A Dance of Blades (Shadowdance 2) Page 7

  “He’s sick and wounded. What if he dies of fever?”

  Haern smiled, and he let the coldness he felt in his bones creep into his eyes.

  “How well do you trust your children, your wife, to tell the truth? I will know one way or the other what happened to him. Do not give me cause to wonder.”

  Matthew swallowed. “I understand. This land is harsh, and we’ve taken in children before. Once he heals up, and the weather breaks, I’ll take him where he needs to go. If he doesn’t know, well, there’s always a need for more hands on a farm.”

  Haern slapped him on the shoulder, nearly laughed at his terrified jump.

  “Good man,” he said. “Now how about a warm meal?”

  He ate some soup while he watched the wife tend to the boy. She put a wet cloth across his forehead, dressed his wounds far better than Haern had, and then used a spoon to slowly get him to drink. Haern was impressed. Seemed these Pensfields knew how to take care of themselves. Whoever the boy was, he could do far worse for a temporary home.

  The soup did wonders for his mood. Its warmth seeped deep into his chest and then spread to the rest of his limbs. With that and the heat of the wood stove, he felt warmed within and without. He could feel his muscles tightening from lack of motion after so much exertion, and he did his best to stretch in the cramped quarters.

  “You can spend the night here if you wish,” Matthew said as the day neared its end. “I’d be a sad man to banish a guest just as the sun sets.”

  “Thank you,” Haern said. He shifted farther away from the fire so the children could take a turn. He wrapped his blankets around his body and closed his eyes. For the first time in his entire life he found himself in a true home, with a real family. The children bickered, but there was a harmless familiarity to it. He thought of his own childhood, never spent with someone his own age, only the parade of tutors and mentors, training him to read, to write, to move, to kill. Had he ever curled up on the floor beside a fire, surrounded by a family that would never wish him harm? Had he ever been inside a house that felt at peace? Had he ever…

  He slept, and his dreams were dull and calm, and he did not remember them when he woke.

  CHAPTER 6

  It was Veliana’s third attempt at killing Deathmask, and the first she’d been personally involved with. She lay atop the roof of their headquarters, a crossbow in hand. The pale sun shone down on her, and she found herself thankful for the winter. In any other season she’d have been sweating like mad on the roof’s shadeless wood slats.

  “What if you miss?” asked Garrick, who stood behind her so he couldn’t be seen from the street.

  “Then Rick will take him down,” Veliana said. She pointed to the building on the opposite side of the street. A man in gray lay atop it, a crossbow beside him.

  “I can’t believe he’s not dead yet,” said Garrick as he took a chunk of crimleaf from his pocket and began chewing. “Are our men truly so incompetent?”

  Veliana rolled her eyes. The first attempt to kill Deathmask had been a simple stabbing in the night. She’d selected one of their lower-ranking thugs for the deed. They’d found the thug’s body rotting beside Deathmask’s bed in the morning. How he’d died, no one knew. Deathmask hadn’t shown the slightest irritation at the attempt, either. Veliana held in a chuckle. Shit, the guy had tossed her a wink on the way to breakfast.

  The second attempt had actually been three separate instances of poisoning his food. He hadn’t eaten any of it. The third time, Veliana caught him waving his hand over his meal. That same day both their cooks died vomiting blood. Garrick ranted and assumed they had mishandled the poison. Veliana knew differently.

  “We’ve given him a simple task,” Veliana said, sighting the crossbow on their door. “He’s to collect protection money from a handful of vendors a few blocks over. When he exits the door, he should see Rick preparing to fire. In fact, I’m counting on it. He’s too damn clever not to notice. Maybe he’ll run, or cast a spell, or pretend he doesn’t see. It won’t matter. That’s when I put an arrow through his back.”

  “So confident,” Garrick said. “Remember, if this fails, I make the next plan. This was your last chance to get things done safe and clean.”

  “I figured you’d like things safe,” she muttered.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I said we should reconsider. He’s clearly skilled. What if he isn’t here on someone else’s payroll? What if he really wants a position in our guild?”

