A Dance of Shadows Read online

  John, surprised as he looked, was still no fool. His sword stabbed down, but Ezra was too fast, spinning on her back. The stab missed, and with impressive strength, she pushed off in a backward somersault. Zusa kneed and kicked her, felt bones break, but still the woman made it past, crumpling at the door to the room.

  And at that door appeared two more faceless, shadows rolling off them like water.

  Zusa looked to her daggers, still embedded in the corpse.

  “You will not win tonight,” she said, shifting so she stood beside John, the two of them protecting Alyssa and her family.

  “Karak has decreed you an enemy of the faith,” Ezra said, standing with the help of the other two. Her hazel eyes glared with a feverish intensity. “Your fate is already sealed. Without your faith you are nothing.”

  “Strange for a god of order to ally with thieves and rioters,” Alyssa said. “What have I done to earn your ire?”

  They received no answer. The three faceless fanned out, forcing the group tighter against the window. Zusa reached out a hand to John, her eyes never leaving her foes. Ezra was the smallest, the other two taller, and with longer reach. One in particular looked almost gangly due to her height, and the way the wrappings pulled tight about her body. The third looked strong, her body heavier than the others’. So far none showed any impatience, instead slowly advancing, watching for any tricks or the first sign of an attack.

  “Cut my palm,” Zusa told John, who did so despite clearly not understanding why. As the blood poured across her hand, Zusa clutched her cloak. Her body ached from the blows she and Ezra had exchanged, but despite it she grinned.

  “You think I am nothing?” she asked as her gray cloak turned the color of blood, the redness spreading like dye in a glass of water. “You think I must beg Karak for strength? Come, faceless. Come, slaves. I will show you what power I have.”

  In unison the three attacked, and Zusa met them head on. Clutching an edge of her cloak, she twisted and spun, weaving through their thrusts and slashes so that none could cut her deeply. Her cloak itself billowed and curled as if it were a sentient thing. Its edges hardened like steel whenever touched by the women’s daggers. Zusa kicked to her left, spun low, then slammed both fists against Ezra’s chest. The others tried to trap her, but she vaulted high, landing by the corpse of the one she’d killed. Yanking free her daggers, she leaped fully into the offensive. Her cloak was just another weapon, and it cut into their skin like razor wire. The faceless retreated, parried and dodged. Their blood covered the floor.

  They all forgot John Gandrem, all but Zusa, who forced the heavyset faceless into a retreat his way. His sword pierced her back, punched out the other side. The woman convulsed on the blade, then dropped to the ground. The other two froze, and as if to mock them, Zusa knelt and tore the wrappings from the dead woman’s face, revealing her round cheeks, her dimpled face draining of color, her green eyes locked open in death.

  “Look at her!” Zusa screamed. “Look at her! Tell me why such a face must be hidden! Tell me why such a beauty must die! Is Karak so petty as to hate us all? Do you think the priests tell you his true word? You are fools, you are chained, now leave my family alone!”

  Ezra and the tall faceless glared at her, and she wondered if they would attack. She wanted them emotional, wanted them to rush into battle unprepared against her so she could finish them forever. But instead they ran, and she could not tell if it was cowardice or wisdom that made them do so.

  Zusa let them go, for she felt her strength ebbing and a headache growing deep in her forehead. With their absence, Zusa’s cloak returned to its dull gray color, and she limped over to Alyssa. A dozen shallow cuts bled across her body.

  “You’re safe,” Zusa said, and she smiled. Alyssa caught her when she leaned forward, and Zusa accepted the embrace.

  The sound of combat continued unabated despite the emptiness of the room. Looking out the window, Zusa saw the house guards completely overwhelmed, only a small force holding fast at the crowded entryway before the mansion door. The rest were dead or had retreated all the way into the building. Windows were smashed in from all directions, and nothing could be done to stop the rioters from pouring in, looters rushing out with treasures in hand.

  “The castle guard will arrive soon,” John said, wiping blood from his sword. “Surely they will not allow…”

  “The city is like it is because the city guard has allowed it,” Melody said, stepping away so she too could watch from the window. “We will find no salvation from them.”

