“Justice in Angelport has always been brought about by our hand,” Warrick said, doing his best to be patient. Stern was usually more level-headed, but the loss of his daughter, and now Ulrich, had left him raw and unpredictable. “And we still have many fighting men at our disposal. If we had known of Madelyn’s attack in advance, we would have crushed them at our gates. Alas, she was one step ahead, but we cannot let that happen again. We must remove her as a threat, but how?”
“She’s got too many mercenaries left for us to assault her mansion,” Stern said. “And any attack we make risks bringing the city guard down on our heads. Gods know Ingram would love the excuse.”
“Our riots have left him frightened,” Warrick said. “They served their purpose. One false step, and we will have him supplanted as ruler, the city delivered to us by the hands of its own people. He will not interfere.”
Durgo stood, and he struck the table with an enormous fist. His surprising outburst, contrary to his soft-spoken nature, left Warrick more annoyed than anything.
“We must act the coward no longer,” Durgo said, glaring at all of them. “Damn Ingram, damn Madelyn, damn the whole city. It is time we stopped fearing their reactions, their plans, and did as we pleased. Madelyn needs to die, regardless what Ingram thinks. I say we gather who we have, then attack. We’ll hang her body at the docks, and let every lord and noble see what happens when they oppose us.”
Slow, mocking applause met his speech, and they all turned to see a hooded figure enter the dark room, a grand smile on his face.
“Well spoken,” said the Wraith. “Brave, but stupid, just as I’ve come to expect from you merchants.”
Stern bolted to his feet, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword. Durgo armed himself as well, though Flint stood there perfectly still. Warrick felt only tired amusement at the attempted grand entrance.
“You,” said Flint, sounding terrified. “How did you get past the guards?”
The Wraith hopped atop the round table, crouching down as he grinned at Flint.
“I killed them, of course.”
“We want no trouble here,” Stern said, tensing. The Wraith shifted his way.
“Strange, given that amusing bounty you placed on my head. Are you still upset about my killing William? His replacement, while young, seems far more competent. I thought you’d be happy for the improvement.”
Warrick knew he’d be furious at such a statement made against his own father, but Flint just sat there looking sick. So much for the bravado, he thought. At least William wouldn’t have pissed his pants staring face to face with a murderer. The others had been happy to see William go, but they had never truly seen William’s strength, his ability to make deals without his pride getting in the way.
“Why are you here?” Warrick asked. “I’m too old for games, and not foolish enough to believe we stand a chance should you wish us dead. Now speak, or draw your blade.”
the Wraith bowed, and Warrick held in his smile. The man wasn’t there to kill, after all. If it came to deals, then who in Angelport was better at making them than him?
“Of course. I am not much for wasting time, either. Your plans for revenge are amusing, I must admit, but they are irrelevant. Madelyn Keenan is not your worry. Lord Ingram is, and he’s the one you should be stringing up by the ankles at the docks.”
“He’s got armored men,” Stern said. “Well-trained, with many of them killers and thugs long before adopting his standard. Even with our forces combined, we cannot yet challenge him.”
the Wraith’s grin grew.
“I don’t want you to challenge him. I want you to save him.”
Stern’s brow furrowed, and Warrick tilted his head to one side and tapped his lips.
“How so?” he asked.
the Wraith hopped down from the table and walked over to one wall, which was decorated with a painting of the docks, the waters full of majestic boats and tanned men hard at work.
“Tonight, a large group of elves will launch an attack against the city,” he said as he looked the painting over. “Don’t worry about your walls...they’re already inside. They’ll kill everyone in Ingram’s mansion, his dungeons, and they’ll come hunting for you as well. This is their last desperate attempt, a hope to win their war before it has even started.”
Warrick leaned back in his chair, his hands pressed against his chin as the gears in his head began turning.
“Why come to us?” Stern asked, glancing at the others as if to gauge their opinions. “And why would we help Ingram?”
