A Dance of Mirrors Page 4

  She left Haern alone with Zusa. He shifted uncomfortably beside the fire. Zusa always made him feel awkward; he was never sure of what she thought or might say. She often stared at him and was never self-conscious enough to hide it.

  “Do you know where we might start looking?” he asked, breaking the silence.

  “We start with the Keenan mansion,” she said. “From there, the elves. After that, we listen for rumors and search for others he might have killed. I found you, Watcher. We can find this pale imitator.”

  “That servant said something about the business with the elves having grown worse. What did he mean by that?”

  Zusa glanced to the city. “I don’t know much, but what little I do know is grim. Disputes over territory, particularly the Quellan Forest, have put the elves and the people of Angelport at the very precipice of war. Tomorrow, we ride into a pile of kindling and oil. The slightest spark will set it off.”

  Haern chuckled, earning himself a raised eyebrow.

  “Nothing,” he said. “I just have a feeling, given how my life has gone, that we’re about to be that spark.”

  Zusa lifted her glass, and finally she smiled. “To starting fires,” she said.

  Haern smiled in return. “To starting fires.”

  CHAPTER

  3

  Ulrich Blackwater stepped onto the deck of the Fireheart and scowled.

  “Where’s Pyle?” he asked two nearby crewmen, bare-chested lads soaked with sweat as they labored crate after crate toward the plank leading to the dock.

  “The captain’s in his cabin, milord,” said one, bowing low. “Busy.”

  Ulrich weaved through the various ropes, cargo, and men until he reached the captain’s quarters. Without knocking, he yanked the door open and stepped inside. Despite the overall size of the Fireheart, the quarters were cramped, just a bed, a desk, and a few maps tacked to a wall. On that bed, with a naked whore riding atop him, lay Captain Darrel Pyle. Seeing his entrance, Darrel laid his head back and sighed.

  “Didn’t they tell you I was busy?” he asked.

  “Perhaps.” Ulrich glared at the woman, who slipped to the side and grabbed her clothes. “Leave us.”

  “Don’t go far, girl,” Darrel said as the whore hurried half-naked past Ulrich and out the door. With only a blanket keeping him decent, Darrel leaned against the bedpost and scratched his neck. He was a burly man, with skin darkened from months spent in the sun. A long scar ran from his lip to his chin, leaving a gap in his brown beard.

  “Shouldn’t you be helping them unload?” Ulrich asked.

  “My men know what they’re doing.”

  “It’s not your men I’m worried about. It’s my cargo.”

  Darrel stepped off the bed and pulled on his trousers. “Your damn wine is safe and dry,” he said, buttoning them. “Not that I give two shits. I could piss in every bottle and still the scum here in Angelport would consider it fine vintage.”

  “I would still prefer it if you oversaw things, in case such a respectable crew as yours decides to help themselves.”

  “You telling me how to run my ship?”

  “My ship,” Ulrich said, glaring. “You may captain it, but this is my boat, my cargo, and my reputation on the line. Besides, I don’t give a damn about the wine. You’ll be carrying something worth a thousand times more soon, and I need to be certain it is kept safe and untouched.”

  The captain pulled a white shirt over his head; it was hopelessly stained with sweat.

  “What could you possibly have that’s worth more?” he asked.

  In answer, Ulrich took out a small pouch from his pocket and opened the drawstrings. From within he drew a single leaf, tore off a small piece, and handed it over. It was green with strange purple veins, and Darrel grunted as he examined it.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “Bite, but don’t chew. Keep it crushed between your teeth and focus on breathing steady. Oh, and I suggest you sit down first.”

  Darrel shrugged. No stranger to various drugs and drinks, he seemed unimpressed with the simple leaf. Ignoring Ulrich’s advice, he popped the leaf into his mouth and chewed. Within seconds his expression changed, and his chewing slowed. Ulrich watched as Darrel’s pupils dilated and his hands started to twitch. Taking a seat at the captain’s desk, he patiently waited for the drug’s effects to pass so he could continue their conversation. After about five minutes, Darrel’s legs wobbled, and he fell hard onto his elbow. Even though the jolt caused him to bite his tongue, he barely reacted. Blood dribbled down his chin and into his beard.

