A Dance of Blades (Shadowdance 2)

by David Dalglish

  “You,” Oric said, starting to understand. If Arthur died before marrying Alyssa, then the land would become John’s. “But you aren’t the one holding Arthur. Alyssa is. And if she finds out…”

  “If she finds out, then she’ll force him to return the lands to her,” said John. “But she’ll only do that if she discovers what happened. Now do you understand? I hold all the control here. Arthur won’t dare challenge me about your deaths, for the truth gets him killed. He can only keep his mouth shut and pray for the best. I, however…”

  Oric tried to flex his back, but he was held too closely to the wall. He rolled his neck back and forth, and it popped loudly. Minutes. It’d only been minutes, but he already wanted out. Far better to shiver freely on the floor than sit unable to move half his body. He didn’t want to think about hours. Or days. Or, gods forbid, years.

  “I hold Arthur’s life in my hands, and yours as well,” said John. “I might have used Uri for this, but he didn’t take well to my low servants’ questionings. We had to ensure he spoke the truth, of course. So it is down to you. Where do your loyalties lie, Oric? You deserve death, we both know this. What might you do to be spared that fate? Help me, or otherwise … you said it yourself: rope or ax.”

  Oric couldn’t believe his luck. He’d thought that he’d have nothing of value to offer, but if he could roll on his former master and somehow escape with his own head…

  “What is it you want from me?” he asked.

  “I need you to kill Arthur before he can discover things have gone awry, and before Alyssa might realize his involvement. Before you do, I want you to sign a statement I might use in the king’s court detailing every bit of your, and Arthur’s, involvement.”

  “What do I do once I kill Arthur?” Oric asked. “What happens then?”

  This time the lord did smile.

  “A man of your talents? Surely you could disappear into a crowd afterward, and then, well … Ker’s a long way away, and Mordan even farther. I also hear the sailors in Angelport often need a good sellsword aboard their ships.”

  “What about the farmer?”

  “He’s injured, and my healers say it will take several days for him to recover. We should have this concluded before he can be of any concern. Besides, these matters are far above his station, and his word in any court would be suspect at best, being just a low-birth simpleton.”

  It couldn’t get any better. Oric was hardly afraid of a little travel, and killing Arthur would be no skin off his nose. Given the nature of his mission, it’d only be natural they go somewhere quiet to talk, and after a bit of knifework he’d have his freedom.

  “I’ll do it,” Oric said.

  “Excellent. We’ll claim you escaped the dungeon after we extracted your confession. When you went to Arthur, he tried to cut ties and claim everything was your plan. You killed him and fled, and to where, I don’t want to know. Is this understood?”

  “It is.”

  “I’ll have a servant down here with candles and parchment. Tell him everything you know, every possible detail. Farewell, Oric.”

  He stood and left, and to Oric’s great relief John had his guards remove the clamps at his wrists before he went. True to John’s word, an elderly man with a crooked nose arrived.

  “The beginning, please,” he said, dipping his quill into an inkwell.

  So Oric told him, starting with Arthur’s thieving from the Gemcroft mines and smuggling the coin to the Serpent Guild for laundering.

  “Will you truly let him go?” asked one of the soldiers walking alongside John, a veteran and trusted knight named Cecil.

  “Of course not,” the lord snapped. “The Gemcrofts have had those mines tied up in legal protection for over a century. I could wipe out half their family, their extended family, Arthur included, and they’d still find someone besides myself to be legal heir. To be truthful, I don’t even want them. Giant hassle, all of it.”

  “Then why the ruse?”

  “I need his confession, quick, truthful, and most importantly damning to Arthur. I’ll be sending you to Veldaren with that confession in your hands, along with a letter of my own.”

  Cecil bowed to show he was honored.

  “Will we not be bringing Nathaniel back to his mother?” he asked as they exited the dungeon, doused their torch, and headed toward the mess hall.

