David Dalglish: A Dance of Blades

“He’s bound and gagged,” John said, seeing his hesitation. “And even if he weren’t, you should not show fear. The eyes of the people are upon you, and more than anything, they want certainty from those who rule their lives.”

Nathaniel nodded.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

The older man guided him to where a lever waited, connected to various gears and wheels that would drop the platform Oric stood upon. It was as tall as him, and when he put his hand upon it, he worried he might be too weak to move it.

“This way,” said a nearby knight, gesturing the direction for him to push. Hurling his weight upon it, Nathaniel felt the lever budge, then lurch forward. The crowd gasped, and before he could look away, Lord Gandrem took hold of his shoulder and forced him to watch. Oric fell, the rope snapped taut, but as he swung, his feet still kicked. A sickening groan floated up to them, barely audible over the cheer of the crowd.

“Bastard’s neck didn’t break,” said one of the knights.

“Just following orders,” said the man beside him. “John wanted to send a message.”

The words flowed over him, but Nathaniel refused to give them any meaning. Instead he just watched as Oric kicked, gagged, and swung from the castle wall, John’s hand holding him with strength frightening for his age.

“Remember this always,” he said to him. “This is the fate that should meet all who challenge you. If you deny them this, then you become as cowardly as they. Besides, listen to that roar, Nathaniel. Listen to them cheer. Our people want blood, crave it. Every dead man hanging is a man worse than them. They’ll spit on his corpse when we cut him down, and they’ll unite in a hatred of something they hardly even understand. We are their lords. We are their gods. Never deny them the spectacle they deserve. So long as you believe your acts are just, they will follow.”

Nathaniel nodded, his head dizzy, his stomach swinging side to side along with the convulsing body of Oric.

Haern found Deathmask and his Ash Guild back in their hiding hole, and they greeted him like a long lost friend.

“Behold the legend,” Deathmask said, but his laughter cut with dark humor.

“Gerand’s told me of the Spider Guild’s acceptance,” Haern said, not wishing to waste any time. “As for the Conningtons, some old man named Potts has assumed control while his relatives bicker and position themselves. Potts has also agreed to the terms. Only two guilds have refused, but they’re both currently leaderless.”

“Already we move in on their territory,” Veliana said. “Same for the Spiders and the Wolves. Whoever finally takes control will readily agree, just to save themselves from a combined assault.”

“So this is it then,” Haern said. He looked to Deathmask. “Gerand will arrange a set of terms to distribute payments to be divided equally among the five guilds. I imagine that much wealth will divide much better among you four than say the two hundred or so of the other guilds.”

“That thought had come to mind,” Deathmask said, grinning. “It’s going to be rough these next few days. Everyone will be testing limits, seeing what they can get away with, and if you are capable of holding things in line. I’d say you normally could pull it off, but right now you look like an animal after a carriage has rolled over it a few times.”

“I’ll be fine,” Haern said. “And I’ll be watching you as closely as any other guild. Don’t forget that.”

Deathmask laughed.

“We aren’t allies, Watcher, and I never intended to be. Keep your eye upon me all you want. You won’t find anything, and your blades will never touch my skin. Go worry about those who truly present a danger to this truce. We’ll be here reaping the rewards.”

Haern bit back a retort and then left. With much of his business done until nightfall, he debated where to go. In the end, he went back to the closest thing he had to home. On the Crimson, he found a wagon sitting in front of the Eschaton’s place, half-loaded with trivial things. How none of it had been stolen yet seemed a miracle to him, until he remembered the very truce he’d just set up. Well, that was a start. He went to knock on the door, but it flung open. A tired, surprised Tarlak stood before him, a pile of books in hand.

“Oh, you,” he said.

“I’ve come to…”

“Save it, Haern. I’m sure you did your absolute best, and I doubt Senke would have changed a thing. Well, other than him dying. He might have…look, the offer still stands. No speeches, no apologies, no nonsense requirements. I bought a tower on the outskirts of the King’s Forest, and I plan on making it a far better home than this dung hole. You want to come, be useful and grab a box.”

Haern stepped aside, and Tarlak set his things on the wagon. Glancing inside, he saw Brug packing up various smithy tools. Delysia helped him, the two joking with each other in hushed tones. He could see the redness in their eyes even from there, but they were moving on best they knew how. The priestess saw him, and despite the loss of a friend, she smiled and beckoned him inside.

“Why not,” Haern said as Tarlak came back to the door. He stepped within, grabbed a box, and hoped that just perhaps the newly titled King’s Watcher might finally have a home.