A Dance of Blades (20 page)

She still wasn’t sure, but she’d not let Deathmask know.

“What of the Spider Guild?” she asked. “Weren’t you to meet with Thren?”

Deathmask’s eyes twinkled, and his grin pulled wider. Despite it, she thought she sensed fear hiding behind the guise.

“Come with me,” he said. “Hopefully we haven’t missed the show. I discovered something when in Garrick’s audience, and I’ve rethought what Thren’s reaction to our masquerade will be.”

They removed their cloaks and dressed in drab colors that showed no affiliation. Veliana kept a hood low over her face to hide her scar. Given the cold wind of the morning, no one would think the hood odd. Deathmask led the way, taking a winding path back to the Ash guildhouse. Before they were even halfway there, Veliana could already see the smoke rising.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Careful,” he said, hugging the wall and peering around every turn. “We might have a few more enemies now. Do you remember when the Hawks tried to ambush you, the attempt I broke up? Garrick didn’t do anything, did he?”

“No,” she said. “But what does that—?”

“The Spider Guild attacked the Hawks barely a day later. Why do you think that, Veliana? Why do you think Garrick suddenly grew testicles and dared challenge your hidden control?”

The realization hit her like a battering ram.

“No. That cow-sucking shit-eating motherfucker. I’ll kill him. It’ll hopefully take days, but I’ll kill him.”

“Assuming he’s still alive,” Deathmask said as he led them into an apartment. They climbed the stairs, stopped at a door on the higher floor, and knocked. When no one answered, Veliana kicked it in. The room was disheveled, what little was left. By all accounts, the occupants appeared to have either fled or died. From the small window they could see the guildhouse. Deathmask looked first, then backed away so Veliana might see. The guildhouse was in flames. It had already collapsed on its supports, black smoke billowing. Surrounding it was a circle of thieves wearing the cloaks and colors of the Spider.

While she watched, a man crawled from the wreckage, and even from their distance he looked badly burned. One of the Spiders shot him with an arrow before he could rise to his feet.

“Unbelievable,” Deathmask said as he took a second look. “An army of mercenaries descends upon us, and without hesitation he massacres a fellow guild, all for a single act of betrayal.”

“Thren is not one to hesitate.”

Deathmask muttered and flopped down onto the poorly stuffed bed.

“We need to establish control of the guild, and now, Veliana. I’d hoped for a bit of backstabbing between the two, a thinning of members, but this…Thren’s viciousness is astounding. We must take over before the guild disbands completely, and the rest of the city moves in on our territory. At least the mercenaries will keep them from doing so for a while. As for Thren…if there’s to be any chance of peace, he’ll need to be dealt with, one way or another. Tell me, where will the remainder of the guild flee now this place has burned?”

“The old house,” she said. “Below the Split Pig Inn. We expanded their cellars and paid handsomely to do so. They should still be empty, and the owner was a crusty old dog that won’t be intimidated by sellswords.”

“Then that’s where we’ll go,” he said, retying his mask over his face. “Let them see you alive, let them hear my demands of obedience. As of now, the Ash Guild is under my control.”

“And if Garrick still lives?”

Deathmask flashed her a smile, all pretense of fear gone.

“Then you get your revenge, assuming you’re strong enough to take it.”

She patted her daggers. “I’ll be fine. Follow me, and keep your eyes open. The last thing I want to do is die before my steel tastes Garrick’s blood.”

1

G
host woke when the sun shone bright on his face. He stirred, rubbed his eyes, and then forced them open. Midday, he guessed. His stomach rumbled, and his head pounded from the night before. He felt he could sleep another four hours or so, but his body would have to endure. Still, he wasn’t in too much of a hurry. He had a name, after all, a place to search and question. Not much harm in grabbing a bite to eat.

Once he left his room at the shabby inn, he swung by the main market in the center of town, buying a thick slice of bread smothered with butter and honey. While he ate, he sat by a fountain in the center and listened to the idle talk as men and women passed by. The overwhelming sensation was not fear, as he’d expected. It was anger. More surprising was how it wasn’t directed at the guilds, or even the Trifect. They directed it at the king.

Stupid dogs,
he thought as he ate.
You’ve lived under this chaos for so long it’s become normal to you. The Trifect and the guilds will war, and you see this as acceptable, but only if the king protects you. Last night destroyed your apathy. Last night saw your blood joining the others. So you rage, but only to your protector. Damn king. Should have put this nonsense to rest years ago.

