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

by David Dalglish

  “I have lived on the streets, hunting them like dogs. Every single guild has initiated me into their order without knowing it. I know where they live, where they hide. Few can challenge my skill, and none my determination. I will kill them, all of them, if I must. Make the king listen to you.”

  He stood and put a hand on the door.

  “I’ve already delivered the rest of the messages. They’ll bring their answers to you. Come tomorrow, I’ll check here first, to see who is safe and who must be dealt with.”

  “I understand.”

  As the door opened, Gerand couldn’t hold in a chuckle. The Watcher stopped, as if he suspected a trap.

  “No, it’s not that,” he said as the man closed the door. “I just found it humorous, is all. A long time ago, your father came to me, threatening my life to help him escalate his conflict. Yet now you come here, seeking to end it. I guess you aren’t your father’s son, are you?”

  This seemed to put a smile on the Watcher’s face.

  “Good night, advisor. Do your part, and trust me to do mine.”

  He vanished out the door. Gerand plopped down onto his bed, and now that he was alone, he felt his hands start to shake, his nerves finally getting the better of him. It seemed, despite the guards and walls, those with enough skill could still reach him. Perhaps the king’s jumping at shadows wasn’t so irrational after all…

  “Where’s that damn wine?” he asked. Seeing it, he held it by the neck and drank straight from the bottle. Given what he was about to go through the following day and night, he’d need all the courage he could get.

  25

  Delysia stumbled upon him getting ready as night fast approached.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  He’d shared Senke’s room, but the other rogue had gone out to spend a night relaxing in the taverns.

  “I’ve got some business to take care of,” he said. Brug’s trunk of weapons lay open before him, and he slid several daggers into his belt, plus another into a pocket of his boot.

  “My brother did some digging, and he says the mercenaries won’t be going out again tonight,” she said, crossing her arms underneath her breasts. “What is it you’re planning? For once the night might be peaceful.”

  Haern felt a half-smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

  “The nights are never peaceful here. Quiet, perhaps, but killing can be silent work when done right. Never mind that, though. Promise me you’ll stay inside. Things are about to get very dangerous.”

  She put a hand on his arm. “For you as well?”

  He shrugged. “Can’t help it. I have a chance to do something great, Delysia, something real.”

  “Will you kill?”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “This isn’t the same.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Safety,” he said. “For all of us. My father wants a legacy, and I’ll deny him it. What he started, I’ll end, or I’ll die trying.”

  “You don’t have to do this alone,” she said. “Let us help. Let me help.”

  “You lost enough because of me. I won’t risk the life you’ve rebuilt here.”

  “Who said you had a choice?”

  He winked at her.

  “Where I’m going tonight, I don’t think a priest or priestess has ever been. Good night, Del.”

  He took her hand, kissed it, and then left.

  The trip to the castle wasn’t long, though scaling the outer wall, sneaking past the guards, climbing up to one of the higher windows, and then stealthily descending to Gerand’s room took more time than he’d prefer. Probably should have made the advisor meet him at the front gates, he thought. Would have saved him the time and trouble.

  When he slipped inside, Gerand looked ready for him. He smiled at his entrance, but Haern saw the way his eyes darted about, and how the edges of his smile quivered. The man was nervous, but he didn’t think it was because he’d set a trap. No doubt he felt the eyes of every guild upon him, plus the anger of the Trifect.

  “What were their responses?” Haern asked, having no time to waste.

  “I’ve received an answer from everyone but the Ash Guild and James Keenan. With him down in Angelport, there’s no way he might give an answer, and no keeper of his estate here would dare agree to something like this without confirmation.”

  “Don’t worry about the Ash Guild. I have their answer. Keenan will fall in line when the other two Trifect leaders agree. Tell me, have any said yes?”

  “The Wolf Guild will, but only if Thren agrees as well. If the Spider Guild doesn’t fall in line, though, they’ll deny ever saying so.”

  “Is that it?”

