David Dalglish - A Dance of Shadows

He started with the body, looking it over for any sort of clue. He found no sign of clothing, no dropped personal items. Moving on to the floor, he looked, but again found little. Too much tramping about by guards, too much activity prior to their arrival. Next he scanned the messages, each one. He read them all, to see if they said the same thing. He looked for any hint to the mind-set of the Widow, even something as basic as whether the man or woman wrote with the right or left hand.

On the sixth message he checked he at last found his clue. Pressed against the wall and held there by dried blood was a long strand of brown hair. Thren pulled it free and then wrapped it around his finger. At least he had a color to go on, and, given its length, he leaned toward the Widow’s being a woman. A flash of thought, and he grinned. No, he had far more than that. Returning to Alan’s body, he took the silver and gold before rushing out.

The Council of Mages’ presence was weak in Veldaren, but it did have a few members. They were unanimously unimpressive, failures at mastering the craft. Thren viewed them as little more than charlatans, taking the coin of others and offering petty fortunes and trinkets in return. One such charlatan, however, had been useful. In what felt like an age past, a wizard had been a member of the Spider Guild. It was his shop Thren went to, the hair still tightly wrapped around his finger.

Inside was cramped, with hardly room for three men to stand side by side. The fat wizard sat on a stool, only a table separating him from the door. A few odds and ends hung from the walls, and behind the wizard was a shelf full of jars, each containing a strange organ or insect. From experience Thren knew few of them were necessary for spells; the rest were kept there for looks.

“Welcome, welcome,” said the wizard. Most of his clothing was simple, dull browns and grays, but he wore a thin green robe over it, no doubt meant to impress the simpletons. Thren snorted at the sight.

“Hello, Cregon,” Thren said. “How has business fared since you tossed aside your cloak?”

Cregon leaned closer, and then his eyes widened as he realized who was before him.

“Y-y-you let me go willingly,” he stammered. “And I know my protection money’s not been consistent, but business comes and goes…”

“Drop it,” Thren said, taking a seat opposite the wizard. “If I wanted you dead, I’d just kill you. I have a use for your talents.”

“Talents?” Cregon asked. He was already sweating. The sight of it disgusted Thren. Sure, he’d been useful, but he’d let the man go just because he couldn’t stand the sight of his bloated self. “Talents, of course. Whatever you need, I’m sure I can help. What spell would you like? Or do you need some sort of enchantment?”

“I need a scrying spell,” Thren said.

Cregon licked his lips. “Who is it? If they’re unknown to me, I’ll need a drawing or strongly personal object to see them.”

“I don’t know who he or she is, and don’t care about their name or what they’re doing. I just need to know where to find them.”

Cregon nodded, but Thren could tell he was starting to worry. “That’s better, but still not cheap, nor easy. Do you have anything of theirs?”

In answer, Thren tossed the silver and gold he’d taken from Alan’s body, then put the strand of hair atop it. “That’s for the cost, and that’s for the spell,” Thren explained. “Just a location.”

Cregon pocketed the coins, then grabbed the hair. He frowned at it as he wrapped it twice around his beefy hand. “Not a lot to go on,” he said. “But I think I can manage. Is this person important to you in some way?”

Thren chuckled. “You might say that. It’s a woman, I believe, and I want her dead. But to do that, I need to find her.”

Cregon nodded, the movement shaking his fat jowls. “Of course, of course. Just wait a moment. I’ll see what I can do.”

He put his hands over the hair, closed his eyes, and began murmuring the spidery words of magic. Thren waited, wise enough not to interrupt such an incantation. A soft light surrounded Cregon’s fingers, and then it plunged into the hair. It shimmered yellow, then faded. Cregon frowned.

“What is it?” Thren asked.

“I found her,” he said. “But it’s somewhere dark. Not a building… I don’t know. It’s outside the city, though, not far from the wall.”

“Not good enough, Cregon. I need to know where to look.”

“I’m telling you! It’s just beyond the west wall, little bit off the road into the city. I can’t tell you how to get there when there is nothing. Maybe it’s a camp…”

Thren stood, and his hand fell to the hilt of a short sword. “Can you find the way?” he asked. Cregon’s eyes widened, and he nodded. “Good. Then close up shop. You’re leading me there.”

Cregon locked the door to his store, pocketed the key, and then hurried off. Thren followed, lurking a few feet behind him.

“Pick up the pace,” Thren told him, rolling his eyes. The man looked like a pregnant sow trying to waddle on two legs. “I don’t want this Widow to move before we get there.”

“The Widow?” Cregon asked, glancing behind him. “ That’s who we’re looking for?”

“It is. Now move.”

Cregon hurried faster, huffing and puffing as they made for the west gate. A few passing by recognized him and said hello, and the wizard tipped his hat in return. At the gate the guards waved him on without a word. Thren followed, looking like a poor commoner and hardly earning a second glance.

“How far?” Thren asked as they traveled the road.

“Not far,” Cregon said, very much out of breath. “Not…” He swallowed. “Not far.”

A quarter mile from the city Cregon turned sharply off the path. Realizing where they traveled, Thren quietly drew his short swords, thinking the wizard was leading him into a trap. Cregon stopped just short, and gestured before him.

“In there,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”

He’d taken them to a pauper’s graveyard, where the city guards buried the nameless dead without a single copper in their possession to buy them a gravestone or marker.

“This Widow is still alive,” Thren said. “You’ve made a mistake. You must have.”

“No mistake,” Cregon said. “I assure you, she must be here.”

Thren pointed a short sword toward the graveyard. “Then find her.”

Cregon held the fist with the hair to his lips, and he closed his eyes. After a few whispers, he opened them. “Follow me.”

Near the far corner he stopped, and with his heel he made a small X. “Right here,” he said.

Thren wanted to believe the wizard was lying to him, but he’d always been a coward, and the fear in his eyes was genuine. Surely he’d made a mistake, but Cregon appeared convinced otherwise.

“Go on back to your shop,” he said. “Leave me be.”

Cregon was more than happy to oblige. When he trundled off, Thren remained, staring at the mark in the dirt. At last he returned to the city and swiped a trowel small enough to hide underneath his thin coat. Once more he walked to the graveyard, and, without a care for time, he began to dig. The day passed by, hour by hour, as he unearthed the grave. At last he hit bone, and then started digging around it. By the time the woman’s skull was revealed, the sun had begun to set. Exhausted, he sat back and viewed the results of his work.

The body had been buried at least a year to his untrained eye. The dead woman still had her teeth, and her fingernails. As for her hair, though…

He broke the skull free and lifted it up to the waning light. All across the bare skull he saw tiny marks, scratches as if from a small blade.