Way of Shadows nat-1

by Brent Weeks

  Regnus smiled, and Solon couldn’t help but love the man. For all that it had crippled his house and destroyed any ambitions Regnus might have had for the throne, taking command of Screaming Winds had given Regnus life.

  There was fire in Regnus Gyre, something fierce and proud like a warrior king of old. His command had clear authority, and the power of his presence made him father, king, and brother to his men. In the simple fight against evil, he excelled, even reveled. The highlanders of Khalidor, some of whom had never bowed the knee to any man, were warriors. They lived for war, thought it a disgrace to die in bed, believed the only immortality was immortality through deeds of arms sung by their minstrels.

  They called Regnus the Rurstahk Slaagen, the Devil of the Walls, and in the last ten years, their young men had smashed themselves against those walls, tried to climb them, tried to sneak past them, tried to bribe their way through them, climbed over the Twins and tried to descend on Screaming Winds from behind. Every time, Regnus had crushed them. Frequently, he did it without losing a man.

  Screaming Winds was made of three walls at the three narrowest points in the only pass between Cenaria and Khalidor. Between the walls were killing fields sown thick by Regnus’s engineers with caltrops, pits, snares, and deadfalls of rock from the surrounding mountains. Twice clans had made it past the first wall. The traps had reaped such a harvest of death that none had survived to tell what they found beyond it.

  “It could be genuine, I suppose,” Solon said. “Logan says he has become close friends with the prince. Maybe this is the prince’s influence at work.”

  “I don’t think much of the prince,” Regnus said.

  “But he thinks a lot of Logan. We can hope that the prince takes after his mother. This may even be her work.”

  Regnus said nothing. He wouldn’t say Nalia’s name, not even now.

  “Hope for the best, plan for the worst?” Solon asked. “Ten of our best men, extra horses for all of us, and go down the coast road instead of the main road?”

  “No,” Regnus said. “If they’ve set one ambush, they’ll have set two. We might as well make them play their gambit on open ground.”

  “Yessir.” Solon only wished he knew who the other players were.

  “You still write letters to that Kaede woman?”

  Solon nodded, but his body went rigid. His chest felt hollow. Of course the commander would know. A letter sent every week, and never a one received.

  “Well, if you don’t get a letter after this one, at least you’ll know it’s not because yours are boring.” Regnus clapped a hand on Solon’s shoulder.

  Solon couldn’t help but smile ruefully. He didn’t know how Regnus did it, but somehow in his company it was as easy to face heartbreak as it was to face death.

  Momma K sat on the balcony of an estate that had no business being where it was. Against all tradition and sanity, Roth Grimson’s opulent estate had been built in the middle of the Warrens.

  She didn’t like Roth and never had, but she met few people in her work that she did like. The fact was, she had to deal with Roth because she couldn’t afford to ignore him. He was one of the Sa’kagé’s rising stars. Not only was he intelligent, but everything he touched seemed to turn to gold. After the guild wars, he had emerged as the guild head of the Red Bashers, and had promptly taken over half of the Warrens.

  Of course, the Sa’kagé had stepped in, only beginning with Durzo’s assassination of Corbin Fishill, but it had taken years to get things truly settled. There had been, of course, curiosity among the Nine at how Roth had managed his guild so well that they’d claimed so much territory. And Roth obviously hadn’t liked her questions, but he’d accepted them. A word from her and he’d never be on the Nine. Another word, and he’d be dead. He was smart enough to know that.

  Roth was in his late twenties. A tall, formidable young man who carried himself like a prince among dogs. Close-set blue eyes, dark hair, a penchant for fine clothing: today he wore a gray tunic decorated with the Plangan knotwork that was just coming into fashion, matching breeches, and high boots worked in silver. He wore his black hair lightly oiled, a wavy lock sometimes drooping into his eyes.

  “If you ever tire of working for our Master of Coin, you’d do well in one of my brothels. The men would adore you.” She threw that out just to see how he’d take it.

