A Dance Of Death s-3

by David Dalglish

  Ulrich found the captain’s private stash of alcohol and poured himself a drink. Behind him, the captain remained oddly quiet, other than for the occasional grunt of pleasure. After Ulrich had finished his third drink, Darrel finally came around.

  “How long?” he asked, spitting blood to the floor.

  “About fifteen minutes,” Ulrich said.

  “Damn. That was better than fucking.” His eyes were bloodshot, and he stared at the pocket where the rest of the leaf remained in its pouch.

  “That was just a piece,” Ulrich said, holding in his grin. “Imagine a whole leaf. You’d be out for hours.”

  “If I could just have…”

  “No,” Ulrich said, standing. “No more, not while you are captain of my ship. In a day or two, it’ll be gone from your blood, and you’ll be able to control your desire for it. But while you sail for me, I can’t risk it. I’m sure you understand.”

  For a moment, Darrel looked ready to strike him, then regained his composure.

  “Gods damn it,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Give me that bottle.”

  “It has several names, but the one most seem to use is Violet,” said Ulrich as the captain downed half the bottle in a series of gulps.

  “Never felt so good in my life,” he said, wiping his chin. He looked down at his pants, realizing they were stained with semen. Instead of being embarrassed, he laughed.

  “We have only a little, but I anticipate more soon.” Ulrich tossed the captain a rag. “Clean yourself up, and get the rest of the crates unloaded. Whatever untrustworthy crewmen you have, get rid of them. When the first shipment of Violet sails west, nothing, and I mean nothing, must go wrong. For now, I’ll be loading a single crate into your hold, for safekeeping only. You are not to open it, let alone take a leaf, understand?”

  Darrel stared off for a moment, as if still longing for the leaf, then shook his head to clear it.

  “You’ll make a fortune with that,” he said. “Give me even a few samples, and I could get everyone west of the rivers hooked.” He sniffed his fingers. “This stuff even legal?”

  “For now, and I’ve taken steps to keep it that way. Good day, captain. I have matters I must attend. Stay in port and wait for my orders. It may be a few weeks, but I’m sure you will find a way to pass the time. Make sure the crate is kept carefully guarded.”

  He turned for the door, then stopped. It was ajar, but only slightly. He was certain he’d closed it.

  “Such interesting pleasures,” said a man perched atop Darrel’s bed, his legs crossed beneath him. Both whirled, and Ulrich drew his dagger. Wrapped in cloaks and black leather sat someone Ulrich had thought only existed in rumors and stories. His face was hidden by heavy shadows cast by his hood, but his grin remained perfectly visible.

  “The Wraith,” Ulrich said. “That’s who you are, isn’t it?”

  “Such brilliant wisdom,” said the intruder. “Though perhaps I give you too much praise. You would have noticed me ten minutes ago if you were truly clever.”

  “What in blazes are you doing on my ship?” Darrel asked. He took a step back, to where his sword hung on the wall. The Wraith tsk’ed at him, and he put a hand on the hilt of his blade.

  “Stay still, sea vermin. I have no reason to kill you, but I will if you do something so irrevocably stupid. I come bearing gifts for our dear Merchant Lord.”

  Ulrich stood straighter, and he tried to put on an air of superiority.

  “So be it, stranger. I will accept your gift, if it is worthwhile, but then I must demand you leave the Fireheart at once.”

  “Demand,” said the Wraith, his grin growing. “You amuse me.”

  He tossed him a heavy bag that had been hidden behind his back. It thudded to the floor. Slowly Ulrich bent down, opening the top so he might look inside. His throat tightened, and he stepped away.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he asked.

  “I told you, a gift.”

  Ulrich kicked it to Darrel, who opened it without hesitation. Pulling it out by the hair, the captain held a severed head, all the blood drained so that it did not drip across the cabin. The face was familiar, despite its pale color and obvious mutilation.

  “Who…?” Ulrich asked, trying to swallow down the lump in his throat.

