“On what matter?” Yoren asked.
“For his ears alone,” she said. “If I am to rule in my father’s place, there are some details I would prefer to organize with Theo first. He is lord of Riverrun, at least in fact if not in name.”
Yoren looked none too pleased about this request, but he did not argue. Hoping her nervousness did not show, Alyssa followed him into Theo’s pavilion. The older man sat in a chair, the remnants of the morning meal splayed out before him on the table.
“By the gods, Alyssa Gemcroft, safe and sound!” Theo cried, shoving against his chair to aid himself in standing. “I thought my guards were just babbling nonsense; either that or some pretty whore from the Kensgold had wandered over and been mistaken for you.”
“I’m flattered by the comparison,” Alyssa said.
“You should be, girl, looking as you do. I’ve seen my dogs drag in less disheveled things than you. Twice now you’ve come to me in tatters. The Gemcroft line must be rolling in its graves.”
Alyssa felt anger mix with her self-consciousness. Indeed, the wade through the river had dirtied her dress, and she’d torn the tight silk during her frantic run. Drying it by the fire had shrunk it considerably, and she’d torn it more putting it back on. Her hair was a frightening mess, and she’d have given just about anything for a hot soak. Still, she was Alyssa Gemcroft, heir to the northern mines, and she’d never willingly accept such insults.
“If you have any desire to remain in my good graces come my ascension, you should bite your tongue, or better yet, apologize for such remarks,” Alyssa said. “You first compare me to a whore, then to shit your dogs drag in?”
Yoren flushed red at the sudden outburst, but Theo only laughed at the fire that suddenly burned bright in her voice.
“Quite right, and I do apologize, Lady Gemcroft. Come, let me fetch my servingwomen so they may bathe and dress you proper to your station.”
“No,” she said. “I have business to discuss, matters pertaining to my future holdings.”
“Surely these can wait,” Yoren began, but Alyssa cut him off.
“Now,” she said, her eyes boring into Theo’s. “Surely you would not insult a guest by denying them dealings? Or are the rumors I hear of the Kulls more truthful than I thought?”
The whole tent quieted. Theo’s smile drooped, the joy drained from his eyes.
“So be it,” he said. “Let us treat each other as partners of business. What is it you wish to discuss?”
“Not yet,” she said, glaring at Yoren. “We talk alone.”
Yoren scoffed but Theo was in no mood.
“Leave us,” he said to his guards as well as his son. He pointed a finger at Zusa. “But she goes too.”
Zusa bowed. The pavilion emptied until Theo sat alone, his fingers rubbing his silvery knife.
“You may sit if you desire,” he offered. Alyssa refused.
“I have a question for you,” she said. “My father has vexed you time and time again. Do you know why? Because you are a mere tax collector in a faraway city, scheming and fighting to take over a mere pittance of my father’s property.”
“Where is your question, girl?” Theo asked, his hand clutching the wide table knife dangerously tight.
“I can give you far more than some miserable land in Riverrun,” Alyssa said. “Which is more important to you, your wealth, or your son?”
“What nonsense is this?” Theo roared. Alyssa reached into her skirt and drew the dagger hidden within its secret pocket. Two steps put her an arm’s length from Theo’s throat. The big man wisely paused, still clutching his knife as he tilted his head to one side.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I am still waiting for a true question, as well as an offer of deals and trades. But you are a woman, and unaccustomed to such matters, so I will be patient and give you another chance.”
“I will not marry Yoren,” she told him. “You will not inherit the Gemcroft line. But if I am declared lady of the estate, then I will reward you handsomely. My father has several mines in the northeast, not far from your little town. Your taxes and harassment have made them near-unprofitable. I’ll give them to you, as well as the properties you seek within Riverrun. You gain all this in return for disavowing any possible marriage between myself and your son.”
Theo rubbed his chin.
“You seem to forget something,” he said. “With your marriage, all of those would become mine in time, or at least my son’s. Why would I give up so much just to gain what I would already have? And don’t say because you threaten me, for I am not scared of your little toy.”
