A Dance of Cloaks

by David Dalglish

  “His plan is suicide,” James said, pacing within the warmly lit study. They were holed up in a safehouse deep within the slums of Veldaren. Hundreds of families provided ample cover for their coming and going, and a bit of well-placed coin and occasional bread did wonders to ensure their discretion. A few hanging bodies had helped, as well.

  “Perhaps such a risk must be taken to end this,” Veliana said. “He writes that we are the last hold-out; all the other guildmasters have signed on.”

  “That’s because he’s killed everyone who disagreed,” James said, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. “And the rest he cowed with a few subtle threats dripping with poison. He’s grown desperate and delusional. Surely you can agree with me on that?”

  Veliana smiled at him, a practiced smile that hid any of her true emotions. The lady watched her guildmaster pace. He was pushing forty, and his gray hair did little to hide that fact. His face had begun to wrinkle, and he constantly rubbed his large nose while he walked. The rest of his hand curled against his chin and pressed against his lips. The Ash Guild was the smallest of all the thieves’ guilds, but it was certainly not the weakest. With small size came added secrecy and stealth. They did not need to pad their numbers with riffraff and lowborn drunkards who couldn’t steal a diaper from a suckling babe.

  “I’m not sure I agree,” she said, not revealing whether she meant Thren or James. “But we’ve entered the fifth year. We’ve tried hurting their wealth, and the gods know we have, but it’s like bailing water out of a river. It all just runs back. We steal from the Trifect, and then our men spend it on wine, room, clothes, and petty trinkets, and who do you think supplies every one of those?”

  “But all of us?” James asked. “He really thinks with the guilds combined that someone won’t leak word to the Trifect? His plan requires an almost impossible level of secrecy. One errant word and we’re all hanging from nooses…if we’re lucky.”

  “If he’s only contacted the guildmasters,” Veliana said, “it is possible to keep silence, at least as long as necessary.”

  “And those guildmasters will tell advisors or close friends, and then they will tell their close friends, and then one of them will leak word to a turncoat for Connington or Keenan, and then we’re all fucked.”

  Veliana laughed.

  “Then tell him no,” she said. “Stop asking for delays.”

  “Do that and I become just another body at Thren’s feet,” James said. He sounded tired. “I didn’t live this long, clawing and climbing my way past friends and enemies, just to watch it all vanish in smoke and ash.”

  “Ash is what we are,” Veliana said, tossing the note from Thren Felhorn into the fireplace and watching it be consumed. “And Ash is what Veldaren will be soon. Do what you think is best, regardless of whether I agree or not, but at least make sure you do something. Waiting for Thren or the Trifect to act will get us killed.”

  “You’re right,” James said after a length. “Either we aid him, or stop him. He is either friend or enemy. The question is, can we afford Thren as anything other than a friend?”

  “That,” Veliana said, “is a very dangerous question.”

  At least she had a blanket. For that, Alyssa was grateful. The cells underneath the Gemcroft estate weren’t built with comfort in mind, and in the deep stone underground the warmth of the sun was a forgotten notion. While growing up, she had heard one of her father’s men brag about how the stone walls had been cut just the right way to always ensure a draft blew to every corner of the room.

  Soaked in moisture that dripped from the ceiling and unable to avoid the constant, chilling blow of air, many prisoners had broken down in desperate clamoring for warmth. While the deep cold of snow and ice eventually numbed the skin, the Gemcroft cells chilled relentlessly.

  The draft in mind, her father’s head guardsman had given her a thick blanket. Still, no matter how tight she wrapped it around her body, she always felt a draft sneaking up her leg or down the small of her back. She trembled, remembering tales of men who had been thrown into their cell naked and without any source of light. Growing up as a girl, she thought it an uncomfortable situation. Given just a taste, she now understood its potential for torture.

  And that wasn’t even counting the actual torture that went on either, something she was most obviously spared.