  Gerand licked his lips. “The Serpent Guild’s man said they’d rather kiss the asses of a thousand corpses than the Trifect’s. The Hawks fired an arrow over our wall, a cloth tied to the shaft with the word ‘Never’ written in blood upon it. Leon Connington’s advisor sent a letter saying they were open to negotiations, but not under such conditions. Lady Gemcroft’s response was cryptic. I received a letter from her saying you’d have to kill her, while her advisor came by later insisting she might change her mind given time. As for the Spider Guild…”

  He gestured to a package waiting beside his bed. Haern opened it to find a severed head, eyes and mouth sewn shut.

  “Who is it?” he asked, frowning.

  “Look closer.”

  He did, saw the gray hair, thin nose, and most noticeably, a fresh cut running from the head’s left eye to its ear. Haern glanced back at the advisor and saw a similar, albeit faded, scar on his face. He felt a pang of guilt, and he wondered who the poor guy had been.

  “Intimidation,” Haern said. “Don’t fall for it. I won’t let them get to you.”

  “How?” asked Gerand, exasperated. “There are five guilds, and three leaders of the Trifect. Three of the guilds, and two of the Trifect, have denied you. Can you kill them all? I might be better off having you killed instead, and letting them fight amongst themselves.”

  Haern narrowed his eyes, and the advisor immediately retracted his comment.

  “Forgive me, I’m stressed, and have had more to drink than I probably should. How will I know if you succeed?”

  “They’ll come tell you,” Haern said, turning to leave. “Oh, and escort me out, will you? I don’t have time to mess around with your guards.”

  “Sure,” said Gerand. “Why not? A king’s advisor and an assassin, side by side as friends. I’ve suffered through stranger.”

  They walked through the halls toward the castle’s exit, and several times Gerand had to calm soldiers who saw Haern’s cloaks and sabers and immediately assumed the worst. At the giant doors, Gerand grabbed his arm and pulled him close.

  “Be careful who you kill first,” he said. “If you fail, but still strike down the leaders of either side, you will unbalance everything. You must succeed in this, Watcher.”

  “If I unbalance things, at least you’ll finally have a winner,” Haern said, grinning. “And I don’t plan on dying. I’ll visit you come the morning. I promise.”

  He flew down the streets, his legs pumping. His eyes darted every which way, knowing that the guilds would be prepared for his arrival. For the longest time he’d only been a phantom to them, but now they’d heard his promise. This was their chance. Deathmask had asked him if he was insane. Perhaps he was. But at least Deathmask had also seemed to understand. If he were to try, why not try for the impossible?

  He decided the first ones to visit would be the Hawks. They were no friends of the Spider Guild, and their recent conflict with both them and the mercenaries had surely devastated their numbers. Their leader, Kadish Vel, was a sensible enough man, bit of a gambler. If Haern could convince him to give the treaty a chance, especially as a way to diminish Thren’s danger to him, then he should be able to win over the guild’s cooperation without having to kill its leader.

  The Hawk Guild’s headquarters had shifted several tim
es, but even after Thren’s attack, they’d refused to move from their current tavern. No doubt Kadish was tired of running. They’d emptied out during the mercenaries’ rampage, but with the night turning quiet, he felt certain they’d return. With the strange threat of the Watcher hanging over them all, they’d want to be where they felt safe, where they recognized every face, knew every shadow, every entrance. If he was lucky, they would think it all a bluff, or even an opportunistic lie of the king in an attempt to save face before his furious populace. Still, their eyes would be open even if they doubted. Nothing that night would be easy. If he had to open up with a stealthy kill, he would, conversation be damned. Dead bodies spoke clearer than anything else in the world of thieves. He’d given them their warning.

  Two men stood at the entrance, obviously on the lookout. The one on the left looked bored, as if he’d drawn the short straw that night. The other was older and more aware. Haern drifted along on the left, hunched over, limping, and muttering to himself as if he’d had too much to drink. Neither Hawk gave him a second glance. Once out of their sight, Haern walked closer, a hand leaning against the tavern as if he needed it for balance. Upon reaching the back, he saw a door, most certainly locked and barred. He tested it just to make sure. No lock, but it was bolted. A veritable army of feral cats lurked about, and one hissed at his presence as it hunkered down over a scrap of fat.

