Shadowdance 05 - A Dance of Ghosts

by David Dalglish

  “They think that already,” Eliora had said, kneeling before her bed in prayer while the other two sat together, waiting for her to finish. “And they would know the moment you tried. The eyes of priests are always undressing us.”

  They’d never mentioned braids again.

  Zusa stood, already rethinking her plan to use the home as her own. Too many memories, and they all ended the same. Karak’s mercy came for them, killing her sisters with the blade of a dark paladin, smothering their happiness with oppression and hate and self-loathing.

  “We were beautiful,” Zusa breathed aloud, the greatest blasphemy she could think to utter in that place. “Beautiful, pure, and never once in need of the Lion. You gave us nothing but shame.”

  She started toward the door to leave, then froze. A sound, so soft, but her ears picked it up nonetheless. It was the slightest rattle of wood, but from where? Zusa froze, trying to think. There were only the two rooms, and she’d been in both …

  But no, that wasn’t right. There was a third, the safe room they were to hide in if guards ever came looking for them for the killings they committed in the name of their glorious Karak. Zusa drew a dagger, and slowly, she stalked toward the far side of the room, to what appeared to be a simple blank wall. She knew that not to be the case, and she readied herself for an attack. All four faceless were dead, but what if there were others she’d not been told of? Or what if Daverik had already recruited more?

  Free hand finding the slender groove necessary to open it, she tensed, took in a deep breath, and then yanked open the hidden door leading to the secret hiding room. Her eyes widened, her body froze. In her gut, she felt her insides twist, and in her chest, her heart break.

  Within were two girls, and they wore thin black shifts that went underneath the wrappings that were pooled beneath them both on the floor. Both their faces were hidden with white cloths, with only a slit to reveal their eyes. One girl’s skin was dark, her eyes brown, curls of black hair peeking out from beneath the cloth, while the other girl looked pale. Her pretty blue eyes stared up at Zusa, wide with fear.

  They couldn’t be any older than nine.

  “Are you one of us?” the darker girl asked, and she pointed toward the wrappings Zusa wore. Zusa swallowed, tried to think of what to say.

  “No,” she said. “I used to be, but not anymore.”

  This seemed to make them all the more nervous, and they shrank further back into the safe room. Zusa clutched the doorway with one hand, the hilt of her dagger with the other, needing something to keep them from shaking with her rage.

  In the other room, she heard the door open, close.

  “Girls?” asked a painfully familiar voice.

  “Stay here,” Zusa told them, and she pushed the door shut, returning the two to darkness. Racing between the beds, Zusa made sure she was flying by the time Daverik stepped into the bedroom, a loaf of bread in one hand, two apples in the other. The food crashed to the ground as Zusa’s knee connected with his stomach, her fist striking his throat to rob him of any words. Her momentum carried them into the other room, and Zusa twisted so she could slam him against the wall beside the fireplace. She drove her dagger into the palm of his left hand, ramming it into the wood of the wall and pinning him there. The other she pressed against his neck.

  “How dare you?” she said, voice nearly a snarl.

  “I don’t under…”

  “The girls,” she said. “I found them. Are you recruiting them so young now? Or did you fuck them yourself so you could declare them unclean and therefore worthy of your purposes?”

  “It wasn’t like that,” he said, hoarse from the blow she’d given him. “I brought them with me from Mordeina. One of the priests there, he couldn’t control himself. They were in danger, so I took them with me. It was to protect them, Zusa, I swear!”

  Zusa forced him to look her in the eye.

  “Protect them?” she asked. “Tell me … were they whipped?”

  He said nothing.

  “Stripped naked before their lover?”

  Again, nothing.

  She smashed her knee into his groin, then slammed his head back against the wood. Holding him by the hair, she pushed her other dagger tighter against the flesh of his throat.

  “Damn you,” she seethed. “Did you not think to stop them? Did you not think to argue that no man can be seduced by a nine-year-old?”

