A Dance of Shadows Read online

  Thren wanted to believe the wizard was lying to him, but he’d always been a coward, and the fear in his eyes was genuine. Surely he’d made a mistake, but Cregon appeared convinced otherwise.

  “Go on back to your shop,” he said. “Leave me be.”

  Cregon was more than happy to oblige. When he trundled off, Thren remained, staring at the mark in the dirt. At last he returned to the city and swiped a trowel small enough to hide underneath his thin coat. Once more he walked to the graveyard, and, without a care for time, he began to dig. The day passed by, hour by hour, as he unearthed the grave. At last he hit bone, and then started digging around it. By the time the woman’s skull was revealed, the sun had begun to set. Exhausted, he sat back and viewed the results of his work.

  The body had been buried at least a year to his untrained eye. The dead woman still had her teeth, and her fingernails. As for her hair, though…

  He broke the skull free and lifted it up to the waning light. All across the bare skull he saw tiny marks, scratches as if from a small blade.

  “A wig,” Thren said, tossing the skull back into the shallow grave. “What is it you hide, Widow? Who are you really?”

  Still, he had a few clues now, however meager. Standing, he kicked dirt into the grave until the body was covered, then looked back to Veldaren. Her lanterns were starting to twinkle into existence one by one. There had been a time when Thren considered Veldaren his city, all his. How far had he fallen to be outside it, digging up a poor woman’s corpse while the rest of the guilds and the Trifect plotted and maneuvered? Hands clenched into fists, he stabbed the trowel into the earth to serve as a burial marker. Alone he walked toward the road.

  Veldaren would be his city again. He swore it. Once he had his vengeance, once he knew who was out there pulling the strings of puppets, he would retake his city brick by brick.

  My city.

  The thought put a grim smile on his face. For a while he’d accepted that the city was no longer his, but instead his son’s. That was over. The rumors of the Watcher’s survival meant nothing to him, for he’d started them, acting out the sham in a failed attempt to shame Grayson in the eyes of the underworld. But Victor’s arrival had shifted things beyond his control, had made it so Grayson needed only to watch as Thren’s guild was broken.

  Darkness settled across the land as he walked his path. He’d take it all back. He’d rebuild, fight for it with every last measure of his skill. He would find victory.

  And if he couldn’t, then he’d burn it all to the ground.

  CHAPTER

  26

  Victor stepped inside his makeshift home and let out a sigh of relief. Another day over, another twelve gone to the executioner’s blade. The light was fading as the sun dipped below the walls of the city, but inside was well lit, and crowded with families still seeking refuge from the vengeance of the thief guilds.

  “Where’s your guard?” Sef asked, sitting at the bar, where Victor joined him. “You did have a guard, right?”

  “What business of yours is that?” Victor asked, accepting the drink Sef slid over to him.

  “My business is to keep you alive, and to kill the rats of Veldaren. So far I think I’m doing better at one than the other.”

  Victor shrugged. “The streets have grown calmer. You know that.”

  Sef rolled his eyes. “So no escort, then?” At Victor’s chuckle, Sef shook his head. “Going to get your damn self killed, Victor. I thought you’d learned better.”

  “Lay off. I am no helpless child.”

  Sef stroked his beard, a habit Victor recognized well. It meant Sef was growing frustrated with him.

  “Our foes aren’t so helpless either. But if you want to go about trusting only your sword arm, then go right ahead.”

  Victor stood, patted Sef on the shoulder.

  “You know the gods have a better fate for me than dying to some soulless vagabond. Stay safe on your patrols tonight.”

  Sef grunted. “Thought you said the city had grown calmer.”

  Victor grinned at him as he headed for the stairs.

  “Did I? But my advisers insist the world is still a dangerous place, and I feel it best to listen.”

  “Bastard.”

  Victor waved without looking. At the top of the stairs were the two guards watching his room, to ensure no one entered during his absence. Victor nodded at them, then waited for his door to be unlocked.

  “Sleep well, milord,” said one as he pushed the door wide.

