A Dance of Shadows

by David Dalglish

  “How do you know that? I heard nothing of Thren last night, nor did anyone report his actions to my guard.”

  Victor shook his head, hardly believing what he was hearing.

  “The man is a thief, a criminal, and a madman who has terrorized this city for years. Every shred of history says he will take this opportunity to make things worse, and you want to argue about how in a single night no one happened to see him? What are you afraid of?”

  “What am I afraid of?” Antonil stopped his pacing and stepped close. “You weren’t here during that long decade. At times I could barely patrol the streets because we were too busy pulling corpses out of homes and gutters. I had to put men at every single window of the castle, for Edwin was convinced he’d have his throat slit in the night. No matter what the crime, I could not get men to talk to me, nor my guard to investigate thoroughly, for doing so would just result in more dead. Every night it took a little piece of me to convince this city that just maybe they could sleep well. And now I see the same chaos erupting before me, and you call me a coward for fearing you’ll fan the flames instead of smothering them?”

  Victor endured his rant, and as memories flashed before his eyes, he breathed in deeply to stop his fists from shaking.

  “I saw far more than you think,” he told the guard captain. “I know what Veldaren was like. But you misunderstand me. I am doing this regardless of what you say. All I ask for is your help. If I must, I will bear the burden on my shoulders alone.”

  “Damn it, man,” Antonil said. “My men are exhausted. Was there not enough death last night?”

  This time it was Victor who could not control his anger.

  “Not enough?” he asked. “No, there wasn’t enough. Murderers and thieves still live. They still hold the heart of this city in their hands, and even brave men quiver at the thought of what they might do. No, the dying must go on, the blood must continue to flow, until the guilty are the ones filling the graveyards, not the innocent. Now will you help me or not?”

  Antonil swore again, clearly unhappy. Victor waited him out, let him fume and think. At last the guard captain met his gaze.

  “It’s all on you,” he said at last. “If this burns us, I’ll have Edwin banish you faster than you can blink. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Clear as day,” Victor said. “Though it saddens me how quickly you forget that I and my men were out there last night alongside yours.”

  “Since your arrival, this city has gone to the Abyss,” Antonil said, shaking his head. “Forgive me for not being so sure you’re more help than burden.”

  Victor swallowed down his frustration and pride. Time would be his judge, not a mere soldier, regardless of his rank.

  “Keep your faith in me,” he said, once more offering his hand to Antonil. “Our freedom is coming. Trust me.”

  Letting out a sigh, Antonil clasped his wrist, then stepped back.

  “So,” he said. “Where is that bastard hiding, anyway?”

  CHAPTER

  19

  Thren leaned back in his seat, feet up on the table. He drank alone. Martin had come over to talk, but he’d waved him away. The rest of his guild had gone to various rooms of the inn to lick their wounds, rest their eyes, and sleep with their whores. He didn’t blame them. Not that he’d ever find himself a whore. To have his desires overcome him so fully that he’d pay to have them satisfied? No, he had better discipline than that. Besides, Marion was fresh in his mind, and it would be an insult to her memory to bed another woman now.

  “Do you miss me, Marion?” he asked the reflection in his glass. “Or do you watch me even now? How many tears have you shed?”

  She’d been a stunning woman, her beauty almost exotic. While Grayson’s parents had both borne the dark skin common to those in Ker, Marion’s father had been a soldier from Neldar instead. She’d inherited his brown hair, and the color of her skin had softened so that no matter where she went she stood out, his beautiful angel with sapphire eyes. She’d been no stranger to the life of a thief, and behind her well-crafted act of tenderness and humility, there’d been a will of iron. Of all the women he’d met, she’d been the only one he fully respected. The one time he’d struck her, she’d slapped him right back.

  “Never told you,” he muttered. “I wasn’t mad, not then. I just wanted to know how you’d react. By the gods, you were fire in a dress.”

