A Dance of Blades (Shadowdance 2)

by David Dalglish

  Haern drew his sabers, thrilled by the way they handled. Senke had given him a fine gift. Hopefully he’d put them to good use. The time for stealth was over. He tested the door at the bottom of the stairs, found it unlocked, and then kicked it in. As the loud crack echoed in the room, he leaped inside, already searching for his first victim. There were four men inside, sitting at a table with cards and wooden chips stacked before them. They shouted and reached for their weapons, but they were too slow. Haern whirled through them, rolling across the table and to the other side. Chips clattered along the floor, mixing with the blood.

  “Shit,” he said as he stared at the bodies. None was Kadish Vel. He glanced about, seeing only one other room. Within were some ledgers, a shelf stocked with tiny bottles, and a bed. Haern couldn’t believe it. The first of his many places to attack, and he hadn’t even bothered to check inside the tavern first. Kadish was probably with his men, drinking. So much for being the feared Watcher of Veldaren. So much for his plans.

  He rushed back to the stairs, trying to decide on a course of action. No one would know he’d come down there yet. Kadish was in a public place, with lots of people, but that could work in Haern’s favor. Halfway up the stairs he turned back and hurried to the small side room. Scouring the shelf, he looked to see if his idea was possible. The tiny bottles weren’t alcohol as he’d first assumed. They were tonics, tinctures, and most important, poisons. Only half were labeled, as he’d expected. Haern recalled his lessons when training under his father. For three months he’d had a tutor who knew more about poisons than Haern could ever have learned in a lifetime. Many of his lessons during those long days had involved discovering the nature of unlabeled poisons.

  He shook several, checking their color, their consistency, and their weight. He pulled four aside, cleared a space on the shelf, and put the bottles atop it. One of the bottles was clearly an extract of shadeleaf, but that was only part of what he needed. He took two others, shook them, and then poured drops of each together. When they turned green, he frowned. Trying another bottle, he mixed it with the nightshade. When the drops turned clear, he grinned.

  Dumping out half the bottle of shadeleaf extract, he poured another bottle, a common mixture of kingsblood and dandyblooms, in with the rest and shook it. The resulting mixture turned clear. It had a strong taste to it, which meant it only worked with certain alcohols. That was if you planned on putting it in someone’s drink, of course. Haern had other ideas. Among the marked bottles was a useful paste that bonded with most poisons, thickening them into something akin to glue. Haern applied the poison to the blade of one of his daggers, being careful not to rush. The last thing he wanted was to prick a finger and die in the Hawks’ basement dwelling. That hardly seemed like the noble end he felt he deserved. Last, he found one more particular bottle and smashed it.

  Haern climbed back through the hole in the wall, slipped out the rear of the tavern, and then circled around to the front. The two thieves remained on guard, and they sneered at his approach.

  “Hey, you got to have money first,” said the one on the right, blocking his way with his arm. Haern glared, then pointed through the door, slurring his words and making sure his hand bobbed up and down in the air.

  “That … that guy there’s my brother. He’ll cover for me, really. Ask him, he’s a great guy, married a whore who makes more money on her back than I … I could … that could make in a month.”

  Haern made sure he pointed between two tables, and the movement of his arm made it no clearer whom he was referring to as his brother. The guard on the left looked inside, as if he could somehow pinpoint the man anyway. The one on the right grabbed Haern’s arm.

  “I said get out,” he said, but Haern moved too fast. He spun out of his grip, slashed open his throat, and then turned to the other. Before he could let out a cry, Haern stabbed his chest with an unpoisoned dagger, ramming his arm over his mouth to hold in the scream. It came out muffled, not loud enough to attract any attention within. It seemed the men and women were eager to celebrate their first moment of peace in two days. No doubt they thought they’d beaten the mercenaries, or at least they wanted to think so.

