A Dance of Death (Shadowdance Trilogy, Book 3) Page 9

  Zusa loved vulnerable targets.

  She dove into the water a hundred yards away, and with careful patience, drifted toward the boat. The water was cold, but not enough to cause her any harm unless she stayed in it too long. Unseen she brushed against the side of the boat and used her hands to steady herself from going underneath. Above, she heard someone snoring. Grabbing her daggers, she closed her eyes and waited. Through her lifelong training, she had gained the ability to traverse between shadows as if they were connected doorways. It took much of her strength, and had become harder with her turning her back on her god, Karak. But it could still be done, and upon the boat, there were many dark corners.

  “I deny you,” she whispered, amusing herself with the thought that Karak actually heard. “But I take your power still.”

  She dove underwater, swum directly beneath the boat, and then kicked toward the surface. Instead of striking the smooth underneath, she plunged wet and disorientated onto the deck. Taking in her surroundings, she leapt from behind a crate toward the lone alert guard. He’d turned, having heard the thump of her landing, but not yet realized someone had come aboard. Without slowing she lunged toward him, her daggers leading. One pierced his throat, preventing a death scream. The other slipped through his ribs and into his heart. The man convulsed for a few seconds, then fell limp at her feet.

  The two sleeping sailors died where they slept, their throats slit. Afterward she paused, listening for any sort of alarm. She heard none, so into the hold below she went.

  It couldn’t have been any more obvious. The hold was empty but for a single, solitary crate. Zusa tested its lid, but it was nailed shut, and she had nothing to open it with. Glancing about, she found a heavy sledgehammer and decided it would do. Surely no one would notice a minor commotion in the hold of a boat, not through its thick wooden walls. Lifting it, she smashed a hole through a side of the crate, then reached inside. It was mostly empty, and only after she pushed her whole arm inside did she touch several things along the bottom. She pulled one out and examined it. It was a simple leather bag, and curious, she opened its drawstrings.

  “So you’re the Violet?” she asked, hardly impressed. “Just a damn weed.”

  She sealed it, then tied its drawstrings about her wrist. That done, she wondered what to do about the rest...

  Zusa found some lamp oil stowed in the corner, and she poured it inside. Going back up top, she removed a torch from the ramp leading to the ship. With childish glee, she tossed the torch into the crate, which burst into flame. That glee turned to confusion as the first of the smoke billowed into her face. It hit her like the hammer she’d used to open the crate. Gasping even through the wrappings over her mouth, she crawled for the ladder back up top. Her stomach heaved, and her head felt painfully light. Climbing was a chore, for whenever she released a rung her hand shook violently.

  Get away, she thought, trying to push through the fog overcoming her mind. Keep moving. Move!

  She made it to the deck as the cargo hold filled with smoke. Tearing away the wrappings from her face, she gasped in the clean air, then vomited over the railing.

  What have you done to me? she wondered, stealing a glance at the bag tied to her wrist. Smoke had begun billowing from the belly of the ship, and she knew she had little time before streams of sailors and guards came to fight the fire. It was a brotherhood thing; no one let another’s ship burn if they could help it. She had to flee, but where? She nearly leapt into the water, figuring to swim to a discrete location before coming ashore, but stopped herself at the last moment. Her whole upper body was twitching sporadically, and she feared what might happen if she tried to swim.

  Like a drunk, she staggered down the plank. Already a guard had come at a steady jog to investigate the smoke.

  “Is there a fire?” he asked, as if he thought Zusa were a victim of it instead of the cause. When he came closer, and saw her strange clothing, he tensed and drew his sword. Zusa knew at any other time she could have cut him down, but not now. Panic swirled through her as her muscles twitched with a feeling that almost approached pleasure. Her brain in a fog, with shimmering lines moving into her vision as if sprouting from her neck itself, she almost lay down right there and succumbed to the sensation. Instead she swallowed hard, tried to gather her senses, and stumbled on by, ducking underneath the guard’s half-hearted swing.

  “Stop!” he called out. “Fire!”

