A Dance of Shadows Page 9

  Tarlak’s eyes widened. “Now that’s what I like to hear,” he said, grinning.

  “He’s striking at night,” Haern said, glaring at Tarlak. “And he bears a grudge against both the Spider Guild and the Gemcroft family. Any ideas?”

  “Perhaps a rival guild?” Tarlak asked.

  Haern shrugged. “Maybe a rogue thief wanting the truce ended?”

  Neither idea sounded right, didn’t have that correct feel in the gut. And then Delysia spoke.

  “What about Victor?” she asked.

  Haern and Tarlak exchanged a glance.

  “He’s made his hatred of the thief guilds clear,” Delysia insisted.

  “He has no love of the Trifect, either,” Zusa said, and she told them of Victor’s visit to Alyssa’s mansion just that morning.

  “No,” Haern said. It made sense, but still he shook his head. “I don’t believe it. He’s doing this with a sense of purpose, a sense of honor. Brutal murders, mocking rhymes… how does that help him? What agenda does that serve?”

  Tarlak frowned, and he bit his lower lip as he thought.

  “Zusa,” he said, glancing at the woman. “Tell Alyssa we accept her request, and I’ll have a contract brought to you before tonight. We’ll start patrolling the Spider Guild territory come nightfall, see if we can spot him attempting kill number four. All of us except Haern, that is.”

  “You want me to watch Victor,” Haern said. “Don’t you?”

  “Consider it protecting him,” Tarlak said, standing. “That is, if he’s innocent. And if he’s not, well…” The wizard shrugged. “You’ll be right there to stop him, won’t you?”

  Haern thought of the way Victor had responded to seeing the body in the alley. His anger, his revulsion… that couldn’t have been an act. Could it? The timing would have been difficult, but he didn’t have to be the one committing the killings himself.

  “It’s not him,” Haern said, reaching for his sabers.

  “I hope it isn’t,” Zusa said as she went to the door. “Because his scribe sits in our mansion, recording our every deed. Find him quickly, Eschaton. Our city is dangerous enough without a madman.”

  Silence greeted them as the door closed behind her. Haern stood there, feeling unsure, then buckled his sabers to his belt.

  “Where are you going?” Delysia asked.

  “To speak with a contact,” Haern said. “If the Spider Guild is being targeted, someone in their organization might have an idea why.”

  “Be careful,” she told him.

  He leaned in close to gently kiss her cheek.

  “I will,” he said. “I promise.”

  “You sure it’s safe to be out here?” Peb asked as they neared the castle. His wide eyes darted every which way, as if guards were trying to sneak from all directions. With his big ears, the act reminded Alan why Peb had once been called Mouse.

  “I’m not sure it’s safe to be anywhere in Veldaren right now,” Alan said, twirling a copper coin between his thumb and forefinger, something he did when nervous. “So why should the castle be any worse?”

  Peb nodded toward the rows of men and women waiting to be interrogated by Lord Victor’s men.

  “Maybe because one of them people might be blubbering our names any second?”

  Alan ran a hand through his long dark hair.

  “Thren wants answers, wants something new, so either we get him something new, or we get a tongue-lashing… if we’re lucky. Given the mood he was in, I’m not willing to gamble on that. I’d rather tempt the city guards than the boss.”

  Peb didn’t look convinced, but Alan didn’t care. The guy was a coward, and more important, he hated to be alone. He’d follow Alan so long as things still looked safe. Alan patted his own leg, glad for the dagger hidden there. Taking a deep breath, he summoned his courage and then walked out from the alley and into the main street, where the interrogations continued. Peb quickly followed. The two were in ratty clothing, their faces dirty, their hands callused. Anyone who bothered to notice them would think them nothing but poor, hungry peasants. At least that was the hope.

  Alan led the way, faking a limp toward the lines. At the front he saw scribes jotting down the guts that their current pigeons spilled. Not that Alan blamed them. When your life was on the line, or the coin was right, honor was nothing but a hindrance. Making as little noise as possible, he listened as they got closer, hoping to catch an errant phrase, but a soldier noticed them before he could.