  “Unbelievable,” Darrel said, his voice strangely dreamlike.

  Ulrich found the captain’s private stash of alcohol and poured himself a drink. Behind him, the captain remained oddly quiet, other than for the occasional grunt of pleasure. After Ulrich had finished his third drink, Darrel finally came around.

  “How long?” he asked, spitting blood to the floor.

  “About fifteen minutes,” Ulrich said.

  “Damn. That was better than fucking.” His eyes were bloodshot, and he stared at the pocket where the rest of the leaf remained in its pouch.

  “That was just a piece,” Ulrich said, holding in his grin. “Imagine a whole leaf. You’d be out for hours.”

  “If I could just have…”

  “No,” Ulrich said, standing. “No more, not while you are captain of my ship. In a day or two, it’ll be gone from your blood, and you’ll be able to control your desire for it. But while you sail for me, I can’t risk it. I’m sure you understand.”

  For a moment, Darrel looked ready to strike him, then regained his composure.

  “Gods damn it,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Give me that bottle.”

  “It has several names, but the one most use is Violet,” said Ulrich as the captain downed half the bottle in a series of gulps.

  “Never felt so good in my life,” he said, wiping his chin. He looked down at his pants, realizing they were stained with semen. Instead of being embarrassed, he laughed.

  “We have only a little, but I anticipate more soon.” Ulrich tossed the captain a rag. “We’ve known of its properties for a few years now, but it was passed among the lords, always expensive, always rare. But things are changing, Darrel. Soon we’ll have a nice, steady supply of Violet to spread throughout the world. Clean yourself up and get the rest of the crates unloaded. Whatever untrustworthy crewmen you have, get rid of them. When the first shipment of Violet sails north, nothing, and I mean nothing, must go wrong. For now, I’ll be loading a single crate into your hold, for safekeeping only. You are not to open it, let alone take a leaf, understand?”

  Darrel stared off for a moment, as if still longing for the leaf, then shook his head to clear it. “You’ll make a fortune with that,” he said. “Give me even a few samples, and I could get everyone west of the rivers hooked.” He sniffed his fingers. “This stuff even legal?”

  “For now, and I’ve taken steps to keep it that way. Good day, Captain. I have matters I must attend. Stay in port and wait for my orders. It may be a few weeks, but I’m sure you will find a way to pass the time. Make sure the crate is kept carefully guarded.”

  He turned for the door, then stopped. It was ajar, but only slightly. He was certain he’d closed it.

  “Such interesting pleasures,” said a man perched atop Darrel’s bed, his legs crossed beneath him. Both whirled, and Ulrich drew his dagger. Wrapped in cloaks and black leather sat someone Ulrich had thought only existed in rumors and stories. His face was hidden by heavy shadows cast by his hood, but his grin remained perfectly visible.

  “The Wraith,” Ulrich said. “That’s who you are, isn’t it?”

  “Such brilliant wisdom,” said the intruder. “Though perhaps I give you too much praise. You would have noticed me ten minutes ago if you were truly clever.”

  “What in blazes are you doing on my ship?” Darrel asked. He took a step back, to where his sword hung on the wall. The Wraith tsk’ed at him, and he put a hand on the hilt of his blade.

  “Stay still, sea vermin. I have no reason to kill you, but I will if you do something so irrevocably stupid. I come bearing gifts for our dear Merchant Lord.”

  Ulrich stood straighter, and he tried to put on an air of superiority. “So be it, stranger. I will accept your gift, if it is worthwhile, but then I must demand you leave the Fireheart at once.”

  “Demand,” said the Wraith, his grin growing. “You amuse me.”

  He tossed Ulrich a heavy bag that had been hidden behind his back. It thudded to the floor. Slowly Ulrich bent down, opening the top to look inside. His throat tightened, and he stepped away.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he asked.

  “I told you, a gift.”

  Ulrich kicked it to Darrel, who opened it without hesitation. Pulling it out by the hair, the captain held a severed head, all the blood drained so that it did not drip across the cabin. The face was familiar, despite its pale color and obvious mutilation.