  “You’re right,” Haern whispered to the feline. “I should wait my turn, shouldn’t I?”

  The alley was thin, dark, and full of places to hide. Ten minutes later, he heard a thud from the other side of the door, and then it creaked open.

  “Enjoy,” said a burly man, chucking a bucket of what seemed to be a mixture of vomit and woodchips. The mess splattered onto the stone, and in leapt the cats, there to hiss and growl while they searched for something edible. When the man’s back was turned, Haern stepped from his hiding spot, jumped into the opening, and flung his arms around his neck. A quick jerk and he fell, his scream muffled by Haern’s palm.

  “Sleep well,” he whispered, slipping inside.

  Haern stepped inside a storeroom, cramped and occupied almost entirely by the two shelves on either side. The man he’d knocked out wasn’t the barkeep, one of the few things that might allow him to remain hidden. Already he heard the raucous drinkers at the front, and they would not tolerate any sort of absence by the man supplying their liquor. Judging from his size and duty, he’d taken out a heavyhand, someone to deal with those who got out of line. Haern chuckled. Talk about someone that would not be missed by the crowd.

  He ducked underneath the lowest shelf, peered out from the door, and was rewarded with the sight of a pair of hairy legs as the barkeep scratched at a scab near his ankle. Rows of bottles stretched before him. He was behind the bar. From his time inside before, he knew there’d be a locked door to his right, blocking off a staircase that led into the lower quarters that the Hawks had enlarged and adopted as their own. Question was, how did he get inside?

  As he pressed his back against the wall, an idea came to him. He waited a moment to see if the barkeep noticed the movement, then pressed his elbows against the wall. There was no plaster or paint, just a thin piece of wood. Bracing with his feet, he pressed inward, hoping the laughter and singing might drown out the noise. He pressed harder, every muscle in his legs taut, and then the board gave. Wincing at the noise, he pushed it all the way in until it snapped in half. He worked an arm through, then his head, and finally the rest of his body. When he fell out the other side, he was behind the locked door and inside the small staircase leading to a second door.

  Haern drew his sabers, thrilled by the way they handled. Senke had given him a fine gift. Hopefully he’d put them to good use. The time for stealth was over. He tested the door, found it unlocked, and then kicked it in. As the loud crack echoed in the room, he leapt inside, already searching for his first victim. There were four men inside, sitting at a table with cards and wooden chips stacked before them. They shouted and reached for their weapons, but they were too slow. Haern whirled through them, rolling across the table and to the other side. Chips and pieces clattered along the floor, mixing with the blood.

  “Shit,” he said as he stared at the bodies. None were Kadish Vel. He glanced about, seeing only one other room. Within were some ledgers, a shelf stocked with tiny bottles, and a bed. Haern couldn’t believe it. The first of his many places to attack, and he hadn’t even bothered to check inside the tavern first. Kadish was probably with his men, drinking. So much for being the feared Watcher of Veldaren. So much for his plans.

  He rushed back to the stairs, trying to decide a course of action. No one would know he’d come down there yet. Kadish was in a public place, lots of people, but that could work in his favor. Halfway up the stairs, he turned back and hurried to the small side room. Scouring the shelf, he looked to see if his idea was possible. The tiny bottles weren’t alcohol like he first assumed. They were tonics, tinctures, and most importantly, poisons. Only half were labeled, as he expected. Haern recalled his lessons when training under his father. For three months he’d had a tutor who knew more about poisons than Haern could ever learn in a lifetime. Many of his lessons during those long days involved discovering the nature of unlabeled poisons.

  He shook several, checking their color, their consistency, and their weight. He pulled four aside, cleared a space on the shelf, and put the bottles atop it. One of the bottles was clearly an extract of shadeleaf, but that was only part of what he needed. He took two others, shook them, and then poured drops of each together. When they turned green, he frowned. Trying another bottle, he mixed the two. When they turned clear, he grinned.