  Faster and faster she ran. Her heart hammered in her chest so hard she worried it might burst. Every time she thought to hide in shadows, she saw things there, vague and shapeless. Her outfit, normally excellent at hiding her form in the darkness, now only made her stand out as different from the rest. Gasping in air, she cut down alleys and streets whenever she saw someone approach. Her legs felt numb, yet strangely her feet throbbed. She frequently heard the shouts of men chasing, and at one point even a pack of dogs tracking her scent.

  No, she thought. Not real. Think, Zusa. Think!

  But she couldn’t. The last remnants of pleasure had faded into stark terror that became overwhelming the moment she stopped moving. Her skin itched, as if spiders crawled underneath her wrappings. She had no idea where she was, how far she’d gone. At one point she wanted to tear off all her clothes and let whoever found her do whatever they wished, so long as she didn’t have to be afraid of them. Another time she nearly killed the first shape she saw. She’d even drawn her daggers, but there was blood on them, and for some strange reason that frightened her all the more. It was as if her senses had been heightened a hundredfold, and everything carried hidden danger.

  At last she passed a shop that had built a deck across the front. She rolled underneath it, into the cramped space. Finally enveloped in a closed, safe place, she tried to catch her breath. Her heart hammered, and she shivered in wet clothing. She curled her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms tight about them, and waited. Time became meaningless. With each passing moment, her terror subsided, replaced once more by an overwhelming sense of euphoria. Despite her dismal surroundings, she had to fight an impulse to touch herself all over. Teeth clenched, hands gripping her elbows, she rode it out, praying for morning.

  Come the rise of the sun, she had not slept a wink. Her whole body felt numb, her mouth dry. Her mind was empty, like someone had scooped out her insides with a spoon. All she could think about was shutting her eyes and hoping the blackness that followed would take those feelings away, but she couldn’t. Guards might still be searching for whoever set fire to the boat, and she’d appear quite guilty hiding underneath a deck in strange clothing. Crawling out, her clothes covered with crusted dirt, she looked about to decipher her surroundings. Despite what felt like her eternity of running, she was less than a quarter of a mile from the docks.

  The city was yet to wake, though there was a moderate bustle of activity near the docks. Zusa ran for the Keenan mansion, frustrated with the stiffness of her joints. The bag of Violet bounced against her wrist, and she looked at it with far more respect. If any saw her run back, none said anything, and that didn’t surprise her. Paranoia seemed to linger in the back of her mind, but she could control it now, keep it at bay. At the front gates of the mansion she tore off the rest of her facial wrappings and demanded entrance. The two guards had been made aware of her stay, and they hurried to open the gate so none might see her.

  She used the servants’ entrance, went directly to her room, and collapsed on their bed. Hoping to fall asleep any moment, she was annoyed to hear the door open, and then Alyssa stepped inside.

  “Are you well?” Alyssa asked.

  “No,” Zusa said, and she laughed, for she could think of nothing else to say.

  “You’re soaked,” Alyssa said, frowning. Her hand pressed against Zusa’s forehead. “Feverish, too. Get off the bed. I’ll help you undress.”

  Feeling like a sick child, Zusa sat on the edge of the bed as Alyssa removed her wrappings one layer at a time. Once she was naked, Alyssa pulled a plain white dr
ess over her head. Only then did she let her roll back onto the bed and underneath the covers.

  “I found it,” Zusa said, nodding toward the bag that now lay on the floor. “I found the Violet.”

  Alyssa picked up the bag and placed it in a pocket of her dress without looking inside.

  “Rest now,” she said. “I’ll hear of what happened when you’re well.”

  Her body still occasionally twitching, Zusa sighed deeply, laid her head on the pillow, and tried to rest.

  “Wait,” she said as Alyssa was just about to close the door. “Where’s Haern?”

  Alyssa frowned, and she looked away.

  “When you’re awake,” she said, then shut the door, leaving Zusa in blessed darkness.

  As they left Ingram’s mansion behind them, Haern found his unease growing. Ahead ran the Wraith, his dark twin, the very man he’d been brought to kill. He’d told Ingram the same. Yet why did he keep his sabers sheathed? Why did he follow, instead of attack?

