A Dance of Chaos Page 11

  “Who do you take these to?” Thren asked.

  “Leoric,” Halloran said. “Leoric Goldear. One of Muzien’s men he brought with him from Mordeina.”

  “Where is he?”

  The man looked over to Haern as if noticing for the first time he was there, and his eyes widened further.

  “The Watcher?” he asked. “You’re working with the Watcher?”

  “Strange times make strange bedfellows,” Thren said, grabbing him by the front of the shirt and shoving him hard against the wall. “Now where’s Leoric? I’m not asking a third time, Halloran…”

  “Corner of West and Bronze. He’ll be waiting there for money from people like me, I swear!”

  “How will I recognize him?”

  Halloran tapped his left eye.

  “This eye’s all white, with a scar running along here toward his hair.”

  “Excellent,” Thren said. “For once, Hal, you were helpful.”

  Halloran’s smile lasted only a heartbeat before Thren yanked the dagger out of his hand, flipped it around, and jammed it into the same eye Hal had tapped. Muffling the death scream with his arm, Thren guided him to the ground, then let him plop onto his stomach. The brutality of it left Haern shocked. He should protest, he knew. Demand the unnecessary killings cease. A bad taste filled his mouth. Given the many of the Sun Guild he’d slaughtered the night before, did he really have much of a leg to stand on?

  “I thought he was one of your own?” Haern asked, trying to dismiss his confusion.

  “I hardly wanted him even when he was,” Thren said, wiping a bit of blood and fluid from his hand onto his pants leg. “When I reform the Spider Guild, no one will miss him, least of all me. Now would you like to stand here and mourn for that idiot, or come with me to Bronze Street so we can have a chat with someone of much higher intellect?”

  Spotting Leoric was simple enough, the older man with a clouded eye waiting on the street corner, his long coat sporting the symbol of the Sun just shy of the front left pocket. A second man was with him, smaller, his body nearly enveloped by his coat and the wide-brimmed hat he wore. Thren and Haern spied on the two from farther up the road, using the uneven jut of the buildings to hide.

  “They’re both in the open,” Haern said. “Grabbing Leoric and getting him out of sight won’t be easy.”

  “There’s a little space between the two buildings behind them,” Thren said, nodding toward the small glover’s and milliner’s shops. “We can drag him there.”

  “I see. And what will you do when Leoric starts screaming from your persuasions to talk?”

  Thren glared his way.

  “Less sarcasm, more ideas, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “It’s your idea to do this in daylight, so you come up with the solutions.”

  Haern looked up and down the street, knowing that to the few who passed by they had to look obscenely guilty of something. Time was not on their side, and neither was the daylight. What he’d give for a blanket of stars and the quiet danger of Veldaren’s night hours …

  “We have no choice,” Thren said, shaking his head. “Wait until it’s clear, and then we go. I’ll take down Leoric before he can cause a scene, you kill the one with him. We’ll drag him into the alley, gag him, and then make sure he knows anything other than the answer we want will get him killed when we finally ungag him.”

  “Simple enough,” Haern said, again glancing about to take in the locations of those walking the street. He did everything he could not to dwell on what “work” Thren planned on doing.

  “Sometimes simple is best,” Thren said. “After those two women there are gone, we go.”

  Another thirty seconds, and then the street was clear. Thren stepped out from behind the building and walked as if in no real hurry. Haern followed, keeping his head down, face obscured by the shadows of his hood. The two would stand out, there was no doubt about that. The question was how Leoric and his companion would react. If fate was kind, confidence and ego would outweigh caution.

  Leoric was talking with the other man, unbothered by their approach. When Haern was just within earshot, the man let out a laugh.

  “I swear I’m seeing ghosts,” he said, finally turning their way. Thren continued without hesitation, a calm, steady approach that hid well his lethal intentions.

  “Just men wishing to have a friendly word,” Haern said, tilting his head and willing the magic within the hood to pull back, dispelling its permanent shadows to reveal just enough of his face for them to see his smile … a smile he hoped was convincing.

