A Dance of Death (Shadowdance Trilogy, Book 3) Page 2

  “You hold this city prisoner and yet ask me that?” said Brann.

  Haern struck him in the mouth with the hilt of a saber. As Brann spat out a tooth, the children rushed through the door, surrounding them both.

  “Stay back,” Brann said to them, and he grinned at Haern, his yellow teeth stained red with blood. There was a wild look in his eyes that made Haern uncomfortable. This wasn’t a man who cared about life, not his own, nor others.

  “What game is this?” Haern asked, his voice a cold whisper. “Why the children? Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

  “The others are scared of you,” Brann said, laughing. “But I know what you are. They think you’re as bad as us, but you’re not; not yet. Once the thief guilds find out, they’ll have your head on a spike.”

  He gestured to the children, all prepared to attack. Haern didn’t want to imagine what Brann had put them through to achieve such a level of control.

  “Kill me,” Brann said. “Do it, and they’ll swarm you. You won’t die, you’re too good for them, but you won’t escape without killing at least one. So what’ll it be, Watcher? Can you take my life if it means taking the life of a child?”

  Haern looked at the twenty. Some were as young as seven, but others were maybe eleven or twelve. All it’d take was one lucky stab by any of them and he might go down.

  His saber pressed harder against Brann’s skin. He leaned closer, so he might whisper into his ear.

  “Nothing, Brann. You know nothing about me. You die, they go free. This was never a choice.”

  Haern slashed, spilling blood across his clothes. Hoping to move before the children reacted, he turned and leapt, vaulting over their circle. They gave chase, not at all bothered by the death of their master. Haern rolled to his feet, his sabers crossed to block their weak stabs. A quick glance showed no exits except the door he’d come through. Doing everything he could to fight down his combat instincts, he shoved through the group’s center. His cloaks whirled and twisted, pushing aside feeble attacks.

  Pulling out of the spin, he lunged for the door. One of the older boys was there, and Haern felt panic rise in his chest as he saw the deadly angle of the boy’s thrust. He reacted on instinct, blocking hard enough to knock the dagger free, then following it up with a kick to send the boy flying. Breaking back into a run, he kicked off a pile of crates to vault into the air, catching a rafter with one hand. Swinging himself up onto a perch, he stared down at the children, several of whom gathered around the body of the one he’d kicked.

  “Listen to me,” Haern said to them, trying to forgive the children’s attack. They didn’t know any better. “You’re master is dead. You have no hope of winning this fight.”

  “Fuck you,” said one of the kids. Haern swallowed down his anger at such disrespect. They were frightened punks living in a world Haern knew all too well. If reason would not work, he knew what would.

  “Say that again, and I’ll cut out your tongue.”

  The boy stepped back, as if stunned by the coldness in his voice. The rest looked up at him, some ready to cry, some angry, but most were heartbreakingly indifferent. Haern pointed to Brann Goodfinger’s corpse.

  “Take his coin,” he said. “Go, and make better lives than this. Remain thieves, and you’ll fall to the guilds, or to me. I don’t want to kill you, but I will. There is no future for you, not in this.”

  “None for you, either,” said another, but Haern could not tell who. With practiced efficiency the children took everything of value from Brann’s corpse and vanished into the streets. Haern didn’t know where they went, nor did he care. He only felt fury. Brann had died quick, hardly the example Haern desired to set. As for the boy he’d kicked...

  He dropped from the rafter, landing lightly on his feet. With a lump in his throat, he knelt down and rolled the child over onto his back, then pressed his fingers against his neck. He waited, and waited, but no matter how long he stayed there hoping, it never happened. No pulse.

  “Damn you, Brann,” Haern whispered. “I hope you burn forever.”

  Leaving the body there was not an option. Haern considered himself better than that. Lifting him onto his shoulder, he rushed out to the streets, praying no gutsy member of a thief guild spotted him and tried something incredibly heroic and stupid. There were several gravekeepers in Veldaren, plus another who burned bodies instead of burying them. Haern went to the burner, picked the lock of his door, and went inside. The owner was asleep on a cot in a small room, and Haern woke him with a firm prod of his saber.

