David Dalglish - Blood of the Underworld

“Day just keeps getting better,” he said. With a snap of his fingers, the door opened on its own, and in stepped Zusa, clad in her dark wrappings, her gray cloak fluttering behind her.

“Magic is a poor host to greet at a door,” she said, sheathing her daggers.

“Yes, but it keeps my lazy ass in a chair,” Tarlak said. “Come in, and share whatever terrible news you’ve brought with you. Gods know you’re never here to tell us something good.”

Delysia scolded her brother’s poor hospitality, and hurried up to greet Zusa. The Faceless woman awkwardly accepted her embrace, then set aside her daggers. A wave of Tarlak’s hand, and a glass of wine appeared on the nearby table. Haern watched Zusa settle in, taking a seat opposite Tarlak. She looked odd dressed in such a way, yet was sitting comfortably in an old wooden rocking chair. Though she tried to appear gracious, Haern could tell she was in a hurry, and that whatever reason brought her to their tower was an urgent one.

“Thank you,” she said, sipping the wine before putting it aside. “But my time is short. One of our servant boys was attacked this morning, just before dawn. His eyes were cut out and replaced with silver coins, and two pieces of gold were put on his tongue.”

The news struck Haern like a brick to the head.

“A rhyme,” he said. “Was there also a rhyme?”

To his dread, Zusa nodded.

“Tongue of gold,” she recited, “eyes of silver. Run, run, little Nathan, from the Widow’s quiver.”

With each word, Haern felt his fingers tighten against the fabric of the couch. After the first two murders, he’d thought it was just someone with an agenda against the Spider Guild, but to also strike the Gemcroft family, especially in such a petty, cruel way?

“Do you know of this…Widow?” Zusa asked.

Haern sighed, and he caught Tarlak staring at him, clearly also eager to hear. Nodding, Haern shared what he’d discovered, of the two bodies, and of Victor also requesting help in discovering who it was. When finished, Tarlak leaned back in his chair, stroking his red goatee.

“He’s taking their eyes?” he wondered aloud. “That’s a little…odd.”

“Odd?” said Zusa. “You insult a dead child saying such a thing. It is the cold, cruel act of a sick mind. Whoever this Widow is, let him kill Spiders night and day, but to threaten Alyssa’s son…no. We must stop him. Despite your reputation otherwise, your Eschaton Mercenaries are the best. My mistress wants this killer found, and will pay whatever it takes.”

Tarlak’s eyes widened.

“Now that’s what I like to hear,” he said, grinning.

“He’s striking at night,” Haern said, glaring at Tarlak. “And he bears a grudge against both the Spider Guild and the Gemcroft family. Any ideas?”

“Perhaps a rival guild?” Tarlak asked.

Haern shrugged.

“Maybe a rogue thief wanting the truce ended?”

Neither idea sounded right, didn’t have that correct feel in the gut. And then Delysia spoke.

“What about Victor?” she asked.

Haern and Tarlak exchanged a glance.

“He’s made his hatred of the thief guilds clear,” Delysia insisted.

“He has no love of the Trifect, either,” Zusa said, and she told them of Victor’s visit to their mansion just that morning. Haern heard it, knew it made sense, but he shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I don’t believe it. He’s doing this with a sense of purpose, a sense of honor. Brutal murders, mocking rhymes…how does that help him? What agenda does that serve?”

Tarlak frowned, and he bit his lower lip as he thought.

“Zusa,” he said, glancing at the woman. “Tell Alyssa we accept her request, and I’ll have a contract brought to you before tonight. We’ll start patrolling the Spider Guild territory come nightfall, see if we can spot him attempting kill number four. All of us except Haern, that is.”

“You want me to watch Victor,” Haern said. “Don’t you?”

“Consider it protecting him,” Tarlak said, standing. “That is, if he’s innocent. And if he’s not, well…” The wizard shrugged. “You’ll be right there to stop him, won’t you?”

Haern thought of the way Victor had responded seeing the body in the alley. His anger, his revulsion…that couldn’t have been an act. Could it? The timing would have been difficult, but he didn’t have to be the one committing the killings himself.

“It’s not him,” Haern said, reaching for his sabers.

“I hope it isn’t,” Zusa said as she left for the door. “Because his scribe sits in our mansion, recording our every deed. Find him quickly, Eschaton. Our city is dangerous enough without a madman.”

Silence greeted them as the door closed behind her. Haern stood there, feeling unsure, then buckled his sabers to his belt.

“Where are you going?” Delysia asked.

“To speak with a contact,” Haern said. “If the Spider Guild is being targeted, someone in their organization might have an idea why.”

“Be careful,” she told him.

He leaned in close to gently kiss her cheek.

“I will,” he said. “I promise.”

“You sure it’s safe to be out here?” Peb asked as they neared the castle. His wide eyes darted every which way, as if guards were trying to sneak up behind him from all directions. With his big ears, the act only reminded Alan why Peb had once been called Mouse.

“I’m not sure it’s safe to be anywhere in Veldaren right now,” Alan said, twirling a copper coin between his thumb and forefinger, something he did when nervous. “So why should the castle be any worse?”

Peb nodded toward the rows of men and women waiting to be interrogated by Lord Victor’s men.

“Maybe because any one of them people might be blubbering our names any second?”

Alan ran a hand through his long dark hair.

“Thren wants answers, wants something new, so either we get him something new, or we get a tongue-lashing…if we’re lucky. Given the mood he was in, I’m not willing to gamble on that. I’d rather tempt the city guards than the boss.”

Peb didn’t look convinced, but Alan didn’t care. The guy was a coward, and more importantly, he hated to be alone. He’d follow Alan, so long as things still looked safe. Alan patted his leg, glad for the dagger hidden there. Taking a deep breath, he summoned his courage and then walked out from the alley and into the main street, where the interrogations continued. Peb quickly followed. The two were in ratty clothing, their faces dirty, their hands calloused. Anyone who bothered to notice them would think them nothing but poor, hungry peasants. At least, that was the hope.

Alan led the way, faking a limp toward the lines. At the front he saw scribes jotting down the guts that their current pigeons spilled. Not that Alan blamed them. When your life was on the line, or the coin was right, honor was nothing but a hindrance. Making as little noise as possible, he listened as they got closer, hoping to catch an errant phrase, but a soldier noticed them before he could.

“Stay back, you two,” said the armored man, his hand already on his sword. He stood between them and the tables of scribes. On his chest was a tabard bearing a crest Alan did not recognize, some strange circle with wings drawn in gold. “Any closer, and I’ll think you a threat.”

“Forgive me,” Alan said, bowing low and turning away. Peb followed, saying nothing.

“That was pointless,” Peb mumbled.

“Did you see Lord Victor?”

Peb shook his head.

“No. You?”

Alan glanced back, scouring the guards, the lines, the scribes.

“Not here,” he said. “But only twelve or so are set to talk. Yesterday had far more.”