  Knowing time was far from an ally, Haern lumbered into the tavern, resuming his drunken gait. With his head low he scanned the bar, looking for Kadish Vel. He found him in the far corner, sitting with his back to a wall. Six men sat with him at the giant round table, along with a pretty lady at his side. She seemed bored with the proceedings, and Haern wondered if she stayed with him for coin or for safety. The rest were joking or boasting, their voices loud and slurred. All but Kadish. He seemed mildly amused at best. Haern drifted toward him. He had one chance at this, just one.

  “Hey, hey, hey!” shouted one of the men as Haern slid between them, directly opposite Kadish. Haern put his hands on the table, and he leaned forward as if keeping balance were a struggle.

  “Kadisshh?” Haern asked, looking lazily at the guildmaster.

  “I’m sorry, friend, the bar might be mine, but the drinks still don’t come free,” said Kadish.

  Haern never responded. His hands, leaning there on the table, were also within inches of the sabers at his hips. As his cloaks folded away, Kadish saw them, and that was when Haern moved. He drew them both, and in one smooth motion sliced through the necks of the men to either side of him. As they collapsed, their blood splattering across the table, Kadish flung himself out of his chair, pressing his back into a corner. The pretty girl looked dazed, as if she didn’t believe what she saw. Two of the men moved closer to defend Kadish, the others drawing daggers and lunging. Haern batted one aside, killed another with a riposte, and then spun, a whirling machine of death. Cries of alarm spread across the tavern as the rest realized what was going on.

  Falling to one knee, Haern let go of a saber and yanked the poisoned dagger from his boot. From underneath the table he saw the lower half of Kadish’s body. No armor. No realization of the danger. He flung the dagger, trusting his aim. It plunged into the meat of Kadish’s thigh, and Haern allowed himself a smile.

  And then he was moving again, his sabers reveling in the blood of his opponents. The whole tavern was in chaos, half the customers fleeing, wanting no part of whatever might happen. Many others cried out in warning, expecting an ambush. One shouted Thren’s name, as if he must be the one responsible. Haern weaved through them all, deflecting sword strikes and slicing into the arms of those who thrust their daggers. A heavyset man tried to block his way at the door, but Haern rammed into him with his left shoulder. His right hand stabbed repeatedly. The two collapsed through the door, landing beside the bodies of the guards.

  Out in the open Haern took to his feet and ran. Curses followed after him, but he was too fast, the city so familiar that he could weave and turn without pause through the maze of alleys and streets. He wished he could have talked to Kadish, convinced him to change his mind, but there’d been no way. The poison would work its way up his leg and to his lungs, locking them in place. There was a cure, but that had been in the bottle Haern smashed before leaving. By the time they found another, Kadish would be dead.

  A list of targets passed through his head. He’d taken out one of the guilds, so it was time to move on to a member of the Trifect. From what he’d learned, the recent wave of mercenary attacks had been the doing of only one. If there was to be any peace in the city, Alyssa Gemcroft would need to die next.

  CHAPTER 28

  Alyssa was hiding in her room from her relatives when Zusa arrived, a letter in hand.

  “He’s coming,” she said as she handed over the parchment. “The man who killed your son. He wants you to agree to his terms, or he’ll kill you.”

  “This man, the Watcher…” Alyssa crumpled the letter without reading it, needing only the signature at the bottom to know her answer. “He kills Nathaniel, then dares make demands?”

  “He’ll come tonight,” Zusa said. “And he’s skilled, milady. He might carry out his promise.”r />
  “Let him come,” Alyssa said. “You will protect me. He cannot hide from you, not here in my mansion. This is our home, and he the stranger. I trust you with my life, Zusa. Don’t let me down.”

  “The terms aren’t so unfair,” Zusa insisted. “Bertram would have you agree.”

  “I don’t care. Let the Watcher try. He dies tonight.”

  And so the day droned on, Alyssa with less and less patience with the relatives who had remained after the funeral, preferring the safety of her mansion to their own homes. Bertram came to discuss the wedding, but she ordered him away. She was even curt with Arthur, who brought her a plate of food and a glass of wine.

  “You have eaten nothing all day,” he said. “Please, take something. You will feel better. We have things we must discuss.”

