A Dance of Cloaks s-1 Page 3

  Then the old man realized why Gerand had stalled. His eyes had swept every corner of the room, as well as peered through the doorways, his attentive ears hearing no other signs of life.

  “You have troops surrounding my home,” Robert said.

  “We watched Thren leave,” Gerand said. He downed his drink and licked his lips. “He was here alone, and now there are none. You can play your little game all you want, Robert, but you’re still a Haern, and lack any true understanding of matters. You say Thren doesn’t want this war of his to end. You’re wrong. He doesn’t want to lose, and therefore he won’t let it end. The Trifect won’t bow to him, not ever. This will only end when one side is dead. Veldaren can live without the thief guilds. Can we live without the food, wealth, and pleasures of the Trifect?”

  “I live off mud,” Robert said. “Can you?”

  He flung his cane. The flat bottom smacked through the glass and struck Gerand’s forehead. The man slumped to the floor, blood dripping from his hand. The old man rushed through the doorway as shouts came from the entrance to his home, followed by a loud crack as the door smashed open.

  Robert burst into Aaron’s training room. The boy winced at the sudden invasion of light. He jumped to his feet, immediately quiet and attentive. The old man felt a bit of sadness realizing he would never have a chance to continue training such a gifted student.

  “You must run,” Robert said. “The soldiers will kill you. There’s a window out back, now go!”

  No hesitation. No questions. Aaron did as he was told.

  The floor was cold when Robert sat down in the center. He thought about grabbing the dying torch to use as a weapon, but against armored men, it would be a laughable ploy. A burly man stepped inside as others rushed past, no doubt searching for Aaron. He held manacles in one hand and a naked sword in the other.

  “Does the king request my tutelage?” Robert asked, chuckling darkly.

  In answer, the soldier struck him with the butt of his sword, knocking him out cold.

  2

  The exotic fruit cost its weight in gold, but Leon Connington felt it a fair bargain. He bit into the purple skin, making a loud slurp as he sucked in the juice that ran down his chin. The pulp was so soft, he thought it better than a woman’s thigh. He moaned.

  “Winter is coming,” one of his advisors said, holding a quill as he stood before an inkwell and some parchment. So far he’d only written down a few random orders involving shipping, plus Leon’s opinion of upcoming marriages between high-blood families in the Hillock west of the Kingstrip. While Leon had no official say in such matters, his opinion had meant both the creation and destruction of many engagements.

  “What do I care about winter?” Leon said as he took another bite. “I have enough fat on me to hibernate with the bears. The wind can only tickle me while I laugh.”

  “I more meant the fruit,” the advisor said. “Try not to get too addicted to the plums. They come all the way from Ker, and I doubt any more shipments will arrive. I’ve heard reports of an early frost.”

  “A shame,” Leon said. He sucked the rest of the fruit into his mouth and chewed around the pit. “So, what word from our little puppet?” he asked, slobbering the whole while.

  “Gerand Crold has taken the tutor Haern into custody, although it appears the boy, Aaron, escaped just before the soldiers stormed the home.”

  “Little runt knows how to run and hide, huh?” Leon laughed. “Sounds like his father. Stung him with the venom of a sea-mantis, and he still escaped. Have our men keep an eye out for him. He’d be a lovely bargaining chip. Remember that wagon of peaches Thren ambushed on the Kingstrip? He had his men piss all over them before feeding them to herds of swine. I’d love to piss all over his little boy’s head…”

  “Perhaps if the gods are kind, you will get your wish,” the advisor said in a dull tone. “We’ve also received a report from one of our cutthroats inside the Gemcroft home. Maynard has thrown his daughter, Alyssa, into the cold cells for supposedly planning to overthrow him.”

  “All children plan to overthrow their parents,” Leon said as he grabbed another plum from the basket beside his enormous chair. “That’s why I never had any.”

  The advisor, an elderly man from the humble Potts family, bit his tongue.

  “Wise planning, my lord,” Potts said.