  Alyssa wasn’t sure how long she’d been in her cell, though judging by her meals it had only been two days. The first day she had shouted and threatened and demanded her release. When she finally crumpled into a corner huddled underneath her blanket, most of her anger had subsided. A deep core remained in her breast, but she did her best to keep it contained. She had more important things to deal with.

  There was only one thing that could have rankled Maynard so, and that was her mention of the Kulls. They certainly held no love of her father. Through whispers and traders, they had convinced nearly every man and woman outside of Veldaren that the Trifect had grown soft and stupid. While Alyssa did not believe it all, she knew mistakes had been made, and a menace like the thief guilds should have been eradicated years before.

  He’ll come for me, she thought. Her father would have to. He just wanted to show her how serious he took her words. Perhaps when the door opened, and he appeared holding a torch in one hand and another blanket in the other, she’d forgive his punishment. She’d wrap her arms around him, kiss his cheek, and willingly tell him everything about the Kulls. They had no sinister plans. They had no ulterior motives. How much time had she spent with Yoren? The Kull family felt that if the Trifect fell, then they would be the next in line for the hungry maw of the guilds to feast upon.

  “You know how you stop a raging bull?” Yoren had asked her. “Kill it before it starts running. It has already gored the Trifect. It needs to die before it turns its horns to us.”

  Maynard did not come that second day.

  On the third morning, he appeared with two guards. One held another blanket, while the other carried her food. Maynard stood between them, his arms crossed. He wore no cloak or vest, as if the sweeping chill meant nothing to him.

  “Believe me, my daughter, when I say I have no ill will toward you for this foolishness,” he said. Alyssa fought down an urge to stand and fling her arms around him. “But you must tell me what the Kulls are planning. They are liars, girl, liars and thieves and conniving men, so tell me what it is they want.”

  She shook her head. Her anger lashed out, temporarily uncontrolled.

  “They’re mad at your incompetence, same as I,” she said. “And if they plan a move against you, it is your own doing, but I swear I know nothing.”

  Maynard Gemcroft nodded, and the sides of his mouth drooped a little.

  “A shame,” he said. He turned to one of the guards. “Take her blanket.”

  She felt panic bubble up her throat as she watched the second blanket leave, and she felt even worse when her first blanket was ripped from her arms. She clawed at it frantically, screaming that it was hers, hers, they couldn’t take it. But they did, and she was cold now, very cold, and it was only day three, and she still knew nothing.

  On the fourth night, she was cold, miserable, and suddenly not alone.

  “Do not be frightened,” a voice whispered into the cell. Alyssa jumped like a startled rabbit. Her lips were blue, and her skin a sickly pale color, wrinkled from the moisture that hung thick in the air and clung to the stone walls. She felt wet and disgusting, and her mind leapt to the darkest conclusions of why someone might come calling in the deep of night.

  “My father will find out,” she said from her crouched position on the far side from the cell bars. “He’ll punish you if he…”

  Unless her father had sent the stranger. She choked the thought down. Her voice caught in her throat, for there was no one at her cell. Again she heard the voice, echoing from wall to wall like a magician’s trick. This time she clearly realized that a woman was doing the whispering, a fact that should have calmed he
r but strangely did not.

  “We are Karak’s outcast children,” said the whisper. “We are his most fervent, his most faithful, for we have much to atone. Are you a sinner, girl? Will you lift your arms to us and accept our mercy?”

  Shadows danced around her cell, not cast from the single torch flickering on the outside of her bars. Alyssa put her hands atop her head and buried her face into her knees.

  “I want to be warm,” she said. “Please, my father, he’s not bad, he isn’t. I just want to be warm.”

  While Alyssa peered over her knees, she saw the shadows swarm together, grow volume and mass, and then finally fill with color, becoming a woman shrouded in black with a white cloth covering her face.

  “There is warmth in the abyss,” the woman said as she drew a serrated dagger. “Would you like me to send you there? Careful of what you ask, girl. Be clear with your demands, or accept the cruel gifts fools and selfish men may give.”

  Alyssa forced herself to stand. She felt skinny and naked before the strange woman, and it took all her willpower to keep her hands at her sides, stop them from shaking.