Still fairly new to Veldaren, Ghost knew only a little of the king, but what he’d gleaned wasn’t flattering. As he listened to men swear against their liege’s honor, and women insinuate he’d been born without his manhood, it seemed obvious that his cowardly indifference could no longer last. But whose side would it fall upon, the guilds’ or the Trifect’s? Logic seemed to place him as a puppet of the Trifect, but Ghost was unsure. Which one would he fear more? If the man were a true coward, he’d fear the enemy he couldn’t keep out with gates and walls, the enemy that’d fill his drink with poison and lay a dagger under his pillow while he slept.

Meal finished, he drank from the fountain and then headed to the mercenaries’ headquarters. Not surprisingly, it was crowded with both the rich and the poor. They were pleading their cases, demanding compensation for damages done in the chaotic night. The old keeper, Bill Trett, shouted the same phrase over and over, as if come the fiftieth time it might sink in.

“Take all complaints to Alyssa Gemcroft’s estate. She has promised to accept full responsibility. I’m sorry if your house burned down, or someone died, but please, take all complaints to Alyssa Gemcroft’s estate. She has promised…”

Ghost slammed a massive fist against the door, the sound thunderous in the small room. The crowd, about twenty in all, jumped and turned.

“Enough!” he roared. “Get your asses out of here, and go to Gemcroft’s with your problems.”

He kept his muscular arm pressed against the door, holding it open. The stance also revealed the weapons at his hips. He glared, letting them see he had no desire to argue. A few filed out, while the rest looked about, as if trying to decide just how serious he was. Only a few carried weapons, and he doubted they were proficient with them.

“I’m letting go of the door,” he said, his voice lowering in volume but not in depth. “When it shuts, I kill everyone in here not a member of the mercenary guild. That clear?”

He let go. A wiry man in silks lunged for it, sticking his hand in the way. The rest followed him, until only a thankful Bill remained.

“What the Abyss happened last night?” the older man asked. “I expected several of them to jump the counter and attack me.”

“Frightened sheep,” Ghost said. “Let Gemcroft handle them. No reason for you to put up with their bleating.”

“I doubt you’ve come here to be my savior,” Bill said, sitting down and smoothing his hair. He pulled out a bottle from a drawer and took a deep swig. “So what is it you need?”

“A small group of mercenaries, led by one named Tarlak. Do you know them?”

Bill raised an eyebrow. “I do, but only because they’ve caused me a bit of trouble. Tarlak Eschaton, leader of the Eschaton Mercenaries. Refused to join our guild or pay dues. The last representative I sent to forcefully request they join came back as a toad.”

Ghost blinked. “A toad?”

“A damn toad. Cost a fortune to send for a representative of the Council of Mages to come change him back. They weren’t too happy with that Tarlak, either. Evidently he’s a rogue apprentice or something, but since he’s not an official member they don’t consider him their problem, so long as he doesn’t start blowing up houses or trying to become anything more than what he is now.”

“Which is?”

Bill shrugged. “A smalltime mercenary. Why do you ask?”

“I need to find him.”

“Last I knew he was on Crimson Alley, thirteenth heading south from Axe Way. Should still be there.”

“Do you know how many else are with him?”

Bill took another long swig, paused to think, and then stood. After he’d locked the door, then put a wooden bar across, he sat back down.

“I’m thinking we’re closed for the day,” he said. “And I’m not sure I like where this is going, Ghost. Care to tell me why you want to know so much about this Tarlak?”

“He knows something.”

“From what I hear, people that know something you want to know have a funny way of turning up dead.”

Ghost shrugged. “Depends on how loose their lips are.”

“My, aren’t you a piece of work?” Bill said, chuckling. “But considering they aren’t part of the guild, and you are, I guess I can tell you what I know. He lives with his sister, young gal. Priestess, I think. Also got some guy named Brug, though why he’s taken him in I don’t have a clue. We turned down that guy’s application twice. Too much temper without a shred of skill to back it up. Last is a guy named Stern, bald as you, but that’s all I know. If he can fight, I haven’t heard word of it. Like I said, smalltime, with only his petty magic tricks to make him stand out in the slightest. Oh, and those god-awful yellow robes of his. They’ve only been around for nine months or so, maybe a year. I don’t expect ‘em to last.”

Ghost bowed, stealing Bill’s bottle as he did. He took in several gulps, the burning in his throat doing much to awaken him.

“Enjoy your day in peace,” Ghost said, handing it back. “And lock the door after I leave. There’s still people gathering outside.”

“Will do.”

A glare from Ghost caused the few waiting outside to step back, and he didn’t move away until he heard the thump of the wood barring the door.

“You’ve still got your lives,” he told them. “If you’ve got that, you can move on. I suggest you do. Your pleading and curses won’t do a damn thing to sway anyone, not in this city.”