  Fearing he might bring up the subject of marriage, or, gods forbid, propose right there holding a plate of bread, boiled potatoes, and cabbage, she told him to get out. His caring demeanor faltered a bit, and he stormed away.

  “You have no time left to be a little child,” he told her before slamming the door shut. “Already your immaturity overstays its welcome.”

  “And you yours!” she screamed, hurling the glass of wine he’d left behind.

  She wished Zusa were there, but she’d vanished, although promising to never be far.

  “If you know, then you might reveal my presence,” the faceless woman had argued. “If you trust me, then trust me. Trust the shadows to hold only me.”

  The night dragged on. This time there were no fires to watch, no men rushing up and down the streets. Just quiet. It seemed eerie, as if the city was suddenly waiting for something. Bertram had told her he feared terrible retribution from the guilds for her actions, but so far it seemed none were coming. Or maybe one was, coming in the form of the Watcher.

  Alyssa checked the lock to her room for the fourth time.

  With nothing to read and nothing to do she sat down on her bed, closed her eyes, and wished she could sleep. It’d be so much better for her to die that way, unable to feel the pain. Part of her expected just that to happen, though another part was revolted by the sheer weakness involved in considering it. She should be stronger, better, but she was so tired. The Gemcroft estate felt like chains attached to every inch of her body, dragging her down, pulling her into an exhausted pit where she could feel no emotion, cry no tears, and express no love. It was in that pit that Arthur waited.

  The sound of cracking glass startled her to a sitting position, her heart leaping all the way up to her throat. Any calm she might have felt in accepting this fate vanished with the threat finally there. A man was outside her window, hanging from a rope. The glass had cracked in a circle of veins where his heel rammed into it. She saw him kick off, his momentum bringing him back into the glass. This time it shattered, and in rolled the Watcher, all cloaks and blades and broken shards.

  Alyssa rolled off the bed in the direction opposite him. Hitting the ground with a thud, she scampered toward the door. A dagger flew, and she felt a tug as it passed through strands of her hair before thudding into her locked door. Panic struck her, and she spun to face her attacker.

  “Lady Gemcroft,” said the man, and he bowed low as if in respect. It seemed so comical coming from him that her mouth dropped open. “I’ve come for an answer to my offer, and for your sake I hope it differs from the one I last received.”

  She thought to lie, or bargain, or maybe just turn, fling open the lock, and hope she was faster than him even though she knew she wasn’t. She’d die with a dagger in her back, or maybe a saber in her neck. With each step he took, she took one back, until she realized he was carefully guiding her away from the door. If she was to flee, she had to do it now, either that or give in. Before she could choose either option, the shadows above her shifted, and from the corner Zusa leaped, her cloak uncurling from about her body as if she were an insect emerging from a cocoon.

  The Watcher, instead of retreating at the ambush, rushed toward her. Alyssa dove out of the way, and only when she landed did she realize she’d done as the man hoped. He’d cut her off from the door. From her knees she watched Zusa and the Watcher clash. His sabers were longer than Zusa’s daggers, and he had the greater reach, but it seemed not to matter. Alyssa had seen Zusa leap naked into a river to fight a dark paladin of Karak, seen her wield her blades with shocking speed and skill.

  But Alyssa had never seen her fight like this.

  Sword and dagger clashed in a constant echo of noise, sharp and painful in the closed room. The Watcher whirled, his weapons a blur, yet Zusa met every move. Her body arched and weaved as if her bones were liquid and her balance relied on will alone. Alyssa tried to follow them with her eyes, but could not. Over and over a saber would pass so close to Zusa’s flesh she’d wince, expecting a shower of red, but it never happened.

  “Alyssa!” someone shouted from the other side of the door. Something heavy thudded against it, most likely a fist striking in a panic.

  “Send my guards!” she screamed back, returning to her wits. Another thud, this heavier, but the lock on her door was sturdy, designed to hold out far more than a single man. She desperately wished she’d left it unlocked.