  “You fall behind,” the Wraith shouted, glancing back. Despite their exertion, he wasn’t even winded, and that faint smile remained. Haern felt challenged, and he increased his pace. He should attack, he knew he should attack, but two things bothered him. Why had the Wraith helped save his life, and why had he sent him a challenge half a country away? He wanted answers. He’d expected to get them at the tip of saber, but if he could get him talking first...

  They approached the docks. With the buildings built closer together, the Wraith vaulted to the roof of one, pulling himself up by grabbing the edge with hardly a slow in his momentum. Haern replicated the feat, wishing he were as nimble as Zusa. For her, it was as if she could turn off the inevitable fall back to ground. They raced along the rooftops, the homes crammed together, the roofs flat but for a slight tilt facing the ocean. When they reached a heavy crossroad separating the rest of the city from the taverns and docks, the Wraith stopped.

  “You came,” he said, his smile nearly ear to ear.

  Haern nodded, fighting to catch his breath without showing it. He kept his voice steady and slow to mask it.

  “What choice did I have?”

  The Wraith laughed.

  “Always a choice. Isn’t that the way of men, after all? You could have ignored me. You could have stayed in Veldaren. Instead you traveled here. Why?”

  “You’re killing innocents, all to send me a message. I couldn’t allow it any longer.”

  “Innocent?” Again, he laughed. “What do you know of this city, Watcher? Nothing. You know nothing, and that is what I’ve come to show you. Veldaren is a temple of saints compared to here.”

  He gestured to the street below. Wary of a trap, Haern leaned closer to the edge and looked down. Four men gathered in the alley, all with the sword tattoos on their faces. At their feet was a corpse, which they rifled through, taking any valuables. Haern drew his sabers, furious at the sight.

  “These men protect the city?” he asked, incredulous.

  “Ingram’s hired any thug with a blade to work for him. Once they were pirates, mercenaries, thieves; now they are the protectors of the innocent. Reminds you of someone, yes?”

  Haern felt his chest tighten.

  “You know nothing of me, Wraith. I do not shed innocent blood.”

  “Is that so? Neither do I. How much do you truly know of the Trifect, and what it’s done? Or how about the Merchant Lords? You’ve walked into a fire, Watcher, blind and dumb. I must say, I had higher hopes than this.”

  He gestured to the guards below.

  “Go. Men rob and take from a murdered man. Give them their due.”

  The Wraith tilted his head at him, as if staring from beneath that strangely dark hood. Haern thought of the four, and the forty that would hang if he took their lives—as he would have in Veldaren.

  “If I deliver justice for the innocent, more innocent will die,” Haern said. “Is that what you’ve brought me here for?”

  The Wraith shook his head, and there was a hint of disappointment in his sigh.

  “I thought you better than that. Innocents will always die. Will you let those with power hide behind them forever?”

  He leapt off the building, his black cloak trailing behind him. Haern leaned over the edge, and he knew he had only a fraction of a second to decide. The four guards were below, preparing to dispose of the body in a way that would prevent them any trouble. No matter what he did, more people would die. Except for one option.

  Haern leapt off the building after him, his sabers drawn.

  The Wraith’s descent ended in a bloody eruption of gore as his sword pierced the nearest guard’s back, punching through his chest. Upon landing, he spun, yanking the blade free and slashing for a second. It tore through his throat. The guard collapsed to his knees, clutching his neck as it gushed. The Wraith continued spinning, his blade turning on the third. It would have opened his chest, but Haern was there, his sabers blocking the strike.

  “Get away!” he screamed to the other two, who needed little encouragement. They fled, all the while crying out for more of the city guard.

  The smile was gone from the Wraith’s face.

  “You protect guilty men, all because you fear the actions of other guilty men,” he said, slowly falling into a stance. “A shame.”

  Haern watched the man’s movements carefully. Already he’d seen enough to know he was brutally efficient with his attacks, which came with lightning intensity. The Wraith tilted his sword, shifted a foot, and then lunged. Haern let out a gasp, still surprised by the speed. He blocked the slash for his neck with his left saber while thrusting with his right. The Wraith stepped aside, looped his sword about, and thrust again. When he tried to parry it, Haern found the longer blade shifting aim, a subtle dip that threw his entire defense off. Falling back, he smashed the attack back with both his sabers. In the distance, they heard guards rallying.

