A Dance of Blades s-2

by David Dalglish

  “Do you know how many else are with him?”

  Bill took another long swig, paused to think, and then stood. After he’d locked the door, then put a wooden bar across, he sat back down.

  “I’m thinking we’re closed for the day,” he said. “And I’m not sure I like where this is going, Ghost. Care to tell me why you want to know so much about this Tarlak?”

  “He knows something.”

  “From what I hear, people that know something you want to know have a funny way of turning up dead.”

  Ghost shrugged. “Depends on how loose their lips are.”

  “My, aren’t you a piece of work?” Bill said, chuckling. “But considering they aren’t part of the guild, and you are, I guess I can tell you what I know. He lives with his sister, young gal. Priestess, I think. Also got some guy named Brug, though why he’s taken him in I don’t have a clue. We turned down that guy’s application twice. Too much temper without a shred of skill to back it up. Last is a guy named Stern, bald as you, but that’s all I know. If he can fight, I haven’t heard word of it. Like I said, smalltime, with only his petty magic tricks to make him stand out in the slightest. Oh, and those god-awful yellow robes of his. They’ve only been around for nine months or so, maybe a year. I don’t expect ‘em to last.”

  Ghost bowed, stealing Bill’s bottle as he did. He took in several gulps, the burning in his throat doing much to awaken him.

  “Enjoy your day in peace,” Ghost said, handing it back. “And lock the door after I leave. There’s still people gathering outside.”

  “Will do.”

  A glare from Ghost caused the few waiting outside to step back, and he didn’t move away until he heard the thump of the wood barring the door.

  “You’ve still got your lives,” he told them. “If you’ve got that, you can move on. I suggest you do. Your pleading and curses won’t do a damn thing to sway anyone, not in this city.”

  He trudged south, toward the Crimson, keeping an eye out for Axe Road so he could begin counting. Finding the thirteenth from there was easy. Eyeing the building’s two floors, he crossed his arms and thought. Deciding his entry point, he continued on. A block later he turned around, coming back in a side alley. The way was dark, and two men glared at him as he passed. Any other they might have tried to rob, but he’d flashed them a grin, and he saw the way they stared at his painted face. They’d have been more likely to try and rob a dragon.

  The Eschaton’s building itself was smooth stone, but not the one next to it. That was well worn and cracked with many handholds. Climbing up to the roof, he turned and leapt the gap, rolling to absorb the impact of his landing. It wasn’t that he feared injuring his legs; he knew they could endure the blow. He just didn’t want to alert anyone inside to his presence. There was no direct entrance from the roof, but the second floor had a window, and that would be enough for him. Hanging upside down, he looked through it.

  The glass was surprisingly clean, and he guessed it was because of the woman who slept beneath the window, red-haired and buried under blankets. The priestess, he figured. The muscles in his legs flexing to keep himself steady, he brushed his fingers against the glass, testing whether or not the window opened. It didn’t.

  He swung back onto the roof and debated. If he broke in through the front door, his surprise would be less, and he wouldn’t have immediate access to one of their members. He could try coming back later, but if they slept through the day, they’d probably be out with the other mercenaries come nightfall. Again, no good. It’d have to be now. He put his back to the ledge, then crouched down so he could clutch it with his hands. The window would be a tight fit, but if he stretched out enough, he could squeeze through.

  His feet kicked, shifting him into a pivot. He smashed feet first through the window, showering the woman’s bed with glass. He let go of the ledge and held his arms high above his head. His momentum carried him through, and he landed on top of her, with him on his back. Before she could scream, he rolled over and clamped a hand over her mouth.

  “Shush now,” he said, ramming an open palm against the side of her head, knocking her out cold. Knowing time was short, he pushed off the bed and made for the door.

  “Del?” he heard someone ask from the other side. His voice was nervous, but not yet worried. A broken window could be many things, most likely a stone, least likely a dangerous man built like a mountain. The door opened inward. Before it was a third of the way open, he rammed it closed with his knee, then grabbed it with one hand and flung it wide. A man was falling on the other side, his balance broken by the sudden hit from the door. It was Tarlak, based on his outfit.

