“I would have you nowhere else,” she said. “But what you want, it is wrong, because I don’t think you can, Zusa. It’s too much for your shoulders to bear alone. Right now I ask that you trust me to know what I’m doing, and that what we do is best.”
“Yes,” said Zusa, bitterness in every word, “because your judgment in men has never once been in error.”
It was a hateful thing to say, and she knew it. So did Alyssa.
“Perhaps not just in men,” Alyssa said, and she pulled her hand back and clutched it into a fist.
Apologize, now, thought Zusa. Before the wound is too deep.
But the hurt moved both ways, and it gave her an easy stubbornness to rely upon. Biting her tongue, she returned to the door and opened it. On the other side, looking confused, was one of the house soldiers. In his hand he held several sword belts.
“I pray these are sufficient?” the man asked.
Zusa grabbed the smallest one, shut the door, and then began looping it about her waist. It also had been designed for a man, and she had to use a dagger to pierce a hole in the leather so she could cinch it tight enough. That done, she brushed past Alyssa into a closet, found a pair of boots, and pulled them on. Meanwhile Alyssa said nothing, only stood listening to her prepare. She resembled an animal in waiting, poised to strike. When Zusa tried to pass her for her cloak, Alyssa reached out, grabbing her by the shoulder and clutching her tight.
“Stop,” she said. “Please, just stop. I cannot do this. I won’t. I’m sorry I can’t trust you like I should, Zusa, but doing so would only get you killed. To let that happen … for years I’ve asked everything of you. For once, let me spare you that burden. Veldaren is crumbling, and while I am bound to its destruction, I will not carry you down with me. Victor is but a flailing fool, the thinnest hope in a world where I truly believe there is none. If his plans fail, let him be the one to suffer, and I at his side. But not you, and not Nathaniel.”
“You don’t need to do this,” Zusa insisted. “Leave Veldaren. Put this damn place behind you, and let us build a life in Riverrun, or Angelport. We don’t need Victor to find happiness. Just you, Nathaniel … and me.”
Alyssa closed her eyelids, head tilting, frown growing.
“A wonderful dream,” she said. “But just that, a dream. I won’t flee from this. It’s not in me to do so. Whatever legacy I carry with me to my grave, I would rather it be one of blood than of cowardice.”
That was it, then. Zusa didn’t know what else to say. She felt her heart breaking, felt the friend she’d rescued from a damp dark cell suddenly becoming a woman who knew only death and hopelessness.
“I love you, Alyssa,” she said. “Does that not matter?”
Alyssa took a step back, eyelids still closed. For a moment she debated her words, a long, interminable moment for Zusa.
“In a different lifetime, a better lifetime, it would matter,” she said, so softly, so carefully. “But not this one.”
Zusa grabbed her daggers off the nearby bed and jammed them into her belt. She clasped the cloak around her neck and shoulders, and it folded about her, a meager comfort to the aching cold she felt spreading throughout her chest.
“How do you look?” Alyssa asked.
Zusa glanced to her gray shirt, her dark pants and boots, and the cloak wrapped about her.
“Like him,” she said.
Alyssa needed no more explanation than that.
“There are worse you could resemble,” she said.
A strong need to cover her face overcame Zusa. For once she felt she understood why the Watcher kept his features in shadow. The intimidation was useful, but being able to hide, to become something different from yourself to escape the hurt and turmoil …
A knock on the door, and then in stepped Victor without waiting for an answer. If he was taken aback by Zusa’s new outfit, he hid it well.
“I was told you’d returned,” he said. “I’m glad. I’ve been wishing to speak with you.”
“If this is about me obeying your orders, you can stop,” Zusa said. “Once Alyssa pays me, I am leaving.”
Victor stayed in the center of the doorway, denying her the possibility of an easy exit. There was a look on his handsome face she couldn’t quite read, something dangerous in his blue eyes that told her she should get out before he spoke another word.
“Actually, it is a far more delicate matter I’d have us discuss.” He glanced to Alyssa. “Assuming you two have a moment, of course.”
