Once he left his room at the shabby inn, he swung by the main market in the center of town, buying a thick slice of bread smothered with butter and honey. While he ate, he sat by a fountain in the center and listened to the idle talk as men and women passed by. The overwhelming sensation was not fear, as he’d expected. It was anger. More surprising was how it wasn’t directed at the guilds, or even the Trifect. They directed it at the king.
Stupid dogs, he thought as he ate. You’ve lived under this chaos for so long it’s become normal to you. The Trifect and the guilds war, and you see this as acceptable, but only if the king protects you. Last night destroyed your apathy. Last night saw your blood joining the others’. So you rage, but only to your protector. Damn king. Should have put this nonsense to rest years ago.
Still fairly new to Veldaren, Ghost knew only a little of the king, but what he’d gleaned wasn’t flattering. As he listened to men swear against their liege’s honor, and women insinuate he’d been born without his manhood, it seemed obvious that his cowardly indifference could no longer last. But whose side would he fall on, the guilds’ or the Trifect’s? Logic seemed to place him as a puppet of the Trifect, but Ghost was unsure. Which one would he fear more? If the man was a true coward, he’d fear the enemy he couldn’t keep out with gates and walls, the enemy that’d fill his drink with poison and lay a dagger under his pillow while he slept.
Meal finished, he drank from the fountain and then headed to the mercenaries’ headquarters. Not surprisingly, it was crowded with both the rich and the poor. They were pleading their cases, demanding compensation for damages done in the chaotic night. The old keeper, Bill Trett, shouted the same phrase over and over, as if by the fiftieth time it might finally sink in.
“Take all complaints to Alyssa Gemcroft’s estate. She has promised to accept full responsibility. I’m sorry if your house burned down, or someone died, but please, take all complaints to Alyssa Gemcroft’s estate. She has promised…”
Ghost slammed a massive fist against the door, the sound thunderous in the small room. The crowd, about twenty in all, jumped and turned.
“Enough!” he roared. “Get your asses out of here, and go to Lady Gemcroft’s with your problems.”
He kept his muscular arm pressed against the door, holding it open. The stance also revealed the weapons at his hips. He glared, letting them see he had no desire to argue. A few filed out, while the rest looked about as if trying to decide just how serious he was. Only a few carried weapons, and he doubted they were proficient with them.
“I’m letting go of the door,” he said, his voice lowering in volume but not in depth. “When it shuts, I kill everyone in here not a member of the mercenary guild. That clear?”
He let go. A wiry man in silks lunged for it, sticking his hand in the way. The rest followed him, until only a thankful Bill remained.
“What the Abyss happened last night?” the older man asked. “I expected several of them to jump the counter and attack me.”
“Frightened sheep,” Ghost said. “Let Alyssa handle them. No reason for you to put up with their bleating.”
“I doubt you’ve come here to be my savior,” Bill said, sitting down and smoothing his hair. He pulled a bottle from a drawer and took a deep swig. “So what is it you need?”
“A small group of mercenaries, led by one named Tarlak. Do you know them?”
Bill raised an eyebrow. “I do, but only because they’ve caused me a bit of trouble. Tarlak Eschaton, leader of the Eschaton Mercenaries. Refused to join our guild or pay dues. The last representative I sent their way demanding they join came back as a toad.”
Ghost blinked. “A toad?”
“A damn toad. Cost a fortune to send for a representative of the Council of Mages to come change him back. They weren’t too happy with that Tarlak, either. Evidently he’s a rogue apprentice or something, but since he’s not an official member they don’t consider him their problem, so long as he doesn’t start blowing up houses or trying to become anything more than what he is now.”
“Which is?”
Bill shrugged. “A small-time mercenary. Why do you ask?”
“I need to find him.”
“Last I knew he was on Crimson Alley, thirteenth heading south from Ax Way. Should still be there.”
“Do you know how many are with him?”
Bill took another long swig, paused to think, and then stood. After he’d locked the door, then put a wooden bar across, he sat back down.
