David Dalglish - A Dance Of Death

She made it to the deck as the cargo hold filled with smoke. Tearing away the wrappings from her face, she gasped in the clean air, then vomited over the railing.

What have you done to me? she wondered, stealing a glance at the bag tied to her wrist. Smoke had begun billowing from the belly of the ship, and she knew she had little time before streams of sailors and guards came to fight the fire. It was a brotherhood thing; no one let another’s ship burn if they could help it. She had to flee, but where? She nearly leapt into the water, figuring to swim to a discrete location before coming ashore, but stopped herself at the last moment. Her whole upper body was twitching sporadically, and she feared what might happen if she tried to swim.

Like a drunk, she staggered down the plank. Already a guard had come at a steady jog to investigate the smoke.

“Is there a fire?” he asked, as if he thought Zusa were a victim of it instead of the cause. When he came closer, and saw her strange clothing, he tensed and drew his sword. Zusa knew at any other time she could have cut him down, but not now. Panic swirled through her as her muscles twitched with a feeling that almost approached pleasure. Her brain in a fog, with shimmering lines moving into her vision as if sprouting from her neck itself, she almost lay down right there and succumbed to the sensation. Instead she swallowed hard, tried to gather her senses, and stumbled on by, ducking underneath the guard’s half-hearted swing.

“Stop!” he called out. “Fire!”

Faster and faster she ran. Her heart hammered in her chest so hard she worried it might burst. Every time she thought to hide in shadows, she saw things there, vague and shapeless. Her outfit, normally excellent at hiding her form in the darkness, now only made her stand out as different from the rest. Gasping in air, she cut down alleys and streets whenever she saw someone approach. Her legs felt numb, yet strangely her feet throbbed. She frequently heard the shouts of men chasing, and at one point even a pack of dogs tracking her scent.

No, she thought. Not real. Think, Zusa. Think!

But she couldn’t. The last remnants of pleasure had faded into stark terror that became overwhelming the moment she stopped moving. Her skin itched, as if spiders crawled underneath her wrappings. She had no idea where she was, how far she’d gone. At one point she wanted to tear off all her clothes and let whoever found her do whatever they wished, so long as she didn’t have to be afraid of them. Another time she nearly killed the first shape she saw. She’d even drawn her daggers, but there was blood on them, and for some strange reason that frightened her all the more. It was as if her senses had been heightened a hundredfold, and everything carried hidden danger.

At last she passed a shop that had built a deck across the front. She rolled underneath it, into the cramped space. Finally enveloped in a closed, safe place, she tried to catch her breath. Her heart hammered, and she shivered in wet clothing. She curled her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms tight about them, and waited. Time became meaningless. With each passing moment, her terror subsided, replaced once more by an overwhelming sense of euphoria. Despite her dismal surroundings, she had to fight an impulse to touch herself all over. Teeth clenched, hands gripping her elbows, she rode it out, praying for morning.

Come the rise of the sun, she had not slept a wink. Her whole body felt numb, her mouth dry. Her mind was empty, like someone had scooped out her insides with a spoon. All she could think about was shutting her eyes and hoping the blackness that followed would take those feelings away, but she couldn’t. Guards might still be searching for whoever set fire to the boat, and she’d appear quite guilty hiding underneath a deck in strange clothing. Crawling out, her clothes covered with crusted dirt, she looked about to decipher her surroundings. Despite what felt like her eternity of running, she was less than a quarter of a mile from the docks.

The city was yet to wake, though there was a moderate bustle of activity near the docks. Zusa ran for the Keenan mansion, frustrated with the stiffness of her joints. The bag of Violet bounced against her wrist, and she looked at it with far more respect. If any saw her run back, none said anything, and that didn’t surprise her. Paranoia seemed to linger in the back of her mind, but she could control it now, keep it at bay. At the front gates of the mansion she tore off the rest of her facial wrappings and demanded entrance. The two guards had been made aware of her stay, and they hurried to open the gate so none might see her.

She used the servants’ entrance, went directly to her room, and collapsed on their bed. Hoping to fall asleep any moment, she was annoyed to hear the door open, and then Alyssa stepped inside.

“Are you well?” Alyssa asked.

“No,” Zusa said, and she laughed, for she could think of nothing else to say.

“You’re soaked,” Alyssa said, frowning. Her hand pressed against Zusa’s forehead. “Feverish, too. Get off the bed. I’ll help you undress.”

Feeling like a sick child, Zusa sat on the edge of the bed as Alyssa removed her wrappings one layer at a time. Once she was naked, Alyssa pulled a plain white dress over her head. Only then did she let her roll back onto the bed and underneath the covers.

“I found it,” Zusa said, nodding toward the bag that now lay on the floor. “I found the Violet.”

Alyssa picked up the bag and placed it in a pocket of her dress without looking inside.

“Rest now,” she said. “I’ll hear of what happened when you’re well.”

Her body still occasionally twitching, Zusa sighed deeply, laid her head on the pillow, and tried to rest.

“Wait,” she said as Alyssa was just about to close the door. “Where’s Haern?”

Alyssa frowned, and she looked away.

“When you’re awake,” she said, then shut the door, leaving Zusa in blessed darkness.

As they left Ingram’s mansion behind them, Haern found his unease growing. Ahead ran the Wraith, his dark twin, the very man he’d been brought to kill. He’d told Ingram the same. Yet why did he keep his sabers sheathed? Why did he follow, instead of attack?

“You fall behind,” the Wraith shouted, glancing back. Despite their exertion, he wasn’t even winded, and that faint smile remained. Haern felt challenged, and he increased his pace. He should attack, he knew he should attack, but two things bothered him. Why had the Wraith helped save his life, and why had he sent him a challenge half a country away? He wanted answers. He’d expected to get them at the tip of saber, but if he could get him talking first…

They approached the docks. With the buildings built closer together, the Wraith vaulted to the roof of one, pulling himself up by grabbing the edge with hardly a slow in his momentum. Haern replicated the feat, wishing he were as nimble as Zusa. For her, it was as if she could turn off the inevitable fall back to ground. They raced along the rooftops, the homes crammed together, the roofs flat but for a slight tilt facing the ocean. When they reached a heavy crossroad separating the rest of the city from the taverns and docks, the Wraith stopped.

“You came,” he said, his smile nearly ear to ear.

Haern nodded, fighting to catch his breath without showing it. He kept his voice steady and slow to mask it.

“What choice did I have?”

The Wraith laughed.

“Always a choice. Isn’t that the way of men, after all? You could have ignored me. You could have stayed in Veldaren. Instead you traveled here. Why?”

“You’re killing innocents, all to send me a message. I couldn’t allow it any longer.”