“Go ahead,” Alyssa said, sitting down on one of the servants’ beds. “Zusa was just finding herself some new clothes.”
“Ones with less blood on them, I see,” said Victor, glancing at the pile near Zusa’s feet. Something about it seemed to mildly amuse him.
“If you have something to discuss, then let’s discuss it,” Zusa said, having no patience for trivialities. She wanted out. She wanted away from Alyssa and the hurt tearing into her gut.
“Very well. I’ve been thinking of ways for us to strike at the Sun Guild without letting our resistance be known. If Muzien brings his entire wrath down upon us, we’ll be crushed in a night. Difficult as it will be, we must outwit him, and use his own tricks and secrecy against him until we know exactly when and where to attack.”
“What does this have to do with me?” Zusa asked.
Victor crossed his arms, any remnants of a smile on his face quickly vanishing.
“We want you to infiltrate the Sun Guild as our spy.”
“We?” Zusa asked, nearly laughing at the ludicrousness of it. So much for Alyssa keeping Zusa free from her perceived downfall of the city. So much for relying on Victor to save her from the dark corners of Veldaren that they’d have her infiltrate.
“It wasn’t my idea,” Alyssa said, and her neck flushed red.
“There’s no reason it would fail,” Victor insisted. “Muzien will have no reason to know who you are, nor of your allegiance to Alyssa.”
“Unless he’s looked into her past,” Zusa argued.
“And knows what? A woman in wrappings once guarded Alyssa? You’ll be anything but to them, Zusa. You’ll be a pretty face that knows how to kill. I daresay you’ll fit right in.”
It was crazy. She almost pushed past Victor, then decided it might be better to move to a corner of the room where the shadows were deepest. Diving in, she could reappear outside the mansion, be free of them forever. But to leave Alyssa helpless, to leave her and Nathaniel’s lives in that oaf Victor’s hands …
“You don’t have to do this,” Alyssa said, interrupting her thoughts. “I don’t want you to.”
And that was it, enough to change her mind. In the end, Zusa was more stubborn than she realized.
“I’ll do it,” she said.
Victor’s smile blossomed anew.
“Excellent,” he said. “Once we discover where he sleeps, where he eats, where his men stay … we’ll find a weakness and exploit it. When Muzien’s dead, the entire Sun Guild will come crashing down, ending their threat to us once and for all. Who knows, perhaps you’ll be able to kill him yourself, Zusa, should he let his guard down in your presence.”
“I think you underestimate the danger of our foe.”
The man shook his head.
“Or you underestimate your own skill. This will work. I’m sure of it.”
Zusa was far less convinced, but her word was given.
“Very well,” she said. “Come tomorrow, I will find a recruiter for the Suns and make myself known to them. Once I have, any contact between us will be done solely at my discretion. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly,” said Victor.
Zusa lowered her voice as she slipped past Victor.
“I die, or Muzien dies,” she whispered. “Either way you win, don’t you, Victor?”
His smile was his only answer, but it was answer enough.
CHAPTER
3
Thren Felhorn was on his way to the graveyard when he spo
tted two members of the Sun behind one of Muzien’s new whorehouses bickering with one another over the body of a prostitute. It was too dark for Thren to make out whether or not she lived, but the men were clearly debating who would get the first turn.
“Fuck off,” said one to the other. “If you’re so worried about where my cock’s been, choose yourself a different hole.”
Thren’s hand drifted to his side, where his short sword remained hidden by a long ratty coat he’d stolen. Every remnant of his former guild he’d tossed aside, for Muzien had declared a death penalty on his head, and being recognized was the last thing he needed. His hair he hid beneath a flattened cap, his face behind the high collar of his coat. His shambling walk was that of a drunk, his downcast eyes that of a man who’d spent a life beaten and trodden upon. No one would think him burdened with money or respect. To those two behind the whorehouse, he’d be a mark at best, or a bit of fun at worst.
But given Thren’s sour mood, and the two’s secluded location, a bit of fun seemed like a fine idea.