  “I did what I could,” Daverik said, breathing quickened from the pain. “I swear, I did what I could. You know the laws—Karak’s laws—and they don’t change.”

  Such a pathetic excuse, and even worse, she knew he believed it. By bringing them with him to Veldaren, hiding their faces, hiding every stretch of their skin with wrappings, he thought he made them pure. Made them holy.

  “You’re sick,” she said. “Sick, blind, and pathetic.”

  He looked down at her, and in his eyes, she saw something broken. Something empty.

  “What are you going to do?” he asked. “Will you kill me?”

  “You think you deserve better?”

  With his free hand, Daverik grabbed her wrist, but instead of trying to force her away, he only pushed it harder so that it drew blood when he talked.

  “I am but a sinful creature deserving death,” he said. “But what I’ve done, Zusa, even you would have done the same. The prophet is almost here, and the future he brings with him … I’ve given everything to save us from it.”

  Zusa leaned closer, so that her lips could brush against his ear. She’d once kissed that man’s neck, once let his hands drift about her body, but now she only wanted him to feel the heat of her breath when she spoke.

  “The prophet is a myth, you damn fool. All you’ve done, you’ve done for a lie, and now you’re dying for one.”

  Before he might react, she cut across his throat, slicing it open. His blood spilled upon her. He opened his mouth to speak, but he could not form the words. Holding him aloft, she stared into his eyes as he died. She wanted the last thing he saw on this world to be her face, her eyes, empty of tears, empty of sorrow.

  When he was gone, she freed her dagger, returned to the bedroom, and pulled open the door to the hidden room. The two girls were within still, and they’d completed the process so that their tiny little bodies were covered with wrappings. The sight of it brought tears to her eyes where Daverik’s death could not.

  “Remove the cloth,” she told them. “Let me see your face.”

  They looked to one another, clearly unsure, but with a bloody dagger in her hand and her chest covered with the blood of their master, she was hardly surprised they obeyed. Off came the white cloths, revealing their cherubic faces. Zusa knelt before them, but the first she reached for backed away.

  “How long have you been with Daverik?” she asked them.

  “Six months,” said the pale girl with the blue eyes.

  “Then you’ve been taught to hide, to steal, to survive,” Zusa said. “Both of you, you have to understand. What happened, what you’ve been told … it’s not your fault. It was never your fault. Listen to me, I beg of you. There is no salvation for you at the Lion. There is nothing to feel shame over, nothing to condemn you. Your master is dead. Flee. No one will look for you. No one will know you’re gone, I promise. Make a life for yourselves; just please, do not return to the temple. Don’t let them hide everything wonderful about you. Your face is not sinful. Your hair is a gift, your eyes a temple, your smile a blessing. Let all the world see. Can you do that? Can you? You’re beautiful … so beautiful…”

  She was crying, she realized, and the two girls stared at her with expressions she could not begin to read. They merely nodded, and when Zusa stepped away, the two ran for the door. Zusa watched them go, and in her gut, she felt certain they would return to the temple. Where else would they go? Here she was, sick and terrified of making a life for herself, and she was a woman grown. Them? Children.

  She looked down to her wrappings, the markings of the f
aceless that she’d carried even after turning her back on Karak. Suddenly, every reason she’d ever used for keeping them rang false. Stupid, cowardly, and petty. She wanted nothing to do with them now. The only meaning they carried was that when those two girls first saw her, they saw what they would one day become.

  Taking the bloody knife to her neck, she cut down, into the cloth. Tears still running down her face, she sliced them away, strip after strip. Her movements grew quicker, more rash. Sometimes she cut into herself, and she did not care. She wanted the wrappings gone. Hacking away, she freed herself from them as if they were bonds. Finally naked, she crouched atop the shredded remains, feeling the weight of the day crushing her. Openly, she sobbed, and there was something cleansing to finally letting it all free. She said good-bye to the memories, to her sisters, to every life she’d known before stumbling into Maynard Gemcroft’s mansion all those years before.