  He laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  With a wave, he signaled the servants to bring their breakfast. Their little table graced the edge of the balcony, and they sat beside each other. Apparently, Roth wanted her to admire his estate. Probably he was hoping she’d ask him why he’d built here.

  She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Besides, she’d already looked into it. The reasons were good enough, she knew. He had some waterfront, which would allow him to do some smuggling, though the dock was too small for high profitability and royal attention. He’d also been able to purchase the land for a pittance, though he’d had to hire so many bashers during the construction he’d lost the savings. When the poor had been displaced, both the honest and the thieves among them had been eager to steal whatever they could from the fool who would build a manse on their side of the river. The bashers had probably beaten hundreds. Momma K knew that they had killed at least half a dozen. It was death to be found on Grimson’s grounds without permission.

  The walls were high, lined with crushed glass and metal spikes that stood as pointed shadows in the dawn light. Bashers manned those walls, men who were both efficient and enjoyed their work. None of the locals tried to intrude anymore. The amateurs had either already tried and paid the price or knew of others who had. The professionals knew they could cross Vanden Bridge and find easier pickings.

  His gardens were beautiful, if given to flowers and plants that kept low to the ground so that his archers didn’t have their killing angles obscured. The splashes of vermilion, green, yellow, and orange of his gardens were a stark contrast against the grays and dingy browns of the Warrens.

  The servants brought the first course, halved blood oranges with a caramelized sugar crust. Roth opened with a comment on the weather. Not a particularly inspired choice, but Momma K didn’t expect more.

  He moved on to commenting on his gardens as the servants brought hot sweetbread. He had the newly rich’s irritating propensity for revealing how much things had cost. He should have known that she would be able to tell from the quality of the service and the meal exactly how much he was spending on this estate of his. When would he get to the point?

  “So there’s going to be an opening on the Nine,” Roth said. Abruptly done. He should have divulged an amusing anecdote from his work and used that to lead here. Momma K was starting to doubt this one.

  “Yes,” she said. She let it sit. She wasn’t going to make this easy. The sun was just rising above the horizon and the sky was turning a glorious orange. It was going to be a scorching day; even at this hour she barely needed the shawl around her shoulders.

  “I’ve been working with Phineas Seratsin for six years. I know the job better than anyone.”

  “You’ve been working for the Trematir, not with him.”

  His eyes flashed, but he said nothing. A dangerous temper, then. Master Grimson didn’t like to be corrected.

  “I think your spies must not be smart enough to have seen the amount of work I do versus what that old man does.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “Spies?”

  “Everyone knows you have spies everywhere.”

  “Well. Everyone knows. It must be so, then.”

  “Oh, I see,” Roth said. “It’s one of those things everyone knows but I’m not supposed to mention because it’s rude.”

  “There are people within this organization with whom it is dangerous to be rude, boy. If you’re asking for my vote, you’d do well to make a friend of me.”

  He motioned to the servants, who took their plates and replaced them with cuts of spiced meats and a lightly broiled egg dis
h with cheese.

  “I’m not asking,” he said quietly.

  Momma K finished her eggs and began on the braised meat. Delightful. The man must have brought a chef from Gandu. She ate and looked at the lightening sky, the sun rising slowly over the great iron gate to Grimson’s estate. If he took that comment back, she’d let him live.

  “I don’t know how you have such influence on the Nine, but I know I need your vote, and I will have it,” Roth said. “I will take your vote, or I will take your niece.”

  The meat that a moment ago had seemed so delightfully spiced, that seemed to melt in Momma K’s mouth, suddenly tasted like a mouthful of sand.

  “Pretty girl, isn’t she? Adorable little braids. It’s so sad about her mother dying, but wonderful that she had a rich aunt to find her a place to live, and in the castle itself, no less! Still, a rich old whore ought to have done better than have her niece raised by a serving woman.”

  She was frozen. How did he find out?