  “Tell me why,” Haern said, slowly shifting side to side to get his cloaks into motion. “Why did you summon me? Why am I here?”

  “I thought you could help me,” the Wraith said. “But it seems you are not the man I thought you were.”

  Haern spun, flinging his cloaks about. He let the gray fabric hide his movements, disguise the motion of his hands and the location of his sabers. His cloakdance had only one risk, and that was the brief span of time he lost sight of the Wraith as he turned. On the third rotation, he saw a great puff of smoke where the Wraith had been. Haern hesitated, then realized his error. A heel slammed into his back, and he let out a cry of pain. Rolling across the ground, he desperately blocked as the Wraith came slashing in, repeatedly battering his sabers so they could never settle into position.

  The Wraith’s movements grew faster, and Haern fought solely on instinct, nervous to use the cloakdance again. A high feint fooled him, and in came the Wraith’s foot, blasting the air from his chest.

  “You made an entire city fear your name,” the Wraith said as his sword stabbed and cut. Nothing about him gave away his intentions, and everything about his stance and reactions was unfamiliar. Haern could not fall into a rhythm. The few times he tried to riposte or counter, he found himself stabbing air, or cancelling the hit to prevent having his throat slashed open. The sound of steel rang out a chorus, and Haern knew he was losing the song.

  “I thought you were the best!”

  The sword tip cut a gash across his arm, just enough to bleed. Haern retreated on instinct, only to realize he’d put his back against a wall. The Wraith positioned himself directly across, his legs tensed to lunge. There’d be no escaping. The sword was a blur, and Haern blocked the first four hits. The fifth plunged through his shoulder, and he screamed.

  “I was wrong,” the Wraith said, twisting the blade, eliciting another scream.

  A trio of arrows whizzed by, one punching a hole through the Wraith’s hood. The man freed his sword and fell back as dozens of city guards came rushing in. Haern tried to give chase, but the Wraith suddenly darted back
at him, his heel smashing Haern’s forehead. Vision a blur, he dropped to the ground, his sabers falling from his lifeless hands. As he lay there, he watched feet march by. Rough hands rolled him onto his back. Haern screamed. It felt like pain was everywhere in his body, yet nowhere in particular. Through the tears in his eyes, he saw men peering down at him, familiar tattoos across their faces.

  “Sure it’s him?” asked one.

  “Damn sure. I’d be dead if not for him.”

  “Thought he went after Ingram, though?”

  The rest fell silent. Haern tried to ask for water, but his voice came out a mumble.

  “Take him to the dungeon,” said the biggest of the men. “We got time to figure it out.”

  They grabbed Haern by his arms and legs. When they lifted him, his shoulder exploded with waves of agony. He knew ten different litanies against pain, techniques to hang onto consciousness no matter how horrible the trauma. Haern used none of them, and slipped away.

  8

  When Ingram awoke, he was in an irritable mood. His shoulder hurt despite the tonic his healer had given him, preventing any real rest after the Watcher’s departure. Once out of bed, he bathed in a tub of hot water prepared by servants while he’d struggled for sleep. After bathing, the healer came and changed the wrappings.

  “Clean wound,” the old man said as he looked it over. “You’ll be fine.”

  “Just keep away the infection,” Ingram muttered.

  After he was gone, his captain of the guard stepped inside his bedroom and saluted.

  “What is you want?” Ingram asked.

  “We have him,” the captain said. “The Watcher.”

  Ingram went through the rest of his morning rituals with a smile on his face. Despite the first major meeting with the elves, all he could think about was making his way to the dungeon. Leaving his house, he exited the outer fences, accompanied by a small squad of guards. With murderous elves running about his city, he would not travel anywhere unprotected. Dug into the lower side of the hill he’d built his mansion on was Angelport’s dungeon. It had one entrance, sealed and watched day and night.