A Dance of Blades Page 2

  “Bertram’s question … are there any you have taken a fancy to?” Zusa asked.

  Alyssa shrugged.

  “Mark Tullen was attractive, though his station is probably lower than Bertram would prefer. At least he was willing to talk to me instead of staring down my blouse. Also, that noble who runs our mines, Arthur something…”

  “Hadfield,” Zusa said.

  “That’s right. He’s pleasant enough, and not ugly … little distant, though. Guess that’s just a product of being older.”

  “The older, the less likely to cavort with other women.”

  “He’s more than welcome to,” Alyssa said. She stood and turned away, trying to voice a silent fear she’d held on to for years, a fear that had strangled her relationships and kept her unmarried. “But any child we have … that is who will become the Gemcroft heir. Too many will shove Nathaniel aside, deem him unfit, unworthy. I can’t do that to him, Zusa. I can’t deny him his right. He’s my firstborn.”

  She felt Zusa’s arms slip around her. Startled by the uncommon display of emotion, she accepted the hug.

  “If your son is strong, he will claim what is his, no matter what the world tries,” she said. “Do not be afraid.”

  “Thank you,” Alyssa said, pulling back and smiling. “What would I do without you?”

  “May we never find out,” Zusa said, bowing low.

  Alyssa waved her off, then retreated to her private chambers. She stared out the thick glass window, beyond her mansion’s great walls, to the city of Veldaren. She found herself hating the city, hating every dark corner and crevice. Always it conspired against her, waiting with poison and dagger to…

  No. She had to stop thinking like that. She had to stop letting the thief guilds control every aspect of her life through force and fear. So she sat at her desk, pulled out an inkwell and a piece of parchment, and paused. She’d sent Nathaniel away to protect him, to be fostered with a good family. Not so long ago her father had done the same with her, and she remembered her anger, her loneliness, and her feelings of betrayal. Gods help her, she’d even sent Nathaniel to the same person she’d been sent to. Once more she understood her father in a way she never had before. He’d hidden her because he loved her, not to get her out of the way as she’d once thought.

  Still, how angry she’d been when she returned…

  No, she would not let history repeat itself. Her decision made, she dipped the quill in the ink and began writing.

  My dear Lord Tullen, she began. I have a request for you involving my son, Nathaniel…

  CHAPTER 2

  Biggs kept watch at the door while the rest of the Hawk Guild cleared away the bodies.

  “How many will be coming?” asked one as he wrapped a body in its dark gray cloak.

  “Depends,” said Biggs.

  “On what?”

  Biggs rolled his eyes. “On who is coming. If it’s Veliana, only a handful. If it’s Garrick, though … maybe twenty.”

  The other thief’s face twitched at that. There were only ten of them weaving through the empty tables and quiet furnaces of the smith’s workplace.

  “So what do we do if it’s him?”

  Biggs turned, grabbed his shirt, and yanked him close.

  “I didn’t betray my guild and execute my friends so you can turn tail and run,” he said. His knife was in his hand, and he pressed it against the shaking thief’s belly. “We hide, and we kill. You know how to do that, right?”

  Biggs shoved him away and turned back to the door. They still had ten minutes until the expected rendezvous, but it wouldn’t surprise him if either Garrick or Veliana showed up early. He’d worked the deal himself, the supposed purchasing of a large amount of illegal leaf from a nonexistent merchant from the south. The leaf was known as the Violet, and many nobles had taken a fancy to it down south in Angelport. Reselling it would bring in an absurd amount of money, meaning Biggs’s deal would have been the best score for the ailing Ash Guild in over a year. And now his former guildmates lay dead, and once their leaders fell, Biggs knew he would take control. The Hawks’ guildleader, Kadish Vel, had promised it.

  “Into position,” said the highest-ranking member of the Hawks present, a thin man named Kenny, whose nasal voice annoyed Biggs to no end. “And for the love of the gods, keep it quiet.”

  Kenny slid beside Biggs and glanced up and down the dark streets.

  “You sure they’re coming?” he asked.