  Bill was right. What is that, piss-yellow?

  Ghost rammed a meaty fist into his mouth, just to make sure no spells got out. He had no intention of showing up at Bill’s later as a toad. The punch split the wizard’s lip, and blood flecked across Ghost’s knuckles. Ghost followed it up with a punch to the stomach, doubling him over. He dropped him with both his fists together, bashing the back of his head. Tarlak crumpled, easily unconscious. Neither he nor the girl would be out long, maybe a few minutes, but Ghost felt it enough time. When they came to, they’d be bound, and the wizard most likely gagged.

  There was one other room up top, its door open. Deciding it was Tarlak’s, he hurried to the stairs. If the other two were awake, they’d be rushing up them. Sure enough, he heard hollering, and a short man with muscular arms and a beard met him halfway.

  “What the bloody-?”

  Ghost snapped a fist into his face, cutting the sentence off short. A knee to his groin sent him rolling back down. Again Bill’s information rang true. The guy wasn’t much use, was he?

  He followed Brug’s roll down the stairs, kicking him at the bottom to convince him to stay down. One left, the one called Stern. His eyes swept the lower floor. Two doors were in the back, plus an exit to outside. One was open, Brug’s he assumed. The other…

  The door blasted open as he reached for its handle. He spun immediately in the direction of the door, using it as a shield. A flanged mace cut through the air where he’d been. Ghost bounced off the wall, drawing both his swords. He shoved the mace aside, then slashed blind behind the door. The other sword hit something hard, and then they were both in view of each other. The man, Stern no doubt, glared back at him, a mace in each hand. Their weapons pressed against each other, testing strength. Stern, while stronger than he looked, was still no contest.

  This didn’t seem to surprise him, though, and when Ghost tried to push him back, Stern parried both swords to the side and tried to leap past. He wanted the open area, Ghost realized, hoping his speed might win out. Ghost couldn’t stop him, but he could make life more difficult. He kicked a foot as he rotated his body, taking out one of Stern’s knees. Stern didn’t even try to keep his balance, instead rolling forward, around an old wooden chair, and up to his feet before the door. He lifted his maces and grinned.

  “Clearly skilled,” he said. “So what person with money did we piss off this time?”

  “Don’t matter,” Ghost said. He feinted a charge, then kicked the chair at him. Stern blocked it with his heel, but it was enough of a stall. Double-slashing, Ghost gave him no choice but to block, and block he did. His arms jarred, though nothing broke like he’d hoped. Sometimes, if he swung just right, he could pop a collarbone or wreck the joints in an elbow.

  Ghost looped his swords around for an attack from both sides. That left the only opening straight ahead, toward his chest. He wanted this Stern character to try it, to hold his own instead of bouncing about. Maddeningly, he didn’t take it. Stern dropped to one knee, blocking the lower slash from his left and letting the right sail over his head. Immediately after blocking he rolled to the side. Ghost chased, but each slash smashed only floor. Time was no longer on his side. The others would be up soon, groggy and heads full of fog, perhaps, but still up.

  How much concentration did it take to turn someone into a toad, Ghost won
dered.

  Stern at last had nowhere to run. His back was to the wall. To his left were the stairs, and the right, the main door. His eyes flicked from both, deciding. Ghost gave him no time, rushing in while keeping his swords close. He would block a retreat with his own body, and let his blades do the work. Stern had no chance matching strength, and without retreat, dying would be his only option left.

  It seemed Stern knew this as well. His eyes widened, and he appeared pressed to the very edge of his control by adrenaline and fear. The look of a cornered animal. Ghost knew Stern would not roll onto his back and hope for mercy. He’d lunge, mad, vicious. And that’s just what he did. Ghost feared those first few seconds as the maces came crashing in, slamming into his swords with shocking impact. He felt kicks strike his body, at one point an elbow, and still the maces looped and struck. But they were fighting Ghost’s fight now, close up and animalistic. He blocked a swipe from the side, then savagely struck its length with his other blade, knocking it from Stern’s hand. Stern’s other weapon came around, straight for his head. Instead of ducking, he stepped closer, chest to chest. The side of Stern’s arm hit his face, but that was far better than the sharp edges of the mace.

