David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

Haern climbed back through the hole in the wall, slipped out the rear of the tavern, and then circled around to the front. The two thieves remained on guard, and they sneered at his approach.

“Hey, you got to have money first,” said the one on the right, blocking his way with his arm. Haern glared, then pointed through the door, slurring his words and making sure his hand bobbed up and down in the air.

“That…that guy there’s my brother. He’ll cover for me, really. Ask him, he’s a great guy, married a whore who makes more money on her back than I could…I…that could make in a month. ”

Haern made sure he pointed between the tables, and the movement of his arm made it no clearer who he was referring to as his brother. The guard on the left looked inside, as if he could somehow pinpoint him anyway. The one on the right grabbed his arm.

“I said get out,” he said, but Haern moved too fast. He spun out of his grip, slashed open his throat, and then turned to the other. Before he could let out a cry, Haern stabbed his chest with a non-poisoned dagger, ramming his arm over his mouth to hold in the scream. It came out muffled, but not loud enough to attract any attention within. It seemed like the men and women were eager to celebrate their first moment of peace in two days. No doubt they thought they’d beaten the mercenaries, or at least, wanted to think so.

Knowing time was far from an ally, he lumbered into the tavern, resuming his drunken gait. With his head low, he scanned the bar, looking for Kadish Vel. He found him in the far corner, sitting with his back to a wall. At the giant round table, six men sat with him, along with a pretty lady at his side. She seemed bored with the proceedings, and Haern wondered if she stayed with him for coin or for safety. The rest were joking or boasting, their voices loud and slurred. All but Kadish. He seemed mildly amused at best. Haern drifted toward him. He had one chance at this, just one.

“Hey, hey, hey!” shouted one of the men as Haern slid between them, directly opposite Kadish. He put his hands on the table, and he leaned forward as if keeping balance was a struggle.

“Kadisshh?” Haern asked, looking lazily at the guildmaster.

“I’m sorry friend, the bar might be mine, but the drinks still don’t come free,” said Kadish.

Haern never responded. His hands, leaning there on the table, were also within inches of the sabers at his hips. As his cloaks folded away, Kadish saw them, and that was when Haern moved. He drew them both, and in one smooth motion, sliced through the necks of the men beside him. As they collapsed, their blood splattering across the table, Kadish flung himself out of his chair, pressing his back into a corner. The pretty girl looked dazed, as if she didn’t believe what she saw. Two of the men moved closer to defend Kadish, the others drawing daggers and lunging. Haern batted one aside, killed another with a riposte, and then spun, a whirling machine of death. Cries of alarm spread across the tavern as the rest realized what was going on.

Falling to one knee, Haern let go of a saber and yanked the poisoned dagger from his boot. From underneath the table he saw the lower half of Kadish’s body. No armor. No realization of the danger. He flung the dagger, trusting his aim. It plunged into the meat of Kadish’s thigh, and Haern allowed himself a smile.

And then he was moving again, his sabers reveling in the blood of his opponents. The whole tavern was in chaos, half fleeing, wanting no part of whatever might happen. Many others cried out in warning, expecting an ambush. One shouted Thren’s name, as if he must be the one responsible. Haern weaved through them all, deflecting sword strikes and slicing into the arms of those who thrust their daggers. A heavyset man tried to block his way at the door, but Haern rammed into him with his left shoulder. His right hand stabbed repeatedly. The two collapsed through the door, landing beside the bodies of the guards.

Out in the open, Haern took to his feet and ran. Curses followed after him, but he was too fast, the city so familiar that he could weave and turn without pause down the maze of alleys and streets. He wished he could have talked to Kadish, convinced him to change his mind, but there’d been no way. The poison would work its way up his leg and to his lungs, locking them in place. There was a cure, but that had been the bottle Haern smashed before leaving. By the time they found another, Kadish would be dead.

A list of targets passed through his head. He’d taken out one of the guilds, so it was time to move on to a member of the Trifect. From what he’d learned, the recent wave of mercenary attacks had been the doing of only one. If there were to be any peace in the city, Alyssa Gemcroft would need to die.

Alyssa had been hiding in her room from her relatives when Zusa arrived, a letter in hand.

“He’s coming,” she told her as she handed over the parchment. “The man who killed your son. He wants you to agree to his terms, or he’ll kill you.”

“This man, the Watcher…” She crumpled the letter without reading it, needing only the signature at the bottom to know her answer. “He kills Nathaniel, then dares make demands?”

“He’ll come tonight,” Zusa said. “And he’s skilled, milady. He might carry through his promise.”

“Let him come,” Alyssa said. “You will protect me. He cannot hide from you, not here in my mansion. This is our home, and he the stranger. I trust you with my life, Zusa. Don’t let me down.”

“The terms aren’t so unfair,” Zusa insisted. “Bertram would have you agree.”

“I don’t care. Let the Watcher try. He dies tonight.”

And so the day had droned on, Alyssa with less and less patience with the relatives that had remained after the funeral, preferring the safety of her mansion to their own homes. Bertram came to discuss the wedding, but she ordered him away. She’d even been curt with Arthur, who had brought her a plate of food and a glass of wine.

“You have eaten nothing all day,” he’d said. “Please, take something. You will feel better. We have things we must discuss.”

Fearing he might bring up the subject of marriage, or gods forbid, propose right there holding a plate of bread, boiled potatoes, and cabbage, she told him to get out. A bit of his caring demeanor had faltered there, and he stormed away.

“You have no time left to be a little child,” he’d told her before slamming the door shut. “Already your immaturity overstays its welcome.”

“And you yours!” she screamed, hurling the glass of wine he’d left behind.

She wished Zusa was there, but she’d vanished, although promising to never be far.

“If you know, then you might reveal my presence,” the faceless woman had argued. “If you trust me, then trust me. Trust the shadows to hold only me.”

The night dragged on. This time there were no fires to watch, no men rushing up and down the streets. Just quiet. It seemed eerie, as if the city were suddenly waiting for something. Bertram had told her he feared terrible retribution from the guilds for her actions, but so far it seemed none were coming. Or maybe one was, coming in the name of the Watcher.

Alyssa double-checked the lock to her room for the fourth time.

With nothing to read, and nothing to do, she sat down on her bed, closed her eyes, and wished she could sleep. It’d be so much better for her to die that way, unable to feel the pain. Part of her expected just that to happen, though another part was revolted by the sheer weakness involved in considering it. She should be stronger, better, but she was so tired. The Gemcroft estate felt like chains attached to every inch of her body, dragging her down, pulling her into an exhausted pit where she could feel no emotion, cry no tears, and express no love. It was in that pit Arthur waited.