  He’d had too much to drink, he knew. What had started as a celebration had settled into quiet reminiscence as the guild turned in one by one. Much as Thren didn’t want to admit it, Grayson’s comment had cut deep, but of course the man had known it would. Even though it’d been many years since their parting, few knew him better than his old friend.

  Former friend, Thren thought, correcting himself. Things had changed since Marion’s death. Even then he’d known Grayson would never forgive him. More than a decade later, he now had his proof. His wife was dead, and his sons were lost to him. What remained of her in this world was in Thren’s and Grayson’s memories. Staring into his glass, he felt his stomach twist. Had Grayson told the truth about the Watcher? Was he really dead? If he was, that was just one more piece of Marion gone from the world, forever denied to him.

  Thren let out a bitter laugh. Grayson had killed his own nephew. Would he even believe it if Thren told him?

  The door opened, and the look on the man’s face upon entering was enough to startle Thren to his feet.

  “What is it?” he asked as the thief shut the door. Through his alcohol-addled mind, Thren forced a name to match the face. Ricki. That was it.

  “Something ain’t right,” Ricki said, his squished oval face glancing about the empty cellar. “Where’s everyone? We need to get out, now!”

  “Calm yourself,” Thren said, taking a step toward him. “Speak clearly, and tell me what is going on.”

  “City guard’s closing off streets all around here,” Ricki said, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “Was coming back from the market, spending what little I got from the Gemcrofts’ place, you know? Just barely snuck past while they was setting up, yelling at people to get in their homes.”

  “You think they’re coming for us?” Thren asked, struggling to believe it. How would they even know of their location, let alone have the guts to make a move?

  “They ain’t alone,” Ricki said, pulling open the door. “I saw Victor’s men gathering far up Iron Road. Don’t take much to figure out what they’re doing. Looks like someone decided to take us out.”

  That was enough to spur Thren to action. He pushed Ricki aside, dashed up the stairs, and burst into the proper rooms of the inn.

  “Wake everyone,” he yelled at the innkeeper. “Now! You too, Ricki!”

  They rushed toward the rooms on both floors, hollering at the top of their lungs. Meanwhile Thren tightened his cloak about himself and pulled its hood over his head. The more he looked like every other thief the better. He was no fool. Victor had no interest in scum like Ricki, or even a more talented man like Martin. No, they wanted him. Of course they wanted him. Question was, how did they know? Who had sold out their location?

  Men and women began stumbling down the stairs and into the main hall, most drunk or in a stupor.

  “Ready your things,” Thren yelled to them. “Our lives are in danger. Soldiers come with swords!”

  This awoke a fire in them. The inn grew more chaotic, and amid that, Thren went back to the door and glanced down the street. In the far distance he saw squads of soldiers approaching. He had thirty seconds, perhaps a minute at most, before he was surrounded.

  Thren ducked back inside, found what was left of his guild anxiously awaiting orders. He looked to them all, and feeling his insides harden into stone, he gave those orders.

  “This is not the end of my guild,” he told them. “But wherever you go, whoever of you lives through this, toss aside your cloak and colors. I know your names, your faces, and will forever remember your vows. Listen, and wait. The Reap
er cannot take me, the guard cannot break me, and no whoreson of a noble will defeat me. Not now. Not ever.”

  He saw the shock in their eyes, the disbelief. But Thren could see the writing on the wall, whether it was carved into the stone or written with blood. Someone plotted against him. Perhaps it was Victor. Perhaps it was one of the Trifect. It might even be the Widow who killed his men and mocked him afterward. Whoever it was, he needed to be found and killed. The lesson of the Watcher weighed heavy on Thren’s mind. Free of all ties, one man alone could accomplish so much if he had the strength and will to do it.

  “Go, and await my return,” he told them, and that one word broke the spell. The shattered remnants of his guild rushed to the doors, a few returning to their rooms to grab their things. Thren did not wait, nor did he make for a door. Instead he climbed the stairs, having prepared for such an event. His room was at the far back of the upper floor, and within he stood on the bed, using its height to push against the ceiling. One of the boards gave way, lifting to reveal a hole in the roof. Climbing up, Thren replaced the board, then slunk toward the roof’s edge. From there he looked down and surveyed the forces arrayed against him.