  Slowly, she rose to her feet, and she felt her emotions seeping back under control.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the ghosts of the women who had once stayed there. “I’m so sorry, but I will wear them no more. Not even in remembrance of you.”

  The drawers had no other clothes, which left her with but one choice. She went to Daverik’s body and stripped him naked. His trousers were a bit too wide, but she cinched the belt tight enough so they would not fall. Over her neck went the shirt, and she cut at its overly long sleeves with her dagger so they would not interfere. His blood was on it, and she stared down at the stain with a growing detachment. What did it matter, the blood?

  “All for a myth,” she whispered, chest hollow, eyes wet.

  To the growing dark outside she went, but before she did, she grabbed the lone copy of The Lion’s Walk and tossed it into the fire, let it burn with all the rest.

  CHAPTER

  31

  Into his adulterous city Thren walked, keenly aware she’d abandoned him for another. Night had fallen, and it seemed so strange to see how dead the streets had become. With the gate closed, he’d had to climb the wall, using a hook and rope stashed by his disbanded guild for whenever they needed to smuggle in goods better left unseen by the city guard. Before a lantern-wielding patrol discovered him, he’d paused, overlooking the homes. Even the very feel of the place was different, and he’d wondered just what it was he’d sensed.

  Have you changed in my absence? he’d wondered. Or do you merely hide your head and pray for the Watcher to come save you?

  At the end of the marketplace were several taverns, competing with one another for nightly clientele. The one on the left, the far more ragged-looking place named simply Filled Cup, had always been his former second-in-command’s favorite. Assuming he was still alive and Muzien had not killed him. Pulling his hood lower over his face, Thren pushed open the door and stepped into the lively bustle within.

  It seemed tonight was a night for celebration. Men and women filled the seven tables, gathered together with plenty of drink to go around. Three of the tables were singing songs, though each of the songs was different from the others, which made them only compete to see whose song could drown out the others. Flitting through the tables, their assets on clear display, were the whores, smiling, laughing, acting as if each man were the handsomest they’d ever seen … at least until it was clear they had no coin to pay for the privilege. Of the women, all but one wore a simple yellow gem on a cord around their neck, pinned to their blouse, or in a ring on their finger. The gem signified their allegiance to Muzien, as well as who would come to their aid should someone try to skimp on a payment or play too rough in bed.

  Of course they are yours, thought Thren as he approached the barkeep. Once the whores are in your pocket, who would dare refuse you and risk losing such illustrious company?

  “What’ll it be?” the barkeep asked him, a hairy man with forearms as big as Thren’s head.

  “I’m looking for a friend,” Thren said. “Name’s Martin, ten years my younger. Brown hair, sometimes goes by the name of Softhands.”

  “Martin Softhands,” said the barkeep, nodding. “He only uses that name when trying to impress the ladies. Surprised he didn’t name himself Longtongue or Goodfuck for all the good it’d do.”

  Thren grinned.

  “Never let him hear you say that,” he said. “He might adopt Goodfuck out of pure amusement. So, do you know where he is?”

  The barkeep paused.

  “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  Thren reached into his pocket and then dumped out a handful of coins onto the counter.

  “A good friend, this Martin,” Thren said, and the barkeep snatched up the coins with practiced speed.

  “Upstairs, using those deft hands of his, and not on himself.”

  “Which room?”

  For a moment, the barkeep ignored him, instead counting up the coins.

  “Room three,” said the burly man. “That’s the room you just rented from me for the night. Of course, I might have mixed up numbers, and room three’s already occupied…”

  “The night’s busy and the tables loud,” Thren said. “Who would blame you for an honest mistake?”

  Thren tipped his head in respect, then made his way to the stairs.

  There were five rooms in total, small and cramped from what he could see of the lone door that was open. The others were closed, and the telltale sounds of sex came from within.