  “That’s the hope.”

  As Victor removed his armor, he glanced at the far wall, which was now bare wood without painting or decoration. The carpenters he’d hired had rebuilt it at an impressive pace, repairing the gaping hole Tarlak’s spell had left. Victor chuckled. Next time he’d make sure he learned all the details of any spells that that wizard placed for his protection. He’d expected a few planks to fall loose, or some magical porthole of sorts to open up. When the wall had exploded as if a dragon had let loose its rage against it, he’d nearly soiled his armor. Of course it was his own fault for expecting subtlety from a wizard who dressed in bright yellow.

  After checking underneath his bed, Victor climbed in, lay down, and tried to sleep. Try as he might, sleep would not come. Tossing and turning, he felt time crawling along. The sounds from the tavern below quieted as those under his protection settled in as well. That helped, but only a little. Sleep had grown steadily rarer during his time in Veldaren. The faces of the men who had died that day flashed before his eyes, and they joined the ghostly choir that wailed in his head. They all had something different to say, some plea or explanation, when they knelt before the chopping block. It was as if they could never admit they’d done their wrongs for themselves, to satisfy their own greed and lust. They cried of children, mothers, families, debts, mistakes made, and long-forgotten histories they always insisted they regretted.

  Victor tossed and turned, tossed and turned. Perhaps he needed to have the executioners use a gag on them. The only other option was to not be present, but he refused. He might not swing the blade, but he was the reason for their deaths, and his pride demanded he be in their presence. Cowardly hiding might make it easier, but that was the last thing he wanted. He wanted it to be hard. He wanted every death to weigh on him, despite what he showed others. The final moment, when there was no one left to give to the executioner’s ax, would be that much sweeter for it.

  The night dragged on. Victor’s thoughts turned to his parents, to brighter memories in his childhood. Lost in them, he almost didn’t hear the soft clink of armor hitting the floor. Almost. Victor tensed, not once doubting his instincts and the danger they cried. It might just have been his guard shifting positions, but it didn’t sound right. It almost sounded as if a guard had chosen to sit down, something one of his guards would never, ever do.

  His sword was beside him on the floor, just within reach. Trying to make little noise, he reached down and lifted it still in its scabbard. As the door crept open a crack, he managed to slide it underneath his blankets. Victor half-closed his eyes so that his intruder might believe him asleep. With the smallest movements possible, he held the hilt with one hand and pulled the scabbard down with the other. Didn’t want to let them know, didn’t want to scare them off, especially if there was more than one.

  The door opened wider. Victor clenched his jaw to prevent any giveaway. Stay calm, he told himself. Just wait. Still, he quickened his pace with the scabbard. The blade of his sword was halfway exposed, but it’d be cumbersome to use in the cramped quarters. Stupid, stupid, why hadn’t he just kept his dagger with him instead?

  Two men stepped inside, each one carrying a small blade. Victor choked down his fury at his guards for letting such things pass by their scrutiny. They’d slacked on their precautions because of how many came and went, he had no doubt. Victor waited until they stepped all the way in, and were just starting to move to opposite sides of his bed, before he struck. In a single motio
n he freed his sword from his scabbard and flung aside the blankets, giving him freedom of movement.

  If the men were surprised, they showed no sign of it. Victor lashed out with his sword, a long arc that had far more reach than they did with their daggers. The one on the right tried to block, but he lacked both the strength and the weapon to do it. Victor’s sword bounced off, angling higher so it hit the man’s neck instead of his chest. It struck his neck bones with a wet chop. Victor tried to swing back to the other side, to where the second thief was lunging, but his blade had caught between two vertebrae. Panicking, Victor let go and fell back, narrowly avoiding a slash. He rolled away and off the bed, trying to gain some distance.

  “There’s no hope for you,” the assassin said, his voice a whisper.

  The crossbow bolt thudding into his neck seemed to say otherwise. The assassin slumped to the bed and bled out on the sheets as Victor scrambled to his feet. A third man stood at the door, miniature crossbow at his side. He was an older man, and wore the plain browns of a commoner. Plenty of scars lined his face, and calluses his hands.

