Shadowdance 01 - A Dance of Cloaks

by David Dalglish

  They’d left ropes in the back of the mansion just in case they had to make a quick getaway. The last of the Hawks and Spiders turned and fled. In the red haze of his anger, Thren realized he had sent no one in to ignite the fires. The mansion would stand. The failure of it burned in his gut. He’d been so confident of victory he’d never prepared for defeat. So unlike him. So stupid.

  The mercenaries gave chase, but they wore heavy armor and carried shields. They slaughtered a dozen that still remained at the ropes, but the rest scattered on the other side of the gate and into the night. Thren led them, wishing so desperately for a way to redo the night.

  “Take him,” Alyssa said once the guilds were gone and Zusa had returned to her side. Bodies lay everywhere, and the yard stank of battle. Two soldiers lifted Maynard’s corpse in their arms. They must have known him well, Alyssa realized, for they showed true sadness at his passing. She shook her head, wishing for a moment of privacy so she might shed her tears. But she was the ruling member of the Gemcroft family and one of the three lords of the Trifect. There was too much to do.

  Her father in her escort’s arms, she approached the mansion, a lost heir come home.

  Home. No matter how sad the moment, the word still felt achingly comfortable in her heart.

  EPILOGUE

  Deep inside his safe house, Thren talked with two men newly appointed as his advisors. Neither had the strength of Will, the cunning of Kayla, or the skill of Senke. They were sycophants, pure and simple, but he needed them now. He had little else.

  Their news was grim. The assassination attempt on the king had failed despite the incredible money he’d paid one of the Naked Bells. The men stationed at Leon Connington’s had suffered horrible casualties, eventually setting fire to the mansion before frantically fleeing. Somehow Madelyn Keenan had been found and rescued. His own son was missing, and some one-eyed woman was spreading rumors that she’d killed Aaron and left him to die in the fire at the Connington mansion. Worst of all was his defeat at the Gemcroft estate.

  “The priests of Karak have sworn no ill will for the acts of your son against them,” one of the sycophants said. “At least Maynard died, and you kept your word to them.”

  Thren shook his head.

  “Get out,” he said. The men quickly obeyed. In silence Thren brooded. His mystique, his prestige, his years and years of respect, had all vanished in a single night. Every aspect of his plan had collapsed. Every single guild in the city had taken massive casualties. Whatever bloody trust he’d earned he’d now lost. The other guilds would start poaching on his territory. The Trifect was already coming down hard, swarming the streets with their troops. Priests of Ashhur roamed the alleys as well, putting a halt to many of his enterprises.

  Thren drew a sword and slashed his palm. He raised a clenched fist to the ceiling and bared his teeth.

  “This isn’t over,” he swore. “Not now. Not ever. Not until every lord and lady of the Trifect lies rotting in their grave.”

  He kissed his fist, tasting the blood on his lips. He had no son. No heir. Death would be his legacy.

  The man paced nervously before the wreckage. Despite the massive amount of ash and rubble, he felt certain some juicy remnants still hid within the remains of the Connington estate. The castle guards walked by every so often, but soon they’d switch shifts and he’d have his chance.

  He backed away from the gate a bit, slinking farther into the shadows. As he did he felt something sharp poke against his back.

  “Spider?” he heard a boy’s voice ask.

  “Serpent,” the man said, his hand slowly dropping to his dagger.

  “They’re all one and the same.”

  The man whirled, but not fast enough. The dagger flew from the boy’s hand. Something sharp pierced his belly. As the pain doubled him over, a blade slashed his face. Through the blood in his eyes he saw a blurry image of a young man standing before him, his face covered by a thin gray cloth. Quiet, unmoving, the young man watched him die, then vanished into the night.

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  So this is a little strange for me. For the first time I get to write a note from the author for a book I already released, and with its own note from the author. But like anyone who has read both the earlier work and this one, I think it’s safe to say this is a new book, and therefore deserving of a new note from me to you, dear readers. Oh, and my editor said she loved these little notes I’ve written for all my books, and encouraged me to write another. So prepare for what will probably be my longest one of these yet.

