David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

“Don’t turn this on me. You want to present every guildleader and member of the Trifect with the same demand, and then force them to accept within the span of a single night? ”

Veliana yanked the document from his hand and read further. In a tight, careful script the letter warned the reader to either accept the following terms or die: a sum, to be decided by the king or his advisors equal to half the gold lost to theft or spent on mercenaries, would be equally distributed among the remaining five major thief guilds. In return, the thief guilds would protect everything within the city walls from theft of all their members. At the end was the date the Watcher expected an answer: the winter solstice…two nights away.

She rolled the document up and tossed it back to Haern, who deftly caught it.

“You’ve lost your mind,” she said.

“If I remember correctly, it was your idea, not mine. So the insanity should at least be shared.”

Deathmask laughed, but he looked ready to explode. “I wanted them to meet to decide terms. I wanted delays, chances to manipulate various parties, and to thin out the guilds who might resist. You want to do it all in a single night. How? What madness in you makes you think this could work?”

“You know several will agree,” Haern insisted. “Those mercenaries are devastating everyone, and will continue to do so as long as the Trifect can afford them. This war has lasted ten years, far longer than even Thren wanted. The Trifect itself is hemorrhaging money, but they currently have no way to end this while saving face. And that’s assuming Thren would even let them end it.”

Veliana shook her head. “You of all people should understand, too many would resent this. You’d turn us from honest thieves to low-rent bodyguards. The very nature of the guilds would shift.”

“I can do this,” Haern said, softer. His eyes narrowed, and his gaze hardened. “I’ve killed, and killed, and now I will make it have meaning. Every guildmaster or leader who refuses will die by my hand. Those who assume control will be given the same demands, and suffer the same fate if they refuse. My father began this chaos, and I will end it.”

Veliana looked to her guildleader, who was deep in thought. It was almost as if she could watch the idea growing in his mind, taking shape, every potential reaction sifting through a spider web of end results.

“You have the Ash Guild’s approval,” he said suddenly, as if snapping from a daze. “Will you deliver the letters tonight?”

“I will.”

“Then go do it. I only have one request: leave your father to me.”

Haern paused, and his eyes glanced away.

“Very well,” he said when he looked back. “You stand to make a fortune, Deathmask. That is why I trust you. But remember, the same deal applies to you as well.”

If her guildmaster was upset by the threat, he didn’t show it.

“Save your energy for those who will give you the most trouble.”

When the Watcher was gone, Veliana spun on Deathmask, shoving a finger into his face.

“I can understand him wanting to perform this madness, but you?”

Deathmask winked at her with his red eye.

“If he succeeds, he succeeds. If he fails, we lose nothing. Besides, Veliana, what else does this plan need but some theatrics? The Watcher’s plan is insane, and most likely he’ll get himself killed…but I won’t stop him. He already frightens the lower members of the thief guilds. If he lives, he’ll become a terror to them, the only real chance of keeping this agreement in order long enough for us to benefit.”

“Why Thren?” asked Mier.

“Why us?” asked Nien.

“Because,” Deathmask said, turning to the twins with his smile nearly ear to ear, “if he accepts, the rest of the guilds will fall like dominoes. You wouldn’t think I’d leave the most important part of the entire plan to someone else, would you?”

*

Not since the hunger riots preceding the Bloody Kensgold had Gerand Crold seen the people of the city so furious. As advisor to the king, he had listened to the many complaints about guards, fires, theft, and overall demands for compensation. He’d sat in his uncomfortable chair, a ledger before him, and denied every single one. The line of petitioners seemed endless, and that was with the castle guards filtering out some of the more unkempt individuals.

Once the sun had finally set, Gerand spoke to the king, whispering lies in his ears about how the people still respected him. Back in his chambers, a full bottle of wine awaited him, as per his orders to his servants. Just what he needed to relax.

“Fucking thieves,” he muttered as he shut the door. The past five years had filled his head with gray hair, and the marriage with his wife had plummeted into occasional nights spent together, but mostly him sleeping in the castle, her in their mansion. Removing the cork, he poured a glass and toasted the empty room.

“To you, Alyssa,” he said. “For destroying in two days everything I built in five years.”

“To Alyssa,” someone whispered, their breath upon his neck.

Gerand nearly choked on his wine. He spun, torn between diving for a weapon and falling to his knees to beg for his life. The last time a thief had snuck into his room, it’d been Thren Felhorn and a female companion. They’d kidnapped his wife to make him enforce certain desires of theirs. The first thought that ran through his mind as he saw a man cloaked in gray was that they’d have to kidnap someone better if they wanted him to obey.

“Thren?” he said, startled by the sight. It looked like Thren, only much younger. He had a sudden fear that the man was immortal, immune to time, and that he might never be rid of him. As a wolfish grin spread across the intruder’s face, he choked down such irrational thoughts. This wasn’t Thren, no matter how much he looked like him.

“No,” said the man. “Close, though. I am the Watcher. Perhaps you have heard of me?”

“I have, though I’ve wondered if you were actually real.” He chuckled. “I guess this should count as proof?”

The Watcher snatched the glass from his hand and drank the remaining half. As he smacked his lips, he tossed him a scroll.

“Read it,” he commanded.

Gerand did, his eyes growing wider with each sentence.

“You want the credit of the idea to go to the king?” he asked when finished. “But why?”

“The more involved, the better,” said the Watcher. He leaned against the wall, to the inside of where the door would open. Even if Gerand managed to call the guards, and not die doing so, the man would still get the jump on them. “Besides, I need someone neutral in all this, someone both sides trust. You’ve accepted bribes from both the thieves and the Trifect. Both will think you’ll be in their pocket once the smoke clears.”

“But Edwin will never agree. He’s terrified someone will poison his tea or put shards of metal into his bread. By the gods, he thinks every shadow in his bedroom is a man poised with razor wire.”

“He has something more real to fear, and we both know it. Veldaren is furious. You’ve failed to protect its people, and this time it’s gone too far. Fires have burned down a quarter of the city. Innocent men and women died at the hands of mercenaries, and they come here finding no justice, no empathy. They have no one to turn to, no one to trust. Do you remember the riots five years ago? They will make those look downright orderly.”

Gerand nodded. He remembered how much anger simmered in the many waiting in his line. They’d certainly not left in a better mood after discussing with him, either. Getting King Vaelor to agree would involve marginal effort at best. Once he played on his fears, then offered him the deal as a way to come out a hero, he’d agree in a heartbeat. Gerand glanced down at the parchment in hand, still trying to decide the loophole, the underhanded secret hidden beneath the words.