David Dalglish - A Dance of Shadows

“We hadn’t heard a word,” Alan said, crossing his arms and leaning against a wall. “But then again, Kadish Fel’s always been a bit of a hothead since taking over for his older cousin Vel. He’s getting ballsy if he thinks his guild can take Lord Victor all on his own.”

“What do you know about Lord Victor?”

Alan shrugged. “Just what everyone knows. Can’t help you there.”

The Watcher frowned, clearly displeased. “I’m starting to doubt giving you your coin.”

Alan chuckled. “I never promise what I tell will be useful, or new to you. But I dare you to find anyone else insane enough to sell out Thren Felhorn.”

“Enough. Tell me this, then… what do you know about the murders, the ones being claimed by the Widow?”

Alan grunted, caught off guard by the question. Reaching into his tattered vest, he pulled out one of the silver coins the Watcher had paid him with and began twirling it in his fingers.

“Honestly, we don’t know shit. I might have believed it was you, if I thought you had the ability to rhyme. The two dead, Bert and Troy, neither of them was special, or even important. No one’s seen nothing, and no one’s heard nothing.”

“What were the two doing when they were killed?”

“Keep asking questions, I might think I don’t have enough silver in my pocket.”

The Watcher’s glare made him chuckle, but his nerves were starting to rise. All it would take was one person telling Thren he’d been seen speaking with the Watcher, just a whisper of betrayal, and he’d be gutted from the Spider Guild’s rooftop… if he was lucky.

“Fine,” he said. “I don’t know what Troy was doing, but Bert was out looking for whores. That help you any?”

“Perhaps.” The Watcher pulled his dark hood lower across his face, then leaped from one side of the alley to the other, vaulting himself up to the rooftops. Once there, he spun on his haunches and spoke down to Alan.

“I’ll find you three days from now, on your patrol by the south wall. If you can tell me anything about this Widow, I’ll pay you in gold.”

“Should be paying me in gold anyway,” Alan said, but the Watcher was already gone. Turning to leave, he found a man leaning against one of the walls, his large frame blocking half the alley. His muscular arms were crossed over his chest, and he almost looked as if he were sleeping, with his wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes. Alan felt a chill, but the stranger bore no cloak, nor any other sign of allegiance to one of Veldaren’s various guilds. Hoping the man was there just to hide from the carnage, Alan walked past him toward the main street.

As he did, the man let out a soft whistle, that of a songbird.

Alan didn’t dare look back, nor acknowledge the blatant accusation. His hand dropped to his dagger. He slowed his walk, started to shift. But it was too late. Somehow the man was already halfway down the alley, his movement having gone completely unnoticed by Alan. The man turned, smiled at Alan, and then let out another bird whistle.

“The songbirds are singing,” the stranger said, then laughed as he touched one of the nine rings in his left ear.

Alan fled. He knew he should return to his guild, to tell Thren everything he’d seen. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Halfway across Veldaren he stepped into his favorite tavern, a silver coin in hand. He’d still tell Thren, but he needed a lot more alcohol in him to keep from shaking, keep his perceptive guildmaster from seeing the terror in his eyes. With every sip he took, he heard the whistle, the accusation.

It didn’t matter which guild you were in, or even which city. Songbirds died.

“Keep it coming,” he told the tavern wench, pushing away the change she’d brought for the silver. “Go until there ain’t a damn thing left of it.”

Are you sure you would not prefer an escort?” John asked her as Melody put a simple sun hat atop her head and straightened it.

“I’m quite fine without soldiers following me everywhere I go,” she said, smoothing out her dress. “But I’ve been shuttered in far too long, and I’d like to visit the market without it causing a stir.”

John hardly looked pleased, but that didn’t bother Melody much. She smiled at him, even when he crossed his arms and looked from side to side, as if trying to find the proper words.

“But you’re Alyssa’s mother, and she has many enemies. I would hate if they were to… harass you while unprotected.”

“Her enemies are not mine,” Melody said as she exited the door to the mansion. “For no one knows I exist anymore.”

“They will soon,” John said as the door shut behind her. Head high, she crossed the walkway, nodding at the guards stationed at the outer gate. She wore a simple dress, her hair tied back into a low ponytail. Nothing about her showed her station, showed her to be anything beyond a simple servant going out to the market on an errand. And it was true, really, except that the errand at the market was not that of making a purchase.

No, she had a meeting, one not for strangers’ eyes.

A bounce came to her step as the mansion faded away behind her, soon lost as she took a turn southeast. It’d been so long since she’d gone to the market, she felt her heart begin to race as the painfully familiar noises slowly neared. The smells, the bustle, the constant murmur of discussion that washed over it all like a river. Everything invoked a life she had so long lost to darkness and the needles of the gentle touchers. Not that they’d come much for her, not even in those first few months after Maynard had given her over to Leon.

No, her torture had been far worse. Her torture had been the fat man’s lips on her neck, his chubby fingers on her breasts.

But Leon was dead, she was alive, and the marketplace thrived with food and clothes and fruited drinks and alcohols of every possible strength and age. Stepping into the heart of the market, she felt lost and overwhelmed, and she loved every minute of it. She did not hurry, for she wanted to enjoy it, let it seep into her. People. Life. Everything around her was precious, was something that needed to be saved. And save it she would.

Everything she did, she would do, would be to save it from the coming nightmare.

“Interest a very lovely lady in perfume?” asked a boy far too young to be alone without his father, but young enough to use his cute face to his advantage.

“No thank you,” she told him as she flicked him a copper piece. “But thank you for the flattery.”

He smiled at her, most likely because of the coin, and not the actual act of kindness. He’d probably have smiled just as wide if she’d dropped the copper while walking past. But it felt good to give, and it was good to hear a man call her beautiful, even if he looked hardly older than ten. Any man, any boy, the very act helped wash away Leon’s words echoing in her mind, always there when she lay down to sleep. It’d been two years since he’d touched her, but it didn’t matter. It never mattered.

You’re so beautiful, Melody. So beautiful, so charming. You’re a light in my life, a light here in my dungeon…

Melody passed by dozens of stalls, only half-seeing them. Only at the end did she focus once more, looking for their designated meeting place. It was just one of many alleyways that cut in and out of the market, but the one she wanted was by a mustached man selling fake jewelry. She gave him a curt nod, polite but letting him know she was just passing into the nearby alley and that no business would be had from her.

The shade was welcome, and she took off her hat, fanned herself with it. Just looking as if she needed a breather, that was all.