  “I know what I’m doing,” Biggs said, glaring. “A deal this big needs one of the two leaders to show. I hope it’s Garrick, but it’ll probably be Veliana. Not a bad thing, though. She’s the scary one, could kill Garrick in a clean fight, and even easier in a dirty one. Not sure why she hasn’t taken control yet, but I ain’t giving her time to change her mind. If she’s the one, you make sure you get her first.”

  Kenny lifted his small custom crossbow and winked.

  “I’ve shot the nipple off a whore at twenty yards,” he said.

  “Bastard. What’d she do to you?”

  Kenny laughed. “After that? Everything I asked.”

  Biggs chuckled despite himself and their need for quiet.

  “Remind me to never—”

  He stopped, for he heard a scream from the other side of the building.

  “What the fuck?” asked Kenny, spinning about. “The Ash send more scouts?”

  “Doubt it,” said Biggs. “Watch the door. I’ll take care of this.”

  He tightened his grip on his dagger and ran through a maze of anvils and fire pits. While the full moon kept the streets bright, the smithy was dark and confusing, with only a fraction of the pale light streaming in through windows smeared with dirt and soot. Briggs heard a second scream, and when he turned toward it he smacked his knee into the edge of an anvil. He sucked his breath in through his teeth and tried to ignore the pain.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, deciding stealth and silence were pointless with the Hawks howling bloody murder. He heard the sound of scuffling, then the rattling of weaponry. When he reached the place where the shop opened up into various displays of blades, hilts, and machinery, he stopped. There was another door in the back, and it was open. Moonlight shone through, falling upon bodies that lay crumpled about. At first Biggs thought them Ash guildmembers, but then he saw their brown cloaks and knew otherwise. Standing over them was a man.

  “Who the fuck are you?” asked Biggs.

  The man looked up and smiled. His skin was dark, and his long hair darker. He wore the red robes of a wizard, though he held a dagger in his hand instead of a staff. Blood dripped from its blade. Covering his features was a mask of gray cloth pulled tightly across his face, with two large slits to allow sight. His brown eyes sparkled with amusement.

  “I have no name,” said the intruder with blood on his hands. “But if Karak asks who sent you to his Abyss, tell him the Council’s reaper, the outcast, or the dark man in red.”

  He was chuckling, and the sound raised the hairs on the back of Biggs’s neck.

  “You’re crazy,” he said. “You know who you just killed? You’ll have the fury of the Hawk Guild come down on you.”

  He was blustering, of course. He’d made a quick count of the bodies, and knew that only two remained alive in the smithy besides him and Kenny. Still, he couldn’t act weak. It took all his concentration to keep the dagger from shaking in his hand.

  The stranger made a flicking motion, flinging tiny globs of blood. Biggs swore as they flecked across his shirt and pants.

  “They have to know I exist first,” he said, snapping his fingers.

  The blood caught fire, burning as if it were lamp oil. The heat came sudden and intense. Biggs fought an impulse to drop and roll. Magic fire would not be snuffed out so easily. As he felt his flesh burn he lunged, his dagger aiming for the stranger’s chest. Before he could reach it the man fled, still laughing, still mocking. Instead of chasing, Biggs turned and ran for the other entrance.


  “Kenny!” he shouted. “Get your ass back…”

  It seemed his own shadow tripped him. There was no other way to describe the strange sight and sensation. His head cracked against an anvil on the way down, and the sudden pain disoriented him beyond all measure. His stomach heaved, and he thought he would vomit. When he got to his feet he bolted, not knowing if he was going the right way. He didn’t care. He had to move; he had to escape that terrible man who could burn blood with a snap of his fingers.

  “Gods!” cried Kenny as Biggs plowed right into him. Biggs clutched him to remain standing, and this time he did vomit. The mess splattered across Kenny’s shoes, but to Kenny’s credit he didn’t bat an eye.

  “Kill him,” Biggs said, turning and pointing.

  The stranger approached, his dagger still in hand.

  “You have but a few left,” he said as the blood upon his blade burned like embers fresh from a hearth. The light danced across his masked face, casting an orange haze over the gray. Biggs stepped back, doing his best to ignore the pain of his burns and the throbbing of his head.

