A Dance of Blades

by David Dalglish

  “Is it just?” he asked.

  “Doesn’t matter, boy,” Lord Gandrem said. “All that matters is you believe it is just. And do you believe it?”

  Nathaniel opened his mouth to answer, opened his mouth to say he did, but instead he vomited, his stomach shifting from side to side within him, perfectly in time to the convulsing body of the dying Oric.

  EPILOGUE

  Haern found Deathmask and his Ash Guild back in their hiding hole, and they greeted him like a long-lost friend.

  “Behold the legend,” Deathmask said, but his laughter cut with dark humor.

  “Gerand told me of the Spider Guild’s acceptance,” Haern said, not wishing to waste any time. “As for the Conningtons, a man named Potts has assumed control while his relatives bicker and position themselves. I wouldn’t be surprised if it takes a year or two for them to settle things. For now, though, the old advisor’s in charge, and he has agreed to the terms. Only two guilds have refused, but they’re both currently leaderless.”

  “Already we move in on their territory,” Veliana said. “The Spiders and Wolves join us in the feeding frenzy. Whoever finally takes control of the remaining guilds will readily agree, just to save themselves from certain annihilation.”

  “So this is it then,” Haern said. He looked to Deathmask. “Gerand will arrange a set of terms to distribute payments to be divided equally among the five guilds. I imagine that much wealth will divide much better among you four than, say, the hundred or so of the other guilds.”

  “That thought had come to mind,” Deathmask said, grinning. “It’s going to be rough these next few days. Everyone will be testing limits, seeing what they can get away with, and if you are capable of holding things in line. I’d say you normally could pull it off, but right now you look like an animal after a carriage has rolled over it a few times.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Haern said. “And I’ll be watching you as closely as any other guild. Don’t forget that.”

  Deathmask laughed.

  “We aren’t allies, Watcher, and I never intended to be. Keep your eye upon me all you want. You won’t find anything, and your blades will never touch my skin. Go worry about those who truly present a danger to this truce. We’ll be here reaping the rewards. For now, I’ve accomplished everything I desired, albeit in a more … chaotic fashion than I imagined. My former colleagues assumed the chaos in Veldaren could never be ended, and never be made profitable to us. I dare say I’ve proven them wrong. Or I will have once the Trifect’s gold starts being delivered my way, without me having to lift a finger.”

  “At least someone profited from all this,” Haern muttered.

  “Given your position, I doubt you’ll be living as a pauper either,” Veliana said. “Yet you whine like a mule.”

  “I don’t want gold,” Haern said. “I want peace. Let me have that, and the Ash Guild will have nothing to fear from me.”

  He left without giving them any more chances to mock or gloat about their own cleverness. With much of his business done until nightfall, Haern debated on where to go. In the end he went back to the closest thing he had to a home. On the Crimson he found a wagon sitting in front of the Eschatons’ place, half-loaded with trivial things. That none of it had been stolen yet seemed a miracle to him, until he remembered the very truce he’d just set up. Well, that was a start. He went to knock on the door, but it flew open. A very tired and surprised Tarlak stood before him, a stack of books in hand.

  “Oh, you,” he said.

  “I’ve come to…”

  “Save it, Haern. I’m sure you did your absolute best, and I doubt Senke would have changed a thing. Well, other than him dying. He might have … look, the offer still stands. No speeches, no apologies, no nonsense requirements. I bought a tower on the outskirts of the King’s Forest, and I plan on making it a far better home than this dung hole. I told you I thought we had potential to be something special, and I still mean it. You want to come, be useful and grab a box.”

  Haern stepped aside, and Tarlak set his things on the wagon. Glancing inside the building, Haern saw Brug packing up various smithy tools. Delysia helped him, the two joking with each other in hushed tones. He could see the redness in their eyes, but they were moving on the best they knew how. The priestess saw him, and despite the loss of a friend, Delysia smiled and beckoned him inside.