  “Stay back, you two,” said the armored man, his hand already on his sword. He stood between them and the tables of scribes. On his chest was a tabard bearing a crest Alan did not recognize, some strange circle with wings drawn in gold. “Any closer, and I’ll think you a threat.”

  “Forgive me,” Alan said, bowing low and turning away. Peb followed, saying nothing.

  “That was pointless,” Peb mumbled.

  “Did you see Lord Victor?”

  Peb shook his head. “No. You?”

  Alan glanced back, scouring the guards, the lines, the scribes.

  “Not here,” he said. “But only twelve or so are set to talk. Yesterday had far more.”

  “He’s slowing down?” Peb asked.

  Alan shrugged. “Either that, or he’s being more careful. Never know if…”

  He had about two seconds to react before it hit. Alan grabbed Peb by the arm and pulled him hard into the side of a building. His shoulder throbbed upon slamming the wood, and Peb let out a cry when he struck his forehead, having been unable to twist in time. Still, it was better than being impaled by the barrage of arrows that sailed toward Victor’s proceedings. Over twenty men stood far down the road, bows and crossbows in hand, their brown cloaks revealing their allegiance to the Hawks.

  “Impatient bastards,” Alan said before swearing up a storm. “Get down!”

  The two dropped as another barrage flew. Screams filled the air. The first barrage had landed among the guards and scribes, but the second was aimed solely at the men and women brought for interrogation. People fled in every direction, while the guards swarmed in a panic, some flinging the older scribes to the ground for protection, others rushing to meet the new threat.

  “We need to get out of here!” Peb said, scrambling out from beneath Alan.

  “Thren will want to know what happened here!”

  Peb spun about, shaking his head. “Then let him come count the bodies.”

  Alan looked back, saw the soldiers rushing with swords drawn. Arrows and bolts shot toward them, no longer in an organized barrage. Some men dropped, but most endured, even those who were hit. Their armor was thick, and the thieves used small bows and crossbows designed to take out fellow thieves, to pierce cloth, not metal. Alan thought to draw his dagger, then realized that might label him as being on the side of the Hawks. So instead he hunkered down and pretended to cower as the battle unfolded.

  Seven soldiers, all bearing the same gold crest, crashed into the group of Hawks. At first Alan thought numbers would lead the thieves to victory, but the initial exchange proved otherwise. Victor’s men had long blades granting them better reach, their armor protecting them from the quick, weak thrusts of daggers. Hawks dropped in a bloody clash, the thieves’ attempt to swarm and surround failing miserably. Half were dead before they had the presence of mind to flee.

  “Damn,” Alan whispered, watching the display. Victor’s men were well trained; he’d give them that. Glancing the other way, he saw the remnants of the interrogations. Most interrogators had fled into the castle, carrying parchments with them. Nine bodies lay amid the overturned desks, their blood mixing with ink. Alan chuckled. Would anyone be surprised? Victor had come in and openly mocked the guilds. Surely he didn’t expect to go unscathed…

  When he turned back to the battle, he expected to see a rout, Victor’s men chasing in vain after a scattered collection of Hawks. Instead he watched the trap fully unfold. As the remaining men on the ground fled, twenty more emerged from the rooft
ops, all armed with crossbows. Bolts flew down like lethal rain. Despite their armor, the soldiers could do nothing, not against that many attackers. They ran toward the safety of the castle—the few who lived beyond the first volley—blood dripping from bolts embedded in their arms, legs, and chests. With even fewer targets to pick from, the second volley was worse. Alan winced as the last died, some with over five bolts thudding into their backs.

  A trumpet sounded, bringing Alan’s attention to the castle. He caught a glimpse of castle guards rushing out with swords drawn, but then something grabbed his cloak and pulled, hard. He was thrown into the same alley Peb had fled into, though Peb appeared long gone. Rolling to his knees, Alan looked up to see the Watcher standing at the entrance to the alley, a black shadow in the daylight.

  “Stay here,” he said, drawing his sabers.

