David Dalglish - A Dance of Shadows

He shook his head. Even then it didn’t explain the dead child on the Gemcroft property. Perhaps a housemaid cast off for some reason, forced to work the streets for a living? Haern resolved to question Alyssa later as he climbed to the rooftops. Too close now to risk being spotted, even with the clouded sky hiding the moon and stars. Despite his numerous contacts, Alan was the only one within the Spider Guild willing to give information to the Watcher, so great was the fear Thren Felhorn inspired. The two previous members he’d contacted had died horribly as examples to the rest.

All the more reason to be careful , Haern told himself. He slowed down his run and forced himself to carefully observe his surroundings. Far better he miss speaking to Alan for a few more days than get the man killed by his carelessness.

The southern district was the poorest of them all, and against the wall were dozens of little shanties, homes made of thin wood that looked as if a stiff breeze could knock them over. For a few months King Edwin had tried to scatter them, but they always came back, the hungry and homeless too adept at fleeing, too desperate to fear his threats. Because of this, few thieves bothered to patrol the area. What was there to steal, or prevent another guild from stealing? With the night so deep, all there were asleep, all but Alan. With a leisurely stroll he passed them by. Only after a quick whistle from Haern did he turn about, heading toward a corridor where shadows were at their deepest.

“You spotted?” Alan asked as Haern dropped to the street before him.

“If someone had spotted me, do you think we’d be talking?”

Alan grunted. “Confident, aren’t we? You have my coin?”

“Hopefully you have something more useful than last time,” Haern said, tossing him another bag. Alan caught it, stashed it away, and then leaned against a wall.

“Depends on what you consider useful. You just pay me to sing, anyway. Not my fault if you don’t like what you hear. By the way, never, ever come to me again during the day. I thought someone had spotted us, but since Thren isn’t eating my heart for dinner, it looks like I got off easy.”

Haern fingered his sabers, not any more eager than Alan to have their meeting last very long.

“I’ll try to be more considerate for your safety,” he said. “How’s Thren handling the loss?”

“Terribly. He’s planning something big against Victor, but he’s not telling us what, other than it has something to do with the Trifect as well. I think this Widow-whoever it is-is starting to wear on him. Our numbers are thin as it is. We don’t need some crazy whore killing even more of us. Shit, it’s even making me a little nervous to do my rounds.”

“Why’d the Ash Guild ruin your attack?”

Alan shrugged. “Grudge? Amusement? Maybe Deathmask was bored, I don’t know. I find it a poor use of time trying to guess what that madman is thinking. Might as well go hunting ghosts, or searching for dragons.”

Haern frowned. “Will Thren turn on the Ash Guild for it?”

Alan shook his head. “Not yet, not unless they provoke him again. Thren says that’s what everyone wants, to have the guilds killing each other while Victor goes about picking off the remains. He ain’t falling for the bait.”

Haern figured it also might have something to do with the catastrophic casualties Thren would suffer if he tried storming the Ash Guild’s territory. Deathmask was as dangerous as he was elusive. At best it’d be a waste of time. At worst a death sentence. Haern kept such thoughts to himself, pulling his hood low and preparing to leave.

“Should you learn anything of the Widow, anything at all, make sure I know,” he said.

“I learn anything, you can be sure-shit, get down!”

Before the curse was even off his lips, Haern had seen the widening of Alan’s eyes and begun to roll. Even then it was too late. A heavy weight struck the back of his head. Stomach lurching, he fell forward, fighting off the coming waves of darkness. His sabers drawn by instinct, he turned to face his foe.

Grayson followed Alan with the ease of a man who had shadowed others a thousand times before. It had been years since he walked the streets of Veldaren, but they came back to him like an old friend. When Thren Felhorn was first establishing his reputation, Grayson had been there at his side, the two a vicious team. Every rival learned to leave them be, with those slow to learn dying in painful, and creative, ways. As for this songbird, Alan, the man had only a fraction of Thren’s talent at masking his movements, at sticking to the shadows with an almost unnatural awareness of the flickering of light across cloak and flesh.

Go sing your pretty song , thought Grayson. I have my own bird to catch.

By the time they reached the southern wall, Grayson had let the thief slink farther and farther ahead. The Watcher had told Alan they’d meet there, and unless their conversation lasted only seconds, Grayson knew he’d have time. But his presence couldn’t be known. Skulking through alleys, he found a spot where he could watch Alan patrol the wall. At last they both heard a whistle. Together they headed for the same building, albeit from different angles. Finding a way up, Grayson climbed to the rooftops and carefully made his way to the alley. Though his weight was great, he knew how to space his steps, how to shift his body, so that no sound might alert the two below.

At last he reached the edge. He drew his short swords, crouched low. He saw the Watcher and Alan talking. A smile spread across his face. Given all the rumors, the borderline worship the man received all the way to Mordeina, surely it would not be so easy to kill him?

Grayson leaped, already disappointed, as Alan let out a frightened cry. But the Watcher was faster than he’d expected. Unable to slash with his swords, Grayson kicked out his leg as he fell. His heel connected with the back of the Watcher’s head, sending him sprawling. Grayson landed roughly, unable to brace because of his kick. Alan took the brief respite to flee to the entrance of the alley, but he still remained nearby, watching. The Watcher spun to his feet, drawing his blades. As he did, he coughed out a thin line of bile.

“I know a concussion when I see one,” Grayson said, settling into a combat stance. His two swords tilted, looking almost puny compared to his large frame. “You should be running.”

“That so?” the Watcher asked. His voice was like a whisper, but Grayson heard it clear as day. Instincts told him it was magic, and the way shadows hid the Watcher’s face, regardless of the direction of the light, hinted at the hood’s being the source.

“Consider it friendly advice from an equal,” said Grayson. “Assuming you live up to your reputation, that is.”

He stepped in and slashed, careful to keep one blade back to block in case of a counter. The Watcher spun into action, and with dizzying speed slashed at his attacks. Grayson found himself retreating, his eyes widening to take in the sight. He could tell the man was off balance, but that didn’t stop him from pressing hard, pushing Grayson to his limits to keep up the blocks. The sound of steel hitting steel rang in his ears. Grayson kept circling, countering only when the moment presented itself. A realization grew in the back of his mind, becoming stronger and stronger with every cut and parry. The fight melded into something familiar, something Grayson remembered all too well from many years ago.

The Watcher fought like Thren Felhorn.

Not exactly, of course, but the fluidity of movement, the constant motion, the ability to turn from the defensive to the attack within the blink of an eye… it was Thren. It had to be. His build was the same, his height, even the reach of his arms. But that didn’t make one lick of sense.