David Dalglish: A Dance Of Death

“Would it be less poofy?”

“More and more I doubt the wisdom of your assistance,” Zusa said. She ran her hands through her short hair. “At least you are handsome. None would believe me marrying you otherwise.”

“No one’s going to believe it anyway,” Haern said. “I’ve still got scars from when you tried to kill me.”

“You tried to kill Alyssa first, remember?”

“Such doe-eyed lovers,” Alyssa said, sounding the tired mother. “I swear, sometimes I wonder why I brought either of you.”

Haern laughed. He’d feared awkwardness given her station, and his history, but she seemed sincere about her gratitude for what he’d done for her son Nathanial. Currently he was up in the north, under Lord Gandrem’s protection. Haern almost wished he’d come. It would have been nice to have a familiar face around, even if Nathanial had never been conscious when he carried him to safety after an attack by an ambitious lover of Alyssa’s.

Zusa left to change into clothes more suitable for sleeping. While she was gone, the servant returned from the city. At his sour expression, Alyssa urged him to speak. The servant glanced once at Haern, then continued.

“Lord Keenan has cremated them both, and delayed the burial for your arrival,” he said. “He is thankful for your appearance, and looks forward to your company. As for the city…the business with the elves has grown significantly worse. Not long ago, a cloaked man killed the previous elven ambassador and wounded those with him.”

Haern straightened, and he exchanged a look with Alyssa.

“This man,” she said. “Do they know who it was? Did he leave a symbol or name of some kind?”

“While the two survivors watched, he cut an eye into the ambassador’s chest. He calls himself the Wraith. That is all anyone would tell me, though I would not be surprised if Lord Keenan knows more.”

Haern swallowed, his mouth dry. Alyssa dismissed the servant, and when Zusa returned in a simple robe, they informed her of what they’d heard.

“First the Trifect, now elves,” Haern said, his voice low as he stared into the fire. “What does he want with me?”

“Have you ever heard that name before, this Wraith?”

Haern glanced at Zusa, then shook his head.

“No. I’ll need to speak with the elves who survived, learn anything I can of him.”

Another servant arrived, carrying a small cask of wine and a trio of cups. They all accepted, and then Alyssa led their toast.

“To a long life,” she said. “Something I feel none of us shall ever have.”

Haern clinked his glass against hers.

“A wonderful toast,” he said, trying to imitate Alyssa’s noble attitude while bowing low.

“Laurie will never, ever believe you are a member of my family,” Alyssa said, sipping from her glass. “Let’s pray he’s more understanding when he realizes you’re there to keep me alive.”

“And find his son’s killer.”

Alyssa downed the rest.

“That too. Good night, Haern. Tomorrow morning, we ride into the city. Try to sleep well. It will be a long day.”

She left Haern alone with Zusa. He shifted uncomfortably beside the fire. Zusa always made him feel awkward; he was never sure of what she thought or might say. She often stared at him, and was never self-conscious enough to hide it.

“Do you know where we might start looking?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“We start with Keenan’s mansion,” she said. “From there, the elves. After that, we listen for rumors, and search for others he might have killed that we do not know of. I found you, Watcher. We can find this pale imitator.”

“That servant said something about the business with the elves having grown worse. What did he mean by that?”

Zusa glanced to the city.

“I don’t know much, but what little I do know is grim. Tomorrow, we ride into a pile of kindling and oil. The slightest spark will set it off.”

Haern chuckled, earning him a raised eyebrow.

“Nothing,” he said. “I just have a feeling, given how my life has gone, that we’re about to be that spark.”

Zusa lifted her glass, and finally she smiled.

“To starting fires,” she said.

Haern smiled in return.

“To starting fires.”

Ulrich Blackwater stepped onto the deck of the Fireheart and scowled.

“Where’s Pyle?” he asked two nearby crewmen, bare-chested lads soaked with sweat as they labored crate after crate toward the plank leading to the dock.

“The captain’s in his cabin, milord,” said one, bowing low. “Busy.”

Ulrich weaved through the various ropes, cargo, and men until he reached the captain’s quarters. Without knocking he yanked the door open and stepped inside. The quarters were cramped, despite the overall size of the Fireheart, just a bed, a desk, and a few maps tacked to a wall. On that bed, with a naked whore riding atop him, lay Captain Darrel Pyle. Seeing his entrance, Darrel laid his head back and sighed.

“Didn’t they tell you I was busy?” he asked.

“Perhaps.” Ulrich glared at the woman, who slipped to the side and grabbed her clothes. “Leave us.”

“Don’t go far, girl,” Darrel said as the whore hurried half-naked past Ulrich and out the door. With only a blanket keeping him decent, Darrel leaned against the bedpost and scratched his neck. He was a burly man, with skin darkened from months spent in the sun. A long scar ran from his lip to his chin, leaving a gap in his brown beard.

“Shouldn’t you be helping them unload?” Ulrich asked.

“My men know what they’re doing.”

“It’s not your men I’m worried about. It’s my cargo.”

Darrel stepped off the bed and pulled on his trousers.

“Your damn wine is safe and dry,” he said, buttoning them. “Not that I give two shits. I could piss in every one and the scum here in Angelport would consider it fine vintage.”

“I would still prefer it if you oversee things, in case such a respectable crew as yours decides to help themselves.”

“You telling me how to run my ship?”

“My ship,” Ulrich said, glaring. “You may captain it, but this is my boat, my cargo, and my reputation on the line. Besides, I don’t give a damn about the wine. You’ll be carrying something worth a thousand times more soon, and I need to be certain it is kept safe and untouched.”

The captain pulled a white shirt over his head; it was hopelessly stained with sweat.

“What could you possibly have worth more?” he asked.

In answer, Ulrich taking out a small pouch from his pocket and opened the drawstrings. From within he drew a single leaf, tore off a small piece, and handed it over. It was green with strange purple veins, and Darrel grunted as he examined it.

“What is this shit?” he asked.

“Bite, but don’t chew. Keep it crushed between your teeth, and focus on breathing steady. Oh, and I suggest you sit down first.”

Darrel shrugged. No stranger to various drugs and drinks, he seemed unimpressed with the simple leaf. Ignoring Ulrich’s advice, he popped the leaf into his mouth and chewed. Within seconds his expression changed, and his chewing slowed. Ulrich watched as Darrel’s pupils dilated and his hands started to twitch. Taking a seat at the captain’s desk, he patiently waited for the drug’s effects to pass so he could continue their conversation. After about five minutes, Darrel’s legs wobbled, and he fell hard onto his elbow. Even though the jolt caused him to bite his tongue, he barely reacted. Blood dribbled down his chin and into his beard.

“Unbelievable,” Darrel said, his voice strangely dreamlike.

Ulrich found the captain’s private stash of alcohol and poured himself a drink. Behind him, the captain remained oddly quiet, other than for the occasional grunt of pleasure. After Ulrich had finished his third drink, Darrel finally came around.