A Dance of Blades (Shadowdance 2)

by David Dalglish

  Veliana left her bed, changed into a darker outfit, and donned her gray cloak. She used a different door from the one Deathmask guarded, and then took to the rooftops. Once she was in the open night air, she removed the cloak signifying her allegiance to the Ash Guild and then set out to meet Zusa behind the Gemcroft mansion.

  CHAPTER 7

  It was past midnight when Arthur Hadfield arrived at the gates of the Gemcroft mansion, escorted by nine of his soldiers. One of the guards immediately recognized him and opened the gate.

  “Our lady sleeps,” said the guard, “but we would not turn away such an esteemed visitor in the cold of night. I pray no ill news brings you here at such an hour?”

  “Pray all you want,” Arthur said. “But it won’t change the news I bring.”

  Inside the main foyer they stopped and forfeited their weapons, even Arthur. He gave the guard a stern look as he handed over his beautiful long sword, a family heirloom of five generations.

  “A lash for every scratch,” he said. “Unless you think Alyssa would not listen to me.”

  “Understood, sir,” said the guard. “Please, wait here. Our lady will be down shortly; we have already sent a servant to wake her.”

  “Warm some food for my men,” Arthur said. “And find me something stiff to drink. I’d rather not meet Alyssa looking pale as a corpse fresh from the grave.”

  “Right away.”

  Several servants rushed from one room to the next, haggard-eyed and clothes unkempt. Most of the guards looked a little better, but they were probably used to odd hours and the constant threat of thieves sneaking in at night. An elderly lady appeared and gestured to the soldiers to follow her.

  “Coming?” one asked Arthur.

  He shook his head.

  “I’ll wait here. All I need is a drink. Enjoy yourselves, and don’t forget”—he glanced at the servant—“to find yourselves lodging for the night. We won’t go traipsing for an inn at this hour.”

  It seemed the servant got the message, and even if she didn’t, he knew his men would hammer the point home. Standing in the foyer, he removed his bearskin coat and set it aside. A large fireplace burned before him, so he stood beside it and let its heat sink into his skin. When a servant arrived with a glass, he took it and gave it a taste.

  “Thank you,” he said, doing his best to hold in a denigrating remark. The lady had brought him a recent vintage, no doubt the cheapest bottle in the mansion other than what was reserved for the hired help. Probably thought they were keeping Alyssa’s interests in mind since she had not ordered it for him, but they should have known better. He swallowed the rest of it anyway. It might look like brown water and taste like piss, but at least it’d still warm his bones.

  He watched the fire burn as he waited, his thoughts racing through the recent events. Alyssa needed to marry soon, and with Mark Tullen dead, Arthur had removed all serious competition. Only two wrinkles remained. One was Alyssa’s child, heir to the Gemcroft wealth, as well as a potential danger should he describe the ambush accurately enough to blame Arthur. The other was that strange man who had attacked them. He’d been dressed like a thief, yet none of his colors had marked him as a member of any guild. Plus there was that symbol carved in blood beside the fire. The Watcher. Arthur didn’t visit Veldaren often, but it seemed things had gotten far stranger in his absence. Not for the first time he felt thankful he lived in the north, where men had to survive by the plow, the sword, or the pick, and not by the deftness of their sticky fingers.

  “Lord Hadfield,” Alyssa said, pulling him from his thoughts. He turned to her and smiled as she approached through the doorway. Her hair was immaculate, her cheeks warmed with rouge. The dark circles under her eyes were hidden with powder. Now he knew why she’d taken so long to come down. At least her clothing was appropriate for the late hour, a crimson robe tied with a yellow sash. She wrapped her arms in his and gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek.

  “Forgive me for ruining your sleep,” he said. “It’s a cruelty, waking someone at this hour, but I feared it’d be crueler risking someone other than myself bringing you the news.”

  “Enough,” Alyssa said, holding her arms against her chest as if she were cold. “Good news rarely comes after midnight. Whatever it is, tell me, or my mind will assume the worst.”

