David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

“If I unbalance things, at least you’ll finally have a winner,” Haern said, grinning. “And I don’t plan on dying. I’ll visit you come the morning. I promise.”

He flew down the streets, his legs pumping. His eyes darted every which way, knowing that the guilds would be prepared for his arrival. For the longest time he’d only been a phantom to them, but now they’d heard his promise. This was their chance. Deathmask had asked him if he was insane. Perhaps he was. But at least Deathmask had also seemed to understand. If he were to try, why not try for the impossible?

He decided the first ones to visit would be the Hawks. They were no friends of the Spider Guild, and their recent conflict with both them and the mercenaries had surely devastated their numbers. Their leader, Kadish Vel, was a sensible enough man, bit of a gambler. If Haern could convince him to give the treaty a chance, especially as a way to diminish Thren’s danger to him, then he should be able to win over the guild’s cooperation without having to kill its leader.

The Hawk Guild’s headquarters had shifted several times, but even after Thren’s attack, they’d refused to move from their current tavern. No doubt Kadish was tired of running. They’d emptied out during the mercenaries’ rampage, but with the night turning quiet, he felt certain they’d return. With the strange threat of the Watcher hanging over them all, they’d want to be where they felt safe, where they recognized every face, knew every shadow, every entrance. If he was lucky, they would think it all a bluff, or even an opportunistic lie of the king in an attempt to save face before his furious populace. Still, their eyes would be open even if they doubted. Nothing that night would be easy. If he had to open up with a stealthy kill, he would, conversation be damned. Dead bodies spoke clearer than anything else in the world of thieves. He’d given them their warning.

Two men stood at the entrance, obviously on the lookout. The one on the left looked bored, as if he’d drawn the short straw that night. The other was older and more aware. Haern drifted along on the left, hunched over, limping, and muttering to himself as if he’d had too much to drink. Neither Hawk gave him a second glance. Once out of their sight, Haern walked closer, a hand leaning against the tavern as if he needed it for balance. Upon reaching the back, he saw a door, most certainly locked and barred. He tested it just to make sure. No lock, but it was bolted. A veritable army of feral cats lurked about, and one hissed at his presence as it hunkered down over a scrap of fat.

“You’re right,” Haern whispered to the feline. “I should wait my turn, shouldn’t I?”

The alley was thin, dark, and full of places to hide. Ten minutes later, he heard a thud from the other side of the door, and then it creaked open.

“Enjoy,” said a burly man, chucking a bucket of what seemed to be a mixture of vomit and woodchips. The mess splattered onto the stone, and in leapt the cats, there to hiss and growl while they searched for something edible. When the man’s back was turned, Haern stepped from his hiding spot, jumped into the opening, and flung his arms around his neck. A quick jerk and he fell, his scream muffled by Haern’s palm.

“Sleep well,” he whispered, slipping inside.

Haern stepped inside a storeroom, cramped and occupied almost entirely by the two shelves on either side. The man he’d knocked out wasn’t the barkeep, one of the few things that might allow him to remain hidden. Already he heard the raucous drinkers at the front, and they would not tolerate any sort of absence by the man supplying their liquor. Judging from his size and duty, he’d taken out a heavyhand, someone to deal with those who got out of line. Haern chuckled. Talk about someone that would not be missed by the crowd.

He ducked underneath the lowest shelf, peered out from the door, and was rewarded with the sight of a pair of hairy legs as the barkeep scratched at a scab near his ankle. Rows of bottles stretched before him. He was behind the bar. From his time inside before, he knew there’d be a locked door to his right, blocking off a staircase that led into the lower quarters that the Hawks had enlarged and adopted as their own. Question was, how did he get inside?

As he pressed his back against the wall, an idea came to him. He waited a moment to see if the barkeep noticed the movement, then pressed his elbows against the wall. There was no plaster or paint, just a thin piece of wood. Bracing with his feet, he pressed inward, hoping the laughter and singing might drown out the noise. He pressed harder, every muscle in his legs taut, and then the board gave. Wincing at the noise, he pushed it all the way in until it snapped in half. He worked an arm through, then his head, and finally the rest of his body. When he fell out the other side, he was behind the locked door and inside the small staircase leading to a second door.

Haern drew his sabers, thrilled by the way they handled. Senke had given him a fine gift. Hopefully he’d put them to good use. The time for stealth was over. He tested the door, found it unlocked, and then kicked it in. As the loud crack echoed in the room, he leapt inside, already searching for his first victim. There were four men inside, sitting at a table with cards and wooden chips stacked before them. They shouted and reached for their weapons, but they were too slow. Haern whirled through them, rolling across the table and to the other side. Chips and pieces clattered along the floor, mixing with the blood.

“Shit,” he said as he stared at the bodies. None were Kadish Vel. He glanced about, seeing only one other room. Within were some ledgers, a shelf stocked with tiny bottles, and a bed. Haern couldn’t believe it. The first of his many places to attack, and he hadn’t even bothered to check inside the tavern first. Kadish was probably with his men, drinking. So much for being the feared Watcher of Veldaren. So much for his plans.

He rushed back to the stairs, trying to decide a course of action. No one would know he’d come down there yet. Kadish was in a public place, lots of people, but that could work in his favor. Halfway up the stairs, he turned back and hurried to the small side room. Scouring the shelf, he looked to see if his idea was possible. The tiny bottles weren’t alcohol like he first assumed. They were tonics, tinctures, and most importantly, poisons. Only half were labeled, as he expected. Haern recalled his lessons when training under his father. For three months he’d had a tutor who knew more about poisons than Haern could ever learn in a lifetime. Many of his lessons during those long days involved discovering the nature of unlabeled poisons.

He shook several, checking their color, their consistency, and their weight. He pulled four aside, cleared a space on the shelf, and put the bottles atop it. One of the bottles was clearly an extract of shadeleaf, but that was only part of what he needed. He took two others, shook them, and then poured drops of each together. When they turned green, he frowned. Trying another bottle, he mixed the two. When they turned clear, he grinned.

Dumping out half the bottle of shadeleaf extract, he poured the other bottle, a common mixture of kingsblood and dandyblooms, in with the rest and shook it. The resulting mixture turned clear. It had a strong taste to it, which meant it only worked with certain alcohols and wines that it complemented. That was if you planned on putting it in someone’s drink, of course. Haern had other ideas. Among the marked bottles, one was a useful paste that bonded with most poisons, thickening them into something akin to glue. Taking one of his daggers, Haern applied the poison to the blade, careful not to rush. The last thing he wanted was to prick a finger and die in the Hawks’ basement dwelling. That hardly seemed like the noble end he felt he desired. Last, he found one more particular bottle and smashed it.