He trudged south, toward the Crimson, keeping an eye out for Axe Road so he could begin counting. Finding the thirteenth from there was easy. Eyeing the building’s two floors, he crossed his arms and thought. Deciding his entry point, he continued on. A block later he turned around, coming back in a side alley. The way was dark, and two men glared at him as he passed. Any other they might have tried to rob, but he’d flashed them a grin, and he saw the way they stared at his painted face. They’d have been more likely to try and rob a dragon.

The Eschaton’s building itself was smooth stone, but not the one next to it. That was well worn and cracked with many handholds. Climbing up to the roof, he turned and leapt the gap, rolling to absorb the impact of his landing. It wasn’t that he feared injuring his legs; he knew they could endure the blow. He just didn’t want to alert anyone inside to his presence. There was no direct entrance from the roof, but the second floor had a window, and that would be enough for him. Hanging upside down, he looked through it.

The glass was surprisingly clean, and he guessed it was because of the woman who slept beneath the window, red-haired and buried under blankets. The priestess, he figured. The muscles in his legs flexing to keep himself steady, he brushed his fingers against the glass, testing whether or not the window opened. It didn’t.

He swung back onto the roof and debated. If he broke in through the front door, his surprise would be less, and he wouldn’t have immediate access to one of their members. He could try coming back later, but if they slept through the day, they’d probably be out with the other mercenaries come nightfall. Again, no good. It’d have to be now. He put his back to the ledge, then crouched down so he could clutch it with his hands. The window would be a tight fit, but if he stretched out enough, he could squeeze through.

His feet kicked, shifting him into a pivot. He smashed feet first through the window, showering the woman’s bed with glass. He let go of the ledge and held his arms high above his head. His momentum carried him through, and he landed on top of her, with him on his back. Before she could scream, he rolled over and clamped a hand over her mouth.

“Shush now,” he said, ramming an open palm against the side of her head, knocking her out cold. Knowing time was short, he pushed off the bed and made for the door.

“Del?” he heard someone ask from the other side. His voice was nervous, but not yet worried. A broken window could be many things, most likely a stone, least likely a dangerous man built like a mountain. The door opened inward. Before it was a third of the way open, he rammed it closed with his knee, then grabbed it with one hand and flung it wide. A man was falling on the other side, his balance broken by the sudden hit from the door. It was Tarlak, based on his outfit.

Bill was right. What is that, piss-yellow?

Ghost rammed a meaty fist into his mouth, just to make sure no spells got out. He had no intention of showing up at Bill’s later as a toad. The punch split the wizard’s lip, and blood flecked across Ghost’s knuckles. Ghost followed it up with a punch to the stomach, doubling him over. He dropped him with both his fists together, bashing the back of his head. Tarlak crumpled, easily unconscious. Neither he nor the girl would be out long, maybe a few minutes, but Ghost felt it enough time. When they came to, they’d be bound, and the wizard most likely gagged.

There was one other room up top, its door open. Deciding it was Tarlak’s, he hurried to the stairs. If the other two were awake, they’d be rushing up them. Sure enough, he heard hollering, and a short man with muscular arms and a beard met him halfway.

“What the bloody—?”

Ghost snapped a fist into his face, cutting the sentence off short. A knee to his groin sent him rolling back down. Again Bill’s information rang true. The guy wasn’t much use, was he?

He followed Brug’s roll down the stairs, kicking him at the bottom to convince him to stay down. One left, the one called Stern. His eyes swept the lower floor. Two doors were in the back, plus an exit to outside. One was open, Brug’s he assumed. The other…

The door blasted open as he reached for its handle. He spun immediately in the direction of the door, using it as a shield. A flanged mace cut through the air where he’d been. Ghost bounced off the wall, drawing both his swords. He shoved the mace aside, then slashed blind behind the door. The other sword hit something hard, and then they were both in view of each other. The man, Stern no doubt, glared back at him, a mace in each hand. Their weapons pressed against each other, testing strength. Stern, while stronger than he looked, was still no contest.

This didn’t seem to surprise him, though, and when Ghost tried to push him back, Stern parried both swords to the side and tried to leap past. He wanted the open area, Ghost realized, hoping his speed might win out. Ghost couldn’t stop him, but he could make life more difficult. He kicked a foot as he rotated his body, taking out one of Stern’s knees. Stern didn’t even try to keep his balance, instead rolling forward, around an old wooden chair, and up to his feet before the door. He lifted his maces and grinned.

“Clearly skilled,” he said. “So what person with money did we piss off this time?”

“Don’t matter,” Ghost said. He feinted a charge, then kicked the chair at him. Stern blocked it with his heel, but it was enough of a stall. Double-slashing, Ghost gave him no choice but to block, and block he did. His arms jarred, though nothing broke like he’d hoped. Sometimes, if he swung just right, he could pop a collarbone or wreck the joints in an elbow.