  “Friend,” the man said when Victor reached for his sword.

  “That so?” Victor asked, putting a foot on the dead man’s head so he could yank his blade free. “Then who are you, friend?”

  “No lie, milord. I’m here to help. My name’s Gart. Antonil put me here to protect you.”

  The light was dim, but Victor saw Gart pull down his shirt, revealing a city guard’s tunic underneath as proof.

  “Antonil’s keeping his eye on me, is that it?” Victor asked.

  “You expressed concern about the families staying here. He thought it best to help keep an eye on them.” Gart nodded at the two bodies. “Caught them sneaking toward the stairs when they thought everyone asleep. Killed the guards at the stairs by your door. Real pros.”

  Victor used his heel to roll over the one at his feet, then looked him over.

  “Any idea the guild?” Victor asked.

  “Not really. Not like they’d have been foolish enough to send people with colors or tattoos identifying them.”

  It made sense, but was still frustrating. Standing, he looked to Gart and frowned at the crossbow. “How’d you sneak that past my guards?”

  Gart stood up straight. “I told them it was with the authority of the king, and that they were to tell no one, not even you. If it makes you feel better, your men were most displeased, and I feared they might inform you despite my warnings.”

  Victor felt his anger growing. Not only had two men come into his place of safety and nearly killed him, but Antonil was spying on him as well, and hiding things from him?

  “It’s no longer safe here,” Victor said, grabbing his armor. “I told Antonil bringing in civilians would put me at risk. I told him! They will not stay here, not any longer. And much as I owe you, Gart, I still resent that your presence was kept hidden from me.”

  “Just following my orders, milord.”

  “I know. It’s those orders I plan on questioning.”

  Armor on, sword buckled to his waist, Victor stepped into the hall. His guards lay slumped against the wall, throats opened and tunics stained with blood. Victor closed their eyes with his fingers, offered a silent word of thanks to the men who had given their lives to protect him. And then he was moving on, Gart in tow.

  “Summon your guard, and have them clean up this mess,” Victor told him. “After that, start gathering the people here and bring them to the castle. If Antonil wants them kept safe, and wants to position men in secret to guard them, then let him take responsibility for them in full. I need no more assassins in my bedchambers.”

  “Milord, I’m not sure if I should do that until…”

  Victor spun on him while still halfway down the stairs.

  “I will speak with Antonil myself, and I assure you, I will not have my request denied. Take them to the castle. Do you understand me?”

  The older man nodded. “As you wish, milord.”

  They continued down the stairs to where the commoners slept all across the floor. Victor navigated around, and then he and Gart stepped out into the night. Four men stood guard at the door, and they saluted when they realized it was he.

  “City guard will soon arrive,” Victor told them. “Help them in any way you can.”

  He started toward the castle unescorted. One of his men called out after him. “Milord…”

  Victor glared, silencing his comment. Gart followed him a little ways, then stopped. “Nearest guard station is this way,” he said, gesturing east.

  “I will be at the castle,” Victor said, not slowing. “Safe travels.”

  Gart didn’t look happy, but he left anyway. Victor knew he was being proud, but he didn’t care. He was a skilled fighter, and he wore his shining armor. Piss on anyone who thought him vulnerable. The scum of the city needed to catch him sleeping in his bedclothes to even have a chance. Marching down the quiet night streets, he made his way toward the center of the city, then hooked north toward the castle. Only a few times did he see signs of life, those of taverns burning their midnight oil to fill the poor and destitute with enough alcohol to forget their dreary lives. Victor both pitied them and despised them. They’d be either fodder for thieves or new recruits. Once their lives continued to fall apart. Once they lost enough to believe they could never replace it without taking by force.

  Several times he thought he saw someone following him out of the corner of his eye, a gray blur of a strange cloak along the rooftops. When he glanced back, it was always gone. He shook his head.

  “Are you there, Watcher?” he whispered. “Do you follow me?”

