David Dalglish - A Dance of Shadows

And then the thin woman with long brown hair slipped into the alley with her, leaning against the wall opposite her with her hands at her sides. Her face she kept downcast, as if embarrassed.

“I’m glad you made it,” she said.

“So am I-”

“Widow,” the woman interrupted, glancing up just a moment. “When in public, I am the Widow. Do not use my other name.”

Melody nodded, smiled as if they were just two friends meeting up while hiding from the sun.

“You’ve upset me… Widow. You know that, right?”

The woman’s face flushed red. “I’m only doing what I was told.”

“Were you told to kill that boy working at Alyssa’s home? The very home I’m now staying in?”

“But you know Alyssa must be taken care of!” the Widow insisted. “Laerek said…”

“I don’t care what Laerek said,” Melody snapped. “You must give me more time. I’ve not had a chance to speak with my daughter about the simplest of things, let alone her faith. Must you be so impatient? Control yourself. Please, can you do that for me?”

The Widow looked up at her with her brown eyes, looked back down.

“If you say.”

Melody crossed the alley, took the woman’s hands in hers.

“Why does Alyssa bother you so?” she asked. “Don’t lie to me. I can tell.”

The strange woman swallowed, then shrugged her shoulders.

“I don’t know. She just does. She doesn’t deserve to be your daughter.”

Melody sighed. That again. Still, there wasn’t much she could do about it, not yet. The most important thing was buying herself more time, time to do what must be done.

“Is that why you killed her servant?” she asked. “Is that why a poor innocent boy had to suffer? Because you’re jealous ?”

The Widow said nothing, only stared at the ground and refused to meet her eye.

“You poor thing,” Melody said, squeezing the woman’s hands tight. “Do not fret, nor worry about my love for you. But please, understand, Alyssa will see reason. You just have to give me that chance.”

The Widow bobbed her head up and down.

“I will,” she promised.

Melody could still sense the edge on her, a bite to her words, a jitteriness to her movements that indicated her growing frustration. It was a habit, a sickness, a disease overwhelming the poor woman, and Melody knew exactly what would heal it.

“Go find another Spider,” she said, letting go of her hands. “It will help you feel better.”

“They’re getting more careful,” the Widow said. “I don’t know if I’ll find one.”

“You will,” Melody said, and she hugged her. Beneath her dress, the woman felt all bone and skin, and the sad state of her made Melody squeeze even harder. “You know you will. You’re clever, you’re fast. Go send another of those sinful wretches to the Abyss so they might be made clean.”

“Thank you,” the Widow said, and a tear ran down her face despite her smile. “And I will. They won’t stop me. No one can stop me. Soon even Thren will suffer my sting. I can’t wait, can’t wait…”

Melody separated herself from the woman, kissed her forehead, then turned for the mouth of the alley. Just before exiting, she heard the Widow call out to her.

“Remember,” she said. “If Alyssa doesn’t turn to Karak, then I get to have her. Laerek promised me that.”

Melody turned back, let her glare send the Widow retreating farther into the alley.

“I am well aware,” she said.

She hurried back into the market, but this time the bustle about her was too noisy and bothersome, the smells too strong, the merchants too obtrusive with their shouts to buy, buy, buy.

“That’ll do it,” Tarlak said as he straightened up, wincing as his upper back popped twice.

“Are you sure it will hold, no matter how powerful the spell?” asked Victor, surveying the runes carved into the outside of his temporary home. Ten in all covered the large building, burned in as if by fire.

Tarlak raised an eyebrow. He’d spent the past six hours placing markings with chalk, rearranging runes, and casting a variety of spells that protected the building from magical attacks-from the subtle, like teleportation, to the less subtle, like giant exploding fireballs. Last but not least had been the requested surprise escape in case of an attack. His back hurt like crazy, his fingers were sore from all the measuring and writing, and he doubted he could summon anything stronger than a magical fart given how badly his head ached. And yet Victor wanted to question his abilities?

“If you didn’t think I could do the job,” Tarlak asked, “why request me in the first place?”

Victor sighed. “You’re right. Forgive me. Today has not gone well.”

“So I heard.”

Word of the attack had spread throughout Veldaren like wildfire. Tarlak had gotten a firsthand account from Haern, at least of how the attack had ended. As for casualties, that was a little sketchier. Tarlak had hoped to glean more information from the lord, but so far had struggled to get the man to talk. Now that they were surveying his handiwork, at last he had a chance.

“Most of these runes I’ve burned in,” Tarlak said, trying to keep Victor engaged, his mind on their conversation instead of elsewhere. “It’d take a lot to smudge or break them, but it is possible. Make sure your guards are always aware.”

“What should they watch for?”

“Well, I’d say a man with a big mallet smashing the wood in. That’d probably break them. Think your guards would notice that?”

Victor paused a moment, and then, miracle of miracles, laughed. Tarlak snapped his fingers. Finally he was getting somewhere.

“No one will lay a finger on the building,” Victor said. “And I think even the least-trained man in my employ would be wise enough to stop someone from hacking at the wall.”

“Praise the gods for intelligent help.”

“Amen.”

The two walked toward the entrance of the building. Guards trailed behind them. They’d watched Tarlak carefully the entire time, supposedly because they didn’t want him harmed while casting the protection spells. Tarlak found the lie insulting.

As if he needed protection.

His balance teetered a bit as he walked with Victor, and he decided that maybe that wasn’t so insulting after all. Victor caught him, inquired if he was all right.

“Just a little woozy,” he said, rolling his head from side to side. “Ever had a headache so bad that it split your insides in half, making every light look ten times too bright?”

“I can’t say I have.”

“Then you’re damn lucky. Consider me adding the cost of a drink to your expenses, because I need one right now, otherwise I won’t make it home.”

“Then consider it paid.”

Victor led Tarlak to the door. The wizard made sure not to crack a smile. His head hurt, but not that terribly. Still, Victor looked as if he wanted those he hired to trust him, even respect him. A good sign. Anyone willing to buy beer for his underlings was a man with great potential. The guards let Victor pass, then stepped in front of Tarlak.

“All off,” said one.

“All… off?”

Tarlak realized the guards meant his clothes, but Victor interrupted before he could protest.

“Let him through,” said the lord. “I’m trusting my life to his wards, not much sense to fear him slipping a knife in me.”

“Smart man,” Tarlak said as he stepped inside and took a seat at a table. A servant hurried over, pitcher in hand. Accepting it graciously, he sniffed the contents. Strong scent of honey. Excellent.

“Only common sense,” Victor said, dismissing the offered cup as he sat opposite the wizard. “If you wanted me dead, those wards would set my home on fire in the middle of the night instead of keeping out the more determined scum of the underworld.”