A Dance of Blades (7 page)

She thought of Garrick’s mockery, of him telling her how she needed him.

“Stand then,” she said, letting him go as he released her wrist. “And let me hear you speak.”

“I will not tell you everything,” he said as he stood and rubbed his throat. “Not until I can trust you, and perhaps not even afterward. For now, just know that my assignment from the Council was to…watch over the guilds. I know of your true skill and control, Veliana. I know that Garrick was but a puppet, and you were pulling the strings. But that isn’t the case anymore, is it? Something’s changed.”

He retrieved her dagger and tossed it to her. She caught it in her good hand and sheathed both blades. Instead of continuing, he walked over and eyed her other hand.

“If I wanted to hurt you, I’d have done so already,” he said when she tensed.

His fingers brushed hers, feeling along the bone.

“Dislocated,” he said. “Bite the hilt of your dagger if you must.”

“Just do it.”

One after the other he yanked them back into place. The pain was immense, and after the third finger, she leaned against him, unable to stand. He held her steady, and when he finished, he removed his mask and tied it around her hand as a bandage. Through the tears in her eyes she looked upon his face. The anger was gone. It was never directed at her, just those who had banished him. She felt her curiosity grow. Just what did he plan for her guild?

“Listen to me,” he whispered, as if suddenly worried others were listening. He leaned close, his cheek almost touching hers. “I cannot do this alone. I desire to create something special, something Veldaren has never before seen. You won’t be the new guildmaster, I won’t lie about that, but you will always be there at my right hand.”

“Why would I trade Garrick for you if my place shall stay the same?”

He smiled, a bit of his amusement returning to twinkle in his eye.

“Because I respect you. Garrick only knows fear. Which would you prefer? And I will not replace Garrick, not entirely. My aim is greater. We will be legends in the underworld, Vel. All you must do is accept my wisdom.”

She looked to her bandaged hand, then to his eyes.

“I must think on it.”

“Time is against me right now, but you may have a day and a night to decide. Garrick will soon stop his tricks and try to kill me outright, regardless of the fallout. I must have you at my side when that happens.”

She pulled away.

“Resume your post,” she said.

“Of course, milady.”

Before she could go, he put an arm in her way.

“That trick with your dagger,” he said. “The violet flame…where did you learn to do something like that?”

This time it was her turn to smile.

“Everyone has their secrets.”

He seemed amused, and he stepped aside so she could pass. She went into the headquarters, found her bunk, and lay down, not to sleep but to think. She felt lost and confused. There wasn’t anyone she could trust within the Ash Guild for advice, but there was one woman outside the guild who would die to protect her secrets. Dawn was still a few hours away, so perhaps she had time.

Veliana left her bed, changed into a darker outfight, and donned her gray cloak. She used a different door than the one Deathmask guarded, and then took to the rooftops. Once in relative freedom, she removed the cloak signifying her allegiance to the Ash Guild and then set out to meet Zusa at the Gemcroft mansion.

1

I
t was past midnight when Arthur Hadfield arrived at the gates of the Gemcroft mansion, escorted by nine of his soldiers. One of the guards immediately recognized him and opened the gate.

“Our lady sleeps,” said the guard, “but we would not turn away such an esteemed visitor in the cold of night. I pray no ill news brings you here at such an hour?”

“Pray all you want,” Arthur said. “But it won’t change the news I bring.”

Inside the main foyer they stopped and forfeited their weapons, even Arthur’s. He gave the guard a stern look as he handed over his beautiful longsword, a family heirloom of five generations.

“A lash for every scratch,” he said. “Unless you think Alyssa will not listen to me.”

“Understood, sir,” said the guard. “Please, wait here. Our lady will be down shortly; we have already sent a servant to wake her.”

“Warm some food for my men,” Arthur said. “And find me something stiff to drink. I’d rather not meet Alyssa looking pale as a corpse fresh from the grave.”

“Right away.”

Several servants rushed from one room to the next, haggard-eyed and clothes unkempt. Most of the guards looked a little better, but they were probably used to the odd hours and constant threat of thieves sneaking in at night. Most of them likely slept during the day. An elderly lady appeared and ushered the soldiers to follow her.

“Coming?” one asked Arthur.

He shook his head.

“I’ll wait here. All I need is a drink. Enjoy yourselves, and don’t forget,” he glanced at the servant, “to find yourselves lodging for the night. We won’t go traipsing for an inn at this hour.”