“I’m thinking we’re closed for the day,” he said. “And I’m not sure I like where this is going, Ghost. Care to tell me why you want to know so much about this Tarlak fellow?”
“He knows something.”
“From what I hear, people that know something you want to know have a funny way of turning up dead.”
Ghost shrugged. “Depends on how loose their lips are.”
“My, aren’t you a piece of work?” Bill said, chuckling. “But considering they aren’t part of the guild, and you are, I guess I can tell you what I know. He lives with his sister, young gal. Priestess, I think. Also got some guy named Brug, though why he’s taken him in I don’t have a clue. We turned down that guy’s application twice. Too much temper without a shred of skill to back it up. Last is a guy named Stern, bald as you, but that’s all I know. If he can fight, I haven’t heard word of it. Like I said, small-time, with only his petty magic tricks to make him stand out in the slightest. Oh, and those gods-awful yellow robes of his. Their group’s only been around for nine months or so, maybe a year. I don’t expect ’em to last.”
Ghost bowed, stealing Bill’s bottle as he did. He took in several gulps, the burning in his throat doing much to awaken him.
“Enjoy your day in peace,” Ghost said, handing it back. “And lock the door after I leave. There’s still people gathering outside.”
“Will do.”
A glare from Ghost caused the few waiting outside to step back, and he didn’t move away until he heard the thump of the wood barring the door.
“You’ve still got your lives,” he told them. “If you’ve got that, you can move on. I suggest you do. Your pleading and curses won’t do a damn thing to sway anyone, not in this city.”
He trudged south, toward the Crimson, keeping an eye out for Ax Way so he could begin counting. Finding the thirteenth from there was easy. Eyeing the building’s two floors, he crossed his arms and thought. Deciding his entry point, he continued. A block later he turned around, coming back by a side alley. The way was dark, and two men glared at him as he passed. Any other they might have tried to rob, but he’d flashed them a grin, and he saw the way they stared at his painted face. They’d have been more likely to try to rob a dragon.
The Eschatons’ building itself was smooth wood on the outside, but not the one next to it. That was well-worn and cracked with many handholds. Climbing up to the roof, he turned and leaped the gap, rolling to absorb the impact of his landing. It wasn’t that he feared injuring his legs; he knew they could endure the blow. He just didn’t want to alert anyone inside to his presence. There was no direct entrance from the roof, but the second floor had a window, and that would be enough for him. Hanging upside down, he looked through it.
The glass was surprisingly clean, and he guessed it was because of the woman who slept beneath the window, red-haired and buried under blankets. The priestess, he figured. The muscles in his legs flexing to keep himself steady, he brushed his fingers against the glass, testing whether or not the window opened. It didn’t.
He swung back onto the roof and debated. If he broke in through the front door, the surprise would be less, and he wouldn’t have immediate access to the inhabitants. He could try coming back later, but if they slept through the day they’d probably be out with the other mercenaries come nightfall. Again, no good. It’d have to be now. He put his back to the ledge, then crouched down so he could clutch it with his hands. The window would be a tight fit, but if he stretched out eno
ugh he could squeeze through.
He kicked, shifting into a pivot. Feetfirst he smashed through the window, showering the woman’s bed with glass. He let go of the ledge and held his arms high above his head. His momentum carried him through, and he landed on his back on top of her. Before she could scream he rolled over and clamped a hand over her mouth.
“Shush now,” he said, ramming an open palm against the side of her head, knocking her out cold. Knowing time was short, he pushed off the bed and made for the door.
“Del?” he heard someone ask from the other side. His voice was nervous, but not yet worried. A broken window could be many things, most likely a stone, least likely a dangerous man built like a mountain. The door swung inward. Before it was a third of the way open, Ghost rammed it closed with his knee, then grabbed it with one hand and flung it wide. A man was falling on the other side, his balance broken by the sudden hit from the door. It was Tarlak, based on his outfit.
Bill was right. What is that, piss-yellow?
