David Dalglish - A Dance Of Death

“This way!” he heard a voice cry out, but it came from the roof, not those chasing along the ground. He looked over to see a shadowy version of himself, clothed similarly except instead of gray he wore black. In his hand he held a sword, the blade slightly curved. The man’s face was hidden by his hood, its recesses so dark only his lips and chin remained visible. He smiled as if incredibly amused by Haern’s predicament.

“Follow me!”

This shadow, this mirror, turned and ran along the very top of the mansion to its highest point. Once there he looked back, beckoning. Despite the insanity of it all, despite who he feared this stranger was, Haern followed. The man offered his hand, and Haern took it.

“Reach for the heavens,” he said before turning and running at blinding speed. Haern kept up, but just barely. Bolts clacked and buried into the roof on either side. They ran down the slanted front of the mansion, toward a two-headed monster built above the door. Letting go, the stranger took a step ahead and then leapt off. Haern followed, lifting his hands high as he’d been told. The fence about the mansion was near, and as they sailed over, Haern had a half-second to see the man hook his arms about a rope before he had to mimic the action. It struck his elbows, and he looped an arm about it and hung.

“Hurry,” the stranger said, swinging once over the rope before dropping beyond the wall. Haern paused a moment, trying to catch his breath. Large trees grew on opposite sides of the mansion gate’s entrance, the rope tied to two branches. Instead of following, he climbed to one of the trees and took cover within as another volley of crossbow bolts flew his way.

“I said jump,” the stranger shouted.

“Tell me your name,” Haern shouted back.

“You should know it, or my opinion of you is greatly overestimated.”

Haern tried to decide what to do, but in the end, he couldn’t stay there, not with armed guards rushing from all sides of the mansion toward him. With a kick of his legs he leapt over the wall, rolled to absorb the force of the landing, and then pulled up mere feet away from the man he’d been brought to Angelport to kill.

“Lead on, Wraith,” he said.

The Wraith’s grin grew.

“As you wish…Watcher.”

They ran, two deadly shadows, and left the guards far behind.

Despite what she’d told Haern, Zusa had no intention of searching for the Wraith. Alyssa had given her orders, and that was all that mattered, as much as she didn’t like keeping things from him. Neither could trust him yet, even if he had so far been true to his word. They had their own business to investigate. Let the King’s Watcher deal with an unpredictable animal like the Wraith. Instead, Zusa went to the docks, just as she had the night before.

“Where have you hidden it?” she wondered aloud, overlooking the many docked boats, both grand and small. Creeping closer, she noted the ones she had already checked when Haern had thought she was slaughtering more thieves to alert the Wraith to their presence. Part of her was glad she had done so instead. She didn’t like the idea of more bodies hanging from the gallows because of her actions any more than Haern did.

One by one she went down the docks, lurking in the deep shadows of the clouded starlight. Any boat not owned by the Merchant Lords she skipped, but there were not many. The ones that were guarded she slipped past. Zusa wanted no commotion alerting any to her search. Crates and cargoes flashed before her eyes, yet as the night wore on, she could not find what she was looking for.

By the time she’d checked twenty ships and found nothing of note, she decided she needed a way to narrow down her search. If the merchant lords had any of their new product in Angelport, surely it would be kept well guarded. Focusing solely on the larger boats with visible guards, she continued on.

Her first pick was the Fireheart, which she recognized as one of Blackwaters’ boats. Alyssa had considered him the Merchant Lord to watch most closely. Three men stood near the top of the plank leading to the boat. Two were asleep at their posts, the third leaning against the mast with his arms crossed, watching the water lap against the dock. Two torches burned from posts halfway up the ramp. Zusa smiled at the setup. No doubt they thought the presence of so many would deter thieves. She almost wished they’d spent some time in Veldaren, among the presence of true thieves. Then they’d realize how little their guard meant. But between Keenan, the merchant lords, and Lord Murband, all the good thieves had abandoned the city for more opportune ground.

Zusa loved vulnerable targets.

She dove into the water a hundred yards away, and with careful patience, drifted toward the boat. The water was cold, but not enough to cause her any harm unless she stayed in it too long. Unseen she brushed against the side of the boat and used her hands to steady herself from going underneath. Above, she heard someone snoring. Grabbing her daggers, she closed her eyes and waited. Through her lifelong training, she had gained the ability to traverse between shadows as if they were connected doorways. It took much of her strength, and had become harder with her turning her back on her god, Karak. But it could still be done, and upon the boat, there were many dark corners.

“I deny you,” she whispered, amusing herself with the thought that Karak actually heard. “But I take your power still.”

She dove underwater, swum directly beneath the boat, and then kicked toward the surface. Instead of striking the smooth underneath, she plunged wet and disorientated onto the deck. Taking in her surroundings, she leapt from behind a crate toward the lone alert guard. He’d turned, having heard the thump of her landing, but not yet realized someone had come aboard. Without slowing she lunged toward him, her daggers leading. One pierced his throat, preventing a death scream. The other slipped through his ribs and into his heart. The man convulsed for a few seconds, then fell limp at her feet.

The two sleeping sailors died where they slept, their throats slit. Afterward she paused, listening for any sort of alarm. She heard none, so into the hold below she went.

It couldn’t have been any more obvious. The hold was empty but for a single, solitary crate. Zusa tested its lid, but it was nailed shut, and she had nothing to open it with. Glancing about, she found a heavy sledgehammer and decided it would do. Surely no one would notice a minor commotion in the hold of a boat, not through its thick wooden walls. Lifting it, she smashed a hole through a side of the crate, then reached inside. It was mostly empty, and only after she pushed her whole arm inside did she touch several things along the bottom. She pulled one out and examined it. It was a simple leather bag, and curious, she opened its drawstrings.

“So you’re the Violet?” she asked, hardly impressed. “Just a damn weed.”

She sealed it, then tied its drawstrings about her wrist. That done, she wondered what to do about the rest…

Zusa found some lamp oil stowed in the corner, and she poured it inside. Going back up top, she removed a torch from the ramp leading to the ship. With childish glee, she tossed the torch into the crate, which burst into flame. That glee turned to confusion as the first of the smoke billowed into her face. It hit her like the hammer she’d used to open the crate. Gasping even through the wrappings over her mouth, she crawled for the ladder back up top. Her stomach heaved, and her head felt painfully light. Climbing was a chore, for whenever she released a rung her hand shook violently.

Get away, she thought, trying to push through the fog overcoming her mind. Keep moving. Move!