to do that for me, Gerand. Your word is the king’s word in all stately matters. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  Gerand nodded.

  “I understand,” he said. “I hold no allegiance to the Trifect. I can do as you ask.”

  Thren chuckled.

  “You can, but will you? Once I’m gone, how do I know you’ll keep your word?”

  “Hostages work wonders,” said Kayla, right on cue.

  “You’re right, which is why I have already taken one.”

  They both paused so Gerand could understand the meaning of their words. The advisor looked back and forth between them, the whole while his heart sinking.

  “You have Martha,” he said.

  “Give the man a prize,” said Kayla.

  “She will be under my care for the next week,” Thren said as he pulled the rapier out of Gerand’s chest. He acted as if he were to sheath it, then instead pushed its bloodied tip against Gerand’s throat.

  “You do as I say, or I’ll make sure every member of my guild has a turn with her,” said Thren, his voice dangerously cold. “Have I made myself clear?”

  “Perfectly clear,” Gerand said in a voice suddenly grown raspy and weak.

  “Your orders are simple,” Kayla said as Thren backed off and tossed the rapier atop the bed. “The flood of mercenaries for the Kensgold should be arriving any day now, if they haven’t already. Among them will be massive caravans of wine, food, and dancers. Tax them all. Heavily.”

  “But the Trifect will be…”

  Gerand stopped, realizing how stupid his complaint was. Kayla caught it and laughed.

  “That’s the point,” she said. “Everyone they hire will demand more to compensate for the tax. Next, you will pass a law forbidding more than fifty mercenaries to be gathered together in any one area, event, or function.”

  “Call it an attempt to secure peace,” Thren chipped in.

  “Make it clear you’ll fine the mercenaries themselves,” Kayla said. “Keep them worried about their pockets.”

  “I will do what I can,” Gerand insisted. “Though it won’t be easy.”

  “Third,” said Kayla, “and most importantly, the Trifect has hundreds of merchants that have not paid their taxes. That money is instead going to the mercenaries, and for years you have turned a blind eye. That stops.”

  “I’ll collect from them what I can,” Gerand said.

  Thren shook his head.

  “I don’t want them taxed. I want them arrested.”

  “Arrested? What for?” When Thren reached for the rapier again, Gerand paled. “Very well. Tax evasion is a serious crime. Most will plead out and pay their fines within a day or two. Will that suffice?”

  “Tha
t’ll do,” said Kayla. “When the Kensgold ends, we’ll send you back your wife, alive and unharmed, but only if you cooperate. Is that clear?”

  It was.

  Kayla slid open his door and looked out. When she saw no guards, she pulled her gray hood over her head and beckoned for Thren. Just before the guildmaster left, he knelt close and whispered into Gerand’s ear.

  “I won’t kill you. I’ll chain you to the wall in a cell, your wife’s body in front of you. Once I cut off your eyelids, you’ll watch her rot until she’s nothing but bones. Pass the laws, and make sure you enforce them.”

  Kayla dashed out the door, and Thren followed.

  16

  Once Gran calmed down, she seemed open enough to listening to what Haern had to say. Of course, she had tried to smack him with another pan until he disarmed her and physically knocked her into a chair.

  “Please listen,” he said once she quit shouting for help. Delysia stood at her side, stroking her hand and doing her best to reassure her.

  “Steal into my house, kill a man, then hide from the guards, and after all that you expect me to sit and listen?” said Gran. “Even for a young pup, you’re a fool.”

  “Gran,” whined Delysia.

  “Oh alright. What is it, boy?”

  “His name is Haern,” Delysia said.

  “Fine. Haern.” Gran spat the word out as if it was a curse. “What do you have to say?”

  “Delysia is not safe in the city,” Haern said. He leaned against the pantry door. Pieces of dry leaves stuck to his outfit from when he had brushed a hanging tomato plant in the dark. He held one of the two candles Delysia had lit; Gran held the other.

  “No one’s safe in the city anymore. Why is Delysia any different?”

  “Thren Felhorn of the Spider Guild ordered her father dead,” Haern said. He kept his eyes on Gran, as if ashamed to look at the other girl but too proud to stare at the floor. “I was there when it happened.”

  “You mean you were to take part,” Gran said. “I’m not daft. Look at the colors you’re wearing: thief guild colors. What were you, a spotter? Were you to watch for the guards, or just loot her poor father’s corpse after everyone was gone?”