  “What? Who are...oh, you.”

  The elderly man, Willard, rubbed his eyes, then reopened them when Haern dropped a handful of coins onto his lap.

  “Spare no expense, and bury his ashes.”

  “What was his name?” asked Willard, looking over the boy’s body as Haern set him down on the floor.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then what shall I engrave on his urn?”

  Haern went to the door, then looked back over his shoulder.

  “Victim,” he said.

  In a foul mood, he raced off for the Gemcroft estate, wishing he could put the prior events out of his mind, and knowing there’d be no such luck.

  Scaling the fence was easy enough, though avoiding the guards was another matter. There was a secondary building in the back, where he’d been told the meeting would take place. Most of the patrols kept close to the mansion, which helped tremendously. Haern lurked beside the gate, running along it when outside the patrols’ vision, and lying flat amid the shadows when they passed. At last he reached the small building. Timing the patrols, he knew he had about thirty seconds to slip in and out without being seen. Faint light burned within. He pressed his ear against the door and heard no discussion.

  Too late, or too early? The door was unlocked, so he opened it and slipped inside. The room was surprisingly bare, containing only a single bed atop a padded floor. Hardly the servants’ quarters he’d expected. The lone lantern kept the place dimly lit, with plenty of shadows in the far corners. So far, it appeared empty.

  “Damn,” he whispered.

  He headed for the far corner, figuring to wait a few hours just in case the meeting was yet to transpire. In the center of the room, though, he stopped. Something in the corner wasn’t right, the shadows not smooth...

  Haern lunged for the door, his instincts screaming trap. Before he could get there, something latched onto his cloak and tugged, hard. He spun to the ground, torn between attacking and tearing free his cloak to flee. Already furious because of Brann, he kicked to his feet and attacked. To his surprise, his sabers clashed against long blades, his thrusts perfectly blocked. He was already preparing a second strike when he saw his opponent’s outfit. Long dark wrappings covering her body—all but her shadowed face.

  “Enough, Watcher,” said Zusa, her slender body contorted into a bizarre defensive formation. “I am not here to kill you.”

  Haern pulled away, and he put his back to a wall, the door at his side.

  “Then why are you here?” he asked.

  “Because I desired it,” said a voice at the door. Haern turned, then dipped his head in a mock bow.

  “Lady Gemcroft,” he said. “It is good to see you, Alyssa.”

  The ruler of the Gemcroft fortune smiled at him, not at all bothered by his tone. Zusa sheathed her daggers, though her hands remained on their hilts. She joined Alyssa’s side, her dark eyes never leaving him. Alyssa herself seemed relaxed, far more so than when he’d last seen her. Of course, he’d been trying to kill her at the time. She wore a slender dress underneath her robe, her red hair let down loose about her shoulders. Haern almost felt flattered she’d dressed up for him, as if he were some noble or diplomat.

  “I was told of a meeting concerning the thieves,” Haern said. “Was there any truth to this?”

  “I assure you, Terrance is loyal to me, and me alone,” she said. The side of Haern’s face twitched. Terrance had been his
informant, of course. He felt himself at a disadvantage, with no clue as to the reason for their meeting. He didn’t like that. The two also blocked the only exit. He didn’t like that, either.

  “Then I was told a lie, just to bring me here. Why is that, Alyssa?”

  “Because I want to hire you.”

  Haern paused, then laughed at the absurd notion.

  “I am no pawn for you to force your will upon,” he said. “And if what you say is true, why this secrecy, and deception?”

  “Because I don’t want anyone, not the guilds nor the Trifect, to know. I leave for Angelport, and I wish for you to accompany me and Zusa.”

  Haern felt his hands fidget as they held his sabers. Answering such a request, with someone as dangerous as Zusa blocking his way out, was not his idea of a fair bargaining position.

  “What reason could you possibly have?” he asked. “I assure you, Zusa is quite capable of keeping you alive.”

  A bit of impatience finally pierced Alyssa’s calm demeanor.