  That was it, that one command, and then he rushed off, moving fast enough to be a blur. Alan rubbed his neck, muttered, and rose to his feet. Despite the Watcher’s fearsome reputation, he had no intention of missing this. Returning to the alley entrance, he peered out to watch the carnage.

  Fifteen castle guards ran out to engage the Hawks. Unlike Victor’s men, they wielded shields, and kept them raised to protect themselves from the arrows. For a brief moment, it looked as if the Hawks were going to make a stand against them as well. A few climbed down, forming a line of fifteen while the rest fired into the group of soldiers.

  And then the Watcher arrived, tearing through their ranks upon the rooftop. He struck from behind, killing several before they knew they were under attack. The distance was too great for Alan to see clearly, but the gray of the Watcher’s interlocking cloaks looked like a phantom, darting and weaving throughout their numbers, never still, never hesitating. One after another dropped dead. When the arrows from up top stopped, the soldiers below lowered their shields and charged. The Hawks, without armor or significant weaponry, did the intelligent thing and fled. They could easily outrun and outmaneuver the city guard. The Watcher, on the other hand…

  Alan sank deeper into the alley, glancing about to see if any eyes watched. The last thing he wanted was to be spotted. He liked living, and wanted to keep doing it for many, many years. Minutes passed, and with ebbing interest Alan listened to the various trumpets and calls by the guards. At last he heard a soft rustle of cloak. Turning, he held down a startled cry upon finding the Watcher mere feet away.

  “Did you know this was to happen?” the Watcher asked.

  Alan reached out a hand. The Watcher glared, then tossed a small bag of coins at him. Alan caught it, and within seconds the bag had vanished into one of his many pockets. He didn’t have to check it. The Watcher paid in silver, and always in significant amounts. Buying information from the Spider Guild was not cheap, and selling it wasn’t safe, given how vicious Thren could be. But Alan wasn’t one to let fear or honor get in the way of making a healthy sum of coin.

  “We hadn’t heard a word,” Alan said, crossing his arms and leaning against a wall. “But then again, Kadish Fel’s always been a bit of a hothead since taking over for his older cousin Vel. He’s getting ballsy if he thinks his guild can take Lord Victor all on his own.”

  “What do you know about Lord Victor?”

  Alan shrugged. “Just what everyone knows. Can’t help you there.”

  The Watcher frowned, clearly displeased. “I’m starting to doubt giving you your coin.”

  Alan chuckled. “I never promise what I tell will be useful, or new to you. But I dare you to find anyone else insane enough to sell out Thren Felhorn.”

  “Enough. Tell me this, then… what do you know about the murders, the ones being claimed by the Widow?”

  Alan grunted, caught off guard by the question. Reaching into his tattered vest, he pulled out one of the silver coins the Watcher had paid him with and began twirling it in his fingers.

  “Honestly, we don’t know shit. I might have believed it was you, if I thought you had the ability to rhyme. The two dead, Bert and Troy, neither of them was special, or even important. No one’s seen nothing, and no one’s heard nothing.”

  “What were the two doing when they were killed?”

  “Keep asking questions, I might think I don’t have enough silver in my pocket.”

  The Watcher’s glare made him chuckle, but his nerves were starting to rise. All it would take was one person telling Thren he’d been seen speaking with the Watcher, just a whisper of betrayal, and he’d be gutted from the Spider Guild’s rooftop… if he was lucky.

  “Fine,” he said. “I don’t know what Troy was doing, but Bert was out looking for whores. That help you any?”

  “Perhaps.” The Watcher pulled his dark hood lower across his face, then leaped from one side of the alley to the other, vaulting himself up to the rooftops. Once there, he spun on his haunches and spoke down to Alan.

  “I’ll find you three days from now, on your patrol by the south wall. If you can tell me anything about this Widow, I’ll pay you in gold.”

