David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

Easy words to tell himself.

Hard words to believe.

Tarlak sat with his elbows on his desk, hands holding up his head as he stared at the large map of Veldaren spread out before him. At one time, it’d been color-coded to show the estimated territory of the various guilds, but that was gone now. There was no point. From the castle at the north to the slums in the south, it all belonged to the Sun Guild. Instead, he’d placed little pins to mark the location of their tiles, though by the fiftieth, he’d stopped. As he stared at it with his head pounding and the morning sun rising, he wondered if that had been a mistake.

“Come in,” he said when he heard a knock on the door behind him, refusing to turn around. It was either Brug or a person come to kill him, and given his mood, Tarlak didn’t feel like spending the effort to address either one.

“Starting early, are we?” asked Brug, and he leaned over Tarlak’s shoulder at the map. “Gods, there’s a lot of them, aren’t there?”

“No kidding,” said Tarlak, slumping back in his chair. “I saw five more along the marketplace yesterday; didn’t even bother to put them on the map.”

“There’s another two on Iron Road,” Brug said. “Probably added them a day or so ago.”

Tarlak glanced over at the bearded man.

“You’re sure?” he asked.

Brug nodded, brow furrowed.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he said. “Where do you think I get my metal to make all your little toys? I go there once a week, and trust me, they’re new.”

Back to the map Tarlak turned, and if he could have glared it into flames, he would have. Technically, he could have burned it with a snap of his fingers, but that’d have involved effort.

“We’re missing something,” he said. “Something obvious. Why would Muzien be adding in more of those tiles to the Sun Guild? The city’s his, and ever since that sickening display at the marketplace, everyone knows it, too. Who else is left to oppose him?”

Brug shrugged.

“The king, maybe? I think the Ash Guild’s holding on, too, but they’re more hiding than anything else. Victor’s not dead yet, either.”

“None of them are threats, not anymore,” Tarlak insisted. “Besides, you think a few more tiles will change that? There’s something to them, and I’m thinking it is time we go and find out.”

Brug gestured to his long red bedrobes.

“Now?” he asked.

“Now,” Tarlak said, rising from his chair.

“Haven’t even eaten breakfast yet,” Brug mumbled as he headed for the door to change.

“Suffer for your vocation,” Tarlak said, following him. “Besides, I pay you to obey my every whim, not eat.”

“So, what’s the plan?” Brug asked as they walked down the main road running from the western gates of the city to its center.

“You assume I have one?” Tarlak asked as he kept his eyes open for the tiles. “That’s just foolish.”

“Well, you’re a foolish guy,” Brug said. “Any chance we can get something to eat while we’re out here?”

“Not until we’re done.”

“But I don’t know what it is we’re doing. ”

Tarlak raised an eyebrow his way.

“Well, then,” he said. “You’ll just have to trust me to tell you when we’re done.”

Even amid the constant rumble of chatter and those passing by, there was no hiding Brug’s groan. Not that Tarlak would argue with him. Even he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing, just playing a hunch. The tiles were important, and more and more, he felt certain it wasn’t for serving as a way to mark territory. That left relatively few possibilities for them, and none of them were particularly good.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get somewhere a little quieter and less likely to have a member of the Sun Guild notice our poking and prodding.”

They ventured south, past the various workshops, past the large granaries and warehouses, and into the poorer stretches of Veldaren. Tarlak felt eyes upon him, not that he minded. Of course he stood out. He was wearing bright yellow robes, after all. Even without them, his hair and goatee were neatly trimmed, his clothes clean, his skin pale and free of dirt. Under normal circumstances, he’d have a sign floating above his head screaming, “Rob me,” but Tarlak knew wizards carried enough mystique, no one would dare harass him. When first setting up his mercenary band, he’d reinforced the matter by turning a few troublesome ruffians into frogs and leaving them in their respective guild territory, their cloaks still tied to their little green bodies. Some men didn’t fear death, but life as a frog?

Well, everyone had their limits.

“Getting quiet,” Brug said. A few children played down one alley, and stray dogs barked farther up the street. All around were ramshackle homes with heavily locked doors.

“Good enough for me,” Tarlak said. “See one of Muzien’s tiles lying about?”

“By the corner,” Brug said, pointing.

It was at the intersection of a road, a single tile dug into the rough dirt adjacent to the last home on the block. Tarlak knelt before it, analyzing it. It looked like all the others, thick, heavy stone with the four-pointed star carved into its front. His fingers traced along the star, and he racked his mind for any magical symbols or meaning the star might have beyond the guild affiliation. There were none that he knew of, though he made a note to check on it when he returned to the tower. As particular as Muzien was, Tarlak had a feeling he’d stolen it from somewhere to use as his own.

“Receiving any magical revelations?” Brug asked, leaning against the home beside him with his arms crossed.

“Not yet,” Tarlak said. “But that’s next on the agenda.”

Closing his eyes, he put his palm flat on the tile and began murmuring the words to a spell. It was fairly simple, the very first one taught to any student that gained admittance to the Apprentices’ Tower governed by the Council of Mages. His eyes changed for a brief moment, accessing a vision spectrum known to very few. Any object that contained a spell or enchantment would shimmer and glow with a multitude of colors, revealing to him its intricate mechanics so he might dispel or activate the magic if necessary. The required incantations finished, he opened his eyes.

The tile was as dim as the dirt it was buried in.

“Huh,” said Tarlak, baffled.

“What is it?” Brug asked. “They enchanted?”

“I can’t decide if it’s good news or bad,” Tarlak said, standing. “I was sure they had some sort of arcane effect sneaked into them, but, well … nothing. Far as I can tell, they’re plain old regular stone.”

“Excellent,” Brug said. “We’ve learned what they’re not. I’m willing to call that a good day. Care if I run off to the market and grab me a caraway cake?”

“Sure, go ahead,” said Tarlak. “Teach me to try making you work on an empty stomach.”

“Work?” asked Brug. “You want me to work, how about this? I’ll start scouting out the northern district, tallying up these tiles, where and how many. May not know what it is they’re for, but at least we’ll know where they all are.”

Tarlak scratched at his red goatee, frowning down at the stone tile as if it’d insulted him.

“Sounds like a plan,” he said. “Go ahead. I’ll start here in the south. Make sure you check the symbol carved into them. You find any that are different in the slightest, I want to know about it.”

“Will do,” said Brug, who was already walking away with his back to him.

What am I missing? wondered Tarlak. And what game are you playing, Muzien?

He’d told Brug he’d work on the south, but his heart wasn’t in it yet. The four-pointed star surely had some history to it, and he’d feel more comfortable scouring his personal library for books than wandering around jotting down locations of those stupid tiles. That was more his territory, anyway. After all, what other reason had he hired Brug for other than for grunt work and blacksmithing skill? Surely not his prowess in combat.