  “Someone broke into Laurie Keenan’s home, slaughtered his son and daughter-in-law, along with a dozen guards. I go for their funeral services, as is appropriate. I want you and Zusa to hunt down this killer and bring him to us for justice while I’m there.”

  Haern shook his head.

  “I can’t leave Veldaren,” he said. “The peace I’ve managed to create...”

  “Is no peace at all,” Alyssa said. “The thief guilds prey on each other, killing themselves in an endless squabble over the gold we pay them. The few that steal are more often caught by their own kind, not you. Every dead thief is one less person needing a share. No one will know you’ve left, not for weeks. It’s been two years, and you’ve spilled enough blood to wash the city red. Those who remain have settled into their comfortable lives of bribes and easy money, and you know it.”

  Haern did know that, but that didn’t mean he liked it.

  “This is your problem,” he said. “I’ve had enough dealings with the Trifect to last a lifetime. Find your killer on your own. Now let me through.”

  Alyssa glanced at Zusa, then nodded. They stepped aside. As Haern walked out into the night, Alyssa called after him.

  “They found a marking,” she said. “Drawn in their blood.”

  Haern stopped.

  “What of?” he asked.

  “A single eye.”

  Haern turned, and he felt his anger rise.

  “You would accuse me of this crime?”

  “No accusation,” Alyssa said, stepping out. “I have already looked into the matter, and know you were in Veldaren both the night it happened, plus the nights before and after.”

  “This makes no sense, Alyssa. Why would someone frame me so far away? I’ve never been to Angelport, nor used that symbol in years.”

  “It’s not a frame,” Zusa said. “It is a calling. You’re being summoned, Watcher.”

  Haern tried to think it over, but he felt so tired, so unprepared. The boy’s dead face kept flashing before his eyes.

  “How do I know this isn’t a trap?” he finally asked. Alyssa looked away, as if embarrassed by what she had to say.

  “Because of you, my son lives, and I brought vengeance to the one who tried to kill him. I will never betray you. Someone murdered powerful citizens of Angelport, my friends and colleagues, and is using their blood to send you a message. Help me find him. Help me stop him.”

  Haern sighed.

  “So be it,” he said. “When do we leave?”

  “Today?” Tarlak said, leaning back in his chair with a bewildered look on his face. “You’re leaving today? But we still have that contract with the Heshans, and I haven’t tracked down that damn prostitute killer Antonil paid us to find. How am I supposed to find the bastard without your help?”

  “Start spending time with prostitutes. Well, more time.”

  Tarlak raised an eyebrow, then laughed. Still in his bedrobes, he stood and gestured about his office, which was a haphazard mess.

  “Clearly, this place will fall apart without you,” he said. “But go and do what you must. Can’t have someone giving you a bad name, after all.”

  They embraced, Tarlak smacking him on the shoulder.

  “Don’t get killed on me,” he said.

  “I’ll try not to.”

  Haern exited the room onto the circular staircase of the tower. Heading up a floor, he entered his barren room. After stripping down to his underclothes, he slipped into bed and slept. When he awoke, it was to something poking him in the shoulder. He looked, then groaned and rolled over.

  “You’re risking death, Brug,” he muttered.

  “You’re the one heading off after someone brave enough, or dumb enough, to taunt you,” said the short, burly smith. “Besides, day’s almost over. Get your ass up. Oh, and I have something for ya.”

  Haern rubbed his eyes, then looked again. Brug stood beside his bed, a pair of shoes in hand.

  “Shoes?” he asked.

  “Not just shoes!” Brug said, flinging them. They smacked against Haern’s chest. “I’ve spent two months making them things for you, so you could show some damn appreciation.”

  Haern sat up and examined them. They were gray, made of soft cloth thickened on the bottom. They would muffle any footsteps, though he wondered how long they’d endure his chaotic sprints across rooftops.

  “You made these?” he asked. “I didn’t know you could sew.”

  Brug blustered, and his neck went red.

  “That’s not the point,” he said. “With Tarlak’s help, there’s a bit of magic in them. They won’t wear out, but the bigger deal is they’ll be quieter than...forget it, no reason I should tell you. Find out on your own.”