  The Watcher leaped from side to side, avoiding Zusa’s thrusts, and then spun about, hiding his body with a sudden flourish of his cloaks. From within its folds she saw the glint of his sabers, darting out with a quick slash from the chaos. Zusa retreated from them, careful to keep herself between him and Alyssa. For a moment Alyssa thought it might work. If Zusa could hold on until help arrived, the man would have to retreat.

  But then Zusa cried out, and blood splashed across the carpet. Alyssa felt her heart stop. Zusa continued fighting, even as the wraps on her left arm were soaked crimson. Could she fight through it? For a few long moments she did. Zusa went on the offensive, her whole body twisting into her thrusts, giving her a reach beyond even the sabers. This time the Watcher fell back, batting each thrust aside, the contact ringing in Alyssa’s ears. Their speed … it was unreal. At one point their weapons entangled, looping and parrying in what could only be described as a lethal dance. Faster and faster they moved, each refusing to give the other an inch of room. The sound of their battle escalated, and Alyssa found herself clutching the carpet, her whole body tense. The second she saw another splatter of blood, she would run for the door, risks be damned.

  But it was all bluster. She saw the pain on Zusa’s face, and her heart broke. The Watcher’s foot struck her protector’s chin, and as she staggered back, in sliced a saber, cutting into her arm. Zusa dropped one of her daggers and, suddenly at a disadvantage, she could not hold him back. His assault came, vicious and quick. Another thin cut opened on her leg, the slash so quick Alyssa never even saw it. Fists and knees slammed into Zusa, and she rolled with them, rolling … away from the door.

  She was granting Alyssa a way out, sacrificing her body, her life, to do it.

  The Watcher kicked her again, hard in the throat. As she fell back he descended upon her, a saber tip pressing against her chest, just above her heart. His elbow trapped the arm still wielding a dagger, the rest of his weight pressing against her waist to keep her from moving.

  “Why do you hunt me?” she heard him ask Zusa. It seemed so strange to her, to hear him wonder, but she dared not think of it. She wouldn’t allow Zusa to die for nothing. With her fall, Alyssa knew there was no way for her to escape. Men shouted from the other side of the door, but they were yet to begin breaking it in. At least she could accomplish something with her death. At least she could reward such a loyal servant for all she had done.

  “Wait!” Alyssa screamed before she might lose her courage. “Take me, but let her live!”

  The Watcher looked over to her, a quick glance before returning his gaze to Zusa, who even in such a state remained dangerous.

  “Why?” he asked. “Why would you kill yourself? I offered you a chance to end all this! Are you so vain that you would rath
er die than work with men such as me? All of Veldaren suffers, and I offer you a chance to save it!”

  “Damn your offer,” said Alyssa. “I could never agree, not after what you’ve done. Now take my life, and spare hers.”

  “What I’ve done?” he asked, and he sounded genuinely perplexed.

  “Her son,” Zusa said, her voice hoarse from the kick. “You killed her son, then scrawled your name in the dirt with his blood.”

  The Watcher looked taken aback. His eyes glanced between them. When something heavy thudded against the door, his body tensed.

  “When?” he asked, his voice soft.

  “Weeks ago, on the road north to Tyneham.”

  Using one of his sabers, he pushed the final dagger free from Zusa’s hand, then stood.

  “Murderer of children,” he whispered, as if finally understanding something. “I know what child you speak of. Five years old, perhaps six, red hair? He lives, Lady Gemcroft. I saved him, though he was wounded and with fever. I left him in the care of a family, and paid them well to protect him.”

  Alyssa shook her head. He had to be lying. It didn’t make any sense.

  “Why?” she asked. “How? The caravan was attacked…”

  “I came upon an ambush of a caravan, but not by thieves. They were men wearing the same insignia, a sickle held before a mountain. Your boy was the target, though at the time I never learned his name. That caravan contained crates of gold bearing your family’s crest. They were smuggling it in to the Serpent Guild, though why I do not know.”

  It was too much. That crest, that was the Hadfield family crest. Could Arthur have attacked Mark, attacked Nathaniel? But why would the Watcher lie? He could easily kill her and Zusa. And besides, she’d seen her son’s body … his burned…