  Garrick chuckled. “If he’s that good, why choose ours? We’re far from the most powerful. Others would have made more sense. Or why not become a mercenary? The pay would be better, and then he could kill our kind all he wants. I’m sure the Trifect would love to have him on their…”

  “Quiet,” Veliana hissed.

  The door opened, and out stepped Deathmask. He wore his red robes and the dark gray cloak of their guild. As always when he went out in public, he’d tied a gray cloth around his face, hiding all but his eyes and hair. His back was to her. She glanced at Rick, who shot her a thumbs-up. When she looked back down, Deathmask was staring up at her. Slowly he shook his head, as if berating a child.

  “Fuck,” Veliana whispered. She pulled back from the ledge as Garrick asked her what was going on. “He’s spotted me.”

  “Then Rick should…”

  He stopped as they both watched Rick tumble over the edge of the building, blood gushing from his mouth and ears. When his body hit the ground, Veliana let out an involuntary gasp. Rick hadn’t even fired, his crossbow lying useless atop the flat roof. Deathmask laughed, and he called out from the quiet street.

  “I’m disappointed, Vel! Only the one?”

  He walked west, and both remained silent as they watched him. Veliana hadn’t seen what he’d done to Rick, but hadn’t needed to. Deathmask was no normal thief or trickster. Only a spell could have done what she’d just seen, a dark and powerful one. She was playing a game against an opponent she knew nothing about. Such was a sure path toward losing.

  “That son of a bitch,” Garrick said. “He’s toying with us. He knows we want him dead, and he doesn’t care! If we don’t do something soon, I’ll be a mockery to the rest of the guild.”

  “Of course you will be,” Veliana said as she stood. “You’re trying to kill someone you accepted into our guild, all without any proof or reason. That is what will upset the rest of our guildmembers, not that you can’t kill him. So far you’ve been lucky enough to have Deathmask kill off everyone who’s ever been involved in the attempts, but word will get out in time.”

  She thought Garrick would explode, but instead he gave her an amused grin.

  “You failed, Vel, so now I choose the attempt. Enough of poison and cowardly arrows. It’s time you bloodied your hands.”

  “So long as you don’t have to bloody yours,” she said, offering him a mock bow. Her sarcasm hid her fear. She couldn’t back down, not when Garrick was starting to develop a spine. But did she really want to mess with Deathmask?

  She hung from the edge of the roof, dropped down to a windowsill, and then used it to fall to the street. A closer look confirmed what she’d already realized: Deathmask was equal to her in skill, if not superior. She found a thin razor embedded deep in Rick’s neck. No doubt Deathmask’s spell had required some sort of physical contact, and he’d thrown the razor as a way of carrying that spell. A simple but foolproof ambush, but it was her man who lay dead, not her target.

  Laughter floated down. She flipped Garrick a rude gesture, knowing he stood at the roof’s edge watching her. So be it. No matter what Garrick thought, the Ash Guild was hers, and she would remind him of that fact. No doubt he viewed her coming attempt as a win-win, for either she or Deathmask would die. There had to be another way. More important, she had to think of a replacement for him, and soon.

  “Bury Rick somewhere,” she said to her guards at the door as she marched inside to think.

  Any deviation from Death
mask’s normal routine would immediately alert him, so Veliana played it patient. Two days after the third failed attempt she had one of her lower-ranking members tell him he was to stay up late working as a guard. She hoped the tedium might dull his senses for when she struck. Despite his spotting her before, she took to the rooftop and waited. Four hours before dawn, when her own eyes started to droop, she decided it was time. She drank a mixture she’d prepared earlier in the day, a combination of strong tea and herbs. A few minutes later she felt the mixture kick in. Her head ached, but her drowsiness was gone.

  She drew her daggers and crept to the rooftop’s edge. No arrows or crossbows this time. If he really was a skilled spellcaster, her only chance was at close range, where she could disrupt the intricate movements needed to cast. She looked down and saw him standing several feet away from the building, keeping watch outside their safe house as instructed.