Alyssa smiled. She was tired of being someone’s plaything. It was good to finally be in charge. In the distance she heard a couple of scattered shouts from the guards.
“I knew you would say so,” she said. “And even if you promised, I would never believe it. You speak in lies, all you Kulls do, and I was stupid to have believed them for so long. But give me my inheritance, Theo, and I promise to keep my word.”
“Is that so?” Theo asked. “Just because you…”
And then he lunged at her, his arm swinging in a sideways arc to bat away her dagger. Alyssa parried it smoothly aside, stepped closer, and then smashed her elbow into his throat. Theo fell back into his seat, gasping for air. His knife thudded to the dirt.
“I’ve had enough training to deal with someone as slow as you,” she said. “Are you listening, Theo? And are you watching? I hope you are.”
More guards shouted, this time closer. The tent flap flung open, and in stepped Zusa. Blood covered her wrappings. In her hand, held out like a gift, was the head of Yoren Kull.
“Well done,” Alyssa said with a smile. Guards gathered at the entrance to the tent. Alyssa pressed the tip of her dagger against Theo’s throat and then turned to the men.
“Step inside, he dies,” she told them. A quick nod from Theo ensured they obeyed. Despite her ragged appearance, her mussed hair, and her dirty face, Alyssa felt like herself once more, only stronger and wiser than when her father had cast her into the cold cells below their household.
“Tell us your orders, Lady Gemcroft,” Zusa said.
Alyssa looked back to Theo, her smile growing wider.
“Mercenaries,” she said. “They work only for coin.”
And then she thrust the dagger. With their only hopes of payment dead, either stabbed or beheaded, the mercenaries switched allegiance with practiced ease as Zusa cried out the wealth of the Gemcroft family line.
“You have your army,” Zusa said, sliding up next to her moments later.
“Because of you,” Alyssa said, taking Zusa’s hand and then kissing it in mid-curtsy.
Her beautiful face no longer hidden by veil and wrappings, Zusa smiled and curtsied in return.
CHAPTER
32
The outer limits of the Kensgold were filled with sellswords and the poor. The food and drink radiated outward from the many banquet tables and kegs. Thren had debated a more thorough disguise than his low hood, dirtied face, and slight limp, but decided against it. With near a thousand faces swarming about the area he’d need a fraction of his skill to go unnoticed. By Karak, he could have stripped naked and still struggled for attention considering the amount of sex going on everywhere. No doubt the whores would be sore for weeks, but even the ugliest of them clutched silver coins tightly between her fingers.
At the base of the two hills the parked wagons formed a perimeter, their gaps lined with mercenaries. Thren did not challenge their ring, instead joining the crowd that lingered nearby in the hope of catching the more private and privileged festivities. Beside him was a hastily constructed wooden platform kept empty by a couple of Leon’s soldiers. Thren didn’t know its purpose but assumed it was for some sort of loud singer or shameless erotic dancing troupe. He didn’t care to find out, either. Where he stood was the southernmost portion of the larger hill, exactly where he’d told the Wolf Guild to meet him.
His patience
was nearing its end when a man in a brown cloak and gray shirt approached.
“You stand well enough for one with a limp,” the man said.
“The knee don’t like bending,” Thren replied, feigning an Omnish accent. “What right you got to be asking?”
“The right of a wolf,” the man said, flashing him a toothy grin. His makeup was heavy, but Thren recognized those sharpened canine teeth.
“Your disguise trumps my own,” Thren said.
“I was to be here longer than you,” said Cynric, guildmaster of the Wolves. A pungent dye covered his gray hair with a layer of brown, the dirt on his face hiding his pale skin and ritual scars. For a moment each held his tongue, staring up the hill at the elite of the Trifect. Neither sensed watching eyes or attentive ears around them, so they continued.
“I’ve thirty men throughout the crowds,” Cynric said. “They await my howl. I’ve counted the number of guards, ignoring those on the outer ring. Over four hundred protect the main hill, and another two hundred the smaller. Our claws are sharp, but they do little against steel armor. I hope you have a better plan.”
Thren nodded, hearing nothing he hadn’t expected.
