A Dance of Blades (Shadowdance 2)

by David Dalglish

  “Where is Calan?” he asked as he grabbed an elderly priestess, her face a circular web of wrinkles.

  “Busy,” she said, giving him a reproachful glare. She didn’t seem the slightest bit unnerved by his size or skin.

  “Bring him,” he said, refusing to let go despite her tugging to.break free. “He owes me one. Tell him Ghost is here, and that I’m the one who saved this damn temple from the mob two nights ago.”

  She looked him up and down, and though it seemed impossible her frown grew deeper.

  “I’ll see if I can find him,” she said, then hurried on her way. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. If he could ignore every noise, every visual distraction, he could focus on the pain, and doing so made him feel better. His temples throbbed with each pulse, but he kept it under control. He felt the pain’s limits, how far it stretched throughout his leg. Time passed, and he was dimly aware of it.

  “I see you’ve returned,” a man’s voice said. Ghost stirred to see Calan standing before him. He looked tired, with dark circles under his eyes and his smile forced. “May I ask why you’ve given us the pleasure?”

  In answer, Ghost pulled up his pant leg to reveal the wound. He winced when he saw it himself. The purple bruise had spread, and the green pus was filling up his bandage. Calan’s smile immediately vanished, and he grabbed Ghost’s arm.

  “This way,” he said. “You need a bed, now.”

  Ghost wanted to protest but didn’t. He’d hoped for a bit of healing magic, and then off he’d be. Instead he obeyed without argument, for his head ached, his stomach was doing loops, and he felt intensely drained. It was as if the pain were a fire burning away his energy. Calan led him through the maze of people and pews. His head swiveled, but he saw no opening, no space available. Muttering, he turned Ghost toward the back, then through a door to a modest room. It had a small desk, a bookshelf, and a bed, and it was that bed Calan set him upon.

  “My quarters will have to do,” the priest said. “Though I fear the bed might be small for you.”

  “A bed’s a bed,” Ghost mumbled.

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Here.” He tossed the small bag of coins to pay for his treatment. “Save my leg, will you?”

  Calan rolled up the pant leg, carefully folding it over and over until it was up to his thigh. Ghost closed his eyes. For some strange reason he didn’t want to watch. He didn’t want to understand what the priest would do, or what its implications were. Gods were for other people, not him. Gold and killing, that was god enough for him. He heard whispers, undoubtedly prayers, so he leaned his head back and tried to relax. The pain continued to throb, its reach growing. He felt it down to his shin, as if instead of giving him a single cut, the Watcher had beaten and smashed his whole leg with a club.

  A strange sound met his ears. It was like a soft breeze blowing past the entrance of a cave, yet deeper, fuller. Even through his closed eyelids he saw the light flare. When it plunged into his leg it was like fire. He clutched the sides of the bed and clenched his teeth. His nostrils flared as he breathed in and out.

  “The infection is deep,” he heard Calan say. “Bear with me, Ghost. I know you’re strong. You will endure.”

  More prayers, and another burst of light. This time when it plunged into him there was no feeling of fire, only a cold numbness that spread with alarming speed. He worried that if it reached his lungs he’d never breathe again. It stopped at his thigh, though, and then seemed to shrink back in on itself. With its retreat he realized he felt no pain, even when the coldness left his leg entirely.

  “What did you do?” he asked, daring to open his eyes.

  “What you wanted me to do,” Calan said, looking down at him. “What else?”

  The priest resumed his prayers, and as his hands hovered over Ghost’s knee, the flesh began to knit itself together, forming a pale scar on his dark skin. When finished, Calan took a step back and more collapsed than sat with his weight pressed against the door. His head thumped against the wood, and it seemed those dark circles had worsened.

  “A long two days,” he said, as if to himself.

  “Blame the Trifect,” Ghost said.

  “I blame no one. Have no reason. Some days are long, and some painfully short. Must say, I do prefer the calmer ones to this, however.”