  “I want out of this prison,” she said. “I have done nothing to deserve its cold. Now tell me, who sent you here?”

  “Who else would send us?” the woman asked. “Do not ask questions where you already know the answers. Remain quiet. We are few, and some things must be done in silence.”

  She wrapped her cloak around her body, its fabric seemingly made of liquid shadow. A sudden jerk and she was gone, her body exploding into dark fragments that splashed across the walls and faded like smoke.

  “You have accepted the help of the faceless,” echoed a whisper throughout her cell. “Always remember, the cost you pay is always dearer once it has left your hand.”

  Alyssa sat back down, curled her knees to her chin, and began to cry. She wondered what Yoren would say if he saw her like that. He was so beautiful, and she knew she could be too, but not here, not cold and wet and crying like a pathetic street urchin. Her tears did not stop like she hoped. Instead, she cried louder.

  Far away, she heard a door open, the sound thick with bolts and metal. Her eyes lifted, and with detached curiosity, she watched and waited.

  A hefty man lumbered into view, his thumbs tucked into his belt. His eyes were beady and close together, and his long mustache dripped with grease. Alyssa had never met him before returning home to Veldaren, though she had quickly learned his name. Jorel Tule, master of the cold cells.

  “I got dogs howling up a storm,” Jorel said. “Figure I’d make sure you’re nice and cozy.”

  “A blanket,” she said. Her teeth chattered, and it was no act.

  “Gemcroft says to wait until you can’t stand no more,” the man said, hoisting up his belt. “I think he means to have me wait until you’re close to dead before warming you up.”

  A hard edge entered his eye. Alyssa recognized it as perverse joy in seeing one of noble birth sunken down to his level and then put at his mercy. When shadows began coalescing behind his back, she openly smiled.

  “I think you can wait a bit longer,” Jorel said.

  “A blanket might have saved your life,” Alyssa replied. Jorel gave her a funny look but did not respond. When he turned to leave, a serrated dagger awaited him. It sliced his throat and splattered blood across the floor. The blood slid off the faceless woman’s robes like water.

  “He never would have served you,” the woman said. “But there are others that will, and we must spare them if we can. Otherwise, your rule will be disputed and last as long as a sputtering candle in a storm.”

  “My rule?”

  Alyssa stood, her arms no longer shaking. She waited until the faceless woman opened her cell, then grasped the door with one hand and held it firm.

  “Tell me your name,” she said.

  “I have no name,” the woman replied.

  “You said you are faceless, not nameless, now tell me.”

  Alyssa could not see the woman’s eyes through the white cloth, but she had a feeling that behind it hid an amused smile.

  “A strong candle,” the woman said. “My name is Eliora.”

  “Then listen to me well, Eliora,” Alyssa said. “I will not accept rule of my household over the murdered body of my father. Whatever you were paid or promised, I can match it. All I ask is that Maynard be captured, not killed.”

  Eliora let go of the door and stepped back so Alyssa could exit.

  “This world is chaos, but I will do what I can. Be warned; your father may already be dead. If that is the case, turn your anger on who hired us. Do not blame the sword for the blood spilled, only the hand that wielded it.”

  The faceless woman led them up the winding stairs out of the dungeon. They encountered no guards, dead or living. As they ascended, Alyssa heard the ruckus the dogs were making. Eliora must have noticed the look on her face, for the hounds sounded as if they were ravenous for blood.

  “They are frightened and angry,” she explained. “It is a simple spell we cast upon them to draw the guards out of the estate. My sisters are all inside, I assure you.”

  Alyssa nodded but said nothing.

  The stairs ended in a cramped room with bare walls and a lone door, the outside of which was normally bolted. Eliora gently pushed it open; Jorel must have gone down without alerting anyone, otherwise they would have locked it behind him.

  “How many are with you?” Alyssa asked. Eliora shot her a glare.

  “We are three,” she said. “Though we may be less if you continue braying louder than a mule.”