  Where to begin? About two years ago I self-published A Dance of Cloaks, with all its warts and in all its glory. It was a significant departure from my earlier works, in both tone and writing style. I feel safe in saying it was a nice step up in terms of quality. Well, that book found an audience, and then found itself a publisher. A real one, I mean. Trust me when I say I didn’t quite expect either. Now, I’ve heard authors say they hate returning to old works (Stephen King refers to it as eating a week-old sandwich, if my memory serves me right). But this was something I’d been wanting to do for a while. That first book had what I’ll kindly call growing pains. It was written at a feverish pace, with a complete anything-goes mentality. If I didn’t know why a character was doing whatever they were doing, screw it, I’d tie it in later. If plotlines were balls, I was throwing dozens and dozens into the air just to see if I could juggle them all. And the second I thought I was doing all right, I flung one more in for fun.

  Well, I’m a bit more under control now, and my wonderful editor Devi can also attest to that (I could probably have convinced her the second book of this series was by a different writer, so great was the improvement). But still this book, which for so many of my readers was a favorite, I wanted another crack at. I wanted to smooth over all those plotlines, to get the timeline firmly under control, to remove the dangling threads I’d left frayed instead of nicely and neatly tying them back into the main story line. With this Orbit release, those growing pains should be gone. The balls should stay nice and high in the air while I’m juggling them.

  Have I succeeded? I believe so. This book is better, of that I have no doubt. But if you disagree, and you feel I somehow ruined that original frenetic masterpiece … well, hopefully you’ll at least not begrudge me the attempt, right?

  Of course, none of this matters to you new readers who have stuck through my ramble thus far. So I’ll take yet another step back. Before writing A Dance of Cloaks I was busy with my Half-Orcs series. In the second book I introduced Haern the Watcher, who was easily the most popular new character in that book. My father, who spent hours of his time going over it in a hopeless attempt to weed out all my spelling errors and overall stupidity, mentioned to me that of all my characters, the Watcher begged for a novel of his own. My first thought was: uh, but I have no idea what his backstory is. Haern was just supposed to be mysterious, deadly, and basically my ace in the hole if I ever threw the characters into a situation a bit over their heads. My Hermione, if you will. Only male. Wielding swords. And killing people. So not like Hermione at all, but you (hopefully) get my point.

  So what story did he have? Well, he was the son of Thren Felhorn, who didn’t know his son was still alive … or at least pretended not to. With that beginning I started building, started adding. I took heavy inspiration from Brent Weeks’s Night Angel Trilogy, and also read A Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin and felt thoroughly humbled. The world I was building, it was so … empty compared to theirs. I had no important families, no real nobles, no deadly crisscrossing of families. A Dance of Cloaks was my chance to change that. My chance to take a tentative step toward learning how to world-build, all while giving a past to a favorite character. Did I have growing pains? Sure. Did I perhaps mistake who was at what mansion during the Bloody Kensgold? Oh yes, yes I did. But I held faith that despite all my faults I was still telling a freaking awesome story people would want to read.

  And, thank God, th
ey did.

  Obligatory thanks time. Thank you, Dad, for that first spark. Thank you, Michael, for being the most awesome agent a guy like me could ever hope to get. Thank you, Devi, for being as awesome an editor as Michael is an agent. Thank you, Mrs. Patterson, Mrs. Borushaski, and Dr. Joey Brown, for never once making me feel ashamed of telling horror and fantasy stories in your writing classes. Thank you, Sam, for being such a great wife as well as an open ear for all my silly ideas. And a clandestine thank-you to my little super-secret Facebook club, and all the people therein who have helped me so much throughout my entire writing career.

  And of course, thank you, dear reader. Despite everything, the good and the bad, I do this for you. In return you’ve allowed me to live a dream, and to tell the stories I’ve wanted to tell ever since I was a little kid.

  Never in my wildest dreams did I think I could be so blessed.