“If you can’t decide, I’ll take the girl so neither of you have her first,” he said, leaving the road. The two men snapped their heads about, glaring. The one on the left reached for a blade but didn’t draw it yet.
“This one’s paid for,” said the man on the right. He was handsome enough, with long dark hair, and Thren knew he could have found himself a pretty lass by lingering around the various taverns throughout the city. No, he wanted the violence. Glancing down, he saw the woman did indeed still breathe. By the end of things, Thren doubted she would. His instincts told him the man wanted her to do a bit of screaming first. The other man, however, was ugly enough it’d take a stunning personality for a woman to overlook. Given the way he kept leering down at the unconscious whore, Thren found that highly unlikely.
“Have you now?” Thren asked. “Mind if I ask your lady friend if you’re telling the truth?”
They both drew their weapons, the ugly one purposefully pulling down his shirt to reveal the four-pointed star tattooed onto his neck. As if that would intimidate him.
“Get lost if you want to live,” the man said.
Thren held his hands out wide, making it seem as if he were unarmed.
“Come make me,” he said, grinning.
The ugly one acted first, pulling a dirk from his belt and slashing at Thren’s face. Such a simple, basic attack, one a child might use if handed a blade. Thren leaned back, the edge just barely missing his nose, and then shot forward, grabbing the man’s arm with his right hand and ramming down on it with his left elbow. The man screamed. Bone snapped. Twisting his arm, Thren elbowed the man in the face, splattering blood from his shattered nose. A kick to the groin weakened his stance, allowing Thren to pull the ugly one to the side, shoving him in the way of his companion’s desperate thrust of his short sword.
A scream punctuated the blade’s entry to the man’s belly, coupled with Thren’s mocking laughter.
He violently shoved the dying man into the other. Entangled and unable to pull free his blade, the man let it go and drew a dagger instead. Again Thren held his hands out, showing himself unarmed.
“You can still run,” he said.
“You’ll just stab me in the back.”
Thren grinned.
“You’re right.”
The frightened man suddenly leaped forward, trying to shove the dagger into Thren’s chest. In a single smooth motion, Thren drew his short sword from his waist, parried aside the thrust, and then buried his blade in the man’s chest. Momentum carried him forward, pushing the tip out his back. The man let out a gasp, blood gushing from his mouth. Smile fading, Thren twisted the blade, then kicked the dead man off it. Cleaning the blood on the man’s shirt, he looked to the prostitute. The woman was awake, a dazed look on her face, no doubt the lingering effects of the blow that had knocked her out. Thren knelt before her, helping her to sit up against the wall of the whorehouse.
“Thank you,” she muttered, causing Thren to shake his head.
“Do you serve him loyally?” he asked her.
The woman frowned, and she held her head as she grimaced against a wave of pain.
“I don’t … what do you mean?”
Thren pulled a slender dagger from his belt and pressed it against the soft skin of her neck. Her eyes widened, her confusion replaced with fear.
“Muzien,” he told her. “The Darkhand bastard. Do you serve him loyally?”
Hardness overtook her features, a toughness earned by the life she led.
“I lie about how much I earn,” she said. “Why else would I be out here instead of inside?”
Thren smiled, and he put away the dagger.
“This city needs more like you,” he said. “Have a pleasant night, milady.”
He dipped his head in respect and then returned to the road. The woman glared, not that he cared. Saving her had been for amusement, and nothing more. A pleasant diversion before a meeting he could only wish would be as pleasant, or as productive. When it came to Deathmask and his Ash Guild, the only consistency was in knowing he’d leave annoyed and in a foul mood. Still, in a city so thoroughly conquered by the Darkhand, any ally could mean the difference between life and death.
Digging his hands into the pockets of his coat, he lowered his head, put his gaze to the ground, and hurried toward his destination. Into the wealthy eastern district of Veldaren he went, gradually drifting south. At one point every towering home, with its sharp rooftop and fenced property lines, had belonged to his Spider Guild. The owners had delivered a small but consistent sum each month to keep their homes free of fire and vandalism. Now only a single marking dominated them all, the symbol of the Sun carved into stone tiles. To many they were signs of allegiance, but to Thren they carried a far more dire meaning. They were signs of death, and while the Sun might have been carved into them, it was the Spider who controlled their fate.