  Damn it, she thought. Won’t be a straight drop. He can’t possibly know I’m coming, can he?

  But of course he could. He might be able to read her mind for all she knew. Now was the time. He was mortal. He was fallible. She was the better. She had to prove that, not just to Garrick, but to herself.

  She leaped from the roof, silent as a ghost, her daggers aimed for his neck, her knees bent and ready to absorb the impact of their collision. She felt exhilaration soar through her, the wind blowing her hair as she fell. In that half-second she saw him turn, saw him step aside. She twisted, suddenly panicking. He’d known. Somehow he’d known.

  Rolling with the landing helped reduce the pain, but not by much. Scraping along the ground, one of her hands flooded with pain, jarred backward before suddenly going numb. The dagger fell from her limp fingers. She tumbled along, then forced herself out of the roll. Turning around, she expected her death, some sort of spell to sap her breath or explode her blood from her nostrils. Instead Deathmask stood there, shaking his head.

  “Not good enough,” he said. “I need you stronger, faster. Otherwise you are useless to me.”

  She clutched her numb hand to her chest and glared.

  “No matter what it is, I won’t help you,” she said. “I’ve worked too hard to let you destroy everything.”

  “Destroy?” Deathmask said as he looped his arms in a circle. “I’ve come to perfect, not destroy.”

  She lunged at him as shadows pooled around his feet, bursting upward to form a wall that her dagger could not penetrate. She stabbed again, then spun about looking for an opening. There was none. Unsure, she closed her eyes and focused. She’d be vulnerable, but so long as the shadow wall remained, she might have the time. Power was focused through her, channeled into her dagger. Purple fire surrounded the blade, and with a cry she thrust it forward. It broke through the wall, which shattered and vanished as if it were made of fine glass. She had the briefest moment to enjoy the look of panic on Deathmask’s face before her dagger cut flesh.

  It wasn’t fatal, and she cursed her foul luck. She’d guessed wrong where he stood, and her dagger only slashed his side and cut his robe. Warm blood spilled across her hand. They were so close it seemed time froze as they eyed one another, preparing the next moves for their dance. He drew a blade as he shifted away from her. Her kick sent it flying, and she stabbed again, wishing she had her other dagger. Deathmask fell back, his palms open. A light flashed from them, except it was black instead of white. It dazed her all the same, and her next two swings cut only air.

  “What is wrong?” she asked as she took two steps and jumped. Her heel smashed into his stomach, and he gasped as he crumpled to the ground. “Where is the brutal killer who bested all my plans?”

  Veliana dropped to one knee and thrust for his throat, not caring for his answer. He caught her wrist just as the tip of the dagger entered his flesh. A single drop of blood ran down his neck as they struggled. By the gods he was strong!

  “Still here,” he said, all trace of amusement gone. His voice was cold, merciless. She felt a shiver run up her spine. She jerked her arm back, but still he held her. His brown eyes met hers. If only she could tear off that damn mask of his. If only she could see his face, remind herself he was human, for his strength was unreal.

  She swept her left leg around, taking out his feet. He didn’t let go even as he fell. Together they hit the ground. The collision bumped her injured hand, and her fingers throbbed in agony. They had to be dislocated, if not broken. Still her dagger hovered inches from his flesh, unable to either attack or pull away. He landed on his back, and instead of rolling over he reached up and held her good arm with both hands.

  “I could burn your flesh until I clung to bone,” he said. His tone told her he spoke truth. “Are you ready to listen, or must I find another?”

  “No others,” she said as she prepared. “You won’t have the chance.”

  She dropped the dagger. Her legs kicked, pushing her into the air. Not high, just enough for her to drive her knees into his chest, blasting the air from his lungs. He still clutched her, but she rammed an elbow into his throat, denying him his next few words. She pressed her body against his, keeping the elbow tight. Their foreheads touched. Still he held her other hand.

  “What do you want? What is your game? Who are you?”

  She released the pressure on his throat just enough for him to speak. Her nerves remained on edge. The second he flinched, or said a syllable that sounded remotely like a spell, she’d crush his larynx and leave him gagging on the street.