  “Everyone’s friends in this city, if the coin is right,” Leoric said.

  Beside him his companion turned, and Haern saw his initial assumptions had been horribly incorrect. Not a man, but a woman, with deep-green eyes, dark skin, and a frighteningly familiar glare. Haern felt his heart sink into his chest moments before Thren attacked.

  “Oh shit.”

  Once Thren was close enough, he leaped forward, elbow leading. It connected with Leoric’s forehead, who reacted far too late to get out of the way. As the man fell, Haern drew his blades and dashed to put himself between Zusa and Thren. He offered only the lamest of swings, which Zusa easily blocked. The movements knocked aside her hat, revealing her hair pulled back from her face.

  They knew we were coming, Haern thought. Her eyes met his, and she glanced just once to her left, down the street, before leaping toward him. Their weapons met, interlocking, and as she pushed she gave him a smile.

  “I suggest you run,” she whispered, then twirled away, avoiding an attempted spearing by Thren from the side. Thren made to chase, but Haern yelled for him to wait. The man looked back a half-second, glaring, and then all along the rooftops rose members of the Sun, loaded crossbows in hand.

  Now it was Thren’s turn to curse.

  Remembering the way Zusa had looked and praying he had interpreted it correctly, Haern shouted for his father to follow and then sprinted left, keeping his body low and flinging his cloaks wide to make himself a harder target. From up above came the distinctive twang of bowstrings, followed by the clacks of the bolts striking the stone street. Haern continued weaving from side to side, pushing his legs to their limit.

  When he reached the end of the street, somehow not filled with holes from the crossbowmen, he glanced behind to see a dozen more members of the Sun rushing from the opposite direction. If he and Thren had fled right instead of left, they’d have crossed the guildmembers’ path in seconds.

  “Follow me!” Thren shouted, zipping past him, curling left, and bolting down the street. Haern followed, cursing the sun that denied him a dozen hiding spots he could have used otherwise. He’d wondered why one direction had been guarded and the other not. That question was answered when eight men, half with swords, half with crossbows, cut them off at the end of the street.

  “To the rooftops,” Haern said, rolling to the side as bolts flew through the air toward them, one hitting close enough to punch a hole through one of his cloaks. Wishing he could soar into the air as easily as Zusa did, Haern jumped, kicked off the wall, and caught a bolt of iron holding up the sign of some store. Rocking backward first, he then flung his legs forward, gaining enough momentum to release, curl around feetfirst, and catch the side of the roof with his hand. Doubting his father would be able to re-create the maneuver, Haern pulled himself the rest of the way up, ignored the unnerving sound of a bolt thunking into the building inches away from his arm, and then lay flat on his belly, arms hanging over the side. Thren jumped, caught him by the wrists, and used them to join Haern on the rooftop.

  “Why are we running?” Thren asked as he crouched low to prevent anyone on the ground below from having a clean shot.

  “Because I don’t feel like dying?”

  Seemed obvious enough to Haern. He vaulted into a sprint, leaping from rooftop to rooftop as the shouts of their pursuers followed. Thren wasn’t far behind, his eyes more often on the streets than on his path.
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br />   “Too many,” he said, suddenly grabbing Haern’s arm. “This way.”

  Turning back the way they’d come, he ran to the side, grabbed the rooftop, and then swung down through an open window. Haern followed without question, tumbling into an empty bedroom. Opposite the window was a closet, and Thren dashed into it and wedged himself to one side. Haern did likewise, pushing his back against the closet interior and then grabbing the closet door to yank it mostly closed, leaving but a tiny crack for him to peer out of.

  “We’ll be trapped if they find us here,” Haern said as he hunkered down deeper into his side of the closet.

  “They can’t search every home in Veldaren,” Thren said. “They’ll scour a bit more, then assume us gone. Just be patient.”

  Haern pulled his legs up closer to his chest, trying to get comfortable given the meager room for the two of them. Only a tiny sliver of sunlight made it to his eye when he peered through the crack. Even if someone were to glance inside, it’d be a miracle for them to spot the hiding place.