  One sword slashed his arm, making him drop his weapon. The other thrust into his belly and twisted.

  “Shit,” Stern grunted, clutching Ghost’s wrist with both hands. His whole body shook, and his face rapidly paled. Ghost pulled his weapon free, breaking Stern’s grip as if it were that of a child. The man slid along the wall, blood pouring across his hands and down his legs. He held the wound with his palms, slowing the bleeding.

  “Should have surrendered,” Ghost said. “Though I respect your defense of your friends, this was all unnecessary.”

  He left him there, stepped over Brug, and climbed the stairs. The short fighter was moaning still, conscious but only just. He was no threat. Ghost found the wizard first, glad to see him still out. Unwrapping the rope he’d looped about his waist, he cut a length of it and bound Tarlak’s hands. Thinking for a moment, he cut a smaller length, wedged a piece of the wizard’s own robe into his mouth, and then tied it into a gag. Hefting him onto his shoulder, he carried him back down the stairs and deposited him in a chair. Stern watched him with glazed eyes from where he lay.

  Last was the girl. She opened her eyes when he stepped inside, but she showed no recognition, nor any signs of fear. Concussion, he figured. She probably didn’t know the difference between him and the King of Ker.

  “To your feet,” he said. “I’d hate to strike you again.”

  He grabbed her wrists and held them tight as he escorted her down the stairs. Once she was tied to another chair, he kicked Brug to see how he was faring.

  “Damn it,” Brug muttered, his eyes suddenly focusing. “What was that for?”

  He saw Ghost standing over him, and then he tried to reach for his weapons. Instead, Ghost slammed his heel onto his throat and pushed him back.

  “I’d recommend you behave,” he said, the tip of his sword dangling before an eye. “Otherwise I might just let go.”

  Brug ground his teeth, glanced about, then nodded. Ghost bound his hands and feet and then dumped him on the floor beside the others.

  “Well, that was disappointingly easy,” Ghost said, sheathing his swords. “I hope the Watcher proves more challenging than you four.”

  Stern said something, but his voice was too weak to hear. Ghost stepped closer and leaned down.

  “You’ll find out when he kills you,” Stern said, then made a sound like the cross of a cough and a laugh. Ghost slapped the side of his face, the gesture almost playful.

  “At least you put up a fight,” he said. “So I’ll forgive your frightened boasting. Stay still, and try not to let your grip slip. You might know something useful to me, and I’d hate to lose it because you can’t keep your guts from squeezing through your fingers.”

  The priestess seemed to be getting her bearings, but Tarlak was still clearly out. Ghost reached into a pocket and pulled out some smelling salts. Shoving them under the wizard’s nose, he held his head by his hair and waited. After a few sniffs his eyelids began to flutter, and then he jolted as if splashed by a bucket of water.

  “Whmmph,” he said.

  “Welcome back,” Ghost said, smacking his shoulder. “Forgive the gag. I know how dangerous your kind is with a few silly words. I may take it out, but only for a moment, and only when my swords are at your throat. Understand?”

  A soft gasp came from his right. It seemed like the priestess had finally come to her senses.

  “Senke!” she gasped.

  Senke?

  He followed her gaze to the wounded man against the wall. A pet name, perhaps? Or maybe Bill had been wrong about the name?

  “He put up a better fight than the rest of you,” Ghost said.

  “Don’t say nothing, Delysia,” Brug muttered. “Just bite your tongue and say nothing.”

  “I don’t think I’d listen to him,” Ghost said, placing the name to her face. He’d found with many people he interrogated, it made them that much more compliant when he called them by their name.

  “Please, I can help him!” She squirmed against her bonds. “He’s dying!”

  “If he’s dying, he’s doing a poor job of it.” He watched her struggle to see if his ropes would hold. Satisfied, he took her chin in a giant hand and forced her gaze to his. “But if you want untied, you’ll have to talk. That’s all, little girl, just talk. No sin in that, right?”

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “Don’t!” Brug shouted. Ghost turned on him, and this time his kick was lower, and harder. Brug howled like an animal, and his face turned a beet red.