  David Dalglish

  March 19, 2013

  extras

  if you enjoyed

  A DANCE OF CLOAKS

  look out for

  A DANCE OF BLADES

  Shadowdance: Book 2

  also by

  David Dalglish

  Haern watched the ropes fly over the wall, heavy weights on their ends. They clacked against the stone, then settled on the street. The ropes looked like brown snakes in the pale moonlight, appropriately enough given the Serpent Guild controlled them.

  For several minutes, nothing. Haern shifted under his well-worn cloak, his exposed hand shivering in the cold while holding an empty bottle. He kept his hood low, and he bobbed his head as if sleeping. When the first Serpent entered the alley from the street, Haern spotted him with ease. The man looked young for such a task, but then two older men arrived, their hands and faces scarred from the brutal life they led. Deep green cloaks fluttered behind them as they rushed past the houses and to the wall where the ropes hung like vines. They tugged each rope twice, giving their signal. Then the older ones grabbed a rope while the younger looped them about a carved inset in the aged stone wall, then tied the weighted ends together.

  “Quick and quiet,” he heard one of the elder whisper to the younger. “Don’t let the crate make a sound when it lands, and the gods help you if you drop it.”

  Haern let his head bob lower. The three were to his right, little more than twenty feet away. Already he knew their skill was laughable if they had not yet noticed his presence. His right eye peeked from under his hood, his neck twisting slightly to give him a better view. Another Serpent appeared from outside the city, climbing atop the wall and motioning down to the others. Their arm muscles bulging, the older two began pulling on the ropes. Meanwhile the younger steadily took in the slack so it wouldn’t get in their way.

  Haern coughed as the crate reached the top of the wall. This time the younger heard, and he tensed as if expecting to be shot with an arrow.

  “Someone’s watching,” he whispered to the others.

  Haern leaned back, the cloak hiding his grin. About damn time. He let the bottle roll from his limp hand, the sound of glass on stone grating in the silence.

  “Just a drunk,” said one of them. “Go chase him off.”

  Haern heard the soft sound of a blade scraping against leather, most likely the young one’s belt.

  “Get out of here,” said the Serpent.

  Haern let out a loud, obnoxious snore. A boot kicked his side, but it was weak, hesitant. He shuddered as if waking from a dream.

  “Why … why you kick me?” he asked, his hood still low. He had to time it just right, at the exact moment the crate touched ground.

  “Beat it!” hissed the young thief. “Now, or I’ll gut you!”

  Haern looked up into his eyes. He knew shadows danced across his face, but his eyes … the man clearly saw his eyes. His dagger dipped in his hand, and he took a step back. Haern’s drunken persona had vanished as if it had never been. No defeat, no inherent feeling of lowliness or shame. Only a calm stare that promised death. As the crate softly thumped to the ground, Haern stood, his intricate gray cloaks falling aside to reveal the two swords sheathed at his hips.

  “Shit, it’s him!” the thief screamed, turning to run.

  Haern felt contempt ripple through him. Such poor training … did the guilds let anyone in now? He took the young man down, making sure no hit was lethal. He needed a message delivered.

  “Who?” asked one, turning at the cry.

  Haern cut his throat before he could draw his blade. The other yelped and stepped back. His dagger parried the first of Haern’s stabs, but he had no concept of positioning. Haern smacked the dagger twice to the right, then slipped his left sword into his belly and twisted. As the thief bled out, Haern looked to the Serpent atop the wall.

  “Care to join the fun?” he asked, yanking out his blade and letting the blood drip to the street. “I’m out of players.”

  Two daggers whirled down at him. He sidestepped one and smacked away the other. Hoping to provoke the man further, Haern kicked the crate. With no other option, the thief turned and fled back down the wall on the other side. Disappointed, Haern sheathed a sword and used the other to pry open the crate. With a loud creak the top came off, revealing three burlap sacks within. He dipped a hand in one, and it came out dripping with gold coins, each one clearly marked with the sigil of the Gemcroft family.

  Interesting.

