David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

“I told you I had no interest,” she snapped.

“It’s more than that,” Bertram said, doing well to keep his tone soothing and controlled. “I did as you requested, and treated cost as no object, but I feared the folly, and like I feared, it has come to pass. The cost has been astronomical, especially with how many have died. The guild requires extra compensation for men who fall in line of duty, for wives, children, mistresses, and the like. Plus the fires were more than we expected, and you have accepted blame for nearly all cases.”

“Your point?” she asked.

He stood up straighter as he spoke.

“We have nothing left, Lady Gemcroft. Your fortune is spent. Unless we delay payments for several years, we will default on at least a third of the mercenaries, and aid with only half of the repairs.”

Her mouth dropped.

“Are you certain?”

He nodded. “I have checked multiple times.”

She saw the fires burning before her, and suddenly they took on a different meaning.

“Is that counting tonight?”

“For the mercenaries, yes, but not necessarily any extra for the dead, since I cannot know for certain until tomorrow. But not the fires, no. I can only assume the worst.”

She felt her whole world spiraling away from her. How could all their wealth have vanished so quickly? It didn’t seem possible. Of course, the mines in the north had lessened in their production over the past year, but still, what of their contracts, their trade? Had the thief guilds truly destroyed so much?

“All is not lost,” he said, sliding closer and wrapping a comforting arm around her shoulders. “I have thought of a way to help ease this burden. We still may delay some payments, especially for those who died without families or still have means to survive.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“Lord Hadfield has an extensive amount of wealth saved up, an amount he hoped to bequeath to an eventual heir. If you were to marry, he would assume your debts. I have already discussed the matter, and he is willing to do his part to help you move on from your son’s death, including this debacle you have unleashed upon our city.”

She crossed her arms and held them against her as if she were cold. Could she marry Arthur? True, he’d been kind since he arrived, and he seemed to have no intention of leaving. They’d shared a bed even, and with him, she did feel some measure of comfort. Her heart ached for Mark, but he was gone, as was her son. Should she continue to let it haunt her? Maybe Zusa was right. Maybe it was time to end all of it.

“When?” she finally asked.

“It will need to be soon, especially given how deep our debt is. If we make significant payments, we can hold our debtors at bay, as well as convince them we have every intention of making good on our promises. Lord Connington will help, if you ask. No member of the Trifect would let the other fall so far as to bring shame upon them as well. Perhaps in a few days, I can have the ceremonies prepared, and all the proper documents written and presented before the king’s council to approve.”

There was something chipper about his tone that scraped against her spine like metal on glass.

“Enough,” she said. “Start on whatever you must, but don’t tell Arthur anything other than that I am open to the idea. He should at least be the one to propose, not my father’s old advisor.”

Bertram smiled. “Quite right, quite right. Goodnight, milady. Perhaps soon you will finally have pleasant dreams.”

“Goodnight, Bertram.”

Once he was gone, she blew out her candles, returned to her bed, and tried to sleep. She couldn’t.

“Arthur Gemcroft,” she whispered, moving the word about her tongue as if trying to taste it. He would adopt her last name, as all men and women did when entering into a family of the Trifect.

“Arthur Gemcroft. Arthur…Gemcroft.”

It had a ring to it, she must admit. She’d put off marriage for long enough. It was time for her to be practical. Still, as much sense as it made, it gave no comfort, and she tossed and turned until the morning light shone through her curtains, falling upon her ragged face and bloodshot eyes.

*

T he wound in Ghost’s leg was worse than he’d originally feared. He’d returned to his squalid inn, carefully put his weapons aside, and then collapsed onto his bed. The windows had no shutters or curtains, and the light streamed in upon his face. Without much reason to join the night’s slaughter, he’d instead languished in his favorite tavern, drowning himself in alcohol to dull his pain. He’d passed out, and no one had had the nerve to wake him. The dressings on his leg, haphazard at best, had leaked through, and were now infected.

As he lay there, he felt the pain crawling its way up his thigh, as if it were a spider scurrying through his veins. If he didn’t do something soon, he’d lose use of the knee, if not the entire leg. He wouldn’t be the best anymore. He wouldn’t even be a threat. A man of his strength, his skill, was not meant to be a cripple. Surely the gods did not intend such a fate for him.

The gods…

Ghost rolled off the bed, putting all his weight on his good leg. Damn that priestess. The Watcher had been his, thoroughly beaten. He didn’t give a shit that he’d appeared wounded and weaponless. Assassinations, by their very nature, were unfair. But he’d been a fool to let her tend to the wounded Senke. He’d thought her too young to be a threat, but how wrong he’d been.

“It’s not the big snakes you need to fear,” he remembered a friend telling him once as they crossed the grasslands toward Veldaren. “It’s the tiny ones who carry the real venom. Put that on your darts if you want a sure kill.”

The priestess was the tiny snake, the insignificant one among the wizard and warriors. Stupid. Stupid!

He took a hobbled step toward the only decoration in his room, a large dresser full of clothes and outfits. Leaning against it for support, he yanked out the top drawer, letting it crash to the floor. Reaching into the gap, he pulled out a small bag of coin. It’d have to do. Retrieving his swords, he opened the door and stepped out into the painful morning light.

Twice on the way to the temple he collapsed, his knee unable to bear his weight. A black bruise swelled across it, and the puss from where the Watcher’s sword had cut him was turning green. No one paid him any attention, the crowd flowing to either side as if he were an overturned cart, or a dead body.

Reaching the temple offered Ghost little comfort. He still had to climb the many steps, and after the first few, he gave up any pretense of pride. He sat down upon them, put his back to the temple, and pushed himself up one at a time. At the top, he braced himself on a pillar and used it to keep his balance while he stood. Men and women gathered about the wooden doors, crying out for aid. No doubt the temple was swarming with people inside as well. He’d seen the fires, heard the sounds of combat flowing up and down the streets. The thieves had put up a fight this time, firing arrows from the rooftops and preparing a hundred ambushes.

He pushed his way through them, the wound in his leg meaning nothing to his enormous arms. Most turned to glare at him, then decided otherwise seeing his size and painted face. Once inside the temple, he leaned against a wall and surveyed the madness. Priests and priestesses of all ages were running about. They looked like white bees zipping from flower to flower. They’d kneel, exchange a word, maybe a prayer, and then move on. The older ones lingered, and with many, he saw them put their hands on wounds and whisper words of prayer to Ashhur. White light would cover their hands, sometimes weak, sometimes strong, and then sink into the wound. That was what he needed. Faithful or not, he wouldn’t deny that the priests had their uses. But he wouldn’t risk some juvenile treating him. He wanted a master, someone who knew what he was doing.