  “Enough out of you,” he said. “You’re beaten, and at my mercy. Lies and silence get you pain, only pain. Not honor. Not sacrifice. No nobility. Just pain.”

  Tarlak mumbled something into his gag. Ghost debated, but then left him alone. He’d go to the wizard only if the others proved uncooperative. So far, this Delysia appeared the most compliant. He knelt before her, all teeth and smiles.

  “Senke’s bleeding over there,” he said, dropping his voice lower. She went to look, but his eyes held her. He knew he could do that, had so many times before. He felt like a snake charmer, controlling them by the sheer ferocity of his personality. “You can feel it, his pain washing over you like a heat. You’re a priestess, so you could help him, tend his wounds. How badly you must wish to go to him. Such sweet compassion.”

  He shifted behind her, pressing a painted cheek against hers as they both looked to where Senke lay.

  “But is it just compassion? I don’t think it is. I think it’s fear. I smell the stink on you. It’s rising in your chest, crawling upward like a beast. You don’t want to watch him die, yet that’s what you are doing. Life is draining away before you, and all you can do is sit here. Struggling against your ropes won’t seal the hole in his gut, Delysia. Only one thing will, and that is talking to me. Tell me the truth, and only the truth. Can you do that, pretty girl? Can you do that for Senke?”

  She bit her lower lip. Tears ran down her face.

  “Yes,” she said at last. Brug sighed. By the wall, Senke chuckled. Tarlak let out another mrmph into his gag.

  “Good lass. It’s a simple question, really. I have a contract to find the Watcher, and your group knows of him. Tell me, where can I find him?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. She stared into his eyes, and he realized she wanted him to know she didn’t lie. “He’s only stayed here twice. Where he goes when he leaves…please, I don’t know. None of us do.”

  Ghost frowned.

  “Tell me his name, then. He must have a name.”

  Tears ran down her face. She looked to Senke, but Ghost grabbed her jaw and forced her back to him.

  “Haern,” she said. “He calls himself Haern.”

  “Last name? First?”

  “Just Haern.”

  Possibilities
ran through Ghost’s head, and he didn’t like any of them. A single, plain name would be marginal help at best in tracking him down. Still, it was better than nothing, which is what he’d been going on before. But mostly, he didn’t want a name. He wanted the man in person.

  “Will he be coming back here?”

  She hesitated, just a second, but Ghost saw it and smiled.

  “No lies,” he said. “That just gives pain, remember?”

  “I don’t know,” she said at last. “But I think he will. Please, can I help him now? He’s almost gone.”

  “Of course my dear.”

  He untied her wrists and then gestured for her to go. She ran to Senke’s side and knelt. He whispered something to her, and he heard her begin to cry. Ideas raced through Ghost’s head as he watched out of the corner of his eye. If this Haern were coming back, then he had to keep them all here until he did, otherwise they might find a way to warn him. Of course, it could be days until he showed, or worse, this Haern might spot the ambush through a window, or sense it through a lack of common activity. Troubling. He’d have to dump them in one of the rooms, preferably without a window. Once done, then he might…

  And that was when the door opened, and in stepped the Watcher.

  20

  H aern’s elbow still ached like the Abyss, but at least it’d stopped bleeding. He felt naked without his swords, so he kept his head down and shambled along as if he were drunk. Given the horror of the previous night, he knew he was far from the only one that staggered along the road. Many had buried their grief in alcohol. His nerves rose as he hurried down the Crimson, but he reminded himself it was safer in the day than at night. Sure, some of the young cutpurses might try to swipe his coin, but he had nothing to steal.

  When he reached the Eschaton’s building he put his hand on the door and closed his eyes. Returning here meant many things, and he wasn’t sure if he was prepared for the implications. Could this place become a home to him? Could he accept the companionship of Senke, even knowing his presence was danger? Deep in his heart, he knew he desired nothing else. It was his head that kept getting in the way. But sometimes you needed to think like that to protect others. To Haern, the self had never mattered more than those he cared for. He’d learned that lesson from watching his teacher, Robert, sacrifice his life to protect him.