  “Who…?” Ulrich asked, trying to swallow down the lump in his throat.

  “Must I do everything?” The Wraith stepped off the bed, the movement startling both of them.

  Ulrich felt certain the man would draw his sword, but he kept it sheathed… for now. Once again Ulrich looked at the severed head, trying to make out the face. The bulbous nose, the slender chin. Familiar…

  When it hit, he put his back to the wall and held out his dagger.

  “An attack on one of us is an attack on us all,” he said, wishing he sounded braver than the panicked whine that came from his lips.

  “Please,” the Wraith said, offering him an elegant bow. “I look forward to your retaliation.”

  He kicked open the door and sprint
ed across the deck, leaving their line of sight before either could react. The moment he was gone, Darrel tossed the head back into the bag.

  “What the fuck was that?” asked the captain.

  “I don’t know,” Ulrich said, feeling his legs go weak. “But you’re holding the head of William Amour.”

  The two exchanged a look. William Amour, one of the six Merchant Lords of Angelport, of which Ulrich was also a member…

  “Shove a rock in its mouth and toss it overboard,” Ulrich said. “I will accept no blame for this.”

  “Will do.”

  Still trying to regain his composure, Ulrich exited the cabin. Much of the cargo was unloaded, and his own people scurried about the dock, directing the crates to various stores, merchants, and warehouses. If any had noticed the Wraith and his strange garb, none showed it. He spoke with a few to calm himself down more than anything else, then hurried north. With the sea vanishing behind him, along with its salty smell and vulgar cries of sailors, Ulrich felt much better. As he walked, he checked to make sure nothing untoward stained his fine clothing. He would be arriving late to the funeral, but so long as he looked dashing, he wouldn’t mind.

  Normally Ulrich traveled without guards, but the incident with the Wraith had him rethinking that policy. Still, the streets were generally regarded as safe, so long as you were of high enough station that the city guards left you alone. At various gateways between walls, soldiers made sure the riffraff stayed in their appropriate place. In the outer ring, Ulrich curled south to meet his brother in the Keenan mansion. At their gate, he was searched well, which would have insulted him if he hadn’t known of the attack weeks prior. Doing everything he could to push the Wraith and that severed head from his mind, he joined the service held within.

  About fifty people mingled throughout the first few rooms of the mansion, drinking wine and conversing in soft tones. Many candles hung from the ceiling, but only a third were lit, keeping the mood of the place somber. The walls were elegantly painted into a representation of stone, the carpet a deep blue, which seemed to grotesquely resemble blood in the dim orange light. Before anyone noticed his arrival, Ulrich spotted his brother Stern alone in a corner and joined him.

  “I assume I haven’t missed the burial,” he said, motioning over a servant so he might have a drink. He knew he was pushing it given how much he’d downed in Darrel’s cabin, but he needed all the help he could get to remain calm.

  “Lady Gemcroft just arrived,” said Stern. “It’ll be a while before the pointless introductions are finished and we can begin. At least the Conningtons are still bickering about who will be ruling what. There’s a few minor members from their household here, but no one powerful enough we have to kiss their ass. And no one as fat and disgusting as that fat bastard Leon was.”

  Stern looked him up and down, then frowned. “Are you all right?”

  The two were not twins, but they looked enough alike that most people thought they were. They had the same blond hair, pale skin, and brown eyes. Stern was older, though, and taller by an inch. That was often the only difference. They’d gotten along well enough that when their father died, the two had amicably split the inherited wealth, vaulting the both of them into powerful positions among the Merchant Lords. With how similar they were, and how alike their minds worked, Ulrich was not surprised that Stern could sense his unease.

  “Do not worry about me,” he said. “I’m here for you, after all. To lose Julie like that…”

  Stern finished his glass, then set it down hard on a nearby shelf. “It’s the damn Trifect,” he said. “They’re no better than the thieves they warred with for years, and my daughter had to get into the middle of it. Madelyn won’t even let me hold my own granddaughter—you know that? As if I am the dangerous one. Knew Julie shouldn’t have married Taras, married into that privileged, murderous circle of—”

  “Enough,” Ulrich said, glancing about to make sure no one heard. “You know why we let her, what we all stood to gain. Their marriage was to help create peace. Don’t ruin that now by ranting like a drunken idiot at their funeral!”