  Ghost chuckled, but he didn’t have the strength to continue. Drowsiness was stealing over him. He’d only slept a few hours in the tavern, and it’d hardly been deep or comforting. The pain had found him even in his dreams.

  “I think I’ll sleep now,” he said.

  And then he did. His sleep was deep, dark, and strangely without dreams. When he awoke he felt as if an immense amount of time had passed. His leg felt worlds better, though he was still hesitant to bend it. What if it was all an illusion, and the pain would return tenfold when he finally tested it? Rubbing his eyes with his hand, he shook his head to speed up his waking. He found himself alone in the room.

  When he put his weight on his knee, it buckled and gave completely. He caught himself on the bed and collapsed back atop it.

  “What the fuck?” he asked, then felt guilty for cursing in the middle of a temple. It was a silly feeling, but still his neck flushed. He stretched his arms and back, then settled in. What should he do now? It wasn’t like he was in any real danger, and he’d already paid for the bed and healing. The only thing nagging at his mind was the Watcher. He needed another confrontation, one without those annoying mercenaries getting in the way. How could he manage it? And would the Watcher be foolish enough to return to that building, return to where he knew others might find him? What he knew about the Watcher could be written on a pebble. The man might still be with the Eschatons, or he might be halfway to Ker.

  Ten minutes later the door opened, and in stepped Calan. He looked a little better, but not much.

  “Was your rest pleasant?” he asked. He sounded distracted, the question more obligatory than anything.

  “Best in years. How long was I out?”

  “My guess is five hours,” Calan said. He pulled the chair out from the desk and plopped into it. Massaging his forehead with his fingers, he stared down at the wood and appeared to soak in the calm. Ghost had seen people look like that before, after they’d endured a long stretch on a battlefield. Once the blood and bodies were gone, the men looked as if solitude were something physical they could soak in like a sponge, silence a concoction they could massage into their temples and necks.

  “It bad out there?” he asked, disliking the lack of noise.

  “It was,” Calan said, his eyes staring through his desk. “Better now. A lot of dead, and even more anger and hopelessness. Too many expect miracles, as if I had any to give.”

  Ghost felt another awkward silence descend over them. Deciding he was out of his league, he pulled things back to something more grounded, more real to him.

  “What’s wrong with my knee?” he asked. “I can’t stand on it.”

  Calan looked up. “I cleansed the infection and knit the flesh, but it is still tender. The spell I used to numb your pain will take time to fade, and until it does, most of your muscles will ignore any request you make of them. Don’t fight it; there isn’t much point. In another hour or so you’ll be walking, albeit with a limp. A few more and you’ll be back to doing whatever it is you do. Killing, I assume, sending me even more men and women to care for.”

  “I came and paid good coin for healing, not insults.”

  “My apologies,” Calan said. “That was uncalled for.”

  “It was.”

  He tilted his head toward the wall, not even wanting to look at the old man. The only ones he’d killed recently were those he’d been contracted to kill, and those who had been attacking the priests’ temple. That was the thanks he got? Vague accusations of making the priest’s life harder, and a claim that he was nothing but a killer?

  “You know what it’s like to live in a place where everyo
ne who sees you either hates you or is afraid?” Ghost asked.

  “There are many who are unsettled by my presence, and more who are angered by what I speak.”

  “But it isn’t the whole city. Even those who fear you do so because you’ve got something they don’t understand. They don’t understand me either, but you, they could choose to be like you if they wanted. They can’t be like me, no matter what they do. The best they could do is smear themselves with coal, and that’d vanish with a good scrub.”

  Calan leaned back in his chair, and he seemed to truly look at Ghost for the first time.

  “Is that why you paint your face? To show them how different you are?”