  “Should be paying me in gold anyway,” Alan said, but the Watcher was already gone. Turning to leave, he found a man leaning against one of the walls, his large frame blocking half the alley. His muscular arms were crossed over his chest, and he almost looked as if he were sleeping, with his wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes. Alan felt a chill, but the stranger bore no cloak, nor any other sign of allegiance to one of Veldaren’s various guilds. Hoping the man was there just to hide from the carnage, Alan walked past him toward the main street.

  As he did, the man let out a soft whistle, that of a songbird.

  Alan didn’t dare look back, nor acknowledge the blatant accusation. His hand dropped to his dagger. He slowed his walk, started to shift. But it was too late. Somehow the man was already halfway down the alley, his movement having gone completely unnoticed by Alan. The man turned, smiled at Alan, and then let out another bird whistle.

  “The songbirds are singing,” the stranger said, then laughed as he touched one of the nine rings in his left ear.

  Alan fled. He knew he should return to his guild, to tell Thren everything he’d seen. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Halfway across Veldaren he stepped into his favorite tavern, a silver coin in hand. He’d still tell Thren, but he needed a lot more alcohol in him to keep from shaking, keep his perceptive guildmaster from seeing the terror in his eyes. With every sip he took, he heard the whistle, the accusation.

  It didn’t matter which guild you were in, or even which city. Songbirds died.

  “Keep it coming,” he told the tavern wench, pushing away the change she’d brought for the silver. “Go until there ain’t a damn thing left of it.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  Are you sure you would not prefer an escort?” John asked her as Melody put a simple sun hat atop her head and straightened it.

  “I’m quite fine without soldiers following me everywhere I go,” she said, smoothing out her dress. “But I’ve been shuttered in far too long, and I’d like to visit the market without it causing a stir.”

  John hardly looked pleased, but that didn’t bother Melody much. She smiled at him, even when he crossed his arms and looked from side to side, as if trying to find the proper words.

  “But you’re Alyssa’s mother, and she has many enemies. I would hate if they were to… harass you while unprotected.”

  “Her enemies are not mine,” Melody said as she exited the door to the mansion. “For no one knows I exist anymore.”

  “They will soon,” John said as the door shut behind her. Head high, she crossed the walkway, nodding at the guards stationed at the outer gate. She wore a simple dress, her hair tied back into a low ponytail. Nothing about her showed her station, showed her to be anything beyond a simple servant going out to the market on an errand. And it was true, really, except that the errand at the market was not that of making a purchase.

  No, she had a meeting, one not for strangers’ eyes.

  A bounce came to
her step as the mansion faded away behind her, soon lost as she took a turn southeast. It’d been so long since she’d gone to the market, she felt her heart begin to race as the painfully familiar noises slowly neared. The smells, the bustle, the constant murmur of discussion that washed over it all like a river. Everything invoked a life she had so long lost to darkness and the needles of the gentle touchers. Not that they’d come much for her, not even in those first few months after Maynard had given her over to Leon.

  No, her torture had been far worse. Her torture had been the fat man’s lips on her neck, his chubby fingers on her breasts.

  But Leon was dead, she was alive, and the marketplace thrived with food and clothes and fruited drinks and alcohols of every possible strength and age. Stepping into the heart of the market, she felt lost and overwhelmed, and she loved every minute of it. She did not hurry, for she wanted to enjoy it, let it seep into her. People. Life. Everything around her was precious, was something that needed to be saved. And save it she would.

  Everything she did, she would do, would be to save it from the coming nightmare.

  “Interest a very lovely lady in perfume?” asked a boy far too young to be alone without his father, but young enough to use his cute face to his advantage.

  “No thank you,” she told him as she flicked him a copper piece. “But thank you for the flattery.”

  He smiled at her, most likely because of the coin, and not the actual act of kindness. He’d probably have smiled just as wide if she’d dropped the copper while walking past. But it felt good to give, and it was good to hear a man call her beautiful, even if he looked hardly older than ten. Any man, any boy, the very act helped wash away Leon’s words echoing in her mind, always there when she lay down to sleep. It’d been two years since he’d touched her, but it didn’t matter. It never mattered.

  You’re so beautiful, Melody. So beautiful, so charming. You’re a light in my life, a light here in my dungeon…