  Arthur frowned and looked away for a moment, just long enough for her to believe he was in doubt.

  “You could assume nothing worse than the truth,” he said at last. “I’m sorry, Alyssa. Your son is dead.”

  She’d been preparing herself for terrible news, he could tell, but it didn’t matter. She took a step back as if he’d slapped her. Her mouth dropped open, and her hands quivered as she pressed them to her lips.

  “No,” she whispered. Tears swelled in her eyes, then fell, smearing the powder. “No, no, please, you’re wrong, you have to be wrong…”

  He shook his head. This was by far the easiest part. None of it was a lie.

  “Mark Tullen came and took Nathaniel from Tyneham, where I’d brought him for tutoring. They joined one of my caravans traveling to the city. I thought they’d be safe, but someone ambushed them several days ago, stealing the shipment of gold.”

  “Mark?” Alyssa asked as she tried in vain to compose herself. “Was he…?”

  Arthur wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close.

  “There were no survivors,” he whispered. “They piled the bodies together and burned them.”

  She fell against him and sobbed. A bit of rouge rubbed onto his vest, and he wondered whether it would come off. As her cries escalated he tightened his grip, holding her against him. He gently rocked her from side to side, his cheek resting on the top of her head. He felt unprepared for her grief, and he mentally delayed his plans of marriage. She’d need time to get over this, at least three months. Perhaps if he could bring her closure he could make things progress faster, but how?

  She asked a question, but it was muffled against his chest.

  “What, my love?” he asked, tilting her face up by her chin. It was the first time he’d called her that, and he knew it would carry far more impact now given the circumstances.

  “Who?” she asked. She sniffed and pulled free of his grip. “I want to know who.”

  “I told you, someone wishing for our gold. Ruffians, most likely, come from only the gods know where.”

  Alyssa shook her head. It seemed as if her skin were darkening to red, her whole body suddenly given over to rage. When she spoke again, her voice was held together by such fierce concentration he worried she had pierced his lies.

  “That’s not good enough,” she said. “There has to be something, some clue, some mistake they made. They can’t make off with that much gold without others noticing. No one is that perfect, that calculated. If you know something, tell me!”

  Arthur felt his opening, and it took all his willpower to keep from smiling.

  “There was a … symbol,” he said, as if hesitant. “I didn’t wish to bother you with it, not when you should be grieving.”

  “I have the rest of my life to grieve,” she said, wiping her makeup with her hands. “What was the symbol?”

  “It was an open eye, drawn in blood. Below it was written a name, a strange name. The Watcher. I believe he is tied to the local thief guilds in some manner, though I cannot say more, for it has been years since I lived in Veldaren. Perhaps someone in your employ will better know who he is than I.”

  By the way she startled, he knew he’d hit his mark.

  “How dare he?” she said. “He kills my son, and my … and Mark, and then dares leave his name? I’ll see him flayed before me, that heartless bastard.”

  “Allow me to help in the search,” Arthur offered.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “This is my loss, and my fault. I sent Mark for him when I should have left him in safety.”

  “It was my caravan, don’t forget.”

  She looked at him, and he
forced a mask of anger across his face. He had to seem regretful, not eager. He had to seem furious at the loss of his men, not pleased with Mark’s death. He did his best, and it seemed like she bought it.

  “Very well,” she said. “Kill him if you must, though I’d prefer him alive.”

  “Torture and vengeance shouldn’t belong to a woman so beautiful as you.”

  “Then blame the world for giving me this sorrow. If the gods are kind, I’ll be the one to cut this Watcher’s throat and feel the blood spill across my hands.”

  After a long pause she asked, “Did you bring … the body?”

  “No,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “As I said, it was a great pyre, and we left it alone.”

  “So my son will spend eternity in some common grave, his ashes trodden on by horses and oxen? For all your attempts at kindness, you failed me terribly, Arthur. You should have brought me his bones.”

  She walked to the fireplace and retrieved a bell from its mantel. When she shook it, two servants came running.