  “Think we need numbers to kill you?” asked Kenny. “All we need is me.”

  He lifted his crossbow and fired. The bolt bounced off the stranger’s skin as if it were made of stone.

  “A spellcaster?” said Kenny. “Damn it, Biggs, what shit did you get us into?”

  The man’s grin spread, but he didn’t laugh. It seemed the time for laughter was over. A gleam was in his eye, like that of a predator ready to pounce upon its prey. From either side a thief rushed from his hiding place. Kenny laughed, and Biggs realized it had been a trap for the intruder, prepared while he ran headlong like a fool to see the reason for the commotion. The two thieves stabbed, but their daggers struck only cloth. The stranger twisted and fell, avoiding both blows. When he hit the ground, his hands became a blur of strange motions. An explosion of fire blinded Biggs in the darkness, and then he heard the screams.

  “Don’t worry,” Kenny said as Biggs took a step forward, doing his best to ignore the charred corpses before him. “I keep this baby for special occasions like this.”

  Biggs saw him pull a bolt from one of his many pockets, its tip glistening with silver. The stranger rolled along the floor until safely hidden behind a giant hearth. Kenny took a wide step around, trying to get a clear shot.

  “What are they paying you for?” Kenny asked. “Wizards aren’t supposed to get involved with normal people, and they sure as shit aren’t supposed to hire out as assassins. What’s your game?”

  “No game.” Biggs kept close to Kenny, standing opposite his trigger arm and keeping his dagger ready in case the stranger charged. “And I am no wizard.”

  “Bullshit you’re not,” Kenny said. “What’s this to you?”

  Another sidestep, slow and careful. Just as Kenny prepared his crossbow, so too could the stranger be preparing a spell.

  “This is a game, an amusement, a moment of enjoyment, a time of laughter…”

  “Cut the shit. What’s your name, and your price?”

  “Out of everything, you ask name and price?” the stranger asked, suddenly stepping from the shadows and into their line of sight.

  The bow fired. Biggs saw Kenny shift it to the side just the slightest amount, as if anticipating a dodge. None came. The stranger let the bolt hit him, and it pierced his shoulder just below his collarbone. He gasped at the pain, leaned forward, and then to Biggs’s horror steadied himself and stood erect.

  “Name? Price? I have neither.”

  “Reload!” Biggs shouted, stepping between them and holding his dagger out. Fire danced in the stranger’s eyes, then to his hands. Knowing he had to buy his ally time, Biggs let out a curse and dashed in, swinging for the man’s neck. He never made it. The fire consumed his clothes, its heat beyond anything he’d ever felt. His legs refused to obey. As he collapsed he looked back, hoping Kenny would at least kill the bastard who’d done him in, but of course the rogue was long gone, running like the intelligent coward he was.

  “You died for nothing,” he heard the stranger say as the pain vanished amid a wave of darkness. His voice echoed in the chambers of Biggs’s mind, slowly fading, slowly dying.

  “Nothing…”

  Veliana led them down the alleyway, her daggers sheathed at her hips. Her hands never strayed far from their handles. Something about this meeting felt worrisome. Perhaps it was the great amount of coin about to change hands. Ever since James Beren’s death, things had gone poorly for the Ash Guild. James had been more than their leader: he’d been a sign of stability during the chaos and bloodshed. He’d died defying Thren Felhorn, and while in a nobler world that might have meant something, in theirs it had nearly brought about the guild’s dissolution.

  “Hurry,” she whispered, ushering the rest of her guildmates along. They were at the very edge of their pitifully small territory. The last thing she needed was an ambush. Even if they fought it off, the delay might be enough to disrupt their sale. They were supposed to meet a wealthy, and eccentric, merchant from Angelport. All it’d take was a few minutes of fret and worry before he took his things and left.

  Assuming the men she’d sent in advance let the merchant leave.