  “Why not,” Haern said as Tarlak came back to the door. He stepped inside, grabbed a box, and hoped that just perhaps the newly titled King’s Watcher might finally have a home.

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  I think, looking back at all these books so far, A Dance of Blades is currently my favorite. Cloaks was written by some strange, clearly deranged madman. This book? I opened my original Note from the Author with this line: “I think I’m getting the hang of this.” And I think it is still very much appropriate. In preparing everything for re-release under Orbit’s guiding hands, this was the one needing the least work. Not to say it didn’t need work … Devi will slap me if I claim that. Plus it’d be a total lie. But this was the point I was writing toward even when I started Cloaks. This was the big moment.

  But it also helped immensely that I got to bring in all these other characters I’d spent so much time with in my Half-Orc books. Haern without the Eschatons just wasn’t the same. But Tarlak? God, he’s so much fun to write. Mocking Brug never gets old. Even having Veliana finally meet up with Deathmask was immensely satisfying, building up everything that would come later. Bringing in new characters to interact with the old kept Blades in a perfect balance for yours truly, something I always strive to reach in any book I write.

  Speaking of new characters, I should probably confess my absolute terror at writing the character Ghost. A quick glance at my author photo should probably explain why. I’m about as white as it gets, and living here in the dead center of the US heartland, what the heck do I know about walking in someone like Ghost’s shoes? But I had to try. His concept, his character in my head, it was just too awesome, too striking, too memorable. Going back over Blades, I fell in love with him all over again. I’m glad I didn’t wimp out, I’m glad I stuck to my guns. Did I succeed? Heck if I know. But I think I did.

  Some of you might be wondering at Thren’s diminished role in this book. That was very much on purpose. The final confrontation between Haern and Thren comes (much) later, which meant I couldn’t keep him as a central villain, especially not in this book, where Haern needed to develop fully into his own character. So I found it better to have Thren lurking in the background, always referenced, always affecting decisions and outcomes even when he’s not there. That one scene between him and Deathmask? Hardest one to write in the entire book.

  Speak of hard scenes … yeah, Senke dying? I know it may sound odd for an author to have regrets. I mean, we’re gods of our little universes. I could have Senke come riding back to life on a pink pony with rainbows shooting out his fingers. But it wouldn’t work, and it wouldn’t be right. And I wish I could have found a way to have Senke survive. He was fun, he was useful, and most important, he had a connection with Haern that even now I struggle to replicate with other characters. The closest I come, as you’ll see in A Dance of Mirrors, is with Zusa. May seem odd now, but if you look at what both of them endured, the restricted upbringing, plus the sheer skill each of them wields and can appreciate in the other, it won’t seem quite so strange.

  They’re such a cute couple, really.

  Well, I’ve rambled enough, so probably time to wrap this up. Thanks again to Michael for the agent stuff, Devi for pushing each draft to be that much better than the previous, my wife for putting up with my lengthy phone calls and inability to talk about really anything else at the dinner table, and you fans who have been with me since the very beginning.

  And you of course, dear reader. I’d be foolish, if not professionally suicidal, if I did not accept that it is your time, your patience, your entertainment that keeps me writing my silly little stories
. I hope, as the years pass and I crank out more and more stories of Haern, Tarlak, and the rest of the world of Dezrel, that you never once get bored. Mad at me? That’s all right. Sad at times? Perfect.

  But never bored. I do that, and I’ll call it good.

  David Dalglish

  April 9, 2013

  extras

  if you enjoyed

  A DANCE OF BLADES

  look out for

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  Shadowdance: Book 3

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  David Dalglish

  Haern pulled his hood low over his head and tied his sabers to his belt as the leader of the Eschaton mercenaries, the wizard Tarlak, sat at his desk and watched.

  “Do you want our help?” Tarlak asked, picking a bit of dirt off his yellow robe.

  “No,” Haern said, shaking his head. “This one needs to be a message for the underworld of the city. Brann crossed a line that I need to make sure no one else ever crosses. I’ll do this on my own.”