  It wasn’t good. They’d brought at least a hundred armed men, if not more. Every which way he looked, there was a squad of six to ten guarding a street. No doubt more lurked in the alleyways closer to the inn. Only the rooftops remained open to him, and the crossbows the various soldiers held made him nervous. Crouching lower, he waited just a moment to see how the chaos played out. His former guildmembers fled in all directions, like rats abandoning a sinking ship. The squads closed in and, more worryingly, none gave chase. It was a perfect net, tightening. Those who tried to make it past were attacked, and Thren saw several shot dead with crossbow bolts.

  And then Victor’s main force reached the inn, many carrying torches. They didn’t enter. They didn’t try to flush anyone out. Instead they set it aflame.

  “Oh shit,” Thren muttered. Whatever time he’d had was over. He’d hoped to lurk, perhaps even hide on the rooftop until the search ended, but now he had no choice. Every way was guarded. In every direction he turned, he saw armed men waiting. One after another of his guild surrendered, those not fast enough to avoid the squads. Others dove into windows and forced open doors as soldiers chased after. Thren wished them well, then drew his swords.

  Either they’d kill him, or he’d kill them. There would be no capture, not for him. The fire grew, the smoke of it reaching the ceiling and the heat of it warming the wood beneath his feet. Despite it all Thren pulled his hood lower and grinned. How long had it been since he truly faced a worthy opponent? His senses were heightened, his vision given a sudden clarity. With Victor, Grayson and his Suns, and now the Widow, he finally had a plethora to choose from. Before, he’d only had the Watcher, and his presence had been a blanket across Thren’s ambitions, smothering him.

  Now the Watcher was dead, and the weakness in his heart had died with it. The city was once more an enemy, a thing to cow and break. His complacency had nearly killed him, but it was not too late. He was not too old to face this, not yet. A thousand soldiers might swarm the streets, but they would not catch him. His son had burned bright, and in his own way made him proud, but at last it had come to end.

  Arms out, he descended upon a squad of four that circled his side of the inn. Two died before he even landed, one sword piercing a soldier’s back, the other slashing out another’s throat. When he hit the ground he kicked out the legs of the third. The fourth turned on him, and he cried out. “Here!”

  That cry was the last word he ever spoke. Thren batted aside a hasty block and then shoved a short sword through his mouth. That done, he pulled it free and ran. Though the various alleys would be guarded, he knew they were still his best bet. In the main streets they could surround him, call in help when they realized who he was. Rushing a nearby home, he leaped through a window as crossbow bolts thudded against its side. His landing jarred his shoulder, but he rolled to his feet, almost amused by the terror he saw on the faces of the family living there.

  Cutting through one room, he kicked open a back door, emerging into an alley. Three men hurried toward him, one with a raised crossbow. Thren rushed them, leaping to one side to prevent a clear shot. Catapulting himself into the air, he kicked off the wall, sailing over the soldiers while upside down. His sword lashed out, cutting the string of the crossbow as the soldier tried to follow him with his aim. Landing, he spun, swords weaving so that the remaining men fell back, expecting an attack.

  But it was just a feint, and before the group realized it, he was already running. Another squad moved to cut him off up ahead, but Thren used a heavy barrel as a stepladder, leaping to grab the edge of a roof. Momentum swung him higher as more crossbow bolts pierced the air all about him. Rolling onto the roof, he took a moment to gasp for air, then lumbered back to a stand.

  His city. His life. He knew it all too well, far better than any soldier. Without slowing he ran for the edge of the roof, legs pumping, heart pounding. Leaping off, he sailed through the air, crashing down on an awning stretched out from a building on the opposite side of the street. The fabric tore, but slowed him enough before he landed hard on the wares of a petty jewel crafter.

  Thren laughed, rolled off, laughed some more. Tossing aside his cloak, he vanished into the thick market crowd, leaving the soldiers and the burning wreckage of his guild far behind.

