David Dalglish - The Cost of Betrayal

“Can I have my clothes now?” a humbled and embarrassed Harruq asked from inside.

“Here you go,” Delysia said, tossing the dirty clothes over the top of the door. “Although you really should keep those in there with you when you wash.”

Both decided the curses coming from inside were not appropriate for female ears, so they left. Qurrah met them at the door to the tower.

“What’s so amusing?” he asked.

“Your brother is just so cute,” Aurelia said.

“Especially when he’s all wet and grumpy,” Delysia added. Qurrah remained outside as they left. He shook his head, honestly bewildered.

“Dezrel will rue the day those two met,” he said. Harruq showed up, his armor in his arms. He was completely dry.

“Have fun with the girls, I guess?” Qurrah asked.

“Shut up,” Harruq said. “And I’m never bathing again.”

Still clueless, Qurrah could only laugh at his brother’s anger as Harruq stomped upstairs in a huff.

H aern slipped inside Tarlak’s room, shutting the door silently. The wizard sat as his desk, pouring over maps of Dezrel.

“Thanks for coming, Haern,” Tarlak said without looking up.

“You’ve become more perceptive.”

Tarlak chuckled. “Nope. Aurelia cast a few spells on my room at my request. Clever girl, really. I’ll know when someone enters, or is listening, watching, or scrying. We’re safe here. You can take that hood off if you want.”

“Do you trust her?”

The wizard looked up from his notes. “Of course I do. Don’t you?”

Haern shrugged. “I don’t know yet.”

“Then don’t take your hood off yet,” was the wizard’s reply. “Not too complicated.” He gestured to the seat before his desk. “Sit down. We need to talk.”

The assassin crossed the room and sat. He glanced around, sighed, and then removed the hood. Long, curly gold hair danced with a shake of his head. Tarlak glanced at the face of his friend and sighed. He would die to have Haern’s looks, yet all the assassin did was keep his features hidden underneath his hood, all so he could go unnoticed whenever he wished.

“You really don’t have your priorities straight,” Tarlak muttered.

“How so?” Haern asked. His voice was clear and firm, the whisper vanishing along with the hood.

“Never mind. We have a problem.”

Haern leaned forward, scanning the documents and maps littering Tarlak’s desk. “What is it?”

The wizard sighed and collapsed in his chair. “I don’t know what it is, and that’s the problem. Something big is going on. When was the last time any of our contacts gave you information worth a damn?”

A hand ran through the golden hair as he thought. “Two months at least. Maybe three. Are you worried my network has been compromised?”

“In a way, yes.”

Tarlak leaned forward, propping his chin on his fists. “The guilds are planning something, something that makes our bribes weak by comparison. Our contacts have suddenly grown stupid. What could all five guilds be working on that benefits everyone from top to bottom?”

“Nothing,” Haern said. “Only a return to the days of old would carry such charm.”

“So who stands in the way of returning back to the days of fleecing the rich and robbing the merchants?”

“The heads of all the guilds are owned mind and soul by the nobles,” Haern said. “They wouldn’t dare risk losing the protection money they earn.”

“Even if they could earn more by taking it?”

Haern shrugged. “There’d be the risk of being caught, having the other guilds cannibalize and destroy them, and of course, there’s me. Any chance would require complete cooperation of four guild masters, possibly all five.”

Tarlak nodded. He had come to the same conclusion.

“And that is the problem, Haern. One of your guys, Hensley, has passed us word that an attempt on guildmaster Thren will be made in two days.”

“Why, to replace him with his second in command?”

Tarlak picked up a glass full of violet liquid and drank. Smacking his lips, he put it back down and spoke.

“Perhaps. It fits, doesn’t it? Cooperation is needed, so the lower underlings, thinking a tougher leader might get them more money, arrange to have their current guildmaster killed. He is owned by the nobles, after all.”

“You think this is a trap,” Haern stated.

“I do. Hensley is the lowest rung on a ladder two feet deep in dung. No way would he know about such a plan.”

The assassin leaned back in his chair, his eyes distant as he lost himself in thought. “Why the trap, though?” he wondered.

“You said it yourself,” Tarlak said with a shrug. “If all the guilds cooperate, they won’t be caught, and no one will cannibalize the other. So what is left that threatens them?”

“Me,” Haern said, pulling the hood back over his face. A shadow immediately engulfed his face, born of magic. Only his blue eyes and his firm chin pierced out from his hood.

“Yes, the Watcher of the King, paid handsomely to ensure peace among the thief guilds by removing all who would turn our streets to anarchy. Well, it appears your efforts have earned you many enemies.”

“I must visit my contacts,” he whispered, turning to go.

“No,” Tarlak said. His voice gave no room for argument. “You kill them and they’ll know we see their bait for what it is. We’re going to willingly spring this trap.”

“Why?” Haern asked.

“Because someone organized all this, and I want to know who. Besides, a lesson to the underworld not to mess with the Eschaton could make our lives much easier in the coming months.”

“If you insist.”

He opened the door and was about to leave when Tarlak halted him again.

“Oh, by the way, will the half-orc be ready by then?”

Haern shrugged. “He is ready now. All that is left is years of polishing.”

“Well, try not to beat him too badly that morning. We’ll need him healthy for the assassination trap.”

“Whatever you say,” Haern said, offering a mock bow. He shut the door as quietly as he had entered. Minutes later, a loud banging startled the wizard from his task of copying spell scrolls.

“Come on in,” he shouted. “I’m never doing anything important in here, just picking my nose and scratching my bum.”

“Sounds important to me,” Brug grinned, shoving open the door. “A whole lot better than your pansy spell crap.”

“My pansy spell crap can make you a pansy mudskipper,” Tarlak threatened.

“Mudskipper?” Brug asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Just came to me. What is it you need?”

“Wondering if you finished the scrolls I asked you for.”

Tarlak grabbed two capped cylindrical containers and tossed them to Brug. “I take it those are for the ox?” he asked.

“Actually, no. I’ve been talking to the elf, and she says she’s not too bad with that staff of hers. Figure if she plans on whacking things with it, it’d be nice if things noticed.”

“Explains the first scroll. And the illusion?”

Brug chuckled, tucking both tubes underneath his arm.

“She’s got nothing but a stick. Maybe it’s just me, but I’m thinking there’s more to things than just function. You gotta look good at what you do.”

Tarlak chuckled.

“Fine. I’ll give you free reign. Just don’t spend too much of my money.”

Brug winked. “Of course.”

The door shut with a resounding thud. Tarlak sighed, his fingers rubbing his temples.

“Paranoid antisocial assassin with a secret identity, a bipolar blacksmith, and half-orc brothers hanging out with a girlie elf, and I’ve got to use them to keep chaos off the streets. Lathaar old buddy, I sure hope you’re having a better time than I am.”