It seemed the servant got the message, and even if she didn’t, he knew his men would hammer the point home. Standing in the foyer, he removed his bearskin coat and set it aside. A large fireplace burned at the intersection before him, so he stood beside it and let its heat sink into his skin. When a servant arrived with a glass, he took it and gave it a taste.

“Thank you,” he said, doing his best to hold in a denigrating remark. The lady had brought him a recent vintage of wine, no doubt the cheapest bottle in the mansion other than what was reserved for the hired help. Probably thought they were keeping Alyssa’s interests in mind since she had not asked it for him, but they should have known better. He swallowed the rest of it anyway. It might taste like piss, but at least it’d still warm his bones.

He watched the fire burn as he waited, his thoughts racing through the recent events. Alyssa needed to marry soon, and with Mark Tullen dead, Arthur had removed all serious competition. Only two wrinkles remained. One was Alyssa’s child, heir to the Gemcroft wealth, as well as a potential danger should he describe the ambush accurately enough to blame him. The other was that strange man who had attacked them. He dressed like a thief, yet none of his colors marked him with any guild. Plus there was that symbol carved in blood beside the fire. The Watcher. Arthur didn’t visit Veldaren often, but it seemed things had gotten far stranger in his absence. Not for the first time he felt thankful he lived in the north, where men had to survive by the plow, the sword, or the pick, and not by the deftness of their hand.

“Lord Hadfield,” Alyssa said, pulling him from his thoughts. He turned to her and smiled as she approached through the doorway. Her hair was immaculate, her cheeks warmed with rouge. The dark circles under her eyes were hidden with powder. Now he knew why she’d taken so long to come down. At least her clothing was appropriate for the late hour, a crimson robe tied with a yellow sash. She wrapped her arms in his and gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek.

“Forgive me for ruining your sleep,” he said. “It’s a cruelty, waking someone at this hour, but I feared it’d be crueler risking someone other than myself bringing the news.”

“Enough,” Alyssa said, stepping back and holding her arms against her chest as if she were cold. “Please, whatever it is, tell me, or my mind will assume the worst.”

Arthur frowned and looked away for a moment, just long enough for her to interpret it as doubt.

“You could assume nothing worse than the truth,” he said at last. “I’m sorry, Alyssa. Your son is dead.”

She’d been expecting it, he could tell, but it didn’t matter. She took a step back as if he’d slapped her. Her mouth dropped open, and her hands quivered as she pressed them to her lips.

“No,” she whispered. Tears swelled in her eyes, then fell, smearing the powder. “No, no, please, you’re wrong, you have to be wrong…”

He shook his head. This was by far the easiest part. None of it was a lie.

“Mark Tullen came and took Nathaniel from Tyneham, where I’d brought him for tutoring. They joined one of my caravans traveling to the city. I thought they’d be safe, but someone ambushed them several days ago, no doubt hoping for the gold.”

“Mark?” Alyssa asked as she tried in vain to compose herself. “Was he…?”

Arthur wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close.

“There were no survivors,” he whispered. “They piled the bodies together and burned them.”

She fell against him and sobbed. A bit of rouge rubbed onto his vest, and he wondered whether it would come off. As her cries escalated, he tightened his grip, holding her against him. He gently rocked her side to side, his cheek resting on the top of her head. He felt unprepared for her grief, and he mentally delayed his plans of marriage. She’d need time to get over this, at least three months. Perhaps if he could bring her closure, he could progress things sooner, but how?

She asked a question, but it muffled against his chest.

“What, my love?” he asked, tilting her face with her chin. It was the first time he’d call her that, and he knew it would carry far more impact now given the circumstances.

“Who?” she asked. She sniffed and pulled free of his grip. “I want to know who.”

“I told you, someone wishing for our gold. Ruffians, most likely, come from only the gods know where.”

Alyssa shook her head. It seemed as if her skin were darkening to red, her whole body suddenly given over to rage. When she spoke again, her voice was held together by such fierce concentration he worried she had pierced his lies.

“That’s not good enough,” she said. “There has to be something, some clue, some mistake they made. They can’t make off with that much gold without others noticing. No one is that perfect, that calculated. If you know something, tell me!”

Arthur felt his opening, and it took all his willpower to keep from smiling.

“There was a…symbol,” he said, as if hesitant. “I didn’t wish to bother you with it, not when you should be grieving.”

“I have the rest of my life to grieve,” she said, wiping her makeup with her hands. “What was the symbol?”

“It was an open eye, drawn in blood. Below it was written a name, a strange name. The Watcher. I believe he is tied to the local thief guilds in some manner.”

The way she startled, he knew he’d hit his mark.

