A Dance of Blades

by David Dalglish

  A couple of the priests thanked him, but most eyed him warily and scooted farther away when he neared.

  “Why?” asked Calan, his arm still around one of the younger priests. “Why did you help us?”

  Ghost shrugged. “Can’t stand disrespect, and that’s all that was. They should respect me, and respect you. They didn’t, and now they’re dead.”

  “Not all of them,” Calan said, gesturing to the many wounded. He turned to his priests. “Go and tend to them.”

  “I doubt they’ll bother you now,” Ghost said. “But I’d consider getting rid of those with colors in your temple while it’s still calm.”

  “If I did that,” said the head priest with a smile, “I wouldn’t be worthy of much respect, would I?”

  Ghost laughed. “Maybe you’re right. Then I hope your god watches over you. Before this night ends, you might still need him.”

  Deathmask watched the carnage from the window of a room currently absent of its original occupants. No doubt they’d fled to safer territory, assuming there was anywhere safe within the city walls. He’d gone out with the initial patrols, under orders from Garrick to help ambush some of the smaller mercenary groups. When the first fight began he’d slipped away, joining Veliana in the large apartments overlooking their headquarters. After a few initial confrontations that left many on both sides dead, the area had remained quiet for the past hour. Most recently a squad of fifty men had checked the headquarters for thieves, found none, and then moved on.

  “I doubt there’ll be much guild left for you to rule after tonight,” Veliana said, relaxing on a moth-eaten chair. “Hope Garrick survives, though. Would be heartbroken if some lousy sellsword gets the honor of cutting off his head.”

  “He’s too cowardly to die tonight,” Deathmask said as he tied a gray cloth over his face and straightened it so the eyeholes lined up properly. Behind him Veliana did the same, using the knot of the cloth to also keep her dark hair in a tight ponytail. They both wore loose gray clothing, and cloaks of a darker shade. Veliana had killed a pair of Spiders in the initial chaos before joining Deathmask in the building, bringing with her their clothes and weapons.

  “While unexpected, tonight certainly works in our favor,” he said, once more looking to the window. “The fewer we have to thin out the better. Have you given thought as to who we should spare?”

  “The only ones who come to mind are the twins,” she said. “They have a head on their shoulders, though it seems like they share it. They think so alike it’s creepy.”

  “Can they wield a blade?”

  “They’re better at throwing them than wielding them, but no average cutthroat could handle either of the twins in a fight.”

  “Good. Names?”

  She tugged at her mask, trying to get it to fit comfortably. “Mier and Nien.”

  Deathmask rolled his eyes. “What wonderful parents. Gods forbid their names be even a little different.”

  He leaned away from the window as a man rushed down the road, a jittery fellow who kept glancing in every direction. Two more followed after. Veliana saw Deathmask’s reaction and straightened in her chair.

  “Someone there?” she asked.

  “Looks like some scouts, no doubt making sure it’s safe to come home. Get ready. We’ll have little time between their leaving and Garrick’s arrival.”

  The Ash scouts vanished into the building. Deathmask peered out the window, watching, waiting. When the scout emerged, Deathmask beckoned Veliana closer.

  “Go!” he said when the scout turned a corner. They tossed a rope that was tied to the bed in their room, sliding down even as it uncoiled. They hit the street in seconds and sprinted for the headquarters. Deathmask led the way, Veliana at his heels. Once inside they slowed, walking through the hallway into the lavish rooms.

  “Pick your spot,” he said, his eyes darting about. “Keep close to the doors for when we make our escape.”

  “I’m no stranger to this sort of thing,” Veliana said, glaring at him through her mask.

  “Keep your hood raised. If they see your hair, they might figure out who you are, instead of just assuming you another Spider.”