  Tarlak nodded, as if not surprised.

  “What about Alyssa?”

  Haern tightened the clasp of his cloak. They’d heard word that Alyssa planned some sort of retaliation against the thief guilds, though the reason was unclear. Their source was fairly respected in the Gemcroft household, so much so they had no choice but to take it seriously. At some unknown point in the night, there was to be a meeting at her mansion to discuss the circumstances.

  “After,” Haern said. “I’m sure you understand.”

  “I do,” said Tarlak. “Good luck. And remember, I can’t pay you if you die on me.”

  “I won’t be the one dying tonight,” Haern said, feeling the cold persona of the King’s Watcher coming over him.

  He left the room, descended the staircase to the tower’s exit, and then ran the short distance toward the city. A dozen secret passageways, ropes, and handholds were available to him as a way to cross the wall, and he drifted to the southern end before climbing over. Alyssa’s potential conflict with the thief guilds was a greater threat in the long run, but Haern could not bring himself to focus on it just yet. His target was a piece of scum named Brann Goodfinger. He operated in the far south of the city, and it was there Haern went.

  Normally he felt pride as he traversed the rooftops, carefully observing the doings of the various guilds. Ever since the thief war ended two years ago, the factions had settled into an uncomfortable truce. The first few months had been the worst, but Haern’s sabers had spilled torrents of blood. Through sheer brutality, he had brought both sides to their knees. He was the silent threat watching all, and tolerating nothing. But tonight his accomplishment felt bitter. For the first time, his plan had been turned against him in a most cruel, personal way.

  Thieves who stole from the Trifect died. They all knew this, knew that every night Haern patrolled the city as the King’s Watcher to ensure the agreed-upon peace. And so Brann had recruited children, a bold dare against the Watcher’s threat.

  “Where is it you hide?” Haern whispered as he lay flat atop a roof. For two days Brann had eluded him, and his children had gone unchecked. No longer. He spotted one of their youngest, a boy surely no older than seven. He was exiting the broken window of a shop, a handful of copper coins clutched to his chest. He ran, and Haern followed.

  The boy tried to vary his pattern, as he’d no doubt been trained to do, but against someone like Haern the tactic was a minor inconvenience, nothing more. Haern kept far out of sight, not wanting to alert him to his presence. Twice he’d tracked Brann’s child-thieves, but one had spotted him, abandoned his ill-gotten coin, and fled. The other had been killed by a different thief guild before he could question him. Children bled out on the streets of Veldaren. The Watcher’s wrath would be terrible.

  Haern turned a corner and watched the child hurry inside a warehouse. Approaching the door, Haern slipped into the shadows and looked through the crack near the hinges. A faint lantern burned inside, and from what he could make out, two other children were within. Hoping it was Brann’s hideout, and not a simple gang of orphans, he drew his sabers. There would be no stealthy entrance. This wasn’t a time for quiet deaths in the night.

  He slammed the door open with his shoulder at full charge. Without slowing, he took in the surroundings, his finely honed instincts guiding him. The storehouse was full of crates and bags of grains, limiting his maneuverability. At least twenty children were gathered in a circle, and before them, his dirty face covered with a beard, was Brann. The man looked up. His jaw dropped, and then he turned to run.

  “Stop him!” Brann shouted to the children.

  Haern swore as they drew small knives and daggers. He leaped between them, twirling his cloak as a distraction. A sweeping kick took out three, and then he pushed through the opening. The storehouse was divided in two by a high wall, and Brann vanished through the doorway in the center. Haern raced after him, again slamming aside the door with his shoulder. To his surprise, Brann was not the coward he’d believed. His sword lashed out from behind the door. Haern’s speed was too great, though, and he fled beyond Brann’s reach, pivoted on his heels, and jumped again.

  Brann was only a gutter snake, a clever bully who relied on size or surprise to defeat a foe. Haern had fought his kind, knew their tactics. With three strikes, Brann’s sword fell from a bleeding wrist. Two kicks shattered a kneecap, and then he fell. Haern clutched his hair and yanked his head back, his saber pressing against Brann’s throat.

