David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

“You have your orders,” she told them all. “Bring the Abyss to Veldaren, and throw every cloak into it. Give vengeance to my lady.”

The captains grinned and smacked one another on the shoulder.

“About damn time,” said one. “Let’s get to it!”

Zusa left to the south, still trying to decide her course of action. The mercenaries were scattered all throughout the city, in taverns, camps, and houses of those loyal to the Trifect. They would spill out onto the streets, and no one would be there to stop them. Only King Vaelor could make a reasonable attempt with his soldiers, but he’d have to break a streak of cowardice, which Zusa knew would not happen. Ever since the Bloody Kensgold, he’d given them all freedom to kill one another so long as their threats were never aimed at him. No doubt when the nightmare began, the watch would turn the other way, if they even left the castle at all. She had an inkling they wouldn’t.

But the bloodshed would accomplish nothing if she couldn’t find Nathaniel’s killer. The Watcher. Where did he hide?

Those in the shadows were about to be flung into the light. She resolved to scour the city, keeping an eye open for anything unusual. If the Watcher were as skilled as Veliana made him sound, he would hold his own no matter how many mercenaries they flung at him.

Veliana…

She might have offered a prayer for her, but she had turned her back against her former god, Karak. She had no one to pray to, so instead she just murmured the thoughts aloud, hoping that she might survive the night. If only she could have relinquished her desire for control of the Ash Guild, she might have made a new life at her side within the Gemcroft mansion.

“Stay safe, Vel,” she said, crawling up the side of a small house with a flat roof. Once atop, she leapt across, scanning her surroundings for a man cloaked in gray and wielding twin swords. A man skilled enough to maybe even defeat her.

Half an hour passed, painfully quiet. It seemed the entire city had drawn its collective breath. Then all at once came the exhalation. Two fires erupted in southern Veldaren, both supposed headquarters of various thief guilds. Deciding there was as good a spot as any, she headed that way. She passed several patrols, and one even had the gall to fire a crossbow at her. She ducked lower and continued on, realizing she would be far from the only one to travel by rooftop that night.

They were torturing a thief in the street when she arrived at the first fire. It was probably supposed to be an interrogation, but that would have involved a chance for answers from the victim. The thief had blood smeared across his face, and the way his jaw hung, it looked like it’d been broken in multiple places. The best he could do was point. The light of the fire bathed them in red, and in it, the thief sobbed for mercy.

“This is your creation,” Zusa whispered to the distant thief, hardening her heart against the violence. “This is the fate you have earned.”

Still, it seemed a cruel fate. When the soldier impaled the thief, she was thankful. She turned for the second fire when she caught movement from the corner of her eye. She back-flipped into the air as a blade cut where she had been. Facing her attacker, she fell, grabbed the ledge of the building, and then flung herself at him. He was a giant man, his features shrouded in twilight. She slammed her knees against his chest. It was like trying to knock down an ancient oak. She rolled over his head, jumped away to give her some distance, and then drew her daggers. As her opponent whirled, she used the half-second to examine him.

He was dark-skinned, darker than she’d ever seen, and wore light clothing with a long gray cloak. He carried two enormous swords, each a length most would need two hands to hold. His muscles looked more appropriate to a woodcutter or blacksmith than a thief. But most of all, her eyes were drawn to the white paint across his face, making his shaved head look like a bleached skull.

“A woman?” he said. Zusa lunged, hoping to take advantage of his surprise. She parried one of his swords to the side, then thrust her other dagger for the opening. The man seemed prepared for the maneuver. He twisted, slapped aside her thrust, and stepped closer. She tried leaping back to gain more distance, but he followed, trapping her at the edge of the roof. Falling to one knee, she tried to hamstring him, but again his swords were there, batting the far smaller weapons aside. Part of her wondered why, with such advantage in reach, he forced them to remain in close combat.

Then one of his swords fell, and he felt a hand grab her hair, each finger as thick as a sausage. Her feet lifted off the roof. She held in a scream, all her focus narrowed to a razor edge. Her daggers swung, both aiming for his neck. With only one weapon, he had no chance to block, at least she thought, but he used its flat edge to strike both her wrists as they thrust, pushing them over his head. Before she could bring her arms back down, the sword’s edge pressed against her throat.

“Stop struggling,” he said. “I’m not here to kill you.”

His voice was deep, so deep, it reminded her of the rare times she’d heard Karak whisper to her in the night. She forced herself to calm, to look into his brown eyes without flinching. The sword pressed tighter against her throat, as if he expected her to try and break free instead.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Not you,” said the man. “My target is not a woman. I might have said so if you hadn’t leapt at me like a rabid dog.”

“Who are you?”

He stared at her, as if deciding something. Decision made, he unceremoniously dropped her. She landed on her feet and crouched before him, ready to leap at the slightest wrong move.

“I am Ghost. I’ve come to claim the Watcher’s head, and other than the breasts, you fit the description rather closely.”

Zusa slowly straightened, though her muscles remained tense. Whoever this Ghost was, she had no intention of relaxing in his presence.

“Who is it that has hired you?” she asked. “One of the thieves?”

He grinned at her. Something about it worsened her unease.

“I cannot tell you, as surely you can understand. You seem at home in the night, and you move as I expected the Watcher to move. Do you know of him? Tell me, and I might make it worth your while.”

“Whatever I know, I cannot say, for I seek him as my own bounty. My master wishes to be the one to claim his life, and I would not dare risk cheating her of it.”

“Her?” asked Ghost, raising an eyebrow.

Too much, stop speaking, you always say too much.

So she smiled, hoping to convince him that it wasn’t a slip of a tongue, instead a purposeful decision to make him wonder if she spoke truth or not. He probably didn’t buy it, but it was still worth the attempt.

“So be it,” Ghost said. One of his swords shifted, she moved to jump, but then he saluted her with the blade. “A game, then. I will let you search unimpeded, but I expect the same courtesy of you. If you somehow find him first…all I asked is that you come to me at the Mug and Feather tavern so I may know your name. Any lady more skilled in tracking than I is a lady I would sorely wish to meet with again. Consider it a repayment of my generosity.”

“The generosity of a man who nearly stabbed my back before seeing my face to confirm a kill?”

Ghost laughed. “You are still alive, woman. That alone is proof of my generosity.”

The way he said it, with no anger or pride, only amusement, chilled Zusa’s blood. This was a man with whom death was a common companion, who believed himself having nothing to prove. If such an agreement kept her safe from his blades…

“I accept,” she said. “Now forgive me, but I have a man to find.”