  “This is interesting, though, most interesting. I didn’t think Alyssa was even inside Veldaren’s walls. Surely someone else had a hand in this. We must find out who. If it is just a personal grudge, perhaps we can help take that insufferable Maynard down a notch. If they are working with the guilds, or have some agenda against the Trifect, well…”

  He bit into another plum.

  “I’ll put some coin into the right hands,” Potts said. “No one can move against the Trifect without us knowing it.”

  Leon laughed.

  “Thren did, not so long ago,” the fat man said. “Look what it cost him.”

  I t seemed the nights had grown darker and silent over the past five years. Moonlit revelries had lost their allure, and most kept their drink and their women inside. No one wanted to be mistaken for either a member of the thief guilds or a turntail for the Trifect. Daggers and poison floated through the streets when the sun was set, and only those prepared to deal with them dared walk in the open.

  Yoren Kull was competent with a blade, but that was not why he walked with his head held high. No, the reason was the man who traveled with him, dressed in the black robes and silver sash of a priest of Karak. Officially, their kind was banned from the city. Unofficially, they made sure every king knew of their presence, and of the immediate death that would follow if he tried removing them. Yoren felt quite confident no one would dare harass him with a priest at his side.

  “When will we arrive at the temple,” Yoren asked. The priest responded in a soft voice honed by years of practiced control.

  “I am not taking you to the temple. If I was, you’d be blindfolded.”

  Yoren chuckled. He stood a bit straighter, as if insulted by the very notion. His left hand clutched his sword while his right straightened a few errant hairs hovering over his forehead. He was a handsome man, his skin smooth and bronze while his hair was a dark red. When he smiled, his golden teeth gleamed in the light of the torch the priest carried.

  “Forgive me for my false assumption,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “I assumed meeting disciples of Karak would involve the actual temple.”

  “Our ways are best learned within our hallowed walls,” the priest said. “But discipleship to Karak involves a life immersed in the sinful world, and there are times when even the faithful go astray. Keep your sword sheathed. My presence may keep us safe, but if you draw steel, you will deal with the consequences on your own.”

  Yoren had never been to Veldaren before, but so far he was hugely unimpressed. The enormous wall surrounding the city had seemed ominous, and the towering castle doubly so. The god Karak was rumored to have built them, and it seemed few argued otherwise. Inside, however, seemed to almost mock the great walls and castle. Much of the southern district had slowly died off. King Vaelor had ordered all trading caravans to enter through the west gate, where the guards were thicker and the road easier to watch. Poor slums and weather-beaten homes had greeted Yoren when he entered from the south.

  The city improved near the center, but it was all wood and plaster buildings. Other than the sheer size, Yoren saw little that would make him wish to live within the walls.

  “Where are we now?” he asked.

  “It is better you not know,” the priest said. “It would be dangerous for you to come again without my assistance.”

  After meeting in the center of the city beside some ancient fountain of an even more ancient king, the priest had led Yoren through a winding criss-cross of roads and back alleys. Yoren had long lost track of which direction he headed, though from what he saw it seemed they had traversed back into the southern slums.
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  “I am not the weakling babe you treat me as,” Yoren said.

  “You are young. Young men are often hotheaded, foolish, and governed by their loins as often as their wits. Forgive me if I treat you like all other men of Dezrel.”

  Yoren felt his face flush but bit his tongue. His father, Theo Kull, had insisted he treat the priests better than he would the king. If that meant enduring a few false comments about his nature, so be it. Yoren stood to gain much from his father’s plan. His pride could withstand a few barbs.

  “Here,” the priest said, stopping before a house that looked just as dilapidated as any other. “Enter through the window, not the door.”

  Perhaps it was a trick of the eye, but when Yoren pushed his fingers up against the glass of the window his fingers slid through, and he realized no glass was there at all. He lifted his foot and climbed the rest of the way inside. He turned, expecting the priest to follow, but his guide had already vanished.