Ghost rammed a meaty fist into his mouth, just to make sure no spells got out. He had no intention of showing up at Bill’s later as a toad. The punch split the wizard’s lip, and blood flecked across Ghost’s knuckles. Ghost followed it up with a punch to the stomach, doubling him over. He dropped the wizard with both his fists together, bashing the back of his head. Tarlak crumpled, easily unconscious. Neither he nor the girl would be out long, maybe a few minutes, but Ghost felt it enough time. When they came to they’d be bound, and the wizard gagged.
There was one other room up top, its door open. Deciding it was Tarlak’s, he hurried to the stairs. If the other two were awake, they’d be rushing up them. Sure enough he heard hollering, and a short man with muscular arms and a beard met him halfway.
“What the bloody—?”
Ghost snapped a fist into his face, cutting the sentence off short. A knee to his groin sent the man rolling back down. Again Bill’s information rang true. The guy wasn’t much use, was he?
He followed Brug’s roll down the stairs, kicking him at the bottom to convince him to stay down. One left, the one called Stern. His eyes swept the lower floor. Two doors were in the back, plus an exit to the outside. One was open, Brug’s he assumed. The other…
The door blasted open as he reached for its handle. He spun immediately in the direction of the door, using it as a shield. A flanged mace cut through the air where he’d been. Ghost bounced off the wall, drawing both his swords. He shoved the mace aside, then slashed blindly around the door. The other sword hit something hard, and then they were both in view of each other. The man, Stern no doubt, glared back at him, a mace in each hand. Their weapons pressed against each other, testing strength. Stern, while stronger than he looked, was still no contest.
This didn’t seem to surprise him, though, and when Ghost tried to push him back, Stern parried both swords to the side and tried to leap past. He wanted the open area, Ghost realized, hoping his speed might win out. Ghost couldn’t stop him, but he could make life more difficult. He kicked as he rotated his body, taking out one of Stern’s knees. Stern didn’t even try to keep his balance, instead rolling forward, around an old wooden chair, and up to his feet before the front door. He lifted his maces and grinned.
“Clearly skilled,” he said. “So what person with money did we piss off this time?”
“Don’t matter,” Ghost said. He feinted a charge, then kicked the chair at him. Stern blocked it with his heel, but it was enough of a stall. Double-slashing, Ghost gave him no choice but to block, and block he did. His arms jarred, though nothing broke as Ghost had hoped. Sometimes, if he swung just right, he could pop a collarbone or wreck the joints in an elbow.
Ghost looped his swords around for an attack from both sides. That left the only opening straight ahead, toward his chest. He wanted this Stern character to try it, to hold his own instead of bouncing about. Maddeningly, he didn’t take it. Stern dropped to one knee, blocking the lower slash from his left and letting the right sail over his head. Immediately after blocking he rolled to the side. Ghost chased, but each slash smashed only floor. Time was no longer on his side. The others would be up soon, groggy and heads full of fog, but still up.
How much concentration did it take to turn someone into a toad, Ghost wondered.
Stern at last had nowhere to run. His back was to the wall. To his left were the stairs, and to his right the main door. His eyes flicked between both, deciding. Ghost gave him no time, rushing in while keeping his swords close. He would block a retreat with his own body and let his blades do the work. Stern had no chance of matching Ghost’s strength, and without a retreat, dying would be his only option.
It seemed Stern knew this as well. His eyes widened, and he appeared pressed to the very edge of his control by adrenaline and fear. The look of a cornered animal. Ghost knew Stern would not roll onto his back and hope for mercy. He’d lunge, mad, vicious. And that’s just what he did. Ghost feared those first few seconds as the maces came crashing in, slamming into his swords with shocking impact. He felt kicks strike his body, at one point an elbow, and still the maces looped and struck. But they were fighting Ghost’s fight now, close up and animalistic. He blocked a swipe from the side, then savagely struck the mace’s length with his other blade, knocking it from Stern’s hand. Stern’s other weapon came around, straight for his head. Instead of ducking Ghost stepped closer, chest to chest. The side of Stern’s arm hit his face, but that was far better than the sharp edges of the mace.
One sword slashed Stern’s arm, making him drop his weapon. The other thrust into his belly and twisted.
