A Dance of Blades, (Shadowdance Trilogy, Book 2)

by David Dalglish

  “Was your rest pleasant?” he asked. He sounded distracted, the question more obligatory than any conscious desire to know.

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

  “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 was something physical they could soak in like a sponge, silence a concoction they could massage through their temples and neck.

  “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 few hours, 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, 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 for, or defending the priests’ temple. That was the thanks he got? Vague accusations of making his life harder, and a claim that he was nothing but a killer?

  “You know what it’s like to live in a place where everyone 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. They 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 him 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 the 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 lie or deceit in him, and Ghost considered himself an excellent judge of both. 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, 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 time-worn 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 sunken 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.”

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

  24

  Veliana pulled her dagger free of the Wolf’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 to 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. 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 greater 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 her mind could latch onto during his spiel. “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 travel, 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 hand 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 sum, to be decided by the king or his advisors equal to half the gold lost to theft or spent on mercenaries, would be equally distributed among the remaining five major thief guilds. In return, the thief guilds would protect everything within the city walls from theft of all their members. At the end was the date 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 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.”

  “I can do this,” Haern said, softer. His eyes narrowed, and his gaze hardened. “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.”

  Veliana looked to her guildleader, who was deep in thought. It was almost as if she could watch the idea growing in his mind, taking shape, every potential reaction sifting through a spider web of end results.

  “You have the Ash Guild’s approval,” he said suddenly, as if snapping from a daze. “Will you deliver the letters tonight?”

  “I will.”

  “Then go do it. I only have one request: leave your father to me.”

  Haern paused, and his eyes glanced away.

  “Very well,” he said when he looked back. “You stand to make a fortune, Deathmask. That is why I trust you. But remember, the same deal applies to you as well.”

  If her guildmaster was upset by the threat, he didn’t show it.

  “Save your energy for those who will give you the most trouble.”

  When the Watcher was gone, Veliana spun on Deathmask, shoving a finger into his face.

  “I can understand him wanting to perform this madness, but you?”

  Deathmask winked at her with his red eye.

  “If he succeeds, he succeeds. If he fails, we lose nothing. Besides, Veliana, what else does this plan need but some theatrics? The Watcher’s plan is insane, and most likely he’ll get himself killed…but I won’t stop him. He already frightens the lower members of the thief guilds. If he lives, he’ll become a terror to them, the only real chance of keeping this agreement in order long enough for us to benefit.”

  “Why Thren?” asked Mier.

  “Why us?” asked Nien.

  “Because,” Deathmask said, turning to the twins with his smile nearly ear to ear, “if he accepts, the rest of the guilds will fall like dominoes. You wouldn’t think I’d leave the most important part of the entire plan to someone else, would you?”

  *

  Not since the hunger riots preceding the Bloody Kensgold had Gerand Crold seen the people of the city so furious. As advisor to the king, he had listened to the many complaints about guards, fires, theft, and overall demands for compensation. He’d sat in his uncomfortable chair, a ledger before him, and denied every single one. The line of petitioners seemed endless, and that was with the castle guards filtering out some of the more unkempt individuals.

  Once the sun had finally set, Gerand spoke to the king, whispering lies in his ears about how the people still respected him. Back in his chambers, a full bottle of wine awaited him, as per his orders to his servants. Just what he needed to relax.

  “Fucking thieves,” he muttered as he shut the door. The past five years had filled his head with gray hair, and the marriage with his wife had plummeted into occasional nights spent together, but mostly him sleeping in the castle, her in their mansion. Removing the cork, he poured a glass and toasted the empty room.

  “To you, Alyssa,” he said. “For destroying in two days everything I built in five years.”

  “To Alyssa,” someone whispered, their breath upon his neck.

  Gerand nearly choked on his wine. He spun, torn between diving for a weapon and falling to his knees to beg for his life. The last time a thief had snuck into his room, it’d been Thren Felhorn and a female companion. They’d kidnapped his wife to make him enforce certain desires of theirs. The first thought that ran through his mind as he saw a man cloaked in gray was that they’d have to kidnap someone better if they wanted him to obey.

  “Thren?” he said, startled by the sight. It looked like Thren, only much younger. He had a sudden fear that the man was immortal, immune to time, and that he might never be rid of him. As a wolfish grin spread across the intruder’s face, he choked down such irrational thoughts. This wasn’t Thren, no matter how much he looked like him.

  “No,” said the man. “Close, though. I am the Watcher. Perhaps you have heard of me?”

  “I have, though I’ve wondered if you were actually real.” He chuckled. “I guess this should count as proof?”

  The Watcher snatched the glass from his hand and drank the remaining half. As he smacked his lips, he tossed him a scroll.

  “Read it,” he commanded.

  Gerand did, his eyes growing wider with each sentence.

  “You want the credit of the idea to go to the king?” he asked when finished. “But why?”

  “The more involved, the better,” said the Watcher. He leaned against the wall, to the inside of where the door would open. Even if Gerand managed to call the guards, and not die doing so, the man would still get the jump on them. “Besides, I need someone neutral in all thi
s, someone both sides trust. You’ve accepted bribes from both the thieves and the Trifect. Both will think you’ll be in their pocket once the smoke clears.”

  “But Edwin will never agree. He’s terrified someone will poison his tea or put shards of metal into his bread. By the gods, he thinks every shadow in his bedroom is a man poised with razor wire.”

  “He has something more real to fear, and we both know it. Veldaren is furious. You’ve failed to protect its people, and this time it’s gone too far. Fires have burned down a quarter of the city. Innocent men and women died at the hands of mercenaries, and they come here finding no justice, no empathy. They have no one to turn to, no one to trust. Do you remember the riots five years ago? They will make those look downright orderly.”

  Gerand nodded. He remembered how much anger simmered in the many waiting in his line. They’d certainly not left in a better mood after discussing with him, either. Getting King Vaelor to agree would involve marginal effort at best. Once he played on his fears, then offered him the deal as a way to come out a hero, he’d agree in a heartbeat. Gerand glanced down at the parchment in hand, still trying to decide the loophole, the underhanded secret hidden beneath the words.

  “What do you gain from this?” he dared ask.

  “We all want a legacy,” the Watcher said. “This will be mine. The arrangement will rely on you, once everything is in order. Can you enforce it?”

  The way he said it sparked a memory, and coupled with the face, he couldn’t keep it in any longer. For a time, he had tried to capture Thren’s son, Aaron, and had even used the king’s old advisor, Robert Haern, to aid him in the task. Time had dulled his memory, and no doubt the child had grown, but still…

  “You have to be Thren’s kin,” he said. “His long lost son, Aaron, perhaps?”

  The Watcher pulled his hood lower over his face, and his mood seemed to sour.

  “I would keep such thoughts to yourself, friend. They are dangerous.”

  Gerand felt his blood chill.

  “Of course, of course. I guess it is no matter. But can you pull this off? A bluff won’t work with either side.”