His hand brushed the amulet around his neck through his shirt, felt its presence. It was both comforting and terrifying having it there. Terrifying, for a single touch coupled with a single word could level all of Veldaren to the ground. Comforting, for he was the one who possessed it, and no one else.
At last he arrived at the tall iron fence that surrounded the cemetery. When Thren had made his initial rounds through the city, trying to take account of all the changes that had occurred in his absence, he’d gone to the Ash Guild’s former headquarters. While he was there, one of the guild’s few members, Veliana, had spotted him. She’d said nothing, only hurled him a note tied to a dagger: Roseborn Cemetery, Gemcroft tomb, it’d said. Thren passed by that cemetery now, looking for any who might be watching from windows or rooftops. When he saw none, he abruptly turned around and dashed through the open gates. The soft dirt sank beneath his feet as he hurried toward the larger crypts in the heart of the cemetery. He went to one in particular, and as he entered the tomb marked with the Gemcroft family name, it put a smile on his face.
“First I try to kill you when you’re but a little girl, and then I keep you alive while in the guise of my son,” he said, thinking back to mostly better times, and his interactions with Alyssa Gemcroft. “At least you kept things interesting. More than I can say for your father.”
A childish notion of vandalizing Maynard’s coffin came to him, and he dismissed it with a shake of his head. Thren’s scheming had brought about the Bloody Kensgold and the attack on Maynard’s mansion that had driven an arrow through his chest. To mock him in death, after killing him in life, was beneath Thren.
But not, apparently, beneath Deathmask.
The coffins were placed into holes carved into the stone walls, the names of their owners cut into tiles and then nailed above them. When Thren came upon Maynard’s, he found the coffin open and removed from its hole. Maynard’s body, a desiccated corpse that was mostly bones, hair, and a thin black layer of what had once been flesh and organs, stood in the center of his open coffin. One hand was above his
head, the other curled before him as if clutching a dancing partner. Without a sound, Maynard’s corpse dipped to one side, turned, dipped again. Thren watched, baffled, torn between amusement and disgust. Maynard Gemcroft was dancing, quite slowly and poorly, in his own grave.
“Like what I’ve done with the place?” asked Deathmask, appearing from the deeper darkness of the crypt. The man wore dark-red robes, his usual gray mask and cloud of ash missing. It’d been a year since they last met. How much older the man looked, and how tired, was shocking. Even his dark skin appeared paler than usual, and his long black hair was stringy and wet.
“You have a strange sense of entertainment,” Thren said, gesturing to the dancing corpse. “I didn’t know you held animosity toward Maynard.”
“Oh, him?” asked Deathmask. “No, no animosity. His corpse was the freshest, that’s all. These are the things one does to pass the time when forced into hiding for far too long.”
“I’d say there’s a simple enough solution to that,” Thren said. “Stop hiding.”
Deathmask leaned against the stone wall, and he laughed.
“Ever the blunt, simple one,” he said. “Of course you’d never hide. So proud, so mighty. Except you don’t appear to be wearing the cloak of the Spider. Why’s that, Thren? Is it because, perhaps, you know it’d be suicide to openly flaunt your opposition to the Darkhand? But surely that’s not it. That’d make your mocking my hiding both arrogant and hypocritical, something you’ve never been in your sordid history.”
“I have little patience for sarcasm,” Thren said.
“And I for pointless pride. If you wish for us to talk, then let’s talk, but keep your comments to yourself if you won’t acknowledge reality. I know more about the state of this city than you do, and trust me, it isn’t pretty.”
Thren had to hold back his grin.
Oh, I know one secret you don’t, he thought, arms crossed over his chest, fingers casually brushing the hidden amulet.
“Very well,” Thren said. “I sought you out for a reason, one you can likely guess. I seek an alliance between us, one that shall last until Muzien hangs from the city wall by his entrails.”
A Dance of Chaos Page 4