“My affairs are my own,” the Wraith said. “And I come to you because the elves must not win. Prepare your forces. Prepare for battle! Let them find an ambush waiting for them, instead of fat merchants and helpless servants. Otherwise...”
He pulled out something from his pocket. Warrick could not see what it was he did, but suddenly the portrait began to burn. The fire spread across the canvas, consuming the docks and turning the boats to ash. The Wraith turned back to them, his grin looking demonic in the red light.
“Fight them, kill them, or watch every last remnant of your wealth burn.”
“Thank you for this warning,” Warrick said, slowly standing. “You have given us much to think about, and discuss.”
the Wraith bowed low.
“I aim to help,” he said. Shooting one last grin at Flint, he headed for the door. Just before leaving, he turned back. “Oh, and should you cooperate, I have a gift for you, one I’m sure you’ll appreciate.”
With that, he exited the room, having never once drawn his sword. Immediately the tension lessened, and Stern plopped back into his seat. The others looked about, as if unsure what to say.
“Well?” Stern asked, throwing up his hands. “Do we trust him?”
“He’s killed too many,” Durgo said, shaking his head. “Lies are not beyond him.”
“No,” Warrick said. “I think he’s telling the truth.”
Stern nodded, and frustrated as he looked, it seemed he agreed.
“I have no delusions the elves will leave us be after dealing with Ingram. Should we prepare, and do what the Wraith says?”
Warrick’s wrinkled face stretched into a smile. All around him, he saw the others take notice of the sparkle in his eyes, the sheer amusement at manipulating one who thought himself above all manipulation.
“As he says?” Warrick shook his head. “Oh no, not quite.”
Darrel sat in the back of the tavern, his beard soaked with spilled ale. He was in no mood for cheer or talk, and his glare made that clear to several women who drifted over. Any other day, he might have taken one or three back to his ship...
“Damn it,” he muttered, spilling his mug when he reached for it. As the liquid splashed across the floor, he realized a man had joined him at the table.
“What in Karak’s name do you want,” Darrel asked.
“A sober man to talk to,” said Stern, frowning at him. “Though it appears I hope for too much.”
“Fuck off.”
He waved for one of the wenches to bring him more, but Stern’s look sent them back to the bar, leaving Darrel dry and unhappy.
“We have matters to discuss,” Stern said. “I’d prefer you keep your attention on me, not your mug.”
“Far as I know, you don’t give me orders,” Darrel said. “That was your brother. How’s the fellow doing, anyway? Oh, that’s right. He’s dead. Bastard. Did he leave the ship in my name? Course not. I got no gold, no crew, all because he wanted us here to fight instead of doing our damn jobs and sailing out with cargo.”
“Much of Ulrich’s belongings are now mine,” Stern said, leaning back in his chair. “That means I can give you the Ravenshade, if I felt it a wise decision.”
Through Darrel’s alcohol-clouded mind, a realization forced its way through. He straightened up, and decided that just maybe he should be a bit nicer to Stern.
“Been on boats since I was nine,” he said, trying to wipe ale fro
m his beard, a hopeless task. “I know my crew, my boat, and every trick the seas can throw at me.”
Stern’s smile was full of condescension, but Darrel tried not to show he noticed.
“Have no worries, the Ravenshade is yours,” Stern said. “But first, there’s something you must do for me. My brother trusted you, and you never betrayed him. I’m hoping I might be able to trust you as well.”
“These lips stay sealed,” Darrel said. “I don’t even mutter secrets to my whores. I’ll forgive plenty, but oathbreakers deserve to be strung up by their toes and beaten with rods. You want something done, I’ll get it done.”
Stern scratched at his neck and looked him over.
“Perhaps,” he said, motioning over a serving wench. Darrel grinned as two large mugs were set before them, both frothing at the top.
“So what is it you need?” Darrel asked as he took one into his hands. “Special cargo? Message delivered? A body to vanish?”
