David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

“I thought you might sleep here,” Ghost said.

“Not much point in going home,” Bill said, stumbling back to his cot. “Only time I ever leave is to get drunk at a bar. It’s more interesting than getting drunk here, anyway.”

He crossed his arms, looked to sit, then changed his mind. Ghost could tell he wanted to ask dozens of questions but had far too much discipline to do so. Just one of many reasons the man had risen to his position when his time as a mercenary ended.

“I’ve been away,” Ghost said. “And not taking other jobs, either, so don’t hassle me about my dues. I’m out now, though, and have several kills already lined up.”

“An interesting person who’d hire you looking like, well…” Bill gestured to Ghost’s ratty clothing, his bare feet, and his clear lack of weaponry. “Like you do now. Did they dig you up out of the ground before offering the job?”

Ghost cracked a smile.

“You’re closer than you think, Bill. But I need coin, swords, and clothing. Given all I did for the guild, I feel I’m due.”

Bill frowned.

“You know I don’t keep any coin here overnight. Guild policy.”

Ghost gave him a look.

“All right, fine. Follow me, you bastard. But if I do this, I want one question answered after it’s all said and done. That fair?”

“Fair as this world can be.”

Only a third of the building was used to greet wealthy clientele needing to hire escorts outside the city, patrols for their property, or more permanent protection for their various farms, mines, and homes scattered throughout Dezrel. Past a door behind the counter, they entered the rest of the building, which was a single storage room. Two tall windows let in enough moonlight for him to see rows of shelves filling the center, and they were stocked with all kinds of weapons, armor, and clothing. Ghost beamed at the sight.

“Always knew I could count on you,” he said.

“Until you vanished, I could always count on you ,” Bill said.

Ghost glared at him, and the old man quickly apologized.

“Just take what you need,” he said. “I’ll write it off as an expense at bringing you back into the fold. A man of your skills could easily find work today, especially given all the insanity we’ve been seeing in the city lately.”

“Anything beyond the usual?” Ghost asked. “Or is Thren’s private war finally dying down?”

“Dying down?” Bill asked, and he looked confused. “That ended when the Watcher’s truce began. Was about the same time you vanished, Ghost. Most of us just thought you were one of the many casualties of that night.”

Watcher’s truce?

Ghost realized just how badly behind the times he was. Four years had passed, and in the underworld, such a span could be a lifetime. It wasn’t just food and water he’d been starved of by the gentle touchers.

“So, did this Watcher kill him?” Ghost asked as he lifted the lid on one crate to see five or six short swords. None looked in good enough condition for him to use, plus their length would not be sufficient to fully utilize his height and reach. “I don’t see Thren Felhorn as one to sign any sort of truce.”

“You’d think,” Bill said. “But no, Thren’s alive, at least last I knew. Things have gotten hectic, what with the Sun Guild’s arrival and the Spider Guild’s disbandment.”

Ghost froze, a plain gray shirt held before him to check its size.

“Disbandment?” he asked. “Bill, if you are trying to amuse me…”

“It’s too damn late for jokes,” Bill said, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe leading into the storage room. “The Sun Guild’s come in from Mordeina, and they’ve hit like a gods-damned thunderstorm. The Hawk Guild has been fully destroyed along with the Spiders, and both the Shadow Guild and the Serpent Guild are serving like the loyal little bitches that they are. As for the Wolf Guild, from what I’ve been hearing, it should fold within the week. I think the only ones left to fight are the Ash, but honestly, they’re fighting a hopeless struggle. Anyone can see that, and I’m sure they do too, hence why they’ve been lying low.”

“So, we trade one rat for another,” Ghost said. “Does the difference really matter in the end? Either way, the city remains filled with vermin.”

Bill shrugged.

“At least we used to know who the rats were. This Darkhand fellow is a giant mystery to most of us. When you’re in the business of killing, mysteries are rarely a good thing.”

Ghost removed his old shirt and replaced it with the new one. It was overly tight, but he flexed his arms a few times until it stretched. In the next crate, he found a stack of four breeches, and taking the biggest, he put them on next. Bill crossed his arms and turned away to give him some privacy.

“What can you tell me about the Gemcrofts?” Ghost asked as he tightened its drawstring, then grabbed a pair of boots he’d found during his scavenge.

“Alyssa’s still running things there, though not for long.” Bill turned back around, and he looked glum as he continued. “That crazy woman’s been great to our guild, always kept things interesting, but she’s in over her head now. Some sick man took out her eyes, left her blind. Her mother’s been steadily taking over responsibility, especially given Nathaniel’s age.”

“Nathaniel?”

“Her son.”

Ghost grunted, finished tying the boots, and then continued with his search for supplies. If Melody Gemcroft was coming to him to kill Alyssa’s protector as a way to ensure Melody’s ascension, then Bill was right about Alyssa’s days being numbered. His role looked to be little more than paving the way for whatever else Melody had planned. He wondered if she would come to him afterward, ask him to deal with Nathaniel or Alyssa herself. The idea put a twist in his stomach, but given the freedom Melody had brought to him, what did a few more killings matter?

“Do you have a mirror?” Ghost asked as he found a weapon rack hanging on the wall, and his eyes lit up at seeing the many swords.

“In here somewhere.”

“Help me find it.”

Bill began rummaging, and as he did Ghost pulled two similarly sized swords from the rack, tested their weight. They felt a bit heavy, but he knew his time in the dungeon was more to blame for that than the swords themselves. His arms would grow stronger, their weight less noticeable in time. Beneath the rack was a box with old sword belts, and he grabbed one, looped it around his waist, and slid both sheathed blades into it.

“Here you are,” Bill said, coming over from the corner.

Ghost grabbed it, then returned to the front of the guildhouse to stand in the light of the candles. When he could see, he drew one of his swords, lifted the mirror, and examined his face. He’d never been capable of growing much hair on his face, and in the four years of capture, his uneven beard was disgusting to behold. Slowly, Ghost scraped the blade’s edge along his face, slicing away the growth and congealed bits of white paint. Bill watched in silence, his arms crossed, until Ghost began cutting at his hair.

“If you’re going to shave your head, do it right,” Bill said, retrieving a small satchel from underneath his desk and tossing it to him. “Use a damn razor like a civilized man.”

Ghost flashed him a grin.

“Civilized,” he said. “Is that what you think I am?”

Still, the razor was small and sharp, and it cut across his scalp smoothly. It took some time, and he could see how annoyed Bill was at having the dirty hair fall upon his floor, but when he was done, Ghost felt more relieved than he had in ages. He turned side to side, scanning his face in the mirror. There were scars around his neck now, and a thinness to his cheeks that only time and plentiful food would remove. His eyes in particular were sunken inward and rimmed with dark circles. The gaunt look was unnerving, he had to admit.