  “Please find quarters for Lord Hadfield,” she told them, then turned to Arthur. “I need time to rest, and I feel I would be poor company for you. Good night.”

  He bowed and followed the servants. They showed him to his room, a nice enough place: large bed, soft mattress, and thick curtains he pulled back from the windows to let in the starlight. Given such haste, there were no logs or coals in the fireplace, and the room felt only marginally warmer than the outside. He put his coat back on and sat atop the bed. His joints creaked, and he lay upon the mattress trying to will his muscles to relax. Mere minutes later he heard a knock on his door.

  “Come in,” Arthur said, wishing he still had his sword.

  Bertram, the old advisor who had worked for the Gemcroft family for at least fifty years, stepped inside.

  “I’ve yet to speak with Alyssa about these matters,” the man said, “but I know her well enough to anticipate her response. She will put me in charge of the boy’s funeral. Did you bring Nathaniel’s body with you?”

  The question stung, just as deeply as when Alyssa had first asked. He had no body…

  “Burned,” he said. “Back with the caravan. Alyssa didn’t take too kindly to that when I told her.”

  Bertram frowned. “I do not blame her. It would be greatly distressing if we didn’t have something to bury for the funeral. Not that it matters, in my opinion. Bones are bones after a fire reaches them, yes?”

  Arthur stared at the old man, trying to understand what was going on. Was he helping him, or fishing for information?

  “I doubt Alyssa would agree,” he said, erring on the side of caution.

  “She cannot judge what she does not know.” Bertram turned for the door, put his hand on the handle, and then stopped. “I will be very busy over the next few days, and will have no time to venture into the wild. Perhaps you, or some of your men, might retrieve the body for me? I would greatly appreciate it.”

  “Anything I can do to help.”

  Bertram glanced back and smiled.

  “Claim her hand, and you’ll have done all that I could ask. Good night, Lord Hadfield.”

  Arthur waited a few minutes, then called for a servant.

  “Bring me one of my soldiers,” he ordered. “A man named Oric.”

  “Yes, milord,” the servant said, bowing quickly before vanishing. Trying to keep his mood from souring too much, Arthur paced and waited. When the knock on his door finally came, he had no chance to answer it before Oric barged inside.

  “You needed something?” Oric asked. He was an ugly man: thick cheeks, round jaw, and flat nose that made him look like his mother had mated with a pig. He was skilled with a blade, though, and meaner than any soldier he’d ever employed. Not a brilliant man, but he could follow events as they happened, and every now and then he’d have an insight that left Arthur pleased.

  “Who did you work for before coming to me?” Arthur asked.

  “Mostly for the Conningtons. Past year or so they got shy when it came to killing thieves, so I went looking for more enjoyable work.” He grinned. “Everyone told me to talk to you. I think you have yourself a reputation, and not a good one.”

  “Hard times require hard men,” Arthur said. “Do you have any friends that might still be here in Veldaren?”

  “A mercenary never has friends, not if he wants to live long enough to get his pay. And sure, I have some contacts that should still be around. What you thinking?”

  “That man in gray who attacked us at the caravan, the one calling himself the Watcher … we need to bring his corpse to Alyssa so she might move on from her son’s death. That, and who knows where his loyalties lie? He could do me great harm by telling the right pair of ears what actually happened.”

  “It won’t be easy,” Oric said. “I never met him when working for Leon, but we all heard about him. The thieves can’t stand him, but they can’t find him either. Everyone’s always pointing fingers, convinced he’s a member of this or that guild. My thinking? He belongs to none, just wants them all dead.”

  “I don’t care,” Arthur said. “Whoever you hire, make sure they’re good enough to handle the job. Cost is no object.”

  Oric nodded. “What about the boy?”

  “I must stay here with Alyssa in her time of need. Take half my soldiers and ride north. We must make sure he did not survive.”

  Oric’s grin was ear-to-ear.

