David Dalglish - A Dance of Shadows

He dropped to the ground, drew his sabers, and then ran. He felt better with the hilts in his hands, cold and hard. In a fair fight, he knew of few who might challenge him, and even if overwhelmed, it was Haern who tended to come out unscathed. At the alley entrance he peered inside, saw three more soldiers standing around, torches in hand. Haern decided not to risk a scene just yet. Retreating back a space, he climbed the wall of the nearby home.

From the rooftop he heard them talking.

“What in blazes you think it means?”

“Means nothing, that’s what I’ve been saying. Just nonsense.”

“Can’t be nonsense. You don’t go to this much trouble for nonsense. It’s a message.”

Haern’s stomach hardened. He desperately hoped he was wrong, but when he peered over the edge of the building, he saw he was not. A man lay dead on his back between the three. Judging by his cloak and dress, he was a member of the Spider Guild. When Haern looked to the wall, he saw the message written in blood, this time smaller, more hurried.

tongue of gold, eyes of silver

run, run little spider

from the widow’s quiver

The three soldiers were still discussing the rhyme when Haern crouched closer to the edge.

“Widow, eh?” the tallest of the three asked. “Who’s that?”

“Black widow, that’s what I say,” said another, a red-haired man with a heavily scarred face. When the other two scoffed, he pressed on. “This guy’s a Spider, right? Think about it. They go out to some whore, only it ain’t a regular whore. It’s a black widow. And after she’s done pleasing him, well…”

He curled two of his fingers and pretended to stab them into his neck. The three all laughed. It was nervous, forced. They were trying to make light of the corpse before them, to dismiss the mystery.

“And this?” asked the tall man, jamming a thumb toward the wall.

The redhead shrugged. “Whore fancies herself a poet?”

They laughed again, this time far too loudly. Haern was tempted to startle them, show them how unsafe they were, but he had no need. A loud voice called them to attention, and they jumped. Haern’s eyes narrowed as he saw Lord Victor enter the alley with an escort of soldiers.

“What is the meaning of this?” Victor asked, approaching the corpse. The men shrugged.

“Just a dead thief,” said the third. “But this one’s a bit odd. Thought you should see. Liam, open his mouth and show him.”

The redhead knelt, grabbed the dead thief’s mouth, and pulled it open. The gold on his tongue sparkled in the torchlight. Victor muttered a curse.

“Not just this,” said the tall man. “The wall, too. Looks like the killer left her name.”

“Her?” asked Victor.

“Or him,” the man corrected. “Guess we can’t judge the tastes of a dead man, can we?”

Victor looked to the wall. Haern watched as the man’s grip on his hilt tightened with each line he read.

“Is this a hit between thieves?” Victor asked.

“That’d be my guess,” said one of the soldiers.

“And a foul guess it is,” Haern said, his voice startling many into reaching for their weapons. He ignored them as they spun about, cursing or preparing for a fight. “Check his eyes.”

As a couple swore, Victor leaned down, and his hand brushed over the face. Seeing the silver for eyes, Victor shook his head and frowned.

“Leave us,” he said. At first Haern made to go, then realized Victor spoke to his own soldiers.

“Milord,” said Liam, “are you sure…”

“That’s an order.”

The protest died. The men funneled out to the main street, leaving Victor alone in the alley. Haern put a hand on the rooftop’s edge and swung himself to the ground. He landed silently, not even his cloak making a rustle. Victor stood over the body, and he let out a sigh.

“What is this?” he asked. “You know this city. Tell me.”

“I’m not sure I should help you,” Haern said.

“Forget your stubborn pride,” Victor said, glaring at him. “A man died. I want to know how, and why.”

Haern looked to the dead thief, saw the silver glinting in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Twice now I have seen this… arrangement, along with the rhyme on the wall.” He knelt beside the corpse and lifted it up. Finding what he wanted, he gestured so Victor might see as well: a tiny bolt embedded in the back of the man’s neck.

“Poison?” Victor asked. Haern nodded, glad the man could make the connection.

“Quick, silent, hard to stop,” Haern said. “I’m not sure it’s what kills them, though. Look.”

He pulled away the silver and gestured into the hollow eye cavities. One was filled with more blood than the other, and contained a puncture wound leading into the brain.

“So whoever it is paralyzes them, tortures them, and then kills them?” Victor asked.

“Appears so,” Haern said. “Easy enough to understand, but then you have this…”

He gestured to the coins, the writing.

“You said a rival guild is a foul guess,” Victor said. “Why is that?”

“Because a guild would either claim it, or destroy any evidence to avoid retribution. This is neither. This is mockery, or a riddle, or vengeance for a blood feud. Whatever it is, it isn’t normal, and it isn’t a guild. One, maybe two men working together.”

“Or women,” Victor said, glancing at the rhyme.

Haern stood, and he backed away from the lord. The shadows of his hood protected his face, so that only his eyes shone out. Most wilted under his stare, but this Victor was unafraid, and met them without flinching.

“Watcher,” Victor said. “I’ve wanted to meet you since I stepped foot in Veldaren. Forgive my boast before the king earlier. I know what you’ve done, and it is truly impressive. But your way is doomed to fail, and that is why I have come. You can’t control them any longer.”

“They fear me,” Haern said, shaking his head at the foolish noble. “That is why I can control them. What can you do? What terror can you inspire with a few scrolls, judges, and soldiers?”

Victor pulled the gold coins from the corpse’s mouth, then stared into the vacant eyes.

“They fear you, for they know you are with them in the shadows.” He looked up. “But they will come to fear me more, Watcher, for I will leave them with no shadows at all. That is my terror. That is the difference between us. You skulk and hide in their midst, and with every murder you become more like them. You are something they can understand. You are greater than them, you are frightening, but you are still just one man, and the moment you die, everything you’ve built will come crashing down. Let me help you. Let me save your legacy.”

Haern heard no lie, no doubt. Victor meant every word. As much as Haern wanted to dismiss him, he heard the promise of another life, of a chance to pull the weight of Veldaren off his shoulders.

“You really think you can cleanse this city?” he asked.

“I can. I will.”

Haern leaped, kicked off the wall, and then grabbed a windowsill. With it, he pulled himself to the rooftop, then spun, hulking like a gargoyle from a castle edge.

“Why?” he asked. “What gain? What reason?”

“You are the nameless man patrolling the rooftops at night,” Victor said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yet you wonder about my intentions?”

Despite the seriousness, despite the body, Haern let out a laugh.

“Very well,” he said. “Happy hunting.”

Zusa had sent a runner back to the Gemcroft mansion to warn of their arrival, no doubt scrambling the servants about in preparation. Normally Alyssa would have thought to do so herself, but her mind was clearly elsewhere. After all, it wasn’t often a parent returned from the dead. Alyssa and Melody sat together in the litter, with Zusa following alongside, ignoring the stares she received for her attire. There might not be room for her within, but she wouldn’t leave Alyssa unguarded. The sun had begun to set, and so the guards escorting them carried torches. Given everyone’s somber mood, it almost felt like a funeral.