  “We shouldn’t have run,” said Thren, earning a glare from Haern.

  “Why not?”

  “It sets a bad precedent. I don’t like letting Muzien think we’re scared.”

  Haern let out a sigh, very much not wanting to argue the point. His head ached, whether from hunger, lack of sleep, or the sudden exertion, he could only begin to guess.

  “We were outnumbered over ten to one,” he said. “And I know the woman who led them. She’s a match for either of us, Thren. Add her to the mix, and it was only a matter of time before we ended up dead.”

  “No one is a match for us, Watcher.”

  The comment elicited a chuckle from Haern.

  “You may be right,” he said. “But truth be told, I wouldn’t want to face her to find out for certain.”

  “You held your own just fine not moments ago.”

  “She wasn’t trying. It looks like we’re not the only ones playing games with the Sun Guild.”

  From the window came a soft thud, and both immediately fell silent. Haern peered through the crack, watching as a man in a long coat knelt into the bedroom, gave a cursory glance about, and then dropped back down to the street. Slowly letting out his breath, Haern gave thanks to Ashhur that their whispers had gone unheard.

  “It’s dangerous thinking,” Thren whispered after a moment. “Believing it possible that woman could defeat you in a fight. Muzien is the most dangerous foe there is. If there’s another soul alive you cannot defeat, then Muzien has already won.”

  “Muzien may be able to defeat me in a fair fight,” Haern said, “but I didn’t think we planned on fighting fair. The better question is whether or not he can take down the two of us in a chaotic melee. No matter how good he is, no one is that good. We’ll defeat him, Thren. We have to. We’ll tear at his guild, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left. Victory will soon follow.”

  Thren seemed to consider this, and then he shook his head, frowning deeply.

  “Have you heard the story of Muzien’s Red Wine?” asked Thren.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  Thren shifted again, thumping his knees against the side of the closet as he tried to get comfortable.

  “The story’s more common the farther west you go. When Muzien first started his Sun Guild, it wasn’t much in terms of numbers, just a small piece of Mordeina that he carved out for himself. A few times the other guilds tried to crush him, insulted by this elven upstart that dared to play their game. Muzien made them pay, every single time. It’s how he lived so long when others had more coin, more power, or more influence. He didn’t need to be the strongest. He just had to ensure the cost of destroying him was greater than anyone was willing to pay.

  “Then something changed. He vanished for a few weeks, and when he returned, he bore the blackened hand that gave him his name. With that hand came vicious expansion. No longer happy with his little corner of Mordeina, he sought dominion over every single street. Suddenly he wasn’t a curiosity or a minor player, but a major force threatening to topple the other guilds as street after street fell to the Sun. To have an elf usurp them all? Preposterous, and that alone helped unite the thief guilds against Muzien. They struck back, hard. They killed over half his members in a single night, robbing his warehouses and burning what they could not carry. Complete and thorough humiliation, Watcher, of the like that would have made any sane man or woman surrender. At first it seemed even Muzien himself saw the hopelessness of his situation. He called for a meeting between him and the seven other guildleaders, and they agreed to attend once he allowed a priest to oversee the meeting.”

  “A priest?” asked Haern. “Why would they involve themselves?”

  “Things aren’t like here in Veldaren, Watcher. The priests of Karak wield far greater power in Mordeina, and they do not remain neutral in affairs like they do here. Should a man call for a priest to oversee a matter, the weight of the temple would ensure no promise was broken. So Muzien swore, under penalty of retribution by Karak’s temple, that no guildleader would suffer harm. And so they came, one after the other, expecting to hear Muzien’s terms of surrender.” Thren laughed. “I can only imagine the smug looks on their faces, their self-congratulatory remarks to one another at toppling the heathen elf. ‘Start the meeting,’ they said once they were all there, but Muzien begged for a few minutes more.

  “‘I’m waiting for the wine,’ he tells them. A gift, you see, they all thought it an offered gift as part of his request for peace. And then sure enough, in comes a man holding this giant barrel of wine, pops it open, and then Muzien takes the first drink. ‘Excellent,’ he says. ‘Now bring in the rest.’”