  She lifted the hood of her cloak and let it fall across her face as Deathmask did the same. He entered one of the side sections curtained off to give privacy with the dancer women, leaving a gap so he could watch the entrance. Veliana adjusted a giant pile of pillows, hiding behind it with daggers drawn. Deathmask drew his weapons as well. There would be no magic for him, no spells of blood and shadows. Using such skills would reveal him to Garrick, which would ruin his current plan. No, it’d be just knifework. Veliana had trained him for a few hours, but it had only made clear how far from proficient he was. He’d spent an hour casting spells of speed and strength on himself to try to make up for the lack, but he wouldn’t know for sure until the ambush if they’d worked. Not being much of a praying man, he crossed his fingers and swore to succeed whatever the cost.

  The door slammed open. In rushed a collection of the Ash Guild: all men close to Garrick, Deathmask noticed. Their clothes were lacking in blood and gore. No ambushes for Garrick, which put a smile on Deathmask’s face. That fact would work wonders for them later, should he and Veliana survive for the second part of their plan. The thieves went straight for the obvious: the bar filled with bottles of wine and ale. Deathmask was glad he couldn’t see Veliana, who was no doubt smirking. She’d insisted that would be their first action, whereas he’d thought many would rest atop the pillows to relax after a brutal night of fighting.

  “They’ll drink it off before they sleep it off,” she’d said while they waited through the night.

  Need to listen to her more often, he thought. She thinks more like a man than I. What I get for growing up among wizards, I guess.

  They both waited, Deathmask watching until he was sure … and there he was, standing amid his men, holding his glass the highest as they toasted a night of survival.

  “To standing atop the dead!” he heard Garrick say.

  Toasting your own cowardice? And to think I thought I was a bastard.

  He pushed aside the curtain and charged, his dagger drawn and ready. As he pushed himself to the limit, he felt his feet move faster, the world almost imperceptibly slower. He buried his dagger in the back of the nearest thief, whose glass fell from his hand. Before it hit the ground, two daggers flew across the room, thudding into the back of another. Veliana scattered pillows as she lunged, much of her face thankfully hidden by her hood. She kicked the closest thief, the one she’d hit with her daggers, yanking out the blades as her foot slammed him into the others. Wine splashed to the floor as the rest dropped their drinks and drew their blades, crying out warnings of trap and ambush.

  Garrick was in their center, and he fell back instead of drawing his dagger. Deathmask knew Garrick was Veliana’s target, not his, but he had to clear a path for her. Sidestepping a thrust, he jammed his dagger into the chest of another, using the body to protect himself from several more. The Ash members were starting to spread out, the better to take advantage of their numbers. That thinned the wall toward Garrick, and Veliana wielded her daggers like a demoness, twisting and curling to avoid every thrust. Blood soon joined the wine that stained the floor. Deathmask felt pride in seeing her work. No one who survived could possibly doubt that the best of the Spider Guild had come to take the life of a rival.

  Well, those who watched her, anyway. He, on the other hand, struggled to stay alive. His dagger flailed from side to side, sometimes faster than he expected thanks to the earlier enchantments. The impulse to cast a spell to blind his opponent filled him, and only at the last second did he refrain. The ruse was more important. He would gain nothing by giving himself away. The Ash needed to be his guild to rule. He couldn’t do that if revealed in the clothing of a rival guild. His arms trembled as he felt steel cut into them. He fought three men at once, and they grinned at the sight of blood. He was outmatched, and now they knew it
.

  “Finish it!” he cried to Veliana, hurrying to the door.

  Veliana was in the middle of disemboweling another man, and at his cry she shoved the man aside. The path between her and Garrick was clear. Instead of charging, she lifted a dagger and threw. Its aim was true. The point pierced his shoulder and lodged deep, burying itself up to the hilt. Garrick howled as his blood ran.

  That was enough. Deathmask rushed for the exit, feeling like his legs didn’t belong to him. Veliana hesitated for just a moment, and he saw her other dagger trembling in her hand. Trusting her to do the smart thing, he burst through the door and into the night. She appeared a moment later, looking none too pleased.