  Animals, thought Thren. He approached room three, marked by deep grooves cut into the front. He tested, found it locked. Sighing, Thren put the slightest weight on it to test its strength, discovered it was held shut by a simple chain at the top. Easy enough. Stepping back, he rammed his foot into the door, snapping the chain and smashing open the door to reveal Martin sitting on the edge of the bed, an older woman on her knees before him with her head in his lap.

  “What the fu…”

  Martin’s voice trailed off, his anger quickly changing to stunned silence. The woman pulled back and rose to her feet, with no care to her modesty, instead reaching for a slender dagger she’d hidden within the folds of her discarded dress.

  “He’s finished,” Thren said to the woman. “Take your clothes and go.”

  The woman looked back to Martin, who nodded.

  “He’s right,” Martin said. “Go ahead and get out of here, and keep the coin.”

  “Had no plans on giving it back,” she said, and within moments, she had her blouse back on and her skirt replaced. Thren stepped aside so she could leave, then crossed his arms and waited as Martin put on his pants.

  “She seems a bit old,” Thren said, glancing back over his shoulder as the woman climbed down the stairs.

  “Just means she knows what she’s doing. I don’t like paying for amateurs, and so long as my eyes are closed, every woman is sixteen and slender.”

  Thren shrugged. Fair enough.

  Martin tightened his belt, then walked over to him, bare from the waist up. The man had a rugged look to him, face and neck carrying the scars of his livelihood. Of all those he’d recruited into his guild since the Bloody Kensgold, Martin had been the one most practical and aware of how the city worked. Thren had hoped there’d have been fear at seeing his return, or perhaps optimism at a possible resurgence of the Spider Guild … but instead, Martin just looked annoyed and bored.

  “What?” he asked.

  That tone … he’d never have used that tone with him before, not while wearing the deep gray of the Spider. Gone for but a few months, yet already his reputation was sinking? It was enough to make Thren want to scream.

  “Do I bother you?” Thren asked, and his right hand drifted down to the hilt of his sword. “Or did Muzien bore a hole through your skull when you became part of his Suns?”

  Finally, a bit of fear in the man’s eyes, a measure of respect. If this was how his second-in-command reacted, well … restoring his Spider Guild to a position of power was going to be harder than he thought.

  “Of course not,” Ma
rtin said, putting on his shirt. “Just … bad timing. So, you’re back, I see. I hope you enjoyed your time away from this shithole.”

  “Pleasant,” Thren said. “But also irrelevant. I’ve come to rebuild, and I need your help to find the others. It’s time we call in every last member, and remind them to whom their true allegiance should be.”

  “Former members,” Martin said, walking back to the bed and grabbing a long dagger, which he jammed into his belt. “They’ve joined the Sun Guild now, all but perhaps a few that died to that Victor bastard. Truth be told, Thren, I’m not sure how you plan on convincing them. This city is Muzien’s now, from top to bottom.”

  “But only in my absence.”

  Martin laughed.

  “You think that matters?”

  Thren stepped closer, grabbed Martin by the front of his shirt, and yanked him close.

  “I have been here for decades,” he said, feeling his temper overwhelming him. “I’ve watched guilds rise and fall, I’ve cut off the heads of kings and queens, and I’ve earned every last bit of respect the scum of this city can muster. I will not be turned away nor insulted. You think my name means nothing? We’ll find out, Martin. When I remind them of who I am and what I can do, we’ll see if they’re willing to throw their lot in with a damn elf over one of their own.”

  Martin swallowed, clearly worried but still able to meet Thren’s stare with his own.

  “Have I made myself clear?” Thren asked.

  “Perfectly,” Martin said.

  Thren let him go, and his former most trusted smoothed out his shirt, and just like that, his worry was gone, and he slipped into the role he’d filled for many a year.

  “Muzien’s kept most of the guilds together, even if unofficially,” he said. “Helps with the transition, I’m guessing. Most of those downstairs once wore the gray as well, and that’s where we’ll start. It’ll be tricky though, Thren. One word to Muzien, and it all goes to shit.”

  “Then we have to make them afraid,” Thren said. “More afraid of me than of Muzien.”

  Martin grinned.