  “Nathaniel was already abducted once on the road, and when he should have been in my care, no less. My own damn foolishness for trusting that snake, Arthur. I will keep him here, and in safety, until Alyssa comes for him. But you … you can let Alyssa know of his survival. She’s a bright lady, but Arthur has a way with words, and who knows what lies he has spun about her to protect himself? That confession should burn them all away, and if she is who I think she is, she’ll deal with him accordingly. Let me get some food into these old bones, and then I’ll pen my letter. When you have mine and Oric’s, ride hard to Veldaren. If Arthur suspects something’s amiss, I fear he will make a move against her.”

  “Of course, milord,” Cecil said, bowing again. “What of Oric?”

  John grinned.

  “He said he preferred the ax, so prepare the gallows. He deserves nothing, not even the choice of his own death. Let him hang from my walls, the honorless bastard.”

  CHAPTER 25

  For a second night Alyssa watched the city burn from her window. There were more fires now, at least seven she could see. She wondered what it meant. Were her mercenaries finding more of the thieves’ ratholes? She held an empty glass in her hand, and she toasted the stars, which were hidden behind a blanket of smoke.

  “You deserve better, Nathaniel,” she whispered.

  “I too can think of better homages for your son,” Zusa said, having slipped inside without making a noise. Alyssa had trained herself not to jump at Zusa’s voice, but still she quivered, her nerves frayed.

  “Perhaps,” she said as the woman came to her side. “But this is the best I can do.”

  “You lie to yourself. This is for you, your hurt. Do what you must, but do it in truth, and bear the burden proudly.”

  “Enough,” Alyssa said, hurling her glass against the window. It shattered, small flecks of red wine dripping down to the floor. “I don’t need speeches. I don’t need your wisdom. I need my son back, my little boy…”

  She pressed her head against the glass and refused to break. As the tears ran down her face she stared at the distant fires and tried to revel in the bloodshed they represented. But she only felt hollow.

  “As you wish,” she heard Zusa say.

  “Stay,” she whispered, knowing the faceless woman would leave her.

  “As you wish.”

  “Tell me, how goes it out there?”

  Zusa gestured to the city. “The thieves are ready, more than they were last night. They started those fires, and they’ve killed many innocents. I think they’re hoping to turn the people against the king, and it might work. If Veldaren is an altar, you’ve covered it in blood as a sacrifice to your son. I don’t know which god will honor it, though. Perhaps they’ve both washed their hands of this miserable city.”

  Alyssa nodded. It sounded right. She had opened up her coffers and replaced their stores of gold with bodies of the dead. Was it a fair trade? Could it ever be?

  “What about the one who killed my son?” she asked.

  Zusa thought of her fight with him, and how she’d been stopped at the last minute by Veliana’s insistence. What the other woman wanted with him she didn’t know, nor did she care. Veliana had sacrificed their friendship to take him from her and Alyssa. If that was all she was worth, then so be it. But she didn’t want to let Alyssa know how close she’d come to taking the Watcher back to her, as much as she hated to lie. So she stretched the truth as far as it would go.

  “I fought him,” she admitted. “But he escaped before I reached victory. Where he is now, I do not know.”

  “Did you hurt him?”

  “Yes.
I drew blood.”

  “Good. At least that’s a start. Will you go out again before the night is over?”

  Zusa put a wrapped hand upon the glass and stared out. Slowly she shook her head.

  “No. There’s nothing out there, just men killing one another. I think even the Watcher has stepped back to let it run its course. May I leave?”

  Alyssa nodded. When Zusa was halfway to the door she stopped and glanced back. She looked as tired as Alyssa felt.

  “If I may be so bold, I have a request. Make this the last night, Alyssa. Killing doesn’t cover the pain of loss. It’ll only drain you, leave you empty. I do not pretend that these men deserve mercy, not all of them … but this path you’ve chosen will only lead to ruin. Even if it does, I will follow you into it, even unto death.”

  “I don’t know if I can stop this,” Alyssa said.

  “You’re strong enough, Lady Gemcroft. I know it.”