  CHAPTER

  20

  Nathaniel did his best to help, but given his diminutive size, and the sheer amount of things being transported from their mansion to Lord Connington’s, he was just a burden to those lifting and carrying. So instead he decided to entertain his mother, and keep her mind off whatever bothered her. As they rode together in the litter he sat beside her, wrapped in her arms, and asked a thousand questions.

  Would there be any children there?

  Who had been the first lord of the Connington family?

  What did their family crest look like?

  Where’d they gotten their money?

  Would his things be all right?

  Did they have any interesting pets?

  “Dear, if you’re nervous, you can just say so,” Alyssa said as he continued to ramble, and she struggled to keep up with her answers. Nathaniel shrugged and grinned at his mother.

  “I’m not nervous. You’re nervous. I bet you’ve never slept anywhere but your room, but I stayed at Lord Gandrem’s.”

  His mother laughed, and it made all of Nathaniel’s world brighter with it.

  “I was fostered at various homes when I was your age, and that includes Lord Gandrem’s stuffy old rooms. But you’re right, I am nervous. Would you be a gentleman and hold my hand, lest I faint?”

  Nathaniel stood up straighter, put on his most serious face.

  “Whatever you would require, milady.”

  She laughed again, and his face cracked into a smile. So long as his mother wasn’t crying, he’d be all right. They’d be just fine. His mother was strong, deep down he knew that. Seeing her upset, seeing her afraid as Zusa fought against the other strange ladies, had been far more frightening to him than the chaotic looters gathered at the gates.

  The litter stopped, and in through the window climbed Zusa, having ridden on the top. She ruffled Nathan’s hair, then turned to his mother.

  “We’re here,” she said. “And true to his word, there are many, many guards.”

  They stepped out, and it seemed an army of servants awaited them. His mother’s servants met them, exchanging looks and words with each other in hushed, quick tones. Nathaniel watched them, feeling as if he saw a glimpse of a world he’d been sheltered from. Some handed over belongings, others followed guides inside, carrying bags and armloads of clothes, shoes, belts, jewel boxes, and dusty heirlooms. Burlier men carried heavy trunks, smaller women food and supplies for baking. It was a whirlwind of things to Nathan, a stunning amount all to keep him fed, keep him happy, keep him well
. He thought of the simplified existence John Gandrem led in his castle and wondered what he might say to such a chaotic sight. But John had stayed behind so he might ride with Melody to their new temporary home. The thought made Nathaniel uneasy for some reason he couldn’t identify.

  “I’ll speak with Stephen about arrangements,” Alyssa said to Zusa. “See if you can find him a room.”

  Zusa frowned but did not object. She offered Nathaniel a hand. He stared at it. She wore plain clothes, as if she were a servant. Try as he might, he could not remember ever having touched her bare skin before, just her wrappings. Feeling the eyes of his mother upon him, he took it, nodded for Zusa to lead the way. He did his best to hide his surprise at how soft her hand was. His mother kissed his forehead, and then they were away, crossing the expansive yard surrounded by fences and weaving through the bustle of servants and guards.

  Once inside, Zusa looked down both sides of the hallway and frowned.

  “Stephen has little family,” she said. “Surely there must be plenty of rooms worthy of a little prince such as you.”

  “I’m not a prince.”

  Zusa smirked at that.

  “Given the wealth of your mother, you might as well be one, Nathan.”

  A few of the house servants hurried past them, but Zusa seemed reluctant to bother them. Instead she picked a direction, and together they traveled deeper into the mansion. Nathaniel stared at the walls, mesmerized by the many paintings. Some were of fields and mountains, crystal-blue streams running through green hills. Others were of grim men and women, dressed in fine clothing of times past, smiles seeming such a rarity in these people of wealth. Nathaniel frowned. Maybe it was just the way they wanted to look, to be remembered. Why was it so wrong to be remembered laughing, to be thought of as kind?

  Of course he knew what John would have said to that. Those with power had no time for games and smiles. Too many others might suffer for it.