  “I told you before, I have no name.” He stared at her, unafraid.

  “Bullshit. Everyone has a name.”

  “And mine was taken from me!”

  The anger seemed to warm his very body. Her arm flared with white-hot pain where he held it.

  “By who?” she asked, her voice low. She wanted him calm. She wanted answers before she ended his life.

  “The Council of Mages. They banished me, and stole my name away.”

  “Banished for what?”

  She heard him chuckle.

  “Everyone has their secrets, and I must have mine. What will you do, Veliana? Will you kill me? Or will you listen? I am your last hope. Your guild is crumbling, and you’ve lost control of Garrick, haven’t you?”

  Her hesitation was answer enough, so she didn’t bother to lie.

  “How do you know that?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  “I will answer nothing with an elbow on my throat. Let me up. I promise no harm will come to you tonight.”

  Her mind whirled as she thought. He was clever, and dangerous. She could kill him, but what would that gain her? Garrick would get what he wanted, his paranoia fed. Clearly this Deathmask had a plan, but whose? Could it be the Council’s? Did he lie about the banishment? No, his anger was too sincere. Despite the mask, she felt he spoke truth. Then what? What should she do?

  She thought of Garrick’s mockery, of his telling her how she needed him.

  “Stand then,” she said, letting him go as he released her wrist. “And let me hear you speak.”

  “I will not tell you everything,” he said as he stood and rubbed his throat. “Not until I can trust you, and perhaps not even afterward. For now, just know that my assignment from the Council was to … watch over the guilds. I know of your true skill and control, Veliana. I know that Garrick was but a puppet, and you were pulling the strings. But that isn’t the case anymore, is it? Something’s changed.”

  He retrieved one of her daggers and tossed it to her. She caught it in her good hand and sheathed the blade. Instead of continuing, he walked over and eyed her other hand.

  “If I wanted to hurt you, I’d have done so already,” he said when she tensed.

  His fingers brushed hers, feeling along the bone.

  “Dislocated,” he said. “Bite the hilt of your dagger if you must.”

  “Just do it.”

  One after the other he yanked the fingers back into place. The pain was immense, and after the third she leaned agains
t him, unable to stand. He held her steady, and when he finished he removed his mask and tied it around her hand as a bandage. Through the tears in her eyes she looked upon his face. The anger was gone. It had never been directed at her, just those who had banished him. She felt her curiosity grow. Just what did he plan for her guild?

  “Listen to me,” he whispered, as if suddenly worried others were listening. He leaned close, his cheek almost touching hers. “I cannot do this alone. I desire to create something special, something Veldaren has never before seen. You won’t be the new guildmaster, I won’t lie about that, but you will always be there as my right hand.”

  “Why would I trade Garrick for you if my position shall stay the same?”

  He smiled, a bit of his amusement returning to twinkle in his eye.

  “Because I respect you. Garrick only knows fear. Which would you prefer? And I will not replace Garrick, not entirely. My aim is greater. We will be legends in the underworld, Vel. All you must do is accept my wisdom.”

  She looked to her bandaged hand, then to his eyes.

  “I must think on it.”

  “Time is against me right now, but you may have a day and a night to decide. Garrick will soon stop his tricks and poisons and midnight arrows. A time will come when he publicly orders me to be executed by the rest of the guild, regardless of the fallout. I must have you at my side when that happens.”

  She pulled away.

  “Resume your post,” she said.

  “Of course, milady.”

  Before she could go, he put an arm in her way.

  “That trick with your dagger,” he said. “The violet flame … where did you learn to do something like that?”

  This time it was her turn to smile.

  “Everyone has their secrets.”

  He seemed amused, and he stepped aside so she could pass. She went into the headquarters, found her bunk, and lay down, not to sleep but to think. She felt lost and confused. There wasn’t anyone within the Ash Guild she could trust for advice, but there was one woman outside the guild who would die to protect her secrets. Someone who had saved her from a horrible death at the hands of a disgusting man who’d gone by the moniker of the Worm.