David Dalglish - Blood of the Underworld

Haern ran, forfeiting the rooftops for faster travel upon the roads. He’d gotten caught up tracking what turned out to be a false lead, just a guildless street rat trying to steal in the Spider territory instead of being the Widow, as Haern had first hoped. The time wasted meant he might miss his chance to speak with Alan. Legs pumping, he raced toward the southern wall. Alan’s patrols varied, but every eight days he made sure to swing by a long stretch of the south wall, where there was little to steal, and even less eyes to see. For the most part, that was the only place Alan felt safe enough to talk.

And they certainly had much to talk about.

Since the attack against Victor, the city had settled into an unstable peace, a held breath before the next catastrophe. Victor’s work continued, a steady picking at the various thief guilds and their numbers. Through it all, the guilds remained quiet. Haern wanted to know what Alan knew, what Thren was thinking after such a vicious loss. That, and the Widow had struck again, another Spider found mutilated. Despite their best attempts, none of the Eschaton had been able to stop it. The rest of the city was catching on to the murders, and for most, it was just a cruel joke.

“Another went to see the Widow,” he’d heard a guard say, and the rest laughed as they picked up the body and pocketed the silver and gold. It was a lead Haern knew he should pursue, though the task was daunting. Systematically questioning every prostitute both within and surrounding the Spider Guild’s territory…

He shook his head. Even then, it didn’t explain the dead child on the Gemcroft property. Perhaps a housemaiden 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 missed speaking to Alan for a few more days than to 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 like 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 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?”

Haern tossed him another bag.

“Hopefully you have something more useful than last time.”

Alan caught the bag, 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.”

Haern fingered his sabers, not eager to have their meeting last any longer than Alan did.

“Less arguing, more talking,” 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 he was bored, I don’t know. I find it a poor use of time trying to guess what Deathmask 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. Says that’s what everyone wants, to have all our 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, instead 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 after 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 quickly to leave them be, and those too slow to learn that lesson died painfully. As for this songbird, Alan, the man had only a fraction of the talent Thren had 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 let the thief slink further and further 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 shortswords, 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 leapt, already disappointed, as Alan let out a frightened cry. But the Watcher was faster than he 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 rough, 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, the man turned and vomited.

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