  “Must I do everything?” the Wraith stepped off the bed, the movement startling both of them. Ulrich felt certain the man would draw his sword, but he kept it sheathed…for now. Once again Ulrich looked at the severed head, trying to make out the face. The bulbous nose, the slender chin. Familiar…

  When it hit, he put his back to the wall and held out his dagger.

  “An attack on one of us is an attack on us all,” he said, wishing he sounded braver than the panicked whine that came from his lips.

  “Please,” the Wraith said, offering him an elegant bow. “I look forward to your retaliation.”

  He kicked open the door and sprinted across the deck, leaving their line of sight before either could react. The moment he was gone, Darrel tossed the head back into the bag.

  “What the fuck was that?” asked the captain.

  “I don’t know,” Ulrich said, feeling his legs go weak. “But you’re holding the head of William Amour.”

  The two exchanged a look. William Amour, one of the six Merchant Lords of Angelport, of which Ulrich was also a member…

  “Shove a rock in its mouth and toss it overboard. I will accept no blame for this.”

  “Will do.”

  Still trying to regain his composure, Ulrich exited the cabin. Much of the cargo was unloaded, and his own people scurried about the dock, directing the crates to various stores, merchants, and warehouses. If any had noticed the Wraith and his strange garb, none showed it. He spoke with a few, to calm himself down more than anything, then hurried north. With the sea vanishing behind him, along with its salty smell and vulgar cries of sailors, Ulrich felt much better. As he walked, he checked to make sure nothing untoward stained his fine clothing. He would be arriving late, but so long as he looked dashing, he wouldn’t mind.

  Normally Ulrich traveled without guards, but the incident with the Wraith had him rethinking that policy. Still, the streets were generally regarded as safe, so long as you were of high enough station that the city guards left you alone. At various gateways between walls, soldiers made sure the riffraff stayed in their appropriate place. In the outer ring, Ulrich curled south to meet his brother in the Keenan mansion. At their gate, he was searched well, which would have insulted him if he hadn’t known of the attack weeks prior. Doing everything he could to push the Wraith and that severed head from his mind, he joined the service held within.

  About fifty people mingled throughout the first few rooms of the mansion, drinking wine and conversing in soft tones. Many candles hung from the ceiling, but only a third were lit, keeping the tone of the place somber. The walls were elegantly painted into a representation of stone, the carpet a deep blue, which seemed to grotesquely resemble blood in the dim orange light. Before anyone noticed his arrival, Ulrich spotted his brother Stern alone in a corner and joined him.

  “I assume I have not missed the burial,” he said, motioning over a servant so he might have a drink. He knew he was pushing it given how much he’d downed in Pyle’s cabin, but he needed all the help he could get to remain calm.

  “Lady Gemcroft just arrived,” said Stern. “It’ll be awhile before the pointless introductions are finished and we can begin.”

  Stern looked him up and down, then frowned.

  “Are you all right?”

  The two were not twins, but they looked enough alike that most people thought they were. They had the same blond hair, pale skin, and brown eyes. Stern was older, though, and taller by an inch. With how similar they were, and how alike their minds worked, Ulrich was not surprised that Stern could sense his unease.

  “Do not worry about me. I’m here for you, after all. To lose Julie like that…”

  Stern finished
his glass, then set it down hard on a nearby shelf.

  “It’s the damn Trifect,” he said. “They’re no better than the thieves they warred with for years, and my daughter had to get into the middle of it. Knew she shouldn’t have married Taras, married into that privileged, murderous circle of…”

  “Enough,” Ulrich said, glancing about to make sure no one heard. “You know why we let her, what we all stood to gain. Their marriage was to help create peace. Don’t ruin that now by ranting like a drunken idiot at their funeral!”

  Stern took a deep breath, and he nodded.

  “Forgive me,” he said, tears breaking through his steely facade. “I have not slept well in weeks. She was all I had left, Ulrich. The last piece of Lynn in this world. Now she’s gone, and why? The whim of a madman? What could he want?”

  Ulrich thought of the meeting with the Wraith on the Fireheart and decided now was not the time to discuss it.

  “Go wash your face,” he said, squeezing his brother’s shoulder. “I’ll mingle fine on my own while you compose yourself.”