  Zusa pulled free of Alyssa’s embrace, kissed her forehead. “Shut and bar the door,” she said to John. Without waiting for a response, she leaped once more from the window. The many below were just unarmed men, angry, confused, whipped into a fury by the thief guilds. Despite this, she had no pity for them as she descended, a whirling tornado of blades. They trespassed upon land not theirs, seeking to take what had never belonged to them and snuff out the life of those she loved. Let them die. Let them bleed out upon the grass. And that is what they did, those who did not scatter in time. Life after life she ended, losing herself in the flow of combat.

  They fled from her, unable to overwhelm her with numbers and unable to defeat her with their simple weaponry. Zusa cut a bloody swath toward the guards at the door, who, despite their many wounds, held firm.

  “Go inside!” she screamed at them. “Protect those within. I will hold the door!”

  None looked happy with the command, but they knew her closeness to Alyssa, and the danger her daggers possessed. When they retreated inside, only Zusa remained in the yard. Turning about, she stared down the rioters. Many had begun to flee, overwhelmed by the carnage strewn about the place. The house guards had done their work well. Men and women still rushed the mansion, but most avoided her, choosing to crawl through the glass of broken windows rather than challenge her blades. Zusa shook her head, almost disappointed, but at least the mansion would be safe. The remaining house guards could handle a few looters and…

  “This city is in the throes of a new birth!” boomed a deep voice outside the complex. Zusa looked, saw a large man dressed in clothes outside the norms of Veldaren, a triangular hat on his head. His left ear glittered with many rings running up and down the cartilage. “That there is blood and pain should not only be expected, but welcome! Our slavery ends tonight. The Watcher is dead, and the disgusting truce of this land breaks. Destroy those who once pretended to be your lords.”

  As he spoke, men of all guilds gathered around him, having hidden in alleys and homes to watch the carnage while the hungry, frustrated, and destitute did their work for them. They were at least two hundred, perhaps more, and they brandished crossbows and daggers laced with poison. Zusa stood before them, her whole body trembling with every tired breath. Whoever the strange man was, Zusa marked him, let his face burn into her memory.

  “Those who pass through those gates will die,” Zusa cried back, pointing a dagger. Her voice seemed minuscule compared to that of the giant who led them. “Come, then, if you are so eager to enter the Abyss.”

  With so many against her, and the city guard nowhere in sight, they were not afraid. They rushed in, all but their leader, who remained back to watch. Zusa flung open the door and pressed her back against it, using it as a shield as the crossbow bolts came flying. They thudded like a heavy rain. Zusa closed her eyes, felt tears in them. Damn it, not like this. What they’d do to Alyssa, to Nathaniel…

  When the footsteps were almost near, she kicked the door back open and charged, willing to bleed, to die, to keep them safe for just a minute more. But to her surprise, she was not alone. Landing before the door, his body shrouded in gray cloaks, was a man who should not have been able to leave his bed, let alone tear into the forces assembled against them.

  “Haern?” Zusa asked in the brief pause before she rushed to join him. They were terribly outnumbered, but they moved through the ranks with blinding speed, taking advantage of the sudde
n doubt and terror the Watcher’s presence inspired. He should have been dead. This was their night to celebrate his execution. To have him appear, sabers hungry, suddenly put every plan of theirs in doubt.

  After about thirty died, their progress slowed. Shock turned to fury and desperation, and now it was Zusa’s turn to retreat, weaving from side to side to avoid the occasional crossbow bolt. Instead of putting their backs to the door, she and the Watcher fled inside. Together they slammed it shut, needing the brief reprieve to catch their breath. Zusa looked to the Watcher, still unable to believe it. He looked similar, had a similar build and height, but something was wrong. Much of his face was hidden in the shadows of his hood, and even his grin had that same amused yet tired edge to it. His hands, she realized. They were older, more callused and scarred.

  “Who are you?” she asked. “You can’t be him.”

  “I am who I need to be,” said the imposter. He kept his voice low, but it was rougher than Haern’s whisper. “Or would you prefer to fight them alone?”

