David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

“You’ll ruin everything I’ve worked for,” she said quietly.

“I’ll give the Ash Guild a legacy all of Dezrel will one day learn. I don’t expect it to be easy. We’ll have to kill a lot, yes. But if we succeed, think of all that wealth, that respect. We fill every other guild with the fear of retaliation. We’ll never need to guard, only attack. Those who turn against us will meet death, every single one. Once that reputation takes hold, we’ll be gods in this city.”

“You’re a lunatic.”

He smiled. “Perhaps. But oh what fun it’ll be in the attempt. Are you getting scared on me, Vel? Aspire to greatness, and damn all others. Garrick took your guild. Help me take it back, and mold it into something never seen before in the history of Dezrel.”

She still wasn’t sure, but she’d not let Deathmask know.

“What of the Spider Guild?” she asked. “Weren’t you to meet with Thren?”

Deathmask’s eyes twinkled, and his grin pulled wider. Despite it, she thought she sensed fear hiding behind the guise.

“Come with me,” he said. “Hopefully we haven’t missed the show. I discovered something when in Garrick’s audience, and I’ve rethought what Thren’s reaction to our masquerade will be.”

They removed their cloaks and dressed in drab colors that showed no affiliation. Veliana kept a hood low over her face to hide her scar. Given the cold wind of the morning, no one would think the hood odd. Deathmask led the way, taking a winding path back to the Ash guildhouse. Before they were even halfway there, Veliana could already see the smoke rising.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Careful,” he said, hugging the wall and peering around every turn. “We might have a few more enemies now. Do you remember when the Hawks tried to ambush you, the attempt I broke up? Garrick didn’t do anything, did he?”

“No,” she said. “But what does that-?”

“The Spider Guild attacked the Hawks barely a day later. Why do you think that, Veliana? Why do you think Garrick suddenly grew testicles and dared challenge your hidden control?”

The realization hit her like a battering ram.

“No. That cow-sucking shit-eating motherfucker. I’ll kill him. It’ll hopefully take days, but I’ll kill him.”

“Assuming he’s still alive,” Deathmask said as he led them into an apartment. They climbed the stairs, stopped at a door on the higher floor, and knocked. When no one answered, Veliana kicked it in. The room was disheveled, what little was left. By all accounts, the occupants appeared to have either fled or died. From the small window they could see the guildhouse. Deathmask looked first, then backed away so Veliana might see. The guildhouse was in flames. It had already collapsed on its supports, black smoke billowing. Surrounding it was a circle of thieves wearing the cloaks and colors of the Spider.

While she watched, a man crawled from the wreckage, and even from their distance he looked badly burned. One of the Spiders shot him with an arrow before he could rise to his feet.

“Unbelievable,” Deathmask said as he took a second look. “An army of mercenaries descends upon us, and without hesitation he massacres a fellow guild, all for a single act of betrayal.”

“Thren is not one to hesitate.”

Deathmask muttered and flopped down onto the poorly stuffed bed.

“We need to establish control of the guild, and now, Veliana. I’d hoped for a bit of backstabbing between the two, a thinning of members, but this…Thren’s viciousness is astounding. We must take over before the guild disbands completely, and the rest of the city moves in on our territory. At least the mercenaries will keep them from doing so for a while. As for Thren…if there’s to be any chance of peace, he’ll need to be dealt with, one way or another. Tell me, where will the remainder of the guild flee now this place has burned?”

“The old house,” she said. “Below the Split Pig Inn. We expanded their cellars and paid handsomely to do so. They should still be empty, and the owner was a crusty old dog that won’t be intimidated by sellswords.”

“Then that’s where we’ll go,” he said, retying his mask over his face. “Let them see you alive, let them hear my demands of obedience. As of now, the Ash Guild is under my control.”

“And if Garrick still lives?”

Deathmask flashed her a smile, all pretense of fear gone.

“Then you get your revenge, assuming you’re strong enough to take it.”

She patted her daggers. “I’ll be fine. Follow me, and keep your eyes open. The last thing I want to do is die before my steel tastes Garrick’s blood.”

G host woke when the sun shone bright on his face. He stirred, rubbed his eyes, and then forced them open. Midday, he guessed. His stomach rumbled, and his head pounded from the night before. He felt he could sleep another four hours or so, but his body would have to endure. Still, he wasn’t in too much of a hurry. He had a name, after all, a place to search and question. Not much harm in grabbing a bite to eat.

Once he left his room at the shabby inn, he swung by the main market in the center of town, buying a thick slice of bread smothered with butter and honey. While he ate, he sat by a fountain in the center and listened to the idle talk as men and women passed by. The overwhelming sensation was not fear, as he’d expected. It was anger. More surprising was how it wasn’t directed at the guilds, or even the Trifect. They directed it at the king.

Stupid dogs, he thought as he ate. You’ve lived under this chaos for so long it’s become normal to you. The Trifect and the guilds will war, and you see this as acceptable, but only if the king protects you. Last night destroyed your apathy. Last night saw your blood joining the others. So you rage, but only to your protector. Damn king. Should have put this nonsense to rest years ago.

Still fairly new to Veldaren, Ghost knew only a little of the king, but what he’d gleaned wasn’t flattering. As he listened to men swear against their liege’s honor, and women insinuate he’d been born without his manhood, it seemed obvious that his cowardly indifference could no longer last. But whose side would it fall upon, the guilds’ or the Trifect’s? Logic seemed to place him as a puppet of the Trifect, but Ghost was unsure. Which one would he fear more? If the man were a true coward, he’d fear the enemy he couldn’t keep out with gates and walls, the enemy that’d fill his drink with poison and lay a dagger under his pillow while he slept.

Meal finished, he drank from the fountain and then headed to the mercenaries’ headquarters. Not surprisingly, it was crowded with both the rich and the poor. They were pleading their cases, demanding compensation for damages done in the chaotic night. The old keeper, Bill Trett, shouted the same phrase over and over, as if come the fiftieth time it might sink in.

“Take all complaints to Alyssa Gemcroft’s estate. She has promised to accept full responsibility. I’m sorry if your house burned down, or someone died, but please, take all complaints to Alyssa Gemcroft’s estate. She has promised…”

Ghost slammed a massive fist against the door, the sound thunderous in the small room. The crowd, about twenty in all, jumped and turned.

“Enough!” he roared. “Get your asses out of here, and go to Gemcroft’s with your problems.”

He kept his muscular arm pressed against the door, holding it open. The stance also revealed the weapons at his hips. He glared, letting them see he had no desire to argue. A few filed out, while the rest looked about, as if trying to decide just how serious he was. Only a few carried weapons, and he doubted they were proficient with them.