  The ledgers. Her ledgers were done all in code, but Phineas Seratsin was the Sa’kagé’s Master of Coin. He had access to more financial records than the next five people in the kingdom combined. Roth must have followed the records and found payments made to a serving woman in the castle. She was a frightened woman. A single threat from Roth and she’d have folded.

  Roth stood, his plate already empty. “No, do sit. Finish your breakfast.”

  She did, mechanically, using the time to think. Could she spirit the girl away? She couldn’t use Durzo for this, but he wasn’t the only wetboy she knew.

  “I am a cruel man, Gwinvere. Taking a life is …” Roth shivered with remembered ecstasy. “Better. Better than any of the pleasures you sell. But I control my appetites. And that’s what makes us human rather than slaves, isn’t it?”

  He was pulling on a thick leather glove. The portcullis of his gate was rising as he spoke. Outside, Momma K saw dozens of ragged peasants gathered. Obviously, this was a daily ritual.

  Below, four servants were carrying a table laden with food into the garden. They set it down and walked back inside.

  “These wretches are slaves to their appetites. Slaves, not men.”

  The starving peasants behind pushed forward and those in front were pushed inside. They looked at the spiked portcullis above them and then at Roth and Momma K. But their eyes were mostly on the food. They looked like animals, hunger driving them wild.

  A young woman made a break for it. She sprinted forward. After she had only taken a few steps, others followed her. There were old men and young, women, children, the only thing they seemed to have in common was desperation.

  But Momma K couldn’t see the reason for their frenzy. They reached the food and tore into it, stuffing pockets full of sausages, stuffing their mouths full of delicacies so rich they’d probably be sick later.

  A servant handed an arbalest to Roth. It was already drawn and loaded.

  “What are you doing?” Momma K asked.

  The peasants saw him and scattered.

  “I kill by a very simple pattern,” Roth said, lifting the weapon. He pressed the trigger plate and a young man dropped with a bolt in his spine.

  Roth set the point of the arbalest down, but instead of cranking the winch to draw back the string, he grabbed the string with his glove and drew it back by hand. For the barest moment, black tattoo-like markings rose up as if from beneath the surface of his skin and writhed with power. It was impossible.

  He shot again and the young woman who had been the first to run for the table fell gracelessly.

  “I feed my little herd every day. The first week of the month, I kill on the first day. The second week, the second day.” He paused as the arbalest drew level again. He shot and another woman dropped as a bolt blew through her head. “And so on. But I never kill more than four.”

  Most of the peasants were gone now, except for one old man moving at a crawl toward the gate that was still thirty paces distant. The bolt clipped the old man’s knee. He fell with a scream and started crawling.

  “The slaves never figure it out. They’re ruled by their bellies, not their brains.” Roth waited until the old man reached the gate, missed a shot, then tried again, killing him. “See that one?”

  Momma K saw a peasant come in through the portcullis. All the others had scattered.

  “He’s my favorite,” Roth said. “He figured out the pattern.” The man walked inside, unafraid, nodded to Roth, and then went to the table and started to eat without haste.

  “Of course, he could tell the others and save a few lives. But then I might change the pattern, and he’d lose his edge. He’s a survivor, Gwinvere. Survivors are willing to make sacrifices.” Roth handed the arbalest and the glove to a servant and regarded Momma K. “So, the question is, are you a survivor?”

  “I’ve survived more than you’ll ever know. You have your vote.” She’d kill him later. There was no showing weakness now. No matter how she felt. He was an animal, and he would sense her fear.

  “Oh, I want more than a vote. I want Durzo Blint. I want the silver ka’kari. I want …much more. And I’ll get it, with your help.” He smiled. “How’d you like the braised peasant?”

  She shook her head, distracted, looking blankly at her empty plate. Then she froze. In the garden, servants were collecting the bodies and bringing them inside.

  “You did say ‘pheasant,’” she said.

  Roth just smiled.

  31

  Well, if you don’t look like the south end of a northbound horse,” Logan said as he intercepted Kylar in the middle of the Drake’s yard.

