David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

“It was.”

He tilted his head toward the wall, not even wanting to look at the old man. The only ones he’d killed recently were those he’d been contracted for, or defending the priests’ temple. That was the thanks he got? Vague accusations of making his life harder, and a claim that he was nothing but a killer?

“You know what it’s like to live in a place where everyone who sees you either hates you or is afraid?” Ghost asked.

“There are many who are unsettled by my presence, and more who are angered by what I speak.”

“But it isn’t the whole city. Even those who fear you do so because you’ve got something they don’t understand. They don’t understand me either, but you, they could choose to be like you if they wanted. They can’t be like me, no matter what they do. They best they could do is smear themselves with coal, and that’d vanish with a good scrub.”

Calan leaned back in his chair, and he seemed to truly look at him for the first time.

“Is that why you paint your face? To show them how different you are?”

Ghost chuckled. “You want to know why? Truly why? It should show them how the difference between us, between me and you, is something as stupid as a strip of paint, something so thin and artificial we think nothing of it if done to a wall or a piece of armor. But that never happens. Instead they look at me with even greater fear. When I first started, those I hunted called me Ghost, and so I took the name and abandoned my old one. At least if they hated the Ghost, feared it, it was my own creation they feared. It wasn’t me; it wasn’t who I really was. Let them focus their hatred on something I can shed as easily as I shed this paint upon my face.”

“Are you a killer?” the priest asked.

“No. But I think Ghost is.”

“And who are you when you are not the Ghost?”

Ghost looked at him, trying to understand the true desire behind the question. Calan seemed interested, almost invested in what he might say and do. There was no lie or deceit in him, and Ghost considered himself an excellent judge of both. Who was he when not the man with the white face? Who was he when not hunting, when not contracted to capture or kill another?

“I’m not sure I remember anymore,” he said.

“Do you still remember your name?”

He should have, but suddenly it didn’t seem so clear. It’d been over ten years since he adopted the Ghost moniker. Before that, he’d gone by a dozen names, changing them as he traveled east, each city a new name. He tried to pull up childhood memories, of hearing his mother say his name, but each one was different in the time-worn haze. Suddenly he felt ashamed, and he wanted to be anywhere other than beneath the priest’s unrelenting gaze.

“No,” he said at last. “And I may never. Why does it matter to you, old man?”

“If you have to ask, I fear your mistrust has sunken in far deeper than any infection.”

Ghost used the wall to shove himself onto his good leg.

“Enough,” he said. “My thanks for your help. Good luck with your wounded.”

“And you with your wounds as well.”

Ghost limped from the temple, more than ever certain that Haern needed to die, if only to put his suddenly troubled mind to rest.

Veliana pulled her dagger free of the Wolf’s neck and kicked his body away. All around her rose the stench of blood and dead bodies. They’d thoroughly trashed the home, broken chairs and shattered tables. Deathmask stood at the door, scanning for more trespassers to their territory, while the twins entered from the house’s other room.

“I’m bleeding,” said Mier.

“He’s bleeding,” said Nien.

“Badly?” Deathmask asked, not bothering to glance inside.

“No.”

“No.”

That seemed good enough for Deathmask. Veliana cleaned her dagger and jammed it into her belt. She felt ready to pass out. Between mercenaries and other members of the guilds, they’d killed over thirty men since the night started, and now it was halfway through morning and still they continued. It seemed Deathmask’s desire for blood knew no bounds. She felt ready to collapse at the slightest breeze, yet he was still searching, still bouncing as if he were an excited maiden.

The worst was that the territory they’d chosen to make their stand on was a single street aptly named Shortway, poorly traveled, and worth a meager handful of coins in theft and protection money.

“This is hopeless,” she said, approaching her guildmaster. Some guild, she thought. Four of them slaughtering trespassers on a single street. Surely the other guildmasters were quaking in their boots. “We’ve accomplished nothing other than a few bodies.”

“Rumors,” Deathmask said, still scanning the sparsely populated street. “Whispers. Exaggerations. Given time, they will work for us. We start with a single road, and let the rest of the city know that it is ours. Then we take a second, and a third. With each passing day we spread until we can take no more, and by then they will fear us greater than any other guild, for we will be few, we will be skilled, and we will have shown they cannot stop us, cannot even slow us down.”

Veliana rolled her eyes but decided not to press the point. She felt too tired to argue.

“Sleep would be nice,” said Mier, or perhaps it was Nien.

“Very nice,” said the other.

“Very well,” Deathmask said. “Let’s return. Tomorrow will be just as long, and longer should the mercenaries finally slack off. We have more to fear from the guilds than from them. To the mercenaries, we are a small nuisance, a paltry four worth no bounty. It’s the other guilds they want. But Thren, Kadish, William…they’ll understand. One of them will descend upon us with all their fury, and that is the battle we must win, that our entire fate will rest upon.”

“Rest,” said Veliana. It was really the only word her mind could latch onto during his spiel. “I think that’s the smartest thing you’ve said.”

His eyes narrowed behind his mask, but then he laughed.

“We have longer days ahead of us than this, you three. I hope you understand that. Still, no reason to press ourselves without reason. We’ve accomplished what we must. Let’s get back to our little hideout.”

Deathmask led the way. No one accosted them on their travel, and it seemed none were tracking them either. Shortway was hardly the center of much guild activity, and those few who had stumbled upon it had died. Most of their kills had been thieves fleeing from other territories, where the mercenaries had been at their thickest. When they reached their safe house, a cellar rented from a well-bribed tavernkeeper, Deathmask flung the doors open, lit a waiting torch with a touch of his finger, and led them down.

The cellar was not empty.

“It took you long enough,” said the Watcher, leaning against the far wall.

The twins drew their daggers, and Veliana felt her hand reach for her own. Deathmask put an arm before them all, then took off his mask and grinned.

“Forgive us. We didn’t know we had company waiting. Have you come to accept my offer?”

Haern nodded toward the twins.

“Have you made new friends?”

“For now,” the twins said in unison.

The Watcher chuckled. “Very well then. I take it you can read?”

A pouch hung from his waist, and he pulled one of many scrolls from it and tossed it to Deathmask, who caught it and began reading. His eyes widened, so Veliana glanced over, but he was moving it too much for her to decipher anything useful.

“The whole city?” Deathmask asked. He looked ready to both laugh and lash out in rage. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Perhaps. Have you lost your courage?”