  “Come on,” he said. He took a zigzag course through the city, on a path he had memorized. They arrived at an inn with rooms they’d paid for several hours before. Deathmask climbed in through a window, which had no glass, only thick wood shutters that he had left unlocked. He was already changing back into his Ash Guild outfit when Veliana climbed inside.

  “Did you kill him?” he asked.

  “I wanted to.”

  “That a no?”

  She yanked the mask off her face and flung back her hood. “What do you think?”

  He grinned. Knowing his skill was nowhere near hers, he’d left the delicate task of harming, but not killing, Garrick up to Veliana. Up until the throw itself, he hadn’t been sure if she would make it lethal or not.

  “You did marvelously,” he said, tossing the Spider cloak to the bed and pulling off his tunic. “And now I can trust you all the more. If I were in your position, I might have accidentally hit Garrick’s throat.”

  “That would have left me homeless and guildless,” she said, grabbing her old Ash outfit from the bed. She reached for the door.

  “Where you going?” he asked.

  “To change.”

  The door shut behind her. Deathmask sighed. No fun at all.

  She returned moments later, dressed in the colors of the Ash and looking to be in an even fouler mood.

  “They’re still stained with my blood,” she said, referring to the red patch on her chest.

  “I’ll try to get you something newer when I can,” he said. “Didn’t want to attract any attention. They might wonder why I was requesting an outfit for someone half my weight.”

  “You’re a thief now, remember? Steal it.”

  Deathmask shrugged. “Ready?”

  She pushed him aside and climbed out the window.

  “This better work,” she muttered. “Otherwise we’re in for a lengthy death.”

  “I’m in for one, perhaps, but you’ve already had your public execution, remember?”

  She slammed the shutters in his face.

  CHAPTER 16

  In her grief, she had thought hearing the cries of pain and seeing the river of blood would give her closure, but instead Alyssa felt hollow as she watched the fires spread across the city. Standing at the second-story window of her private study, she touched the cold glass and wondered what it was she had done. Had she brought freedom to the city? Peace of mind? Or would every death just result in more death, every killed thief replaced by two more filled with thoughts of revenge? Bertram had told her the monetary cost of her single night, and it was staggering.

  She knew there’d be no peace, not this night. But perhaps this was just like cauterizing a wound. There would be heat, pain, but then the bleeding would stop and healing could commence.

  Someone knocked on the door, and she had a feeling who. Her help would be asleep, or perhaps lying awake in their rooms wondering about the safety of their friends and family beyond her mansion’s walls. That left very few who would dare come to her room at night while the rest of the city was in chaos.

  “Come in, Arthur,” she said, surprised by how tired she sounded. She rubbed her face with her hand, discovering tears. Had she really reached such a low, crying without realizing it while she wasted the night away staring out a window?

  The door opened, then softly shut. Moments later she felt Arthur’s hands on her shoulders. When he started massaging she leaned back, pressing her head against his neck.

  “People are too scared to form bucket lines,” he said. “The fires will only spread.”

  She sighed. She should have known, of course. Probably had, even, but she’d let her hatred blind her. Let the whole city burn, she’d thought plenty of times, so long as it burns the rats with it. But this was her war now, and that meant dealing with all its ills, all its blame.

  “Send someone to the castle. Tell the king I request the aid of his soldiers in putting out the fires. With the castle guard there, it should outweigh any fear.”

  “Self-preservation is strong,” Arthur said, letting her go. “For so many to hide instead of fighting the fires shows how great a fear you have created.”

  “I meant to scare the thieves,” she said. “Not the innocent. But are there any innocent anymore? How deep does Veldaren’s sickness run? Maybe I should let it burn, all of it. My son is nothing but ash, so why not them, why not …?”

  He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight, and in them she let herself cry. She found herself crying often in his presence. There was a strength in him, and a desire to please. More than anything, she felt she could trust him. He’d been there for her when she needed him most.