  “Such wonderful hospitality,” Yoren muttered before turning and taking stock of his surroundings. The walls and floor had been stripped bare. Stairs led higher up, the steps rotted and broken. Through the single doorway further in, he saw shelves coated with mold. Massive piles of rat droppings covered the floor.

  He took a step, and then the room darkened. He heard whispers in his ears, but every time he turned there was no one there. The words kept changing, his mind unable to lock down a meaning. Yoren reached for his sword before remembering the priest’s words. Shadows swirling all around him, the young man released his blade and stood up straight. He would not be afraid of cantrips and echoing whispers.

  “You are brave, for a coward,” a serpentine voice whispered just inches from behind his neck. Yoren jumped but refused to turn around.

  “That seems a contradiction,” he managed to say.

  “Just as there are skinny sows and smart dogs, there are brave cowards,” said another voice, eerily similar in sound and tone. Instead of behind his head, this one seemed to sound from under his feet.

  “I have done as asked,” Yoren said as the shadows thickened before him. “My sword is sheathed, and I came through the window instead of the door.”

  The shadows coalesced before him into a shrouded figure. Every inch of skin was wrapped in purple and black cloth. Even the eyes were hidden behind a single strip of thin white material, obscuring her features just enough while still allowing sight. Despite the tight wrapping and modified voice, Yoren could tell by the slenderness of body and the curve of her chest that he dealt with a woman.

  “Doing Karak’s will involves more than following orders,” the woman said, wisps of shadow floating off her like smoke. “You ask for aid from the faceless. For us to interfere in the squabbles of lesser men, we must be certain of your heart, as well as whatever sacrifice Karak may receive for his blessing.”

  A serrated dagger curled around his throat and pressed against his flesh.

  “Sacrifice,” whispered the faceless shadow behind him.

  “I come with the promise of my father,” Yoren said, for once glad of his infallible sense of ego. It was the only thing that kept him from stammering. “We have no temple in Riverrun, though the priests of Ashhur have begun building one. If you aid us, then that land will become my inheritance. We shall cast out the priests of Ashhur. Karak may have the temple and the land on which it was built. Will that suffice?”

  The faceless woman’s ragged cloak pooled on the floor as if it were liquid darkness, yet when she stepped back, it immediately snapped erect and covered her sides.

  “It is a start,” she said. “What is it you need from Karak’s most zealous servants?”

  Yoren licked his lips.

  “I need you to kill Maynard Gemcroft.”

  I nformation meant wealth, and Kayla loved both. She was not the quietest thief, and unlike many in her line of work, she did not take to the shadows like fish took to water. Her fingers lacked the dexterity for caressing locks into opening. Her ears worked well, and her eyes were sharp, and throughout her rough life she had learned that dealing with information could net her coin…although many times it nearly earned her death. Sometimes secrets were too dangerous to sell.

  Watching the soldiers surround the home, Kayla debated the value of what she saw. Clearly the king, or at least one of his minions, was interfering with the shadowy war waged between the Trifect and the guilds. She shifted her weight from leg to leg, trying to make sure neither fell asleep. She lay atop a nearby home, having stalked the troops across the rooftops ever since they left the castle grounds.

  She could barely see the front door, but she had long learned to analyze everything about a man, from what he wore to the way he walked, to help identify someone from a dark perch on an even darker night. Little of that skill was needed, though, for when the man stepped out of the door, his hood flapped in the wind, revealing the scarred face of Gerand Crold. He held a hand against his forehead as if he had been wounded. Suddenly he realized the mishap with his cloak, glanced about as if worried, and then pulled it back over his face.

  Good luck finding me. Kayla smiled. Now this was something she could sell. Every week she met with a squat little man named Undry who ran a small shop specializing in perfumes. She would whisper to him what she knew, and then he would give her a garish over-sized bottle of what looked like perfume, though inside was filled with silver and gold coin. From there the information traveled upward until reaching Laurie Keenan, the wealthiest of the Trifect.

  Kayla heard shouting. Shifting her weight, she watched as a boy leapt through a window, hit the ground with a roll, and then darted away. A single soldier was in sight, startled by the broken glass and sudden burst of movement mere feet away.