Stern smiled.
“I have someone I need you to kill.”
Ingram paced the halls of his mansion, muttering to himself.
“Where is that damn elf?” he wondered aloud.
“He may not come at all,” said Yor, lounging in a chair with a bowl of cherries on the table beside him.
“He should! He’s their ambassador, and it’s his position to try convincing me that somehow it wasn’t elves at fault for the breakin and slaughter of my guards.”
Egar leaned against the wall opposite Yor, his arms crossed over his chest.
“If he doesn’t, perhaps it means the elves have chosen war.”
Ingram looked once more to the door, his patience wearing all the more thin.
“They wouldn’t,” he said. “Not yet.”
Egar shrugged, but said no more. Yor continued eating, and Ingram finally gave in and poured himself a stiff drink. Halfway through downing it, the door crept open, and a servant stepped inside.
“Ambassador Graeven of the elves desires an audience.”
“About time. Bring him in.”
Moments later the door was flung open, and in stepped the ambassador. He looked surprisingly harried, at least for an elf. His robes were wrinkled in places, and strands of his hair hung out of place over his face. He bowed low, and his easy smile seemed to belie his appearance.
“Greetings, milords,” he said. “I wish I could come to you under better circumstances.”
“I imagine so,” Ingram said as Yor stood and pushed away his bowl. “I have no time for bullshit, so please, what reason can you offer for elves climbing my gates, killing my soldiers, and kidnapping my prisoners?”
Graeven sighed, and he crossed his hands behind his back.
“A small faction of elves are not happy with the way our delegations have gone, and I cannot blame them. They took it upon themselves to bring Alyssa to trial.”
“You admit it?” Yor said, sounding stunned.
“I admit nothing, only speak the truth. Their actions do not represent all elves, nor the prevailing opinions of Quellassar. I assure you, I am as appalled as you are.”
Egar laughed at that.
“I’m sure. Do you know who these elves are? Will you give them to us for punishment?”
Graeven shifted uncomfortably.
“They have been sent back to the Quellan Forest, and will be dealt with accordingly.”
Egar laughed, and Ingram shared in his contempt.
“Of course,” he said. “You’ll send murderers of my guards to Quellassar for your own justice, yet still demand Alyssa be handed over instead of undergoing a trial here. We humans tend to be imperfect, but at least we haven’t mastered hypocrisy as well as elvenkind.”
“I understand your frustration, but I am doing the best I can under the circumstances. Given the mob’s brutal killing of Laryssa’s escort, anti-human sentiment is rather high.”
“You’ve killed plenty more with your arrows,” Yor said. “Every day we get families traveling here, in hopes of finding a better life, with work that doesn’t involve your patrols butchering every farmer and woodcutter that sets foot in your forest.”
“Killings that would stop if you would only reach an agreement with us, and stop pressuring for large allocations of land!”
Ingram put his back to the elf to calm down, and he refilled his glass.
“Then what about Alyssa?” he asked. “Will you be returning her to my protection?”
“I would if I could.”
Ingram turned, not at all surprised.
“Why’s that?” he asked, his voice dripping with contempt.
“I cannot say, other than that she is safely within Angelport’s walls. I am doing this for her own protection.”
“Like shit you are,” Yor interrupted. “You’re using her somehow, aren’t you?”
The door cracked open, the sound slicing through the tension.
“Uh, milord,” said the servant, looking nervous. “I...please, if you would bring your attention to the docks. I feel it best you take a look.”
Ingram raised an eyebrow, but the other two lords only shrugged. He walked over to the curtains across one of the windows and pulled them open with a heavy string. Sunlight flooded in, and from their high perch, he overlooked the docks below. His mouth dropped open at what he saw.
“What in blazes is going on?” Ingram wondered aloud.