  They curved through the streets, which narrowed because of the stalls that sprang up along the sides. They were passing many tanneries and smithies, and their furnaces seemed to coat the stone street with a thin, ever-present layer of ash. Almost there. She stopped at an intersection with a main road leading toward the castle, looked about for patrols, and continued when she saw none. The sky was clear and bright, but still the chill seeped through her clothes and into her skin. She hated winter. It made her hurry, made her spend only four seconds checking a turn when she should have spent five. If there was anything she was certain of, it was that when she was buried, the ground would be cold and hard. Assuming she was buried at all. Given her life, even that was far from a given.

  “We’re here,” she said. A quick set of instructions sent two around to the other side, and then the remaining six followed her through the main door. She let one of her guildmembers, Pryor, go first, just in case there was a trap. When she heard him gasp, she thought he’d found one, and she drew her daggers. But instead she heard her name.

  “Vel?”

  She followed Pryor in and surveyed the area.

  A man waited for them. He sat atop a large crate, presumably the leaf for the deal. His body was bent over as if greatly burdened. He wore red robes stained with ash and blood. His skin was dark, and his hair darker. His shoulder was bleeding, but only a little. In one hand he held a dagger, in the other a long piece of gray cloth. At his feet was a bloody crossbow bolt. When he lifted his head, she stared into his brown eyes and saw a combination of fury and hopelessness that frightened her. He was handsome, but she felt no attraction. How could she, seeing a gaze like that?

  All around him, burned to ash and bone, were bodies.

  “What is going on?” she asked, stunned by the sight.

  “You were betrayed,” said the strange man. “One of your own helped kill the others so they might prepare an ambush.”

  “Who?” Veliana asked.

  The man slowly shook his head.

  “This is my time to speak,” he said. “Ask your questions when I am done, for I need your ears listening and your mind open. I do not know who prepared your betrayal, but I am sure they are one of the dead at my feet. They are ash now, a fitting end given the name of your guild. Think now on what you see. I handled what seven men of yours could not. Whereas they died, betrayed, I came and killed the betrayers. I am alone, woman. Now ask yourself, what use might I be to you? Surely I am worth the seven that died.”

  “He’s lying,” said Pryor. “He killed them all! Greg, Biggs, Brendan … he killed them!”

  The man shook his head, and his shoulders sagged further.

  “Don’t make a fool of yourself. Fools have a way of dying around me.”

 
Veliana cried out for Pryor to stop, but it was too late. He flung a dagger at the stranger, who avoided the hasty throw by a simple tilt of his head. His retaliation came swiftly as he hurled his own dagger. It pierced a lung as it embedded itself in Pryor’s chest. The rest of the Ash Guild prepared to attack, but Veliana snapped at them to remain back.

  “Who are you?” she asked. “What is your name?”

  For a moment his look shifted, and she saw an incredible sadness lurking behind those eyes. He lifted the gray cloth and let it unfurl from his hand, revealing the eyeholes.

  “My real name is lost,” he said. “For it was banished from me by a power I cannot challenge. I have only the name they left me. I am Death, and this is my mask.”

  And then he smiled, and she decided that just maybe she could find him attractive.

  “You’d start as the lowest rank,” she told him. “You’d receive no special treatment, no favors, and this is only if Garrick accepts you in the first place. That acceptable?”

  He nodded. A quick word from her, and the Ash members hurried forward to grab the crate. “Death” stepped aside, and he laughed when he saw what they were to do.

  “The leaf inside is fake,” he said. “Did you really think the Hawks would bring a real crate of Violet to an ambush?”

  Veliana had to see for herself, and she held back glaring at the stranger. After they’d pried open the crate, she reached inside, grabbed a single leaf, and popped it into her mouth. She bit down, then spit it right back out.

  “Damn it,” she said, having received little more than the bland taste of a normal leaf. “Gods damn it all. Garrick’s going to be pissed.”

  The stranger shrugged. “Then he’ll be pissed. At least it confirms the ambush, yes?”

  Veliana chewed her lip as she thought of what exactly she would tell Garrick Lowe, their new guildmaster. He wouldn’t be too thrilled with the loss of men, and even more so about the faked merchandise. As for this Death and his mask…