David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

“That’s a damn shame,” Oric said, shifting so they could see the sword sheathed at his side.

“Ain’t no swords allowed in here,” said one of them.

“Like to see him stop me,” Oric said, nodding toward the barkeep.

The men scowled, but armed with only their fists, they dared not challenge him and his blade. They backed down to another seat, and as they moved out of his way, he finally saw Ghost. He sat alone in the center of the tavern. His skin was indeed dark, reminding Oric of obsidian. The man’s head was shaved, and he wore loose clothing more appropriate for a warmer climate. His enormous strength was obvious, his arms thick as tree trunks. Most shocking, though, was the brilliant white paint he wore across his face.

Oric stood, glared at the men who’d wanted his seat, as if daring them to try and take it back, and then approached Ghost.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked.

The man looked up, and he flashed a smile, revealing clean white teeth.

“I have a seat to spare, so take it if you wish.” His voice was deep, intimidating. Oric sat and leaned back in his chair. If not for the white paint, this Ghost might have been handsome. He tried to decide why he wore it, yet could not. Was it because of his name? A pathetic attempt to fit in?

“Not much need to ask, but I assume you’re the one called Ghost?”

The mercenary chuckled. “I am.”

“They say you’re good.”

“Who is they? That blind fool running the guild’s coffers? Or the rest of my colleagues? I’d be surprised if any bothered to speak of me except in disdain.”

“It was Bill,” Oric admitted. “Is it true? I’m starting to have my doubts.”

“Is that an attempt to make me boast? No boast. There is none better. Now tell me your name, and your business, otherwise I might decide I prefer to drink alone.”

“Sad man that’d prefer to drink alone.”

Ghost grinned again, and there was something wolfish in his brown eyes.

“Come now, stranger, do you think I am unused to being alone?”

Oric felt put off guard, and he cursed his verbal clumsiness. Arthur would have been so much better at milking information out of this guy, figuring out who he was, what made him tick.

“Fair enough. My name’s Oric. Who I work for is my own business. I need you for a job, and I’ve already paid Bill for your services.”

Ghost leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. Oric saw two hilts just below his elbows. It seemed Ghost didn’t care much for the barkeep’s no weapons policy either.

“I can refuse if I wish, so don’t think I am already in your pocket, Oric. Do you wish for someone found, killed, or both?”

“Both.”

Again that wolfish smile.

“Excellent. Who?”

“They call him the Watcher.”

Oric was surprised by the sudden burst of laughter. It seemed the rest of the tavern winced at the sound, as if they expected him to explode any second.

“The Watcher?” asked Ghost. “Now that is interesting. I’ve heard a rumor of him here or there, but they make him sound as real as the reaper. But now you come and ask me to kill him? Do you have anything for me other than a name?”

“I saw him with my own eyes,” Oric said, annoyed. “He wore gray, and kept his face hidden with the hood of his cloak.”

“You describe nearly every beggar in this city.”

“He wielded two swords, one for each hand.”

“I’d be more impressed if he wielded two swords in the same hand.”

“Enough!” Oric slammed his hand against the table. “I won’t be intimidated by a freak like you.”

The entire tavern quieted at his words. Ghost smiled, not angry, just amused, but something twinkled in his eyes, something dangerous. He leaned closer to Oric, letting his voice drop to a whisper.

“A freak?” he asked. “Why is that? Is it my skin? There are thousands like me in Ker.”

“Only a freak would paint his face to look like a dead whore,” Oric said, still trying to rein in his temper.

“Ah, the paint.” His voice dropped even lower, as if he were to say something intimate for only Oric to hear. “It itches like ivy, and does not come cheap here. Do you know why I wear it?”

“Because you’re trying to fit in?”

“Fit in?” He laughed, loud, a boisterous eruption that startled the nearest tables. Oric felt himself jump, though he didn’t know why. He’d lost control of the conversation, he knew that much. If he wanted to be in charge of any further negotiations, he needed to get his act together, and fast.

“No, not to fit in,” Ghost continued. “I wear it to stand out. When people see this paint, it only reminds them of why I must wear it. People cannot hide from me, Oric. That is why I am the best. Everyone I talk to feels fear, for they know nothing of who I am, only that I am different. Do you see that farmer over there? I could find out the name of his wife faster than you could introduce yourself. When you ask questions, they’ll evade, they’ll delay, they’ll hope for bribes or favors. When I ask questions, they wish me gone, because I make them afraid without a single threatening word. Fear is stronger than gold. All the wealth in the world cannot make someone conquer their fear, not when it comes to death and blood. They will tell me everything so I’ll let them go back to their safe little existence. Fit in? What an unimaginative man you are.”

“Enough,” Oric said. “Will you accept the job or not?”

Ghost took a drink of his ale and set down the glass.

“Triple what Bill told you,” he said. “I won’t accept a copper less.”

“I could hire fifty men for that price!”

“And all fifty would stomp about unable to find their own assholes. Triple.”

Oric stood, having had enough. “I won’t, dark-skin. I refuse. Either accept your standard pay, or nothing at all.”

Ghost drew his sword and slammed it onto the table. Oric jumped, but instead of reaching for his sword, he realized he had turned to run for the door. His cheeks flushed, and he knew Ghost had seen it as well.

“I expect the rest in Bill’s hands by nightfall. Farewell, Oric. I will have the Watcher’s head in two weeks. Should I fail, though I won’t, all the coin will be returned to you.”

He left, and it seemed the whole tavern breathed easier with him gone. To his shame, Oric realized he did too. He ordered another glass, drained it, and then hurried off. He still had another pressing matter to attend, and he needed to handle it far better than he had with Ghost. Further into southern Veldaren he approached a large wooden structure with two floors. It’d been there several years ago, when he’d last been to the city, and thankfully it still was.

Inside at least fifty boys and girls hurried about, cleaning, sweeping, and preparing their beds for nightfall. A man of forty hurried to the door to greet him.

“Hello, my friend,” said the man. “My name is Laurence, and welcome to our orphanage. May I help you, perhaps with finding an apprentice or maidservant?”

“Show me the boys,” Oric said.

Laurence whistled and sent them running. They traveled further in. It looked like a giant warehouse, with rows of bunk beds on either side. He lined up twenty boys of various ages, parading them before Oric as if they were cattle. For the most part, the children behaved, having certainly gone through this before.

“Anything particular you’re looking for?” Laurence asked, licking his lips.

“That’s my own business, not yours.”

“Of course, sir, of course.”

Oric kept Nathaniel in mind as he looked over the younger ones. One in particular looked close in size, maybe an inch taller. His hair was even the same color, which might help match the illusion.