David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

At the gate, Brug flashed one of the soldiers a pendant hanging around his neck, that of a triangle with the left corner unconnected and the bottom line used to mark the center of a capitalized E. They passed through without further question.

“Where to now?” Brug asked.

“We wanted to know how much Muzien controls,” Tarlak said. “So, let’s go to the one place he’d be insane to take over. Copper Road should belong to the Ash Guild. If we find the mark of the Sun there, then we know things have definitely gotten out of hand.”

As they walked, Tarlak kept his eyes open for the telltale four-pointed star signifying the Sun Guild’s presence … and it didn’t take much effort to spot it. It seemed at every corner he found one of their tiles dug into the center of the street or placed at the entrance of a small shop or bakery. After a bit, he began to count, and once he reached thirty he gave up.

“If Thren were still around, I think he’d be jealous,” Brug muttered as they passed by yet another tile, this one buried in front of what had once been a tannery.

“If Thren were still around, I doubt there’d be so many.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure, not anymore.”

Honestly, Tarlak felt it hard to argue. With Haern’s help, he’d slowly learned how to identify those of the underworld, from the lower-positioned members with their simple colored bands around their arms, many of them also farmers, workers, smiths, and bakers, to the higher-ups with their patches, their earrings, and eventually the highest ranked with their colored cloaks. As Brug and Tarlak passed through the major intersection at the center of town, he took a quick count of all he saw. Over two dozen yellow armbands, fifteen with the marked earrings, and another seven with the four-pointed star sewn onto their chest.

Of the other guilds, he saw not a cloak, not an armband. Nothing. Tarlak continued to turn, then stopped, frowned down at Brug.

“Well,” he said, “shit.”

“Truly, you are a wizard with a silver tongue.”

“Try not to feel too jealous.”

They continued east, leaving more of the hustle and crowd behind the farther they went. Tarlak took his hat off ten minutes later, glanced inside it, and then put it back on his head.

“We’re still being followed,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“My hat said so.”

Brug’s bewildered look gave Tarlak pause.

“Your … hat?”

“There’s a mirror inside it. Did you think my hat actually…” He let out a sigh. “Ashhur save me from the company of my friends.”

They were approaching the wealthiest parts of Veldaren, and Tarlak knew the Connington mansion wouldn’t be far off. He glanced around to either side, looking for a suitable place.

“There,” he said, nodding at a two-story house, its outside painted a faint gray, the roof sharply slanted with wooden tiles painted black.

“Anything special about that one?” Brug asked.

“No fence, no guards. Come on.”

Tarlak left the road, following the short walkway across the poorly tended lawn to the home’s front door. A quick check and he found it locked, but that he could deal with. Putting his hands together, he whispered one of his simpler arcane spells. The tumblers inside the door clicked and shifted, and moments later, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. Brug followed, then Tarlak flung it shut and redid the bolt.

“What all did you see in your hat?” Brug asked as the two remained in the cramped entranceway.

“A handsome red-bearded devil.”

“I meant our shadow.”

“Standard fare,” Tarlak said. “Lots of gray, lots of cloak. Imagine being stalked by Haern, only bigger.”

“Fun thought.”

They turned about, and Tarlak winced at the sight. The outside of the home looked like any other, but it hid an inside that was thoroughly vacant. The floors were bare, the walls stripped of paintings and mirrors, leaving bright squares to mark where they’d been. As they walked farther inside, they found more bare rooms, plus rows of cabinets that had been ransacked some time before.

“Cheery place,” Brug said.

“Owners must have fled Veldaren not long ago,” Tarlak said. “Let’s hope they won’t mind our using it for a moment.”

Brug was without his armor, but he had his punch daggers with him at all times, and he readied them as he stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up. Tarlak kept his attention bouncing between the front door, which he’d locked, and the many windows along the sides of the house.

“Do you think whoever it is will make a move here and now, when we’re ready?” Brug asked.

“Not sure,” Tarlak said. “They’d have to be absurdly-”

The window past Brug on the far side of the house shattered, and Tarlak spun that way, a bolt of lightning already flying off the palm of his hand toward the noise. His friend dropped to his knees and ducked his head, smart enough to know such a reaction was appropriate whenever Tarlak cast his magic. The bolt blasted past Brug, through the doorway, and into the other room, the sound of it deafening in the enclosed space. The intruder was already rolling on the ground, the blast passing just above him.

Out from the roll he came, swords drawn. Tarlak saw his attire, his weapons, thought nothing of it. What did sear into him, awakening horrible memories, was the man’s face, an oval of white paint thickly smeared across dark skin. Before Tarlak could react, Ghost lifted a sword and pointed it at him, an eyebrow raised in surprise.

“Didn’t I kill you?” he asked.

“Didn’t Haern kill you?”

Ghost shrugged.

“Fair enough.”

Fire flung from Tarlak’s hands, three balls that exploded the moment they crossed through the doorway. Brug dove to one side, letting out an angry cry that Tarlak couldn’t quite decipher. Ghost avoided them as well, vanishing out of sight behind the doorway.

“Get over here, Brug,” Tarlak said, slowly backing away toward the front door.

“I’m not scared of that bastard,” Brug said, stumbling to his feet and then clanging his daggers together. “That’s him, isn’t it, the one who killed Senke?”

Tarlak let out a deep breath at the mention of the name.

“It is,” he said. “Now get over here before he kills someone else.”

Brug took a step toward him, a second, and then Ghost lunged through the doorway, swords lashing out. The first hit only air, misjudging the distance, and for the second one, Brug crossed his daggers and blocked it just in time. His positioning was bad, and Ghost kicked him once in the stomach, then the face. The impact of it sent him sprawling backward, his body rolling to a stop at Tarlak’s feet. Before Ghost could finish him off, Tarlak extended his hands, screaming out the words of a spell. A wall of solid force shimmered into view for but a second, then flung outward, slamming into Ghost and sending him rolling away.

“You couldn’t just stay dead?” Tarlak shouted as he dropped to one knee, checking to make sure Brug was all right. The man’s nose was bleeding, but he didn’t seem too badly hurt.

“How do you know I’m not?” Ghost asked, still positioned out of sight behind the doorway in the other room.

“I don’t think you’d be too scared of me if you were.”

He sent another bolt of lightning through just because he could, then pulled on Brug’s arm.

“Get off your ass,” he said as the man staggered back to his feet.

“I’m going to kill him,” Brug said, wiping his face and smearing blood across his sleeve. “I swear, Tar, I’m going to kill him.”

“More than welcome to,” Tarlak muttered, staring at the door and waiting. Ghost was patient, maddeningly so. If he’d only show himself so Tarlak could properly burn him to ashes like he deserved …