  He stormed for the door, stopping only when Haern called out for him.

  “Miss you too, Brug.”

  “Whatever,” Brug grumbled, but he hesitated before leaving. Once he was gone, Haern dressed, put on his soft leather armor, and prepared to leave. Delysia was waiting for him on the bottom floor, just beside the stairs.

  “Stay safe,” she said, kissing his cheek. “Is that all you’re bringing?”

  Haern glanced at his single outfit, his sabers, and the cloaks he carried in his hands.

  “Yes?” he said.

  The priestess laughed.

  “Ever the poor boy,” she said. “Good luck, and make sure you come back.”

  He bowed low.

  “I wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise,” he said. “Keep Tarlak in line for me while I’m gone.”

  Feeling uncomfortably exposed in the daylight, Haern traveled south to where Alyssa’s caravan waited. It was only three wagons, far smaller than he expected. Alyssa had told him she wished to leave with little fanfare in hopes the thief guilds would not find out. Turned out she wasn’t kidding. He found her sitting in the first wagon, with Zusa beside her. They both tilted their heads as he approached, and he realized without his hood, and under the bright sun, they could clearly see his face.

  “Watcher?” Alyssa asked, as if to confirm just in case.

  “Haern,” he said, standing before them. “That’ll do for now.”

  Zusa offered her hand, and he took it.

  “To Angelport?” he asked as he sat across from them.

  “Indeed,” Alyssa said before calling out the order for their driver to begin.

  2

  Eravon used the cover of night to hide his exit as he put the walls of Angelport far behind him. Spring had officially come, but the air still had a bite to it, and he kept a thin cloak wrapped tight about him as he followed the path north. Though he’d lived for centuries, for the first time ever he was experiencing the sensation humans called ‘feeling old’. His joints throbbed in the cold, and the days seemed to pass ever faster. Though the elf’s skin was smooth, he knew that in another hundred years or so he’d start to add a few wrinkles to his face, and his time among the humans would be at an end.

  Not that he’d miss th
em.

  The signal was subtle, just a few leaves placed in a specific way, with pebbles atop them to ensure they did not scatter in the wind. Eravon left the path, climbing up a nearby hill. On the other side was a tent, without a single torch or fire to give away its location. Eravon tightened his cloak, then approached. The tent was large, the front flap open. When he stepped inside, he bowed to the two elves waiting for him.

  “It is good to see you again,” said the first, a young elf barely a hundred years old. His hair was short and golden, his eyes a vibrant green. Eravon accepted his embrace.

  “You as well, Maradun,” he said before turning to the other, who remained seated. “Does your leg trouble you so much that you cannot stand, Sildur?”

  The silver-haired elf waved a cane, the only sign that he walked with a limp, and that he was even older than Eravon.

  “We have much to discuss, and little time to do it,” Sildur said, motioning to an empty seat before them. “Sit, and tell us what the spoiled children of the brother gods have to say.”

  Eravon sat, and he accepted an offered cup and pitcher from Maradun. He drank, purposefully delaying his report. Sildur might have outranked him back in Quellassar, but they were in human lands now, and Eravon was their ambassador. His importance could not be denied. That, and Sildur was always a dour one, as if Celestia had made him with mud in his veins instead of blood.

  “Talks are yet to officially begin,” Eravon said, setting down his cup. “What I know is only bluster and promises, which humans possess an infinite capacity for. But in this, I do not feel they will back down. Either we grant them access to the forest, or prepare for bloodshed.”

  “Blood has already been shed,” said Sildur.

  “More blood, then.”

  “Can we not come to some sort of compromise?” asked Maradun. He glanced at the two of them. “Surely they do not desire war.”

  “You know what they did to our Dezren brothers,” Sildur said, fire in his voice. “Chased them halfway across the continent, and burned Dezerea to ash. Their desire for war runs deep in their veins. All our talks are nothing but a waste of time. You know what they want from our forests. Humans are weak, their minds fragile. Anything to escape their short lives, to forget their coming deaths, is something they’ll spend every scrap of wealth to obtain.”