  It was strange listening to his father tell the story. He was a natural storyteller, as men who demanded attention at all times often were. But what put Haern’s hair on edge was not the story he told, but the way he spoke of the elf, the way he delivered those lines accompanied by grand gestures of his hands. Thren didn’t just admire Muzien. No, as Thren continued his tale, Haern sensed the bond between them was far stronger than mere admiration or respect. The wounds were there, but as Thren’s words cast a spell over him, he knew that Muzien had once been someone his father loved. On their trip west to the Stronghold, a man of the Sun Guild had called Thren “the heir of Muzien.” Listening to the story, Haern realized how much was hidden there that he did not understand.

  “And so they bring in the rest,” Thren continued. “Seven women and children, wives, lovers, sons and daughters … Muzien’s men dragged in at knife-point one for each of the leaders. Then the rest of Muzien’s guild, hiding high above in the rafters, fired their crossbows, killing the various guards those fools had brought. All acceptable to the priest of Karak, of course. If those bastards are anything, it’s loyal to the letter and not the spirit of a law.

  “‘Bring me the first,’ Muzien says. Some say it was a man’s wife, others his gay lover, but most agree it was his daughter Muzien called over. Cup in one hand, dagger in the other, he cuts this little girl’s palm and then squeezes drops of blood into the cup. After that he fills the rest with wine from the barrel and hands it to that girl’s father. And then he gave his edict, Watcher, solidifying himself as a terror they would never defeat, as an enemy that would forever endure.”

  Thren hesitated, and Haern sensed the manipulation of it, the building of anticipation. But in truth, Haern did want to hear.

  “What did he say?” he asked.

  “‘This is the cup I offer. Surrender to me, drink of my wine, and you shall live. Refuse it, deny my authority, and all of my men and women shall share a drink instead. One cup, or a hundred. Make your choice.’”

  Haern felt a chill sweep through his veins.

  “How many resisted?” he asked.

  There was no hiding the smile on his father’s face when he answered.

  “Only one. Muzien made sure they all watched the drinking of every single cup. After that no one dared refuse him
. They knew how far he would go, much farther than they would ever dare. And unlike them, Muzien had no loved ones, no ancestors, and no children. Just his guild. By harming his guild, they’d harmed the closest thing he had to loved ones, so he hurt their loved ones in return. They thought they’d cowed him, humbled him. Fools. They only made him that much more desperate. All men are dangerous when backed into a corner, but Muzien turns it into a damn art form.”

  Haern shot another look through the crack of the closet at the daylight beyond, and it felt as if he searched for the monsters that used to hide underneath his bed when he was a child. Again he thought of Thren’s supposed title, and he had no choice but to ask.

  “You told Ridley you were Muzien’s heir,” Haern said. “What does that mean? What is your connection with him?”

  Thren fell silent for a moment, and when Haern looked his way, he was stunned to see his father subtly shifting his gaze to not look him in the eye.

  “I was just a street orphan,” Thren said. “My mother worked at a tavern, and I never met my father, only knew he was a soldier she slept with for a few days. When she died, I had nothing, no one, and so I stole to live. Muzien came upon me one day, and he … saw something in me, as well as my only friend, Grayson. He tested us, made us prove ourselves, and when we succeeded, he adopted us as his heirs. He was the closest person I ever had to a father, teaching me how to kill, how to hide, how to command attention and respect. It was his lessons I tried to emulate the best I could with my own sons…”

  Again came the heavy silence, and with it came a thousand childhood memories, each one tainted by the haunting specter of Muzien the Darkhand.

  “When did you turn against him?” Haern asked, unable to bear the silence.

  “Only when Grayson returned with the Sun Guild a few months back. Coming to Veldaren was our final test. I was to conquer the underworld to prove my worthiness as his heir. Apparently I failed, and you’re largely considered the reason why, Watcher. Consider that another of your accomplishments, if you wish.”