  And with that she left, the door closing with a soft click of wood. Alyssa watched the fires, but it seemed she could no longer keep her mind upon them. She felt tired, and she often thought of returning to her bed. She hadn’t slept well lately, maybe a few hours at most. All throughout the day men and women had come to her, claiming damages for what her mercenaries had done. Near the end she had paid every claim, whether its validity could be proven or not. She hadn’t had the energy left to care. At last she’d delegated the responsibility to Bertram.

  As if thinking his name had summoned him, the old man opened the door, then knocked on it after the fact.

  “Yes, Bertram?” she said, keeping her face to the window so he couldn’t see her tears. “If this is about the cost of damages and repairs, spare me. I am in no mood, and you should be asleep in any case.”

  “As should you as well,” Bertram said, quietly approaching. “But it seems sleep is a difficult thing for most of us in these troubled times. I’ve come to discuss a different matter.”

  “And what is that?”

  She could see his reflection in the glass, and she watched him chew his lower lip while he clasped his hands behind his back.

  “I’ve gone over the mercenaries’ pay, along with our promised payments to the citizens, and the total is…”

  “I told you I had no interest,” she snapped.

  “It’s more than that,” Bertram said, doing his best to keep his tone soothing and controlled. “I did as you requested, and treated cost as no object, but I feared the folly, and as I feared, it has come to pass. The cost has been unbelievable, especially with how many have died. The guild requires extra compensation for men who fall in the line of duty, for wives, children, mistresses, and the like. Plus the fires were more than we expected, and you have accepted blame for nearly all cases.”

  “Your point?” she asked.

  He stood up straighter as he spoke.

  “We have nothing left, Lady Gemcroft. Your fortune is spent. Unless we delay payments for several years, we will default on at least a third of the mercenaries, and aid with only half of the repairs.”

  Her mouth dropped open.

  “Are you certain?”

  He nodded. “I have checked multiple times.”

  She saw the fires burning before her, and suddenly they took on a different meaning.

  “Is that counting tonight?”

  “For the mercenaries, yes, but not necessarily any extra for the dead, since I cannot know for certain until tomorrow. But not the fires, no. I can only assume the worst.”

  She felt her whole world spiraling away from her. How could all her wealth have vanished so quickly? It didn’t seem possible. Of course the mines in the north had lessened in their production over the past year, but still, what of their contracts, their trade? Had the thief guilds truly destroyed so much?

  “All is not lost,” he said, sliding closer and wrapping a comforting arm around her shoulders. “I have thought of a way to help ease this burden. We still may delay some payments, especially for those who died without families or still have means to survive.”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Lord Hadfield has an extensive amount of wealth saved up, an amount he hoped to bequeath to an eventual heir. If you were to marry, he would assume your debts. I have already discussed the matter, and he is willing to do his part to help you move on from your son’s death, including this debacle you have unleashed upon our city.”

  She crossed her arms and held them against her as if she were cold. Could she marry Arthur? True, he’d been kind since he arrived, and he seemed to have no intention of leaving. They’d shared a bed, even, and with him she did feel some measure of comfort. Her heart ached for Mark, but he was gone, as was her son. Should she continue to let that haunt her? Maybe Zusa was right. Maybe it was time to end all of it.

  “When?” she finally asked.

  “It will need to be soon, especially given how deep our debt is. If we make significant payments we can hold our debtors at bay, as well as convince them we have every intention of making good on our promises. Leon Connington will help if you ask. No member of the Trifect would let another fall so far as to bring shame upon them as well. Perhaps in a few days I can have the ceremonies prepared, and all the proper documents written and presented before the king’s council for approval.”

  There was something chipper about his tone that scraped against her spine like metal on glass.

  “Enough,” she said. “Start on whatever you must, but don’t tell Arthur anything other than that I am open to the idea. He should at least be the one to propose, not my father’s old advisor.”

  Bertram smiled. “Quite right, quite right. Good night, milady. Perhaps soon you will finally have pleasant dreams.”