  Stern thanked him and left. After refilling his drink, Ulrich wandered through the mansion, paying more attention to the art than the people. The three families of the Trifect might be arrogant, overconfident, and wasteful, he thought, but they had good taste in paintings. While admiring a portrait of a paladin, the right half of the canvas purposely charred and burned, he heard someone clear their throat behind him.

  “Glad for you to be here, albeit it late,” said the soft-spoken Laurie, offering his hand as Ulrich turned about. Ulrich took it and shook while looking over the grieving father. His dark skin looked pale, and he’d cut his long ponytail as a sign of mourning. Of course Laurie had noticed he’d been late, and Ulrich tried to hide his annoyance at how perceptive he could be.

  “Pressing matters delayed me,” he said. “I fear someone lost their head over them.”

  Laurie winced, and Ulrich had to bite his tongue to keep from chuckling. He’d forgotten the most prevalent rumor was that Taras had been found decapitated, with his wife’s head lying in his lap. Ulrich had doubted the truth of it, but Laurie’s reaction made him wonder. Well, that and his little present in the bag earlier on the Fireheart.

  “I hope business continues well for you,” Laurie said, pushing the conversation to safer topics.

  “Better than ever. There’s an opportunity we’ve discovered that should bring our wealth right up with yours, Laurie. I wonder, do you think there’s any more room in the Trifect for a promising merchant like myself?”

  Laurie’s smile was so patronizing Ulrich once more bit his tongue.

  “In hundreds of years, we’ve never had more than our three families. If you truly desire it, though, we can arrange a marriage, perhaps with one of Jack Connington’s nieces…”

  “Sorry,” said Ulrich. “I don’t much care for arranged marriages. They rarely turn out well.”

  The barb hit like he’d hoped, and even Laurie’s carefully controlled performance shook with momentary anger.

  “Pardon me,” he said. “I should speak with the priest before he begins the services.”

  With him gone, Ulrich wandered further, seeing few familiar faces. It was only because of his brother that he was there at all. The Trifect kept to itself, except when it came time to collect its debts.

  A lovely lady caught his eye, distracting him from the paintings. She wore a revealing violet dress, and unlike most women of Angelport, she kept her hair cut short at the neck. Running a hand through his hair to make sure it was smooth, he joined her side.

  “Would you like a drink?” he asked, seeing her hands empty.

  “Are you a servant?”

  Her voice was husky, deep. Her exoticness elevated her beauty in his eyes.

  “Of course not,” he said, laughing as if amused by the error. “I am Ulrich Blackwater, merchant and proprietor of many wondrous items from all across Dezrel. I merely ask because you seemed alone, and I would hate for your shyness to keep you from enjoying yourself.”

  “Not alone,” she said. “I am merely watching.”

  She nodded toward an elegantly dressed woman across the hall. Ulrich tried to see if he recognized her, but did not. One of the lesser ladies of Angelport, perhaps, or from nearby Omn?

  “I have given you my name, but not had the pleasure of yours,” he said, bringing his attention back to her.

  “Zusa Gemcroft,” she said, still cool toward him. Ulrich took another drink, not yet frustrated. Something was clearly off with this woman, which made her all the more interesting.

  “Gemcroft?” he said, feigning surprise. “Are you with Alyssa then?”

  “I am.”

  That explained the other woman across the hall surrounded by guests. No doubt they were all busy kissing Alyssa’s ass.

  “I know a little of the Gemcroft family, but must confess, I have never heard your name mentioned before.”

  She blushed a little, then pointed to one of the men near Alyssa, though who exactly Ulrich could not tell.

  “I am newly married into the family.”

  Ulrich’s smile widened. He loved seducing newlywed women. So nervous, so excited, and always a challenge. That, and it forever gave him power of blackmail if successful.

  “I am truly envious of whoever the lucky-”

  “Excuse me,” said one of the servants, immediately bowing in apology. “The service is about to begin. If you would, please follow me to the gardens.”

  Zusa shot Ulrich a smile he could not decipher.