  Stern took a deep breath and nodded. “Forgive me,” he said, tears breaking through his steely façade. “I have not slept well in weeks. She was everything to me, Ulrich. Now she’s gone, and why? The whim of a madman? What could he want?”

  Ulrich thought of the meeting with the Wraith on the Fireheart and decided now was not the time to discuss it.

  “Go wash your face,” he said, squeezing his brother’s shoulder. “I’ll mingle fine on my own while you compose yourself.”

  Stern thanked him and left. After refilling his drink, Ulrich wandered through the mansion, paying more attention to the art than the people. The three families of the Trifect might be arrogant, overconfident, and wasteful, but they had good taste in paintings. While admiring a portrait of a paladin, the right half of the canvas purposely charred and burned, he heard someone clear their throat behind him.

  “Glad for you to be here, albeit late,” said the soft-spoken Laurie, offering his hand as Ulrich turned around.

  Ulrich shook it while looking over the grieving father. His dark skin looked pale, and he’d cut his long ponytail as a sign of mourning. Ulrich tried to hide his annoyance that the ever-perceptive Laurie had realized he’d arrived late. Some might consider that an insult, and he did his best to apologize.

  “Pressing matters delayed me,” he said. “I fear someone lost their head over them.”

  Laurie winced, and Ulrich had to bite his tongue to keep from chuckling. He’d forgotten the most prevalent rumor was that Taras had been found decapitated, with his wife’s head lying in his lap. Ulrich had doubted the truth of it, but Laurie’s reaction made him wonder. Well, that and his little present in the bag earlier on the Fireheart.

  “I hope business continues well for you,” Laurie said, pushing the conversation to safer topics.

  “Better than ever. There’s an opportunity we’ve discovered that should bring our wealth right up with yours, Laurie. I wonder, do you think there’s any more room in the Trifect for a promising merchant like myself?”

  Laurie’s smile was so patronizing Ulrich once more bit his tongue.

  “In hundreds of years, we’ve never had more than our three families,” said Laurie. “If you truly desire it, though, we can arrange a marriage, perhaps with one of Jack Connington’s nieces—”

  Ulrich snorted. Some niece? He wanted his family brought into the Trifect, not pushed aside to be married to some far-distant relative’s brat.

  “Sorry,” he said, interrupting Laurie. “I don’t much care for arranged marriages. They rarely turn out well.”

  The barb hit like he’d hoped, and Laurie’s anger shook through his carefully controlled performance.

  “Pardon me,” he said. “I should speak with the priest before he begins the services.”

  With him gone, Ulrich wandered further, seeing few familiar faces. It was only because of his brother that he was there at all. The Trifect kept to itself, except when it came time to collect its debts.

  A lovely lady caught his eye, distracting him from the paintings. She wore a revealing violet dress, and unlike most women of Angelport, she kept her hair cut short at the neck. Running a hand through his hair to make sure it was smooth, he joined her side.

  “Would you like a drink?” he asked, seeing her hands empty.

  “Are you a servant?”

  Her voice was husky, deep. Her exoticness elevated her beauty in his eyes.

  “Of course not,” he said, laughing as if amused by the error. “I am Ulrich Blackwater, merchant and proprietor of many wondrous items from all across Dezrel. I merely ask because you seemed alone, and I would hate for your shyness to keep you from enjoying yourself.”

  “Not alone,” she said. “I am merely watching.”

  She nodded toward an elegantly dressed woman across the hall. Ulrich tried to see if he recognized her, but did not. One of the lesser ladies of Angelport, perhaps, or from nearby Omn?

  “I have given you my name but have not had the pleasure of yours,” he said, bringing his attention back to her.

  “Zusa Gemcroft,” she said, still cool toward him.

  Ulrich took another drink, not yet frustrated. Something was clearly off with this woman, which made her all the more interesting.