  “Was this wrong?” she asked. “Have I truly erred so badly?”

  His response was long delayed, to the point that she thought he might not answer.

  “You have done what you thought was right, and what was best for the Gemcroft family. I will not fault you for that, if you will do the same for me for what I am about to do now.”

  “And what is that, Arthur?”

  He turned her about and kissed her. His hands were firm on her shoulders. She felt herself responding. She was so exhausted, so drained. His touch was like an awakening, a pull from a nightmare that threatened to consume her day in and day out.

  “The messenger to the castle,” she breathed while her mind remained able to think.

  Arthur leaned close, his hot breath against her ear.

  “Let the fires burn a little longer. If the cowards cannot save their own city, the blame lies with them.”

  The study lacked a bed, but the carpet was soft. They made love, her beneath him. She wrapped her arms around his chest and clutched him as if her life might end if she let go. She tried to forget the death and fire, her call for revenge. Even as the pleasure tore through her, she could not help but wonder if that wicked man responsible for the death of her son lay dead somewhere, his body nothing but ash in a distant fire. Atop her, Arthur continued to grunt and thrust.

  The arrival of the sun was a blessed thing to Veldaren’s citizens. The mercenaries retreated, having fought and searched long through the night. Those with cloaks and colors buried themselves inside whatever safe houses they had to recuperate and plan. Those who sided with neither filled the streets, forming bucket lines from the wells and digging ditches to combat the fires. Many others went to their families and friends, needing confirmation of their survival before beginning their daily tasks. The market’s bustle was subdued, the streets awash with murmurs.

  Haern watched it all through the window of the small apartment. The fire had gotten dangerously close to Senke and Delysia’s home, reaching all the way to Prather’s Inn and burning it to the ground. People were everywhere, half-buried in the smoke that billowed from the dying fire. The king’s soldiers hurried about, but their presence in the streets did nothing to ease people’s minds.

  “Too little, too late,” Haern whispered. He scratched at his face, which itched worse than it had in ages. Upon their returning to the apartment, Tarlak had insisted Haern bathe, shave, and wear something, as he put it, “not smelling like a rat just shit all over it.” So he’d used their washtub, shaved himself with a slender knife, and then borrowed an outfit of Senke’s, simple grays that he knew would blend well into the streets. T
he ordeal left him tired and feeling strangely outside himself, as if this clean, well-dressed individual were someone else.

  “You look troubled,” Delysia said, and he flinched as if poked with a stick. Blushing for no reason, he turned back to her and accepted the cup of warm milk she’d brought him.

  “I mixed in some herbs,” she said, sitting opposite him in a rickety chair. “You’ll sleep well, and by the looks of it you could use the rest.”

  He thanked her and sipped the milk, wisely deciding not to comment on how terrible the drink tasted. His eyes lingered on her face, and he struggled not to make his staring obvious. She’d grown so much over the past five years. Her hair was longer, but still the same fiery red. Her cheekbones were more pronounced, and in her priestess robe she looked almost regal. Her chest was also significantly larger. Out of everything, he tried to make sure his glances at that remained uncaught.

  He continued to sip the drink, mostly to avoid conversation. He had no clue what to say to her. The last time they’d met, he’d come to her in desperate need of guidance. He’d needed to understand a life outside the cold retribution of his father. His tutor Robert Haern had spoken of the god Ashhur, and now here she was, a priestess of the same god. His thoughts had turned only to survival during the long years, yet now the name of Ashhur came back to him with a burning vengeance. What was it he’d told Delysia? He needed Ashhur, otherwise he’d end up like his father. He’d be a killer without mercy, a terrible creation the city feared.

  Long live the Watcher, he thought. What have I become?

  “I … I’m glad you’re all right,” Haern blurted, feeling stupid as he said it. He saw a shadow cross over Delysia’s face, but she pushed it aside with a smile.