  With so little time between her arrival and subsequent imprisonment, Alyssa had not taken stock of her father’s defenses. She knew they could not be light. No matter how much she might belittle the thief guilds, she was not an idiot. Without adequate protection, cloaked men with daggers would be lurking under every bed and within every closet.

  Of course, those defenses seemed to have meant little to the faceless woman, and that thought gave Alyssa a chill. Surely the Kulls were behind their hiring, but what if it had been Thren Felhorn instead? Suddenly her father’s difficulties dealing with the threat of the guilds didn’t seem quite so pathetic. Clearly the Kulls meant for her to take over the Gemcroft estate. Once in position to rule, she would keep all that in mind when deciding how to deal with her father.

  Men shouted in the far distance, their voices muffled through the walls.

  “That would be Nava,” Eliora whispered. “She is looping the compound, killing guards foolish enough to leave themselves vulnerable. Hurry now. We go to your father’s room.”

  The plush carpet felt wonderful to her bare feet. Even better was the warm burst of air blowing across her skin. She remembered how warm her father kept the mansion, and how she used to stretch out before the large fires roaring in the multitude of hearths throughout its halls. Winter still approached, but already Maynard had begun fighting the chill. Alyssa almost stole away from Eliora for such a fire, desiring nothing more than to huddle close and burn away the deep frost that had settled into her bones. The biting words the faceless woman might say kept her from doing so.

  They hurried down a long hall. Over twenty windows stretched along the right, their glass covered by violet curtains. On the left hung paintings of former masters of the Gemcroft estate. A hysterical laugh died in her throat as she wondered if her own painting would hang on the wall. She also wondered if she’d live long enough for someone to paint it.

  I come for my crown, she thought. What the bloody abyss has come over me?

  She wanted none of this. She had meant to berate her father, show him his cowardice and hesitance and by doing so spur him into harsher dealings with the guilds. Never did she expect to usurp him before the waning of the moon.

  They reached the end of the hall. Eliora slipped through the empty doorway, silent as a ghost. A guard stood to the right of it, and he died with a dagger in his throat and a wrapped hand over his mouth. As she watched
the blood spill across the floor, Alyssa remembered the questions her father had asked. What did the Kull household plan? Your elimination, she thought. The company of the faceless. Dimly she wondered if her own eyes might be as covered as Eliora’s was with her thin white cloth.

  Once certain no more guards were about, Eliora waved Alyssa on through.

  “Is there anyone who might help supervise the Gemcroft estate?” the faceless woman asked as they passed through a series of bedrooms. “An advisor or a wise man, perhaps?”

  “He does,” Alyssa said. She remembered Eliora’s earlier warning and lowered her voice. “Though I cannot remember his name.”

  “Do you remember his face?”

  She nodded.

  “Describe him.”

  A face flashed before her eyes, that of an older man with a short white beard and a shaved head. His eyebrows she especially remembered. He had shaved them regularly, and as a little girl she had been fascinated by the strange way it made his face look.

  Eliora bobbed her head up and down, looking like a strange doll with its head off-balance.

  “Will you hurt him?” Alyssa asked when done.

  “No,” Eliora said. “Now I know, I will let him live. The elder man is the key to your takeover. To the common worker and guard, there is little difference when the figurehead changes names so long as their immediate master stays the same.”

  The faceless woman stopped at another hallway and glanced both directions.

  “Which way to your father’s bedroom?” she asked.

  Alyssa thought for a moment.

  “Left,” she said. “Not far from my own.”

  “Stay here, and stay silent,” Eliora said. “There will be guards.”

  The shadow cloak swirled about her body, her limbs and head fading away into a shapeless blob of black and gray. Only the serrated dagger shone bright and true in her violet hand. Alyssa glanced behind her every few moments, feeling almost certain a guard would find her alone and helpless. She had turned down numerous offers for training (the Pensleys had been particularly adamant that she spar daily with their weaponsmaster, an ex-knight named Durg who reeked more of wine than honor). As she stood there, she wished she had taken up those offers. She would gladly endure Durg’s drunken glances if it meant holding a blade without fear of the shouts she heard throughout the mansion.