  Ghost chuckled. “You want to know why? Truly why? It should show them how the difference between us, between me and you, is something as stupid as a strip of paint, something so thin and artificial we think nothing of it if done to a wall or a piece of armor. But that never happens. Instead they look at me with even greater fear. When I first started, those I hunted called me Ghost, and so I took the name and abandoned my old one. At least if they hated the Ghost, feared it, it was my own creation they feared. It wasn’t me; it wasn’t who I really was. Let them focus their hatred on something I can shed as easily as I shed this paint upon my face.”

  “Are you a killer?” the priest asked.

  “No. But I think Ghost is.”

  “And who are you when you are not this Ghost?”

  Ghost looked at him, trying to understand the true desire behind the question. Calan seemed interested, almost invested, in what he might say and do. There was no deceit in him, and of that quality Ghost considered himself an excellent judge. Who was he when not the man with the white face? Who was he when not hunting, when not contracted to capture or kill another?

  “I’m not sure I remember anymore,” he said.

  “Do you still remember your name?”

  He should have, but suddenly it didn’t seem so clear. It’d been over ten years since he adopted the Ghost moniker. Before that he’d gone by a dozen names, changing them as he traveled east, for each city a new name. He tried to pull up childhood memories, of hearing his mother say his name, but each one was different in the timeworn haze. Suddenly he felt ashamed, and he wanted to be anywhere other than beneath the priest’s unrelenting gaze.

  “No,” he said at last. “And I may never. Why does it matter to you, old man?”

  “If you have to ask, I fear your mistrust has sunk in far deeper than any infection.”

  Ghost used the wall to shove himself onto his good leg.

  “Enough,” he said. “My thanks for your help. Good luck with your wounded.”

  “And you with your wounds as well.”

  An hour later Ghost limped from the temple, more than ever certain that Haern needed to die, if only to put his suddenly troubled mind at rest.

  CHAPTER 26

  Veliana pulled her dagger free of the man’s neck and kicked his body away. All around her rose the stench of blood and dead bodies. They’d thoroughly trashed the home, broken chairs and shattered tables. Deathmask stood at the door, scanning for more trespassers on their territory, while the twins entered from the house’s other room.

  “I’m bleeding,” said Mier.

  “He’s bleeding,” said Nien.

  “Badly?” Deathmask asked, not bothering to glance inside.

  “No.”

  “No.”

  That seemed good enough for Deathmask. Veliana cleaned her dagger and jammed it into her belt. She felt ready to pass out. Between mercenaries and other members of the guilds, they’d killed over thirty men since the night started, and now it was halfway through morning and still they continued, the most recent dead being from the Wolf Guild. It seemed Deathmask’s desire for blood knew no bounds. She felt ready to collapse at the slightest breeze, yet he was still searching, still bouncing as if he were an excited maiden.

  The worst was that the territory they’d chosen to make their stand on was a single street aptly named Shortway, poorly traveled and worth a meager handful of coins in theft and protection money.

  “This is hopeless,” she said, approaching her guildmaster. Some guild, she thought. Four of them slaughtering trespassers on a single street. Surely the other guildmasters were quaking in their boots. “We’ve accomplished nothing other than a few bodies.”

  “Rumors,” Deathmask said, still scanning the sparsely populated street. “Whispers. Exaggerations. Given time they will work for us. We start with a single road, and let the rest of the city know that it is ours. Then we take a second, and a third. With each passing day we spread until we can take no more, and by then they will fear us more than any other guild, for we will be few, we will be skilled, and we will have shown they cannot stop us, cannot even slow us down.”

  Veliana rolled her eyes but decided not to press the point. She felt too tired to argue.

  “Sleep would be nice,” said Mier, or perhaps it was Nien.

  “Very nice,” said the other.

  “Very well,” Deathmask said. “Let’s return. Tomorrow will be just as long, and longer should the mercenaries finally slack off. We have more to fear from the guilds than from them. To the mercenaries we are a small nuisance, a paltry four worth no bounty. It’s the other guilds they want. But Thren, Kadish, William … they’ll understand. One of them will descend upon us with all their fury, and that is the battle we must win, that our entire fate will rest upon.”