“Shit,” Stern grunted, clutching Ghost’s wrist with both hands. His whole body shook, and his face rapidly paled. Ghost pulled his weapon free, breaking Stern’s grip as if it were that of a child. The man slid down the wall, blood pouring across his hands and down his legs. He held the wound with his palms, slowing the bleeding.
“You should have surrendered,” Ghost said. “Though I respect your defense of your friends, this was all unnecessary.”
He left him there, stepped over Brug, and climbed the stairs. The short fighter was moaning still, conscious but only just. He was no threat. Ghost found the wizard first, glad to see him still out. Unwrapping the rope he’d looped about his own waist, he cut a length of it and bound Tarlak’s hands. Thinking for a moment, he cut a smaller length, wedged a piece of the wizard’s own robe into his mouth, and then tied it there to form a gag. Hefting Tarlak onto his shoulder, he carried him back down the stairs and deposited him in a chair. Stern watched him with glazed eyes from where he lay.
Last was the girl. She opened her eyes when he stepped inside, but she showed no recognition, nor any signs of fear. Concussion, he figured. She probably didn’t know the difference between him and the King of Ker.
“To your feet,” he said. “I’d hate to strike you again.”
He grabbed her wrists and held them tight as he escorted her down the stairs. Once she was tied to another chair, he kicked Brug to see how he was faring.
“Damn it,” Brug muttered, his eyes suddenly focusing. “What was that for?”
He saw Ghost standing over him, and then he tried to reach for his weapons. Laughing, Ghost slammed his heel onto his throat and pushed him back.
“I’d recommend you behave,” he said, the tip of his sword dangling before an eye. “Otherwise I might just let go.”
Brug ground his teeth, glanced about, then nodded. Ghost bound his hands and feet and then dumped him on the floor beside the others.
“Well, that was disappointingly easy,” Ghost said, sheathing his swords. “I hope the Watcher proves more challenging than you four.”
Stern said something, but his voice was too weak to hear. Ghost stepped closer and leaned down.
“You’ll find out when he kills you,” Stern said, then made a sound like a cross between a cough and a laugh. Ghost slapped the side of his face, the gesture almost playful.
“At le
ast you put up a fight,” he said. “So I’ll forgive you for your frightened boasting. Stay still, and try not to let your grip slip. You might know something useful to me, and I’d hate to lose it because you can’t keep your guts from squeezing through your fingers.”
The priestess seemed to be getting her bearings, but Tarlak was still clearly out. Ghost reached into a pocket and pulled out some smelling salts. Shoving them under the wizard’s nose, he held his head by his hair and waited. After a few sniffs Tarlak’s eyelids began to flutter, and then he jolted as if splashed by a bucket of water.
“Whmmph,” he said.
“Welcome back,” Ghost said, smacking his shoulder. “Forgive the gag. I know how dangerous your kind is with a few silly words. I may take it out, but only for a moment, and only when my swords are at your throat. Understand?”
A soft gasp came from his right. It seemed like the priestess had finally come to her senses.
“Senke!” she gasped.
Senke?
He followed her gaze to the wounded man against the wall. A pet name, perhaps? Or maybe Bill had been wrong about the man’s identity?
“He put up a better fight than the rest of you,” Ghost said.
“Don’t say nothing, Delysia,” Brug muttered. “Just bite your tongue and say nothing.”
“I don’t think I’d listen to him,” Ghost said, placing the name to her face. Many people he interrogated became much more compliant when he called them by their names.
“Please, I can help him!” She squirmed against her bonds. “He’s dying!”
“If he’s dying, he’s doing a poor job of it.” He watched her struggle to see if his ropes would hold. Satisfied, he took her chin in a giant hand and forced her gaze to his. “But if you want untied, you’ll have to talk. That’s all, little girl, just talk. No sin in that, right?”
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Don’t!” Brug shouted. Ghost turned on him, and this time his kick was lower, and harder. Brug howled like an animal, and his face turned a beet red.
A Dance of Blades (Shadowdance 2) Page 23
