David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

Of course they are yours, thought Thren as he approached the barkeep. Once the whores are in your pocket, who would dare refuse you and risk losing such illustrious company?

“What’ll it be?” the barkeep asked him, a hairy man with forearms as big as Thren’s head.

“I’m looking for a friend,” Thren said. “Name’s Martin, ten years my younger. Brown hair, sometimes goes by the name of Softhands.”

“Martin Softhands,” said the barkeep, nodding. “He only uses that name when trying to impress the ladies. Surprised he didn’t name himself Longtongue or Goodfuck for all the good it’d do.”

Thren grinned.

“Never let him hear you say that,” he said. “He might adopt Goodfuck out of pure amusement. So, do you know where he is?”

The barkeep paused.

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

Thren reached into his pocket and then dumped out a handful of coins onto the counter.

“A good friend, this Martin,” Thren said, and the barkeep snatched up the coins with practiced speed.

“Upstairs, using those deft hands of his, and not on himself.”

“Which room?”

For a moment, the barkeep ignored him, instead counting up the coins.

“Room three,” said the burly man. “That’s the room you just rented from me for the night. Of course, I might have mixed up numbers, and room three’s already occupied…”

“The night’s busy and the tables loud,” Thren said. “Who would blame you for an honest mistake?”

Thren tipped his head in respect, then made his way to the stairs.

There were five rooms in total, small and cramped from what he could see of the lone door that was open. The others were closed, and the telltale sounds of sex came from within.

Animals, thought Thren. He approached room three, marked by deep grooves cut into the front. He tested, found it locked. Sighing, Thren put the slightest weight on it to test its strength, discovered it was held shut by a simple chain at the top. Easy enough. Stepping back, he rammed his foot into the door, snapping the chain and smashing open the door to reveal Martin sitting on the edge of the bed, an older woman on her knees before him with her head in his lap.

“What the fu…”

Martin’s voice trailed off, his anger quickly changing to stunned silence. The woman pulled back and rose to her feet, with no care to her modesty, instead reaching for a slender dagger she’d hidden within the folds of her discarded dress.

“He’s finished,” Thren said to the woman. “Take your clothes and go.”

The woman looked back to Martin, who nodded.

“He’s right,” Martin said. “Go ahead and get out of here, and keep the coin.”

“Had no plans on giving it back,” she said, and within moments, she had her blouse back on and her skirt replaced. Thren stepped aside so she could leave, then crossed his arms and waited as Martin put on his pants.

“She seems a bit old,” Thren said, glancing back over his shoulder as the woman climbed down the stairs.

“Just means she knows what she’s doing. I don’t like paying for amateurs, and so long as my eyes are closed, every woman is sixteen and slender.”

Thren shrugged. Fair enough.

Martin tightened his belt, then walked over to him, bare from the waist up. The man had a rugged look to him, face and neck carrying the scars of his livelihood. Of all those he’d recruited into his guild since the Bloody Kensgold, Martin had been the one most practical and aware of how the city worked. Thren had hoped there’d have been fear at seeing his return, or perhaps optimism at a possible resurgence of the Spider Guild … but instead, Martin just looked annoyed and bored.

“What?” he asked.

That tone … he’d never have used that tone with him before, not while wearing the deep gray of the Spider. Gone for but a few months, yet already his reputation was sinking? It was enough to make Thren want to scream.

“Do I bother you?” Thren asked, and his right hand drifted down to the hilt of his sword. “Or did Muzien bore a hole through your skull when you became part of his Suns?”

Finally, a bit of fear in the man’s eyes, a measure of respect. If this was how his second-in-command reacted, well … restoring his Spider Guild to a position of power was going to be harder than he thought.

“Of course not,” Martin said, putting on his shirt. “Just … bad timing. So, you’re back, I see. I hope you enjoyed your time away from this shithole.”

“Pleasant,” Thren said. “But also irrelevant. I’ve come to rebuild, and I need your help to find the others. It’s time we call in every last member, and remind them to whom their true allegiance should be.”

“Former members,” Martin said, walking back to the bed and grabbing a long dagger, which he jammed into his belt. “They’ve joined the Sun Guild now, all but perhaps a few that died to that Victor bastard. Truth be told, Thren, I’m not sure how you plan on convincing them. This city is Muzien’s now, from top to bottom.”

“But only in my absence.”

Martin laughed.

“You think that matters?”

Thren stepped closer, grabbed Martin by the front of his shirt, and yanked him close.

“I have been here for decades,” he said, feeling his temper overwhelming him. “I’ve watched guilds rise and fall, I’ve cut off the heads of kings and queens, and I’ve earned every last bit of respect the scum of this city can muster. I will not be turned away nor insulted. You think my name means nothing? We’ll find out, Martin. When I remind them of who I am and what I can do, we’ll see if they’re willing to throw their lot in with a damn elf over one of their own.”

Martin swallowed, clearly worried but still able to meet Thren’s stare with his own.

“Have I made myself clear?” Thren asked.

“Perfectly,” Martin said.

Thren let him go, and his former most trusted smoothed out his shirt, and just like that, his worry was gone, and he slipped into the role he’d filled for many a year.

“Muzien’s kept most of the guilds together, even if unofficially,” he said. “Helps with the transition, I’m guessing. Most of those downstairs once wore the gray as well, and that’s where we’ll start. It’ll be tricky though, Thren. One word to Muzien, and it all goes to shit.”

“Then we have to make them afraid,” Thren said. “More afraid of me than of Muzien.”

Martin grinned.

“Is that all?” he asked. “So be it. Find yourself a room, and once I get myself a good night’s sleep, I’ll start working on the others tomorrow. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go find another girl to finish what you interrupted.”

Thren stepped out of the room, and he frowned.

“Take care of it yourself. Cheaper that way.”

“Not all of us want to build up a fortune like you,” Martin said, walking past him to the stairs. “Some of us would rather enjoy the spending.”

Thren looked to the empty room, shook his head, and then followed Martin down the stairs.

“Sorry about that,” the barkeep said, gesturing Thren over. “Room five’s the one open. Five. Hope you don’t mind the slipup.”

Thren smiled, deciding he liked the man.

“Not at all,” he said, heading toward the door. He was too wired to sleep, not yet. The journey had worn on him, but damn, it felt good to begin planning again. It’d be slow, steady work, but strand by strand was how you built a web, not all at once. No doubt a few of his former members would have to die to make the others realize the consequence of denying him and remaining loyal to the Suns. Truth be told, he felt himself looking forward to it.

Out into the night he stepped, breathing in the lingering odors of the marketplace tinged with the scent of alcohol and rotting fruit and bread cast off from earlier in the day. He looked to the stars and tried to tell himself that the city was his, no matter the dozens of tiles marked with the Sun he’d passed on his way there. His city. His home.