  “I will see you another time,” she said, curtseying once before returning to Alyssa’s side. Ulrich watched the sway of her hips as she went, then glared at the servant.

  “I know where the gardens are,” he said. “I’ll be there shortly.”

  “Of course,” the servant said, bowing again.

  Ulrich had no intention of going, having little interest in the prattle of priests and crying of women. He wandered deeper into the mansion, hoping for some solitude. Once everyone was dismissed, he’d slip back among them, say his goodbyes, and hurry off to more pressing matters. The Amour family, for example, needed a new head appointed, after the loss of the last one.

  He chuckled at the grim pun. Perhaps he shouldn’t have tossed it overboard. It might have been amusing to present it to William’s wife. He’d always hated that hag. Turning a corner, he was surprised to find he was not alone. A blond man stood in the doorway of a nearby room, staring. Ulrich vaguely recognized him, then remembered he’d been at Alyssa’s side. He looked too nicely dressed to be a servant. Distant cousin, maybe?

  “Lost?” he asked, deciding it best to make the other man explain his reasons for being there so he might not ask the same of him.

  “Only looking.” He gestured to the room. “Was this where it all happened?”

  Ulrich looked inside, realizing they were at Taras’s bedroom.

  “I believe so. What brings you here? Morbid curiosity?”

  “Something like that.”

  Ulrich offered his hand. No doubt the stranger wished to avoid the service as much as he did. Already he liked him.

  “Ulrich Blackwater,” he said.

  “Haern…Gemcroft.”

  Ulrich lifted his eyebrows. Were the Gemcrofts suddenly mating like rabbits? Here was yet another he’d never heard of.

  “Well, Haern, what brings you to Angelport?”

  He hesitated a moment, then looked back to the room.

  “It is my honeymoon.”

  “Is it, now? Well, a funeral is hardly the place to be. Or were you scouting for available bedrooms? I doubt this one will be used for a while.”

  He laughed, then had a thought.

  “Say, you aren’t married to a lady named Zusa, are you?”

  Haern’s pause was enough. Ulrich smacked him on the shoulder, and was surprised by how firm his footing was. Almost felt like hitting a rock.

  “You lucky bastard. Wouldn’t blame y
ou for fucking on a dead man’s bed when the woman is that fine.”

  Haern looked too embarrassed to respond, which amused Ulrich all the more. He was a handsome man, and with startling blue eyes. Seducing Zusa away from him for a tryst would be that much more of a challenge. Much as he liked the man, he decided he might have to use a bit of poison to ensure Zusa was his at least once before they left for Veldaren.

  “Do you know what happened here?” Haern asked, stepping into the bedroom. Ulrich followed, also curious to see.

  “Only rumors. You’d think a hundred men hacked them all to death, if you believed the rabble. I think it was just one man, though, a fool the commoners have begun calling the Wraith. He slaughtered guards left and right, butchered Taras and Julie, then vanished in a puff of smoke.”

  “Smoke?” Haern whispered. “I see.”

  The room had a clean yet barren feel to it. The sheets had been stripped from the bed and not replaced. The carpet was so immaculate it had to be new. The windows appeared new as well. Even the walls glistened with fresh paint, the room still stinking from the application. Haern looked about, then pointed upward.

  “Damn,” Ulrich said, finally spotting it.

  They’d changed the sheets, the floors, and the walls, but missed a faint spray of blood across the ceiling.

  “This was no assassination,” Haern said, his voice soft. “I doubt he cared one way or the other about the couple. This was a message, and he made sure it carried far.”

  Something about the way he spoke, the way he carried himself, gave Ulrich a sense of unease. For the first time, he realized the man had a pair of sabers sheathed at his belt.

  “Consider me curious. What makes you think someone would cut off a person’s head, rip his entrails from his stomach, and fling his blood about like an insane painter, yet not care one way or the other about him?”

  Haern walked over to the window, testing its lock.

  “He let the baby live. I saw Madelyn holding her.”

  Ulrich’s eyes narrowed at such perception.

  “What is your relation to Alyssa again?”

  Haern looked back.

  “Second cousin.”