Nearly every last boat in Angelport, regardless the size, had left port. The sea was full of them, but instead of sailing northeast to the lost coast, or west for Ker, they remained close, as if keeping some sort of strange vigil. The few boats remaining at port had been set aflame, and the smoke blotted the sky.
The rest joined him at the window, Graeven included. He peered out, wearing a deep frown.
“Whose boats were burned?” he asked.
“It’s too far to know,” Egar said. “What game is this, Ingram?”
“I don’t know,” Ingram said. He shot a glare at the elf. “What about you? Care to illuminate us with your fabled elven wisdom?”
Graeven shook his head.
“I...this is unexpected, to say the least. I can think of only two things. Either they expect an attack, or plan on making one themselves.”
Ingram ground his teeth together, the sight of all those boats in the distance filling him with fury.
“Get out,” he told the ambassador. “Go back to your elves. Let them know, regardless of the reason, I will declare war in the name of King Edwin Vaelor against the Quellan Kingdom should even a single elf make another aggressive act against my city. You’ve tried our patience, and were you any other kingdom of man, we’d have already sent troops marching to your borders. This is your last chance for peace. Do not waste it. As for as the merchants...”
He nodded toward the ships.
“We obviously have much to discuss. Consider their claims against your lands dismissed. We still need to work something out over our loggers, but that can come another time.”
Graeven looked stunned for a moment, then smiled and bowed.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll do my best.”
When he was gone, Ingram slammed a fist against the window and refused to look at the docks.
“What do we do now?” he asked.
“I’m still not quite happy with what I just heard,” Egar said, frowning. “Do you know how many of my villagers those elves have killed? Yet we’re going to make peace with hardly any concessions?”
“Enough! We worry about my city first. Warrick and his merchants look like they’re about to launch a damn revolt. I couldn’t care less about a few backwater villagers. Now again, what do we do?”
“We flee.”
Ingram and Egar gave Yor looks of complete shock.
“Could you repeat that?” Egar asked.
“I said we flee.” Yor gestured to the grand window. “They have their men gathered, their boats ready. If Angelport is a fruit, they’re the worm that’s eaten its way to the
core. We must get out of their reach. They have no real armies, no proper training. If given a month to prepare, I could summon several thousand armed men ready to fight, and I know you can do the same, Egar. It doesn’t matter what the merchants do. When we return, we’ll crush them to pieces, take their boats, and end their threat once and for all.”
“Are you mad?” asked Ingram. “You want me to run like a coward?”
“A rebellion of peasants and merchants is no light thing,” Yor insisted. “Send word to Veldaren, and the rest of the lords in the north. An uprising of commoners against our rule is a threat to us all, and must be stamped out with due urgency.”
Egar took a step closer, his whole body tense.
“You want us to flee,” he said. “Abandon the crown jewel of the sea, and with our tails tucked between our legs, beg for aid from the king?”
Yor shrugged.
“If you want to put it so indelicately, yes.”
Another step.
“And how much did the merchants pay you to say that?”
Yor’s mouth dropped open, and his confusion only worsened when Egar drew his sword. Before another word could pass his lips, the sword thrust through his throat. His body convulsed, and blood splashed across them both, dripping down to stain the floor. A twist, and Egar pulled the blade free, wiping the edge clean with a cloth from his pocket.
Ingram watched it all with a baffled look on his face.
“Have you lost your damn mind?” he asked, still in shock.
“I told you he was a traitor. What possible proof could be stronger than him willingly handing the city over to the merchants without a single drop of blood spilled?”
Ingram glanced at the corpse, then nodded.
“You’re right. How many men do you have with you?”
“About a hundred trained soldiers.”
“Bring them here.” Ingram hurried toward the door, and he began calling out for the captain of his guard.
“When they land their boats, we’ll be ready,” he said, glancing back at Egar. “I want every person at our disposal here, at the mansion. I don’t care how many ruffians they’ve given a sword. They’ll break against our walls.”
The Shadowdance Trilogy Page 94