  “Thanks,” Kylar said. He stepped past Logan, but his friend didn’t move. “What do you want, Logan?”

  “Hmm?” Logan asked. He was a picture of innocence, at least, if a picture of innocence could be so tall. Nor was he able to get by with the big-oaf routine. For one thing, Logan was far too intelligent for anyone to take a dumb act seriously. For another, he was too damn handsome. If there were a model of perfect masculinity in the realm, it was Logan. He was like a heroic statue made flesh. Six months a year with his father had lined his big frame with muscle and given him a hard edge that had more than just the young women of Cenaria swooning. Perfect teeth, perfect hair, and of course, ridiculous amounts of money that would be his when he reached twenty-one—in three days—filled out the picture. He drew almost as much attention as his friend Prince Aleine—and even more from the girls who weren’t interested in being bedded and then dropped the next day. His saving grace was that he had absolutely no idea how attractive he was or how much people admired and envied him. It was why Kylar had nicknamed him Ogre.

  “Logan, unless you were just standing in the yard, you came out here when you saw me come in the gate, which means you were waiting for me. Now you’re standing there rather than walking with me, which means you don’t want anyone to overhear what you’re about to say. Serah isn’t in her regular place two steps behind you, which means she’s with your mother shopping for dresses or something.”

  “Embroidery,” Logan admitted.

  “So what is it?” Kylar asked.

  Logan shifted from one foot to the other. “I hate it when you do that. You could’ve let me get to it in my own time. I was going to—hey, where do you think you’re going?”

  Kylar kept walking. “You’re stalling.”

  “All right. Just stop. I was just thinking that sometime we ought to pull out the old fisticuffs,” Logan said.

  Fisticuffs. And people expected that someone so big to be dumb.

  “You’d beat me black and blue,” Kylar said, smiling the lie. If they fought, Logan would ask questions. He’d wonder. It was unlikely, but he might even guess that it hadn’t truly been nine years since they’d last fought.

  “You don’t think I’d win, do you?” Logan asked. Ever since Logan had been humiliated in the fight at the stadium, he’d gotten serious about training. He put in hours every day with the best non-Sa’ka
gé sword masters in the city.

  “Every time we’ve fought you slaughtered me. I’m—”

  “Every—? Once! And that was ten years ago!”

  “Nine.”

  “Regardless,” Logan said.

  “If you caught me with one of those anvils you pass off as your fists, I’d never get up,” Kylar said. That was true enough.

  “I’d be careful.”

  “I’m no match for an ogre.” Something was wrong. Logan asked him to fight about once a year, but never so strenuously. Logan’s honor wouldn’t allow him to push a friend who’d made a decision clear, even if he didn’t understand why. “What’s this about, Logan? Why do you want to fight?”

  Lord Gyre looked down and scratched his head. “Serah’s asked why we don’t spar with each other. She thinks it would be a good match. Not that she wants to see us get hurt, but …” Logan trailed off awkwardly.

  But you can’t help but want to show off a little, Kylar thought. He said, “Speaking of good matches, when are you going to march to the headsman’s block and finally marry her?”

  Ogre breathed a big sigh. All of his sighs were big, but this was a proportionally big sigh. It took a while. He grabbed a stable boy’s stool and sat on it, oblivious of his fine cloak dragging in the dirt.

  “Actually, I spoke with Count Drake about that a couple days ago.”

  “You did?” Kylar asked. “And?”

  “He approves—”

  “Congratulations! When’ll it be, you big about-to-be-un-bachelored bastard?”

  Ogre stared at nothing. “But he’s worried.”

  “Are you joking?”

  Logan shook his head.

  “But he’s known you since you were born. Your families are best friends. She’s marrying up in terms of title. Way up. You’ve got great prospects and you two have been practically betrothed for years. What can he possibly be worried about?”

  Logan fixed his eyes on Kylar’s. “He said you’d know. Is she in love with you?”

  Oof. “No,” Kylar said after too long a pause.