  The barred door halted them only a moment. The remaining house guards had retreated farther into the house, most likely to the upper floors where they could narrow down the conflict to a few choke points at the stairs. This left the windows unguarded, and the thieves leaped through them in a sudden wave. Zusa took one side, the Watcher the other. She parried a clumsy thrust, kicked her shin against the man’s groin, and then slashed out his throat as he doubled over. Two more neared, and she flung herself at them, her exhaustion increasing her recklessness. Both scored minor wounds, but she accepted them to cut both down, each of her daggers burying into a throat.

  An explosion roared from the outside, and suddenly there were no more coming through the windows.

  “What’s going on?” Zusa asked, turning. The Watcher stood at a window, grinning.

  “Not everyone is so willing to play along with Grayson’s farce,” he said.

  Not understanding, she opened the door to look out.

  Lord Victor fought at the entrance to the mansion grounds, a squad of his men surrounding him. Amid his group she saw the yellow robes of the wizard Tarlak. Powerful magic flew from his fingertips, bolts of lightning and boulders of ice slamming across the corpse-covered yard. The various guilds turned on them, hoping to bury them quickly, but then the Ash Guild arrived as well. Somehow they’d gotten over the wall, and they methodically moved through the yard, wiping out those who neared. Dark fire leaped from Deathmask’s hands, and Veliana shredded terrified men with her daggers. Whirling about them were the twins, preventing anyone from flanking.

  “Let’s rub salt in their wounds,” the Watcher said, rushing out. Zusa followed, and together they chased down thieves who knew not where to retreat, for they had enemies on all sides. Eventually they fled toward the gate, enduring Tarlak’s assault so they might push back against Victor’s men and dash for the safety of the dark streets.

  The Watcher leaped to the wall and climbed up, balancing himself so he stood in the gaps between the spikes without harm. As the chaos died down, and men fled in all directions, the Watcher lorded over it all, let every eye look upon him. Zusa sheathed her daggers, the battle over. As the Ash Guild met up with Victor’s men, the Watcher leaped to the street and vanished. Deathmask gave a mock salute, and then he too made his exit.

  Zusa waited, feeling so tired that standing seemed a burden, as Victor made his approach.

  “We are safe,” she told him. “My thanks for your arrival.”

  “I don’t know how you lived,” Victor said, glancing about. “Gods, it reeks of shit and blood. You’d think we fought a war.”

  Hundreds of corpses, all throughout the yard and mansion. It would take months to clean it all, she knew, and to completely banish the odor.

  “We did fight a war,” Zusa said, looking up to the window to see Alyssa peering down. “But we won.”

  “If you say so,” Tarlak said, his attention still drawn outward. She knew what he had to be thinking.

  “It seems the Watcher is not dead after all,” she said, baiting a response.

  “Seems like it,” Tarlak said, but she heard the doubt in his voice, the confusion. It was no ploy of his. Whoever the imposter was, the Eschaton were not involved. What did that mean?

  “I must go to my mistress,” Zusa said, bowing low.

  “I should return to my patrols,” Victor said. “Though I think the bulk of the trouble has passed. Give Alyssa my regards.”

  Tarlak tipped his hat, and then they trudged off with their soldiers, leaving Alyssa to deal with the mess. Zusa tried not to think about it. Entering through the door, she quickly scanned the mansion, looking upon the destruction. Paintings were slashed or stolen, furniture broken. Every shred of silver or gold, from the candles to the dinnerware, had been taken. The bodies of servants and guards lay in every room, side by side with thieves and looters.

  At the foot of the stairs she found Alyssa, come to survey the damage.

  “We’ll rebuild, replace it all,” Zusa offered. “Your loved ones survived. That is what matters.”

  Alyssa slowly wrapped her arms about her, leaned her head against her breast, and cried.

  “Ten years,” she whispered. “Gods help us, ten years.”

  “Not this time,” Zusa said, stroking her hair. “Not this time.”

  It was shallow comfort, a weak promise, but right then she had little else to offer.