  “Please,” he heard the young thief beg. He bled from cuts on his arms and legs, most certainly painful, but nothing life-threatening. The worst Haern had done was hamstring him to prevent him from fleeing. “Please, don’t kill me. I can’t, I can’t…”

  Haern slung all three bags over his shoulder. With his free hand he pressed the tip of his sword against the young man’s throat.

  “They’ll want to know why you lived,” he said.

  The man had no response to that, only a pathetic sniffle. Haern shook his head. How far the Serpent Guild had fallen … but all the guilds had fallen since that bloody night five years ago. Thren Felhorn, the legend, had failed in his coup, bringing doom upon the underworld. Thren … his father…

  “Tell them you have a message,” Haern said. “Tell them I’m watching.”

  “Who?”

  In response Haern took his sword and dipped it in the man’s blood.

  “They’ll know who,” he said before vanishing, leaving only a single eye drawn in the dirt as his message, blood for its ink, a sword its quill.

  He didn’t go far. He had to lug the bags to the rooftops one at a time, but once he was up high his urgency dwindled. The rooftops were his home, had been for years. Following the main road west, he reached the inner markets, still silent and empty. Plunking down the bags, he lay with his eyes closed and waited.

  He woke to the sounds of trade. Hunger stirred in his belly, but he ignored it. Hunger, like loneliness and pain, had become a constant companion. He wouldn’t call it friend, though.

  “May you go to better hands,” Haern said to the first sack of gold before stabbing its side. Coins spilled, and he hurled them like rain to the packed streets. Without pause he cut the second and third, flinging them to the suddenly ravenous crowd. They dove and fought as the gold rolled along, bouncing off bodies and plinking into various wooden stalls. Only a few bothered to look up, those who were lame or old and dared not fight the crowd.

  “The Watcher!” someone cried. “The Watcher is here!”

  The cry put a smile on his lips as Haern fled south, having not kept a single coin.

  It had taken five years, but at last Alyssa Gemcroft understood her late father’s paranoia. The meal placed before her smelled delicious, spiced pork intermixed with baked apples, but her appetite remained dormant.

  “I can have one of the servants taste it, if you’d like,” said her closest family advisor, a man named Bertram who had loyally served her father. “I’ll even do so myself.”

  “No,” she said, brushing errant strands of her red hair back and tuckin
g them behind her left ear. “That’s not necessary. I can afford to skip a meal.”

  Bertram frowned, and she hated the way he looked at her—like a doting grandfather, or a worried teacher. Just the night before, two servants had died eating their daily rations. Though she’d replaced much of the mansion’s food, as well as executed those she thought responsible, the memory lingered in Alyssa’s mind. The way the two had retched, their faces turning a horrific shade of purple…

  She snapped her fingers, and the many waiting servants rushed to clear the trays away. Despite the rumble in her belly, she felt better with the food gone. At least now she could think without fear of convulsing to death because of some strange toxin. Bertram motioned to a chair beside her, and she gave him permission to sit.

  “I know these are not peaceful times,” he said, “but we cannot allow fear to control our lives. That is a victory you know the thief guilds have longed for.”

  “We’re approaching the fifth anniversary of the Bloody Kensgold,” Alyssa said, referring to a gathering of the Trifect, the three wealthiest families of merchants, nobles, and power brokers in all of Dezrel. On that night Thren Felhorn had led an uprising of thief guilds against the Trifect, burning down one of their mansions and attempting to annihilate their leaders. He’d failed, and his guild had broken down to a fraction of its former size. On that night Alyssa had assumed control after the death of her father, victim to an arrow as they’d fought to protect their home.

  “I know,” Bertram said. “Is that what distracts you so? Leon and Laurie have both agreed to delay another Kensgold until this dangerous business is over with.”

  “And when will that be?” she asked as another servant arrived with a silver cup of wine. “I hide here in my mansion, fearful of my food and scared of every shadow in my bedroom. We cannot defeat the guilds, Bertram. We’ve broken them, fractured many to pieces, but it’s like smashing a puddle with a club. They all come back together, under new names, new leaders.”