“The plan is in motion, Wolf. We do not attack them here. Your men are a diversion, nothing more.”
Cynric chuckled.
“I had thought as much. Gathering everyone here for a direct strike didn’t quite … play to our strengths. So, would you care to share the real plan? I’d hate for my Wolves to miss out on the bloodshed.”
“Once the Kensgold nears its end, you will join me in assaulting the Gemcroft household. Our kind will have already taken over their estate and set up traps throughout. We will seal their exit once they realize the trap is sprung and try to flee.”
“They’ll be like a wounded doe,” Cynric said.
“You and your hunting analogies,” Thren said, and he laughed in spite of himself.
Trumpets sounded atop the hill. A steady procession of sellswords moved directly toward them, Leon Connington in tow. From the west, mercenaries lifted a giant wooden cage on poles from atop a wagon and brought it toward the stage. The door was heavily chained and bolted. It had no gaps in its sides, hiding whatever might be within.
“What is going on?” Thren asked, bracing himself. Because of the trumpets, the crowd had surged in his direction, packed together so tightly he’d have a devil of a time pushing his way out. Given their position, he and Cynric had a front-row seat to whatever foolishness was about to begin.
“Leon’s bragged about a special event planned to start the Kensgold,” Cynric explained, not even bothering to whisper. The chaos around them would drown out anything they said. “As to what, I don’t know. None of my men and women could find out through coin or flesh.”
Thren nodded, feeling uneasy. He didn’t like surprises, and even worse, he hated lacking a quick exit. Shoving aside a hundred bodies was no easy feat.
“Come, come,” he heard Leon Connington shout as he hobbled after his guards. Maynard and Laurie traveled with him, and at the sight Thren felt his heart jump. All three leaders, there in the clear. If they were to die, the entire plan would be unnecessary. His war against the Trifect would be won.
“I don’t suppose you have a crossbow on you?” he asked Cynric. Sadly the man shook his head.
“Damn.”
The Trifect families stopped far up the hill, keeping a good distance between themselves and the crowd. Mercenaries surrounded them, looking serious and stiff in their patchwork armor. Grunting from the weight, the group of sellswords placed the covered cage down in the center of the stage. The crowd murmured, wondering what exotic creature might be trapped within.
An old man approached the stage and held up his hands for silence. Thren recognized him as Leon’s advisor, Potts.
“This day, my Lord Connington brings a gift not to the Trifect but to you wonderful people of Veldaren!” the old man shouted. Those who hadn’t quieted before did so now. The din lowered to a murmuring hush.
“Long they have stolen from you,” Potts continued. “Long they have made you cower and hide in fear of poison and blade. We have fought them for you, bled for you, and died for you.”
A few whistled, but not many. Given the sheer amount of free food and wine floating about, it would seem in bad taste to argue.
“What is going on here?” Thren hissed to Cynric.
“I told you, I don’t know,” the Wolf master replied.
Potts turned back toward the hill and pointed. A procession of five men walked down from the pavilion. They wore plain brown robes, their heads and faces clean-shaven. Thin tattoos circled their necks and wrists before traveling upward like veins toward their eyes. Both guildmasters knew who they were immediately. They were the gentle touchers, Leon’s skilled masters of torture.
Thren felt his stomach drop as if full of lead. He suddenly knew who was within the cage.
“Damn them,” he whispered. “Gods-fucking-damn them.”
The five surrounded the cage and raised their hands. With a dramatic sweep of his arms, Potts ordered the cage opened. The gentle touchers yanked out the bolts from its sides. The cage collapsed, its walls coming apart like a broken child’s toy. Standing perfectly still, his body tied to a thick pole, was Will. The gentle touchers rushed forward, taking the pole and jamming it into a hole in the stage, securing it tight. Will looked exhausted but unharmed otherwise. He had been stripped naked but for a plain loincloth. His thick muscles tensed against the ropes binding his hands and feet.
“Will the Bloody,” Potts shouted. “The right hand of Thren Felhorn, the enforcer of the Spiders! We give him to you now, people of Veldaren. To you, and to the gentle touchers.”
