David Dalglish - A Dance of Shadows

“I cannot leave my lands unprotected,” John was saying. “Surely between Stephen and your daughter, the house guards are sufficient.”

“They aren’t,” Melody insisted. “Alyssa lost so many, and has yet to rehire, instead focusing on repairing her mansion. She puts her faith in that strange woman, Zusa. I don’t trust her, John. I just don’t. And Stephen’s guards are loyal only to him.”

John sighed and looked away, right toward the door. Nathaniel’s breath caught in his throat, and he pulled back and pressed himself tighter against the wall. Counting to five before peering in again, he saw his grandmother had stood and put her arms around John’s waist.

“My lands are tame, and my steward is a good man, and runs my affairs well,” John said. Nathaniel could hear weakness in his voice, a bending of his will toward Melody. “Are you really so sure we need more men to protect us? What of Lord Victor? They say Victor has done much to make the city safer.”

“I’m scared, John,” Melody said, pressing tighter against him. “I came back from such a dark place. I don’t want to be scared anymore. Victor can’t be everywhere, and those thieves are like rabid dogs. You saw what they did to our mansion. They’ll come again. They’ll come, with torches, with daggers, with… with…”

She buried her face in his neck, and as she shuddered, John wrapped his arms about her.

“I just want to feel safe,” she said. “Is that so terrible of me?”

“Of course not,” John said. “I’ll send for my footmen. They’ll stay until all of this business in Veldaren settles down.”

In response Melody kissed him on the mouth. It was quick, skittish, almost afraid.

“Thank you,” she said, burying herself in his chest. “Thank you.”

Nathaniel ran, scared and confused and wanting to see no more.

Thren watched as the men and women gathered about the entrance to the alley, all thin and meager-looking. They surrounded the hooded figure, who kept looking for guards as he took in silver and gave out his crimleaf. As if guards would come to the southern district. They were too busy in the north and west, protecting the trade and homes of the wealthy. No guards, Thren knew. No control. The Suns had come into the lawless anarchy of the slums, and it was time they paid for it.

He kept his walk lumbering, as if he were just another overworked member of the city barely staving off hunger. He’d discarded his guild colors and instead wrapped a thin coat about him. It was dark brown, stained, and had many holes, but it hid the swords strapped at his waist, which was all that mattered.

There were three men still buying when Thren joined them, lurking at their backs.

“Shit, man, wasn’t it just one silver?” argued the closest. His eyes were bloodshot, and lice crawled in his hair.

“It’s two now,” said the Sun thief. “Don’t act all pissed off, either. You know you still can’t get it cheaper elsewhere, not by a mile.”

“I wouldn’t buy from him,” Thren said, stepping closer.

“Piss off, and mind your own,” the thief said, glaring. “My leaf’s good, and my prices fair.”

“That’s not why,” Thren said, taking another step. “It’s just not wise to buy from a dead man.”

He leaped forward, short sword drawn. It rammed into the man’s stomach. A twist and a yank sent his innards spilling out across the ground. Two of the three other men fled, while the third made a desperate lunge for the falling bag of crimleaf. A single well-placed kick knocked the man out, leaving him sprawling beside the corpse. Cleaning his blade, Thren then sheathed it and knelt down to grab the bag.

“Save your coin for food,” he said to the unconscious man, spitting on his chest.

Leaf pocketed, he ran back into the alley, hooked a right, and then emerged into heavier traffic, where he allowed himself to slow. One by one he’d been taking out the Sun pushers, always on the lookout for the ones who strayed too far from the rest, or were too foolish to have others with them for protection. It was slow work, but he’d killed five so far. In a few more days, he’d have another five.

And by then another fifty Suns might have moved in from the west. He shook his head. It was a losing battle, perhaps, but he’d still fight it until he knew of a way to really hurt Grayson. Out of instinct he traveled toward his old territory, now claimed by three separate guilds. Not that he was surprised. With the city turning wilder by the hour, such a vacancy would never last long. A thought hit him, an image of other guilds using his former base as their own, and it stirred an anger in his chest. Heading that way, he found the old tavern, now shuttered and closed down after Victor’s raid. The upper levels had been ruined by the fire, but what of the underground portion?

It was a risk doing it in daylight, but he went ahead anyway. What did caution matter, now that his guild was disbanded? He opened the door to the stairs downward and found everything dark. Sighing with relief, he stepped farther in, grabbing a lantern hanging from the side. He checked it for oil, found a little, and then nodded. From a gap in the wall he pulled out some flint, and after a few sparks had the lantern lit. Holding it aloft, he stepped down into his former headquarters.

Everything was in disarray. Tables were overturned, chairs broken. Guards had torn it apart in their search. The small slanted windows near the ceiling were covered with cloth, and one by one Thren yanked them off, letting in more light. At first he was confused as to why the guards would have covered them, and then he saw the lone upright table in the center.

“No,” he whispered, feeling his fury rise. “Damn it, how dare you do this now?”

One of his former members lay on the table, arms and legs spread wide. An arrow protruded from his chest. Carrying the lantern over, Thren felt stones turn in his gut as the light glinted off silver coins in the man’s eyes. Alan, Thren realized. His name was Alan. After the raid, all the captured Spider guildmembers had been questioned and brought before judges. Those who turned on others had been spared the ax and sent away. Alan must have been one of them.

Pulling open his mouth, Thren found the two gold coins, there as always. Lifting the lantern, he looked at the opposite wall for the message.

gold and silver

silver and gold

where are you spider

where are you thren

It was written not once, not twice, but a dozen times all along the walls. Over and over the message was repeated, mostly just that final line.

Checking the body, Thren found a slit across Alan’s neck, no doubt where this madman had gotten the necessary amount of blood. And Thren knew for certain it was a madman. Unlike in the streets, he, or she, had had time in the basement, and they’d indulged themselves with the display. Everywhere he cast his lantern light he saw the message, and it left no question as to whom it’d been intended for.

Where are you spider? Where are you Thren?

The killings had nothing to do with his guild, nothing to do with power or territory. Someone wanted him to suffer. Whatever vendetta they had, it was personal.

“I’m here!” Thren shouted, kicking the table so it slid a foot, rocking the body atop it. “You want me, here I am! Think you’ll take my eyes? Think you’ll shove gold coins down my throat? Here! Right here!”

Childish outburst out of the way, Thren forced himself to calm down, to think. If the Widow had taken his or her time, then so could he. First he needed more light than the little coming in through the windows. Most of their things had been ransacked, but he found a discarded skin with a bit more oil in it. He refilled the lantern, set it to burning brighter. That done, he dug through the scattered mess in the supply room, scavenging a few candles that he lit and placed about. That done, he began his investigation.