David Dalglish: Blood of the Underworld

Laughter startled him, and he reached for his blade. He let it go when he realized it was just a drunken man curled against the wall, nearly invisible in the darkness.

“Sorry ‘bout the scream,” he said, drinking from the half-empty bottle he held. “Didn’t mean to scare anybody.”

“Did you see who did this?”

The drunk shook his head.

“Like this when I got here. Nearly tripped over the damn thing.”

Haern frowned. So the scream had been from the drunk, not the man dying. It didn’t surprise him, given how dry the blood was across the man’s throat. He yanked out the arrow, held it up to the moonlight. He caught sight of tiny flecks of poison on the metal. A professional hit, but again, by who, and why? He glanced about, looking for a message, and quickly found it. That he hadn’t spotted it immediately upon entering the alley unnerved him. It was large, and written in blood.

tongue of gold, eyes of silver

run, run little spider

from the widow’s quiver

“The Widow?” Haern wondered aloud. The drunk’s laughter stole away his concentration.

“You got competition,” he said, then laughed again. Haern looked to the gold coins in his hand and didn’t see the humor. Reading over the simple rhyme, a thought hit him, tightening his stomach into a knot. Bending down beside the body, he carefully lifted open the dead man’s eyelids.

“Damn it,” he whispered. “Damn it all to the Abyss.”

His eyes were gone, replaced by two silver coins staring up at the moonlight.

Haern left them for the guards to take.

Haern returned home to the Eschaton Tower exhausted. He’d scoured the area surrounding the murder as best he could, and tracked down several runners of the Spider Guild. The few he found had heard nothing, seen nothing, and even when threatened they showed no sign of lying. Leaving Veldaren for the tower, he’d felt nothing but frustration and bafflement. He kept repeating the phrase in his head.

Tongue of gold, eyes of silver…

As he opened the door, the smell of cooked eggs welcomed him home. Delysia was the only one awake, and she sat beside the fireplace with a plate on her lap. The orange light shone across her red hair, making it seem all the more vibrant. Seeing him, she smiled. The smile faded from her youthful face when she noticed his sour mood.

“Something wrong?” she asked.

“I’ll talk about it later,” he promised, heading for the stairs.

“Don’t you want something to eat?”

He shook his head. He just wanted sleep. Hopefully when he woke up, he’d have new ideas as to why someone had killed a member of the Spider Guild in such a ritualistic-not to mention expensive-manner. The thought of eating twisted his stomach, anyway. He’d seen a lot of horrible things, but for some reason, he couldn’t get the image out of his head of the corpse’s vacant eye sockets replaced with coins.

Eyes of silver…

Haern climbed the stairs until he reached the fifth floor, and his room. Hurrying inside, he sat down on his bed, removed his sword belt, and drew out his sabers. Carefully, he cleaned them with a cloth, refusing to go to bed with dirty swords no matter how tired he was. That was lazy, and sloppy, and laziness and sloppiness had a way of sneaking out of one habit and into another. His many tutors had hammered that into his head while growing up, all so he could be a worthy heir to his father’s empire of thieves and murderers. He chuckled, put away his swords. Not quite according to plan, he thought, imagining Thren scowling. Not quite at all.

Run, run, little spider…

His bed felt like the most wonderful thing in the world, and with a heavy cloth draped over his window, he closed his eyes amid blessed darkness. Sleep came quickly, despite his troubled mind. It did not, however, last long.

“Hey, Haern.”

He opened an eye, saw his mercenary leader sitting beside him on the bed. His red beard and hair were unkempt from a night’s sleep. He wore his wizard’s robes, strangely dyed a yellow color for reasons he was sure he’d never hear. Trying not to smack the man, Haern rolled over.

“Go away, Tarlak.”

“Good morning to you, too, Haern.”

Haern sighed. The wizard had something to say, and he wasn’t going to leave until he said it. Rolling back, Haern shot him a tired glare.

“What?”

“Some fancy new noble is returning to the city today,” Tarlak said, rubbing his fingernails against his robe and staring at them, as if he were only mildly interested. “Lord Victor Kane. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

The name was only vaguely familiar, which meant he’d been gone from Veldaren for a very long time. If he remembered correctly, he was just another one of those lords who lived outside the city, and liked to occasionally make a scene proclaiming how horrible Veldaren was, and how much better it’d be if their ideas were listened to. All hot air, no substance.

“Why should I care?” Haern asked, leaning against his pillow and closing his eyes.

“Because he’ll be meeting the King soon, perhaps within the hour. Normally this wouldn’t be a big deal, but it sounds like he’s bringing a veritable army with him.”

“As if King Vaelor would let them pass through the gates.”

“That’s the thing,” Tarlak said. “It sounds like he will. He sent a message to the King. I won’t bore you with all the details. Much of it was the standard pompous nonsense these lords are fond of. But one comment in particular was interesting enough my informant thought it worth waking me up early.”

Haern put his forearm across his eyes.

“And what was that?”

“I believe it was something to the extent of: ‘ Right now, thieves police thieves, yet when I am done, there will be no thieves at all.’ ” Tarlak stood from the bed, walked over to the door. “Sounds like someone plans on taking your job.”

He left. The room once more returned to quiet darkness.

Haern sat up, tossed the blankets aside.

“Damn it all…”

King Edwin Vaelor fidgeted on his throne, eager for the meeting to begin. Beside him stood his aging advisor, Gerand Crold, looking tired and bored. They’d emptied out the grand throne room of any petitioners and guests, per Gerand’s request. The advisor rubbed at the lengthy scar along his face, as if it bothered him. A sign of nervousness, belying the calm facade he showed. For some reason this made Edwin all the more impatient. Over the years he’d listened to what felt like a hundred lords all talk about how they could do a better job policing Veldaren. A few had even tried, such as when Alyssa Gemcroft unleashed an army of mercenaries upon the streets for a disastrous two nights. Half the city had damn near burned to the ground because of it, too.

Yet, at least Alyssa he could understand, given her belief at the time of her son’s death. Women did strange things when facing loss. This Lord Victor, though…

“You sure he has no family?” he asked Gerand.

“Quite sure, unless he has kept them in secret.”

The King scratched at his neck. He wore his finest robes, lined with velvet and furs that were dyed dark reds and purples. It’d been too long since he had worn it, and it itched. Still, he wanted to show this upstart noble his wealth, to remind him of his regality and his divine right to rule all of Neldar.

“What about a son? Or a daughter?”

“Forgive me, milord, but I do consider that family, and as I said, he has none.”

Edwin shot Gerand a glare, and he bowed low in apology.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I did not mean to speak with so harsh a tongue.”