  Before she knew she had reached a decision, Kayla was already moving. Her hand slipped into her belt, where over twenty thin daggers were clipped tight. Based on the shouts and frantic searching of the soldiers, they clearly wanted the boy. Whoever he was, he was valuable, and Kayla would not let such easy money slip through her fingers. If Undry would pay for rumors of newly hired mercenaries and extra-large shipments, how much might he pay for the blood relative of a Trifect, or perhaps a bastard son of the king?

  She threw her dagger. The shadows might not be a second skin to her, and silence only a friend, but when it came to throwing the blade, she knew of no better. Before the soldier could give chase, a wickedly sharp point pierced his neck and ruptured his windpipe. He collapsed, unable to cry out to the others. Sheathing the second dagger she had grabbed in case she missed, she looked for the boy.

  Damn, he’s fast, she thought as her breath quickened. If the boy hadn’t been so panicked, he easily would have heard her clattering across the rooftops. He darted through alleys, cutting back and forth as if to lose a pursuer. His path remained steadily east, however, regardless of how crooked and curved. Once she realized this, Kayla needed little time to catch up.

  Where are you taking me? she wondered. A great cry rose up all around her. She stopped and crouched, feeling a bit of worry crawl up her chest. It seemed like the soldiers had given chase after all, but not just the few that had surrounded the home. Hundreds rushed up and down the streets in small groups.

  “The boy!” they shouted. “Hand us over the boy!”

  They pressed into homes, swarmed over alleyways, and pushed aside any they wished. Slowly, systematically, they were sealing off the entire eastern district.

  “Shit,” she muttered.

  Kayla wasn’t exactly the most wanted lady of Veldaren, but she was no friend of the law, either. A guard in a pissy mood could easily take away her daggers, and if any should make the connection to her and the fallen comrade of theirs…

  “Up, down, and sideways,” she said, wondering how she’d gotten herself so messed up. She hurried from side to side, taking in the positions of the soldiers. Frantic, she ran back to the north edge, realizing she had taken her eyes off the boy. If he’d made a sudden turn, or jumped thr
ough a window, then it would be the soldiers who found him, not her.

  She did know this: Undry would not be the one paying her for capturing the child. Anyone worth having the entire city guard give chase deserved a nice ransom. A king’s ransom, in fact. When she spotted the boy, she let out a soft sigh. He was a walking bag of gold, and she never would have forgiven herself if she had let him slip away.

  He was limping now, though she wasn’t sure why. He was also veering to the right, and she felt a mix of feelings when she realized where. It was an old abandoned temple to Ashhur, stripped of all its valuables when their elegant white-marble temple farther north had been completed. The doors had been boarded shut, but those boards were long broken. Kayla smiled, for she knew there was no way out. She also wanted to strangle the boy, for if the guards searched inside, well…there’d be no way out.

  She looked down the street, seeing no near patrols just yet. She shimmied down the side of a home. Without pause she ran across the street, kicked the door open, and rushed inside.

  Where there had once been painted glass were now thick boards with even thicker nails. Where there had once been rows of benches were now splinters and grooved ruts on the floor. The entire place stank of feces and urine. She paused just inside the door to look for the boy, and that was when he struck her.

  She felt a fist smash her temple, followed by a swift kick to her groin. As she staggered to one knee, she couldn’t help but smile knowing the boy had assumed a man chased after. Another punch struck her nose, but she caught his wrist before he could pull his fist back. She was not prepared for the sudden maneuver he made. His fingers wrapped around her own wrist, his body twisted, and then she was down on both knees, wincing as the bones of her arm protested in pain.

  Any delusions she had of him being a normal boy vanished with her shriek of pain. Her fingernails clawed his skin, but he seemed to not care. Eye to eye they stared, and if she expected to find fear or desperation, it was not there. His blue eyes seemed to sparkle, and as the boy let go of her wrist and tried to kick her chest, she realized he was enjoying himself.