“Enjoy the show!” Leon shouted from the hill. “Give ’em blood!”
One of the gentle touchers put down a small table he had carried from the wagon. Another unrolled a canvas wrapping filled with instruments. They started with the small pins. Two focused on each hand, taking their pins and slowly pushing them underneath Will’s fingernails. Two more did the same to his toes. The fifth constantly surveyed the ropes, tightening when necessary, grabbing hold of Will and keeping him still when he flexed his fingers or tried to bend his knees.
Once enough pins were in place, they split apart their duties. One took a small set of pliers and peeled back a fingernail. Another took a thin pin and jammed it into the exposed flesh underneath. A different gentle toucher used a hammer and a blunt piece of wood to smash down on the toenails with pins underneath. With each strike, Will’s entire body thrashed against the ropes.
“Like art,” Cynric said as he watched. “Like fucking art.”
Thren’s hands shook as he watched. He refused to look away. Somehow Will had been caught, and like a damn fool Thren hadn’t gone looking for him. He might have spared his closest enforcer this terrible tragedy. Even better, he might have spared him the spectacle. Hundreds of people howled and cheered with every moan and scream he made. Two gentle touchers simultaneously grabbed Will’s little toes with pliers and pulled them back until they were so out of joint they were perpendicular to the rest. Thren watched as Will the Bloody, the strongest, fiercest member of his guild, wept like a child.
And they hadn’t even cut him yet. Only a little bit of blood trickled from his fingers to the wood stage. The gentle touchers ripped off Will’s loincloth, taking their needles and pliers to his groin.
“Change of plans,” Thren said. His face was an icy mask, his disguise barely hiding his rage. He pointed at Leon, not caring if any saw.
“He’s mine,” he said, his voice so cold that Cynric shivered. “I’ll leave the Gemcroft ambush to you. If I can, I will join you, but I need to make sure that if Leon’s taken, he’s taken alive. No one else must kill him. That pleasure will be mine, and mine alone.”
Cynric turned and shoved his way through the crowd, not desiring to watch anymore. Thren kept his hands clenched, refusing to be weak. No spectacle wo
uld defeat him. He stared at Will’s eyes, hoping that for at least one moment they would meet his. He wanted Will to see Leon’s death in his stare, to see the rage and know that no man, not even a member of the Trifect, could escape it.
After twenty minutes the gentle touchers brought out their knives. Ten minutes later Will died. The crowd cheered, thrilled with the spectacle. Their cheers rose when Will’s head rolled off the platform. A few men kicked it about, laughing as if it were all a game. Another lifted it high above him, as if it were a trophy. Just before he left the throng, Thren stabbed him in the back and then vanished before anyone even noticed the drunken man was dead.
With so many processions of food and wagons moving westward, Haern had an easy time procuring himself something to eat. He kept his mask over his face, feeling comfortable only with it on. Afterward he found the main hideout for the Spider Guild and scouted for a hiding place. With the whole guild soon to move out, he only needed to follow one to find the rest. One of the nearby homes had a tunnel dug underneath, so Haern crawled in through the window of a finely furnished house opposite.
Thankfully the occupants were long gone, most likely enjoying the festivities. Haern grabbed some pillows from the bed and stretched out across the floor.
With his belly full and his body aching, sleep was welcome. He offered a single prayer before closing his eyes, and that was for no dreams. The prayer went unanswered. Haern dreamed of the Lion, snarling at him in fury. When he awoke, cold sweat poured off his body. The wounds from the Lion’s roar had reopened and bled anew. Haern bandaged them using strips of the cheapest-looking shirt he could find, feeling a little guilty as he did. Whoever owned the home would certainly think him the oddest burglar ever.
When he glanced outside he saw the sun not far from setting. Expecting the bulk of the activity to happen after dark, Haern straightened up, stretched his muscles, and then watched. An hour crawled by, quiet and boring. Just when he began thinking of switching locations, Haern spotted three men in the gray of the Spider Guild exit the front door. They hurried north, their cloaks flapping in the air behind them.
Shadowdance 01 - A Dance of Cloaks Page 34