  He heard no answer, and he sighed. It might have been good to talk with the man, to see if he’d made any progress in his own private search for the Widow, or in combating the ruthless guilds. But, snubbed, he continued on north, toward the castle, to ensure Guard Captain Antonil would never again think it his right to spy on a lord of the realm.

  Haern couldn’t begin to guess what stupidity was leading Victor to walk the streets of Veldaren at night without any escort. Pride? Arrogance? Delusion? Whatever it was, it kept Haern skulking along the rooftops, a careful eye on both him and the ground below. Did it matter that Victor carried a sword? All it’d take was a single man with a crossbow to bring him down.

  The wood beneath his boots should have creaked due to his weight, but magic placed within the soles by Tarlak kept his landings soft as he leaped across the alleys. Victor was picking up the pace, and Haern couldn’t decide whether that was good or bad. Good because it got him to safety faster. Bad because it meant Haern had to hurry, and couldn’t scout ahead as carefully as he wished. That, and the running wasn’t exactly kind on his body. While not fully recovered from the wounds given to him by both Grayson and Nicholas Bloodcraft, he still felt well enough to be out in the night. Tarlak and Delysia, however, had strongly disagreed. His compromise had been to keep an eye on Victor’s home while the rest of the Eschaton scoured the city in hopes of catching the Widow in another murder.

  Victor, of course, was supposed to have remained in bed like a sane man, not rush through the main streets, sticking out like a damn bonfire in the middle of a snowstorm.

  “Where are you headed?” he whispered aloud as he paused, just slightly ahead of the man on the street. “To the castle? Or to…”

  An innate sense of wrongness flooded him, and in response he leaped off the side of the building, spun in air, and caught its side with both hands. Immediately he flung himself back up, drawing his blades and kicking forward. He caught his mysterious attacker square in the chest with his boots, blasting him backward.

  Except that the hood of her red coat fell backward, and he saw that it wasn’t a he, but a she. The girl had short blond hair, fierce blue eyes, and a glare to her that was chilling despite her obvious youth. In each hand she wielded a thin dagger so sharp its edge seemed to shine. She crouched on one knee, breathing heavily from the blow to
her chest.

  “Bloodcraft?” Haern asked, seeing the coat.

  The girl smiled at him. “Joanna,” she said.

  She stood erect, daggers twirling in her hands. Haern refused to focus on her fingers, instead waiting for the tensing of the muscles in her legs, the shifting of her feet, to reveal the timing of her lunge. The moment she moved, he was ready, curling aside so she could not trap him against the ledge of the rooftop. Her daggers snaked in, but he had reach on her. His sabers sliced in a circle, the maneuver designed to sweep aside both her daggers and leave her right side vulnerable.

  Except that when his sabers should have made contact, when he should have heard a familiar ring of steel, instead they passed straight through as if the daggers were not there.

  Her momentum continued, and in a panic Haern kicked with his leg, forcing her to twist to avoid it. In that split second he dropped to the ground and rolled as her daggers stabbed the air above him. Pulling out of the roll, he found himself with no reprieve, for Joanna was already after him, the daggers in her hands dancing. Dancing, and it was a dance he couldn’t be partner to…

  “What’s the matter?” Joanna asked, slowly stalking him, each movement like the step of a feline predator. “We’re still playing the same game you’ve always played. I’ve just changed the rules.”

  She lunged again, and he pushed aside any reflex to parry or block. He had reach on her, and despite his inability to parry her daggers, he could still go for her wrists. His sabers curled in again, but the girl was ready, contorting her body so that she twisted both hands out of the way, then thrust downward with her left hand.

  This time he couldn’t stop her. The dagger sank into his shoulder, and she followed it up with a knee to his stomach. Agony flooded him, her knee striking close to the wound Grayson had given him. Before her blade could sink in farther he stabbed toward her stomach, forcing her to dance away. Blood, his blood, flecked across the rooftop. Her dagger, now glistening with red, she held before her face, just between her eyes.