  “Rest,” said Veliana. It was really the only word from his spiel that her mind could latch onto. “I think that’s the smartest thing you’ve said.”

  His eyes narrowed behind his mask, but then he laughed.

  “We have longer days ahead of us than this, you three. I hope you understand that. Still, no reason to press ourselves without reason. We’ve accomplished what we must. Let’s get back to our little hideout.”

  Deathmask led the way. No one accosted them on their travels, and it seemed none were tracking them either. Shortway was hardly the center of much guild activity, and those few who had stumbled upon it had died. Most of their kills had been thieves fleeing from other territories, where the mercenaries had been at their thickest. When they reached their safe house, a cellar rented from a well-bribed tavernkeeper, Deathmask flung the doors open, lit a waiting torch with a touch of his finger, and led them down.

  The cellar was not empty.

  “It took you long enough,” said the Watcher, leaning against the far wall.

  The twins drew their daggers, and Veliana felt her hands reach for her own. Deathmask put an arm before them all, then took off his mask and grinned.

  “Forgive us. We didn’t know we had company waiting. Have you come to accept my offer?”

  Haern nodded toward the twins.

  “Have you made new friends?”

  “For now,” the twins said in unison.

  The Watcher chuckled. “Very well then. I take it you can read?”

  A pouch hung from his waist, and he pulled one of many scrolls from it and tossed it to Deathmask, who caught it and began reading. His eyes widened, so Veliana glanced over, but he was moving it too much for her to decipher anything useful.

  “The whole city?” Deathmask asked. He looked ready to both laugh and lash out in rage. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Perhaps. Have you lost your courage?”

  “Don’t turn this on me. You want to present every guildleader and member of the Trifect with the same demand, and then force them to accept within the span of a single night?”

  Veliana yanked the document from his hand and read further. In a tight, careful script the letter warned the reader to either accept the following terms or die: A yearly sum, to be determined by the king or his advisors to be equal to one-third the gold lost to theft or spent on mercenaries in an equal amount of time, would be equally distributed among the remaining five major thief guilds. In return the guilds would protect everything within the city walls from the
ft by any of their members. Following these terms was the date on which the Watcher expected an answer: the winter solstice … two nights away.

  She rolled the document up and tossed it back to Haern, who deftly caught it.

  “You’ve lost your mind,” she said.

  “If I remember correctly, it was your idea, not mine. So the insanity should at least be shared.”

  Deathmask laughed, but he looked ready to explode. “I wanted them to meet to decide terms. I wanted delays, chances to manipulate various parties, and to thin out the guilds who might resist. You want to force the guilds and Trifect to become bedfellows, and even worse, you want to do it all in a single night. How? What madness in you makes you think this could work?”

  “You know several will agree,” Haern insisted. “Those mercenaries are devastating everyone, and will continue to do so as long as the Trifect can afford them. This war has lasted ten years, far longer than even Thren wanted. The Trifect itself is hemorrhaging money, but they currently have no way to end this while saving face. And that’s assuming Thren would even let them end it.”

  Veliana shook her head. “You of all people should understand, too many would resent this. You’d turn us from honest thieves to low-rent bodyguards. The very nature of the guilds would shift.”

  “They shifted before,” Haern said. “When my father took rule, the guilds were full of simple thieves, nothing more. They stole from who they could, rarely even having the courage to go after the Trifect. The drugs, the trafficking, the protection money, it all came from his mind. His vision. He changed the game.”

  Haern’s voice softened.

  “My father turned poor men with deft hands into an empire of organized theft and murder, and every guild followed. Give me my chance to replace his legacy with another. I’ve killed, and killed, and now I will make it have meaning. Every guildmaster or leader who refuses will die by my hand. Those who assume control will be given the same demands, and suffer the same fate if they refuse. My father began this chaos, and I will end it.”