  CHAPTER

  17

  Grayson knew he should be infuriated by the defeat, but he was far too amused. He’d gathered together men of all guilds, united with promises of the Watcher’s death and a luxurious future. At each guild he’d been treated like a prince, and cheered with raised glasses despite its knowing so little about him. Only a rare few had glanced his way with untrusting eyes, realizing what the others did not. He was a fearsome man, and a thief, but a thief from a distant nation, one with foreign guilds.

  Foreign guilds eyeing Veldaren with hungry mouths open.

  “To the Watcher’s killer,” said one of the members of the Spider Guild as Grayson stepped into the guild’s tavern, the man lifting his glass in a mocking toast. Grayson grinned at him, the look sapping away whatever cheer the man had.

  “I stuck my sword through his gut and out his back,” Grayson said. “Perhaps this Watcher of yours is a devil after all. No man lives through that.”

  The thief was smart enough to say nothing, only shrug and resume drinking. Still grinning, Grayson looked about the tavern, counting numbers. A pathetic remnant of what they’d been, especially compared to when he and Thren had been working together so many years ago. Hardly a merchant would quake at seeing the ragtag group of fifteen men drinking and bandaging wounds. Thren would recruit like mad to replace his numbers, but it would take time. With so much death and conflict, and so little coin in return, he’d gain only the desperate and delusional.

  Now that he thought of it…

  He found Thren drinking with a group of three in a far corner. Stealing a drink from the man who had mocked him, Grayson guzzled it down as he walked over to Thren’s table, slamming his empty cup atop the hard wood. Three of them jumped, but not Thren.

  “So how goes your night?” Grayson asked, grin spreading.

  “As poorly as your ill-conceived plan,” Thren said, leaning back and looking as if he had not a care in the world. He couldn’t pull off the image completely, though. Thren was never much of a bluffer, Grayson knew, never had been and never would be. His eyes always gave him away. Too much intensity.

  “That so?” Grayson glared down at the man opposite Thren, who glanced at his guildleader.

  “Go check and see if any others have made it back, Martin,” Thren said.

  Martin shrugged and gave up his seat so Grayson could take it.

  “I must say, I thought things would go differently,” Grayson said, his elbows on the table. “With the rioters loosening up the guard, should’ve had easy pickings. Sadly, looks like th
e looters got the bulk, and we just shed the blood.”

  “Blood that shouldn’t have been shed,” Thren said, tilting his head slightly. His eyes narrowed. “You are no master here, no leader. Whatever your influence with the Suns, this is Veldaren, not Mordeina.”

  “Don’t remember you forbidding it,” Grayson said, and he laughed at the way Thren twitched. He was furious, Grayson could tell, but something kept him in check. Was it the way the attack had failed? Perhaps, but with his guild suffering such losses, that couldn’t be enough. Had to be something more. Had to be…

  “So where were you during all this?” Grayson asked, looking over to the bar and frowning when he realized he would have to fetch a drink himself. “With you at our side, I daresay we still might have broken through. Might have even taken down the Watcher.”

  Thren stared him in the eye, not moving, not answering. So smug. It was answer enough.

  “Yeah, guess it’s foolish of me to think you’d have helped,” Grayson said, standing. “You couldn’t kill the Watcher all these years, doubt you’d be able to now. Shit, you’d probably take his place if you could.”

  It was as direct a challenge as he could make without proof. Instead of rattling Thren, it only made him smile.

  “You’ve attempted to usurp control of my guild,” Thren said as the thief on either side of him stood and reached for his weapons. “You lied about killing the Watcher, and led my men to their deaths in a battle you had no stake in. You are no longer welcome in my home. Go elsewhere, old friend, for you cannot stay here.”

  Grayson’s hand drifted to his sword. All about, the tavern had gone deathly quiet. Hopelessly outnumbered, Grayson knew he could not win, not then.

  “You fear me a threat, yet cannot run, so you would banish me instead,” he said. “You are a coward. You’ve never had the strength to face an opponent that might defeat you. Keep pretending you’re strong. Keep pretending you’re in control. That’s what you did when Marion died. Why not continue?”