“How dare he?” she said. “He kills my son, and my…and Mark, and then dares leave his name? I’ll see him flayed before me, that heartless bastard.”

“Allow me to help in the search,” Arthur offered.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “This is my loss, and my fault. I sent Mark for him when I should have left him in safety.”

“It was
my
caravan, don’t forget.”

She looked at him, and he forced a mask of anger across his face. He had to seem guilty, not eager. He had to seem furious at the loss of his men, not just his gold. He did his best, and it seemed like she bought it.

“Very well,” she said. “Kill him if you must, though I’d prefer him alive.”

“Torture and vengeance shouldn’t belong to a woman so beautiful as you.”

“Then blame the world for giving me this sorrow. If the gods are kind, I’ll be the one to cut this Watcher’s throat and feel the blood spill across my hands.”

After a long pause, she asked “Did you bring…the body?”

“No,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “As I said, it was a great pyre, and we left it alone.”

“My son will not spend eternity in some common grave, his ashes trodden on by horses and oxen. You should have brought me his bones.”

She walked to the fireplace and retrieved a bell from its mantle. When she shook it, two servants came running.

“Please find quarters for Lord Hadfield,” she told them, then turned to Arthur. “I need time to rest, and I feel I would be poor company for you. Good night.”

He bowed and followed the servants. When he arrived at his room, he asked for them to fetch one of his soldiers, a man named Oric. Given such haste, there were no logs or coals in the fireplace, and the room felt only marginally warmer than the outside. He put his coat back on and sat atop the bed. His joints creaked, and he lay upon the mattress trying to will his muscles to relax. He didn’t bother to get up when the door opened and Oric stepped inside.

“You needed something?” Oric asked. He was an ugly man, thick cheeks, round jaw, and flat nose that made him look like his mother had mated with a pig. He was skilled with a blade, though, and meaner than any soldier he’d ever employed. Not a brilliant man, but he could follow events as they happened, and every now and then he’d have an insight that left Arthur pleased.

“You were a mercenary before working for me, yes?”

“Yeah, mostly for the Conningtons. Past year or so they got shy when it comes to killing thieves, so I went looking for more enjoyable work. Everyone told me to talk to you.”

“And they were right,” he said. “Do you have any friends that might still be here in Veldaren?”

“A mercenary never has friends, not if he wants to live long enough to get his pay. And sure, I have some contacts that should still be around. What you thinking?”

“That man in gray who attacked us at the caravan, the one calling himself the Watcher…we need to bring his corpse to Alyssa so she might move on from her son’s death. That, and who knows where his loyalties lie? He could do me great harm by telling the right pair of ears what actually happened.”

“It won’t be easy,” Oric said. “I never met him when working for Leon, but we all heard about him. The thieves can’t stand him, but they can’t find him, either.”

“I don’t care,” Arthur said. “Whoever you hire, make sure they’re good enough to handle the job. Cost is no object.”

Oric nodded. “What about the boy?”

“I must stay here with Alyssa in her time of need. Take half my soldiers and ride north. I trust you to handle the matter in a manner most fitting.”

Oric’s grin was ear to ear.

“If he ain’t frozen in the woods somewhere, we’ll find him. Don’t worry, Arthur. Might not be how we wanted it, but when it all boils down, you’re in control. Just keep whispering them sweet words in that pretty ear of hers. I’ll take care of any blood spilling.”

Not long after he left, someone else knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Arthur said, wishing he still had his sword.

Bertram, the old advisor who had worked for the Gemcroft family for at least fifty years, stepped inside.

“You spoke with Alyssa?” Arthur asked.

“Not yet, but I know her well enough to anticipate her response. She will put me in charge of the boy’s funeral. Did you bring Nathaniel’s body with you?”

The question stung, just as deep as when Alyssa had first asked. He had no body…

“Burned,” he said. “Back with the caravan. Alyssa didn’t take too kindly to that. I take it she’ll want the remains brought to her?”

Bertram nodded. “It would be greatly distressing if we didn’t have something to bury for the funeral. Not that it matters, of course. Bones are bones after a fire reaches them, yes?”

Arthur stared at the old man, trying to understand what was going on. Was he helping him, or fishing for information?

“I doubt Alyssa would agree,” he said, erring on the side of caution.

“She cannot judge what she does not know.” Bertram turned for the door, put his hand on the handle, and then stopped. “I will be very busy over the next few days, and will have no time to venture into the wild. Perhaps you, or some of your men, might retrieve the body for me? I would greatly appreciate it.”