  “If he ain’t frozen in the woods somewhere, we’ll find him. Don’t worry, Arthur. Might not be how we wanted it, but when it all boils down, you’re in control. Just keep whispering them sweet words in that pretty ear of hers. I’ll take care of any blood-spilling.”

  “One more thing,” Arthur said. “Alyssa wants Nathaniel’s body.”

  Oric raised an eyebrow. “That’s an interesting request to fill, given the circumstances.”

  “And I expect you, and you alone, to handle it. Remember, I told them the body was burned.”

  “Consider the problem solved,” Oric said, heading for the door. “We never talked, and you know nothing of this. Watch your tongue. We’re sleeping in the den of lions now.”

  “We’re the lions in this den,” Arthur said, flashing Oric a grin. He followed Oric out the door, but whereas the mercenary headed for his crowded quarters with the rest of the guards, Arthur headed to the eastern half of the complex, to where Alyssa no doubt lay alone, tired, and in desperate need of his comfort.

  Alyssa waited until her servants escorted Arthur Hadfield to his room before she fled to her own. She was only halfway there when she stumbled and fell sobbing in the carpeted hallway. In the quiet of the night she felt alone, and if any servants or guards were nearby, they allowed her privacy for her grief. She thought of Nathaniel, her son, her wonderful, handsome son. A thousand memories flashed through her mind, all of them tainted with sorrow. His smile she’d never see again. His laugh she’d never hear again. The way he’d cried at night, the way he’d nuzzled her breast when only a newborn, the way he … the way he…

  More sobs. She felt close to breaking, as if her sanity would pour out with her tears. She’d lost many over the years, friends, her father, but why Nathaniel? Why him? Why now? How could she have made such a foolish mistake?

  Over and over she slammed a fist against the floor. Not her fault. Not her fault, damn it all, not her fault! It was them, the thieves and their greed and lust. It was this whole conflict, a decade of paranoia and bloodshed and poisoning. Most of all it was that Watcher, a monster unleashed against her by the thieves. Whoever he was, whatever he was, he’d pay. All of them, they would pay.

  “I’m sorry,” she heard Zusa say. She looked up, wiped her nose with her robe, and then nodded at the woman. Zusa sat opposite her in the hall, her knees pulled up to her chest. She still wore the strange wrappings of her former sect.

  “He was supposed to be safe,” Alyssa said, trying to regain control. Her voice quivered but a little. “Safe, and now he�
��s dead. Did you talk to any of Arthur’s soldiers?”

  “They all say the same. They came with Arthur along the road and found the caravan attacked, with the bodies gathered together in a great pyre. Their only clue was a symbol of an eye, that of the Watcher.”

  “Who is he?” Alyssa asked. “What is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then find out, Zusa. Whatever it costs, whatever it takes, find him. I have never ached for something like I do for this. I want Nathaniel’s killer brought to me. I want him to die by my hand. Can you do this? Can you find him?”

  Zusa stood and then bowed low.

  “The dark of the streets has always been my home,” she said. “Nothing can hide from me. I will find him, I swear it.”

  Alyssa accepted her offered hand and stood. She kissed Zusa’s fingers, then bowed herself.

  “Thank you. Send Bertram to my room after a few minutes. Wake him if he isn’t already.”

  Alyssa hurried to her room, wishing to wash her face of the garish rouge and powder she’d put on for Arthur. Once there she dipped a cloth into a basin of cold water, left there from when she first went to bed. Off came her painted face. She was still washing when she heard the knock at the door.

  “Come in,” she said.

  Bertram entered, and he looked about half as bad as she felt. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, and his face was covered with uneven gray stubble.

  “My dear child,” he said, taking her into his arms. She set the cloth down and leaned against him. She felt so tired, so lost.

  “It’s like a terrible dream,” she said softly. “One I can’t seem to wake from. What did I do to deserve this, Bertram?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “No woman should endure this, but endure you must. The Gemcroft legacy must survive, no matter the hardships. And we shall, Alyssa, we shall. Whatever help you need, I am here for you.”