  Dumping out half the bottle of shadeleaf extract, he poured the other bottle, a common mixture of kingsblood and dandyblooms, in with the rest and shook it. The resulting mixture turned clear. It had a strong taste to it, which meant it only worked with certain alcohols and wines that it complemented. That was if you planned on putting it in someone’s drink, of course. Haern had other ideas. Among the marked bottles, one was a useful paste that bonded with most poisons, thickening them into something akin to glue. Taking one of his daggers, Haern applied the poison to the blade, careful not to rush. The last thing he wanted was to prick a finger and die in the Hawks’ basement dwelling. That hardly seemed like the noble end he felt he desired. Last, he found one more particular bottle and smashed it.

  Haern climbed back through the hole in the wall, slipped out the rear of the tavern, and then circled around to the front. The two thieves remained on guard, and they sneered at his approach.

  “Hey, you got to have money first,” said the one on the right, blocking his way with his arm. Haern glared, then pointed through the door, slurring his words and making sure his hand bobbed up and down in the air.

  “That…that guy there’s my brother. He’ll cover for me, really. Ask him, he’s a great guy, married a whore who makes more money on her back than I could…I…that could make in a month.”

  Haern made sure he pointed between the tables, and the movement of his arm made it no clearer who he was referring to as his brother. The guard on the left looked inside, as if he could somehow pinpoint him anyway. The one on the right grabbed his arm.

  “I said get out,” he said, but Haern moved too fast. He spun out of his grip, slashed open his throat, and then turned to the other. Before he could let out a cry, Haern stabbed his chest with a non-poisoned dagger, ramming his arm over his mouth to hold in the scream. It came out muffled, but not loud enough to attract any attention within. It seemed like the men and women were eager to celebrate their first moment of peace in two days. No doubt they thought they’d beaten the mercenaries, or at least, wanted to think so.

  Knowing time was far from an ally, he lumbered into the tavern, resuming his drunken gait. With his head low, he scanned the bar, looking for Kadish Vel. He found him in the far corner, sitting with his back to a wall. At the giant round table, six men sat wi
th him, along with a pretty lady at his side. She seemed bored with the proceedings, and Haern wondered if she stayed with him for coin or for safety. The rest were joking or boasting, their voices loud and slurred. All but Kadish. He seemed mildly amused at best. Haern drifted toward him. He had one chance at this, just one.

  “Hey, hey, hey!” shouted one of the men as Haern slid between them, directly opposite Kadish. He put his hands on the table, and he leaned forward as if keeping balance was a struggle.

  “Kadisshh?” Haern asked, looking lazily at the guildmaster.

  “I’m sorry friend, the bar might be mine, but the drinks still don’t come free,” said Kadish.

  Haern never responded. His hands, leaning there on the table, were also within inches of the sabers at his hips. As his cloaks folded away, Kadish saw them, and that was when Haern moved. He drew them both, and in one smooth motion, sliced through the necks of the men beside him. As they collapsed, their blood splattering across the table, Kadish flung himself out of his chair, pressing his back into a corner. The pretty girl looked dazed, as if she didn’t believe what she saw. Two of the men moved closer to defend Kadish, the others drawing daggers and lunging. Haern batted one aside, killed another with a riposte, and then spun, a whirling machine of death. Cries of alarm spread across the tavern as the rest realized what was going on.

  Falling to one knee, Haern let go of a saber and yanked the poisoned dagger from his boot. From underneath the table he saw the lower half of Kadish’s body. No armor. No realization of the danger. He flung the dagger, trusting his aim. It plunged into the meat of Kadish’s thigh, and Haern allowed himself a smile.

  And then he was moving again, his sabers reveling in the blood of his opponents. The whole tavern was in chaos, half fleeing, wanting no part of whatever might happen. Many others cried out in warning, expecting an ambush. One shouted Thren’s name, as if he must be the one responsible. Haern weaved through them all, deflecting sword strikes and slicing into the arms of those who thrust their daggers. A heavyset man tried to block his way at the door, but Haern rammed into him with his left shoulder. His right hand stabbed repeatedly. The two collapsed through the door, landing beside the bodies of the guards.