  “Good night, Bertram.”

  Once he was gone she blew out her candles, returned to her bed, and tried to sleep. She couldn’t.

  “Arthur Gemcroft,” she whispered, moving the name about her tongue as if trying to taste it. He would adopt her last name, as all men and women did when entering into a family of the Trifect.

  “Arthur Gemcroft. Arthur … Gemcroft.”

  It had a ring to it, she had to admit. She’d put off marriage for long enough. It was time for her to be practical. Still, as much sense as it made, it gave no comfort, and she tossed and turned until the morning light shone through her curtains, falling upon her haggard face and bloodshot eyes.

  The wound in Ghost’s leg was worse than he’d originally feared. Without much reason to join the night’s slaughter, he’d instead languished in his favorite tavern, drowning himself in alcohol to dull his pain. He’d passed out, and no one had had the nerve to wake him. Finally he’d returned to his squalid inn, carefully put his weapons aside, and then collapsed onto his bed. The windows had no shutters or curtains, and the light streamed in upon his face. The dressings on his leg, haphazard at best, had soaked through, and he feared it was now infected.

  As he lay there he felt the pain crawling its way up his thigh, as if it were a spider scurrying through his veins. If he didn’t do something soon he’d lose use of the knee, if not the entire leg. He wouldn’t be the best anymore. He wouldn’t even be a threat. A man of his strength, his skill, was not meant to be a cripple. Surely the gods did not intend such a fate for him.

  The gods…

  Ghost rolled off the bed, putting all his weight on his good leg. Damn that priestess. The Watcher had been his, thoroughly beaten. He didn’t give a shit that he’d appeared wounded and weaponless. Assassinations, by their very nature, were unfair. But he’d been a fool to let her tend to the wounded Senke. He’d thought her too young to be a threat, but how wrong he’d been.

  “It’s not the big snakes you need to fear,” he remembered a friend telling him once as they crossed the grasslands toward Veldaren. “It’s the tiny ones who carry the real venom. Put that on your darts if you want a sure kill.”

  The priestess was the tiny snake, the insignificant one among the wizard and warriors. Stupid. St
upid!

  He took a hobbled step toward a large dresser full of clothes and outfits. Leaning against it for support, he yanked out the top drawer, letting it crash to the floor. Reaching into the hole where it had been, he pulled out a small bag of coin. It’d have to do. Retrieving his swords, he opened the door and stepped out into the painful morning light.

  Twice on the way to the temple he collapsed, his knee unable to bear his weight. A black bruise swelled across it, and the pus where the Watcher’s sword had cut him was turning green. No one paid him any attention, the crowd flowing to either side as if he were an overturned cart, or a dead body.

  Reaching the temple offered Ghost little comfort. He still had to climb the many steps, a fact made no easier given their ruined state after the spell their high priest had cast the previous night. After the first few Ghost gave up any pretense of pride. He sat down upon them, put his back to the temple, and pushed himself up one at a time. At the top he braced himself on a pillar and used it to keep his balance while he stood. Men and women gathered about the wooden doors, crying out for aid. No doubt the temple was swarming with people inside as well. He’d seen the fires, heard the sounds of combat flowing up and down the streets. The thieves had put up a fight this time, firing arrows from the rooftops and preparing a hundred ambushes.

  He pushed his way through them, the wound in his leg meaning nothing to his enormous arms. Most turned to glare at him, then decided otherwise seeing his size and painted face. Once inside the temple he leaned against a wall and surveyed the madness. Priests and priestesses of all ages were running about. They looked like white bees zipping from flower to flower. They’d kneel, exchange a word, maybe say a prayer, and then move on. The older ones lingered, and he saw many put their hands on wounds and whisper words of prayer to Ashhur. White light would cover their hands, sometimes weak, sometimes strong, and then sink into the wound. That was what he needed. Faithful or not, he wouldn’t deny that the priests had their uses. But he wouldn’t risk some juvenile treating him. He wanted a master, someone who knew what he was doing.