  “How dare you,” Haern whispered. His hood hung low over his face, and he shook his head to knock it back. He wanted Brann to see the fury in his eyes.

  “You hold this city prisoner yet ask me that?” said Brann.

  Haern struck him in the mouth with the hilt of a saber. As Brann spit out a tooth, the children rushed through the door, surrounding them both.

  “Stay back,” Brann said to them, and he grinned at Haern, his yellow teeth stained red with blood. There was a wild look in his eyes that made Haern uncomfortable. This wasn’t a man who cared about life—not his own, nor that of others.

  “What game is this?” Haern asked, his voice a cold whisper. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Using children, here, in my city?”

  “Your city?” Brann said, laughing. “Damn fool. All the rest are scared, but I know what you are. They think you’re as bad as us, but you’re not … not yet. Once the thief guilds find out, they’ll have your head on a spike.”

  He gestured to the children, all prepared to attack. Haern didn’t want to imagine what Brann had put them through to achieve such a level of control.

  “Kill me,” Brann said. “Do it, and they’ll swarm you. You won’t die—you’re too good for them—but you won’t escape without killing at least one. So what’ll it be, Watcher? Can you take my life if it means taking the life of a child?”

  Haern looked at the twenty children. Some were as young as seven, but others were maybe eleven or twelve. All it’d take was one lucky stab by any of them and he might go down.

  His saber pressed harder against Brann’s skin. He leaned closer to whisper into his ear.

  “Nothing, Brann. You know nothing about me. You die, they go free.”

  “I die, then innocents will as well. You don’t have the stomach for it. You aren’t the beast the others think you are. Now let me go!”

  Haern glanced at the children, all poised to act. He tried to decide what to do, but he knew what life someone like Brann would lead them to. No matter what, no matter the risk, he couldn’t allow it.

  “This was never a choice,” Haern whispered.

  He slashed, spilling blood across his clothes. Hoping to move before the children reacted, he turned and leaped, vaulting over their circle. They gave chase, not at all bothered by the death of their master. Haern rolled to his feet, his sabers crossed to block their weak stabs. A quick glance showed no exits except the door he’d come through. Doing everything he could to fight down his combat instincts, he
shoved through the group’s center. His cloak whirled and twisted, pushing aside feeble attacks.

  Pulling out of the spin, he lunged for the door. One of the older boys was there, and Haern felt panic rise in his chest as he saw the deadly angle of the boy’s thrust. He reacted on instinct, blocking hard enough to knock the dagger free, then following it up with a kick to send the boy flying. Breaking back into a run, he kicked off a pile of crates to vault into the air, catching a rafter with one hand. Swinging himself up onto a perch, he stared down at the children, several of whom gathered around the body of the one he’d kicked.

  “Listen to me,” Haern said to them, trying to forgive the children’s attack. They didn’t know any better. The rage he felt was misguided, born of frustration. “Your master is dead. You have no hope of winning this fight.”

  “Fuck you,” said one of the kids.

  Haern swallowed down his anger at such disrespect. They were frightened and living in a world Haern knew all too well. If reason would not work, he knew what would.

  “Say that again, and I’ll cut out your tongue.”

  The boy stepped back, as if stunned by the coldness in his voice. The rest looked up at him, some ready to cry, some angry, but most were heartbreakingly indifferent. Haern pointed to Brann Goodfinger’s corpse.

  “Take his coin,” he said. “Go, and make better lives than this. Remain thieves, and you’ll fall to the guilds, or to me. I don’t want to kill you, but I will. There is no future for you, not in this.”

  “None for you, either,” said another, but Haern could not tell who. With practiced efficiency the children took everything of value from Brann’s corpse and vanished into the streets. Haern didn’t know where they went, nor did he care. He only felt fury. Brann had died quickly, hardly the example Haern desired to set. As for the boy he’d kicked…