David Dalglish - A Dance of Cloaks

Kayla, however, had much sharper eyes than they, and what she saw was the barest hint of a gray cloak leaping across a building. She felt her heart race, and it took all her will to keep a smile off her face.

“Keep going,” the bearded man said. Kayla let her body slacken, and she acted as if a fainting spell was coming over her.

“What is your-aw shit, someone grab her,” she heard one of them say. Acting weak wasn’t a tough chore. She hadn’t eaten anything for at least eight hours, and between fighting guards, leaping over gates, climbing trees, and running for her life, she had used up whatever bit of energy she might have had left. Someone grabbed her arms, and another her neck, but a clever twist of her body pulled her free. Like a dead fish, she flopped to the hard dirt, biting down hard on her tongue upon landing. When she coughed, blood flecked across her lips.

“Get her up,” the bearded man ordered. “Quick, I said get her up!”

Another whistle from above. Now all the serpents looked up, and a few saw the gray cloaks. Hands reached underneath her armpits to yank her to her feet. She thought she might resist, but then two sharp whistles stopped them.

“Let her go, Galren,” a voice shouted from down the street. Kayla felt a slight gasp escape her throat. She had heard that voice once before, only once, but that was enough to forever remember its deep power and unyielding authority.

“This is no concern of yours,” said the bearded man, apparently Galren.

A man stepped out from an alley, his face hidden by the hood of his cloak.

“It is my concern,” he said. “And you’re a damn fool if you think otherwise. Veldaren is my city, serpent, mine, and I know more of your guild than you do. Did you think you could kidnap and sell my son without my knowing?”

“Your son? ” Galren sounded like he might wet himself. Kayla stifled a laugh.

Thren had come for what was his.

“Yes,” Thren said, approaching with his bare hands hovering just above his shortswords. His next words came out almost a whisper. “My son.”

Gray cloaks descended from the rooftops. Arrows shot from windows. Death came upon them swiftly, and only Galren remained standing after the sudden assault, his arms pinned behind him, a waiting present for Thren as he approached. Without a word, the guildmaster slashed open the bearded man’s throat, then quickly stepped aside to avoid blood splashing across his clothes. A little stained his hands, but he wiped them clean on a cloth provided by one of his men.

Haern stood and bowed to his father.

“You have much to tell me,” Thren said, motioning for him to stand. He then pointed to Kayla, who had gotten to her knees and lowered her eyes in respect. “What was her role in all of this?”

Haern answered without hesitation, and to his father’s surprise, he did not whisper.

“She saved my life,” he said. “And not just once, but many times.”

Thren nodded. He sheathed his sword and offered a hand to Kayla. She took it, her mouth hanging slack.

“I do not know your name, nor who you might have sworn your life to,” he said. “But I offer you a place at my side, so that I might one day repay you for the kindness you have shown my son.”

She thought of the coin rattling inside the perfume jars and how it was a pittance compared to Thren’s wealth. Accepting might mean death, but the position was an incredible honor.

“I accept,” she said while bowing. “Humbly, and undeserving, I accept.”

They took them to Thren’s hidden hideaway. Though she needed rest, she sneaked out to handle one quick matter first.

She walked by Undry’s perfume shop, opened the door, and then continued on without even slowing. Undry collapsed on the counter, scattering bottles of perfume and raising a horrendous stench. Deep in his fat breast lodged a dagger.

When she returned to her room in Thren’s hideaway, she found a yellow rose lying on her pillow. Below it, formed out of twelve stones arranged just so, was the letter H.

T he message had come yet again, and this time James Beren was tempted to shout out his Ash Guild’s response at the top of this lungs. At least that would get Thren off his ass. Either that, or a dagger stabbed into it, but by this point he might have preferred the brutal attempt than the sickeningly sweet diplomacy Thren seemed prone to lately.

“Shall we give our usual answer?” asked Veliana, his right hand man…although being a woman, he figured he should change her title, but crude amusement kept him from doing so. She was a pretty thing with cream-colored skin, red hair tied in a long pony tail, and dazzling violet eyes. Several daggers were clipped to her belt, her skill with them almost legendary for her age, and she was rumored to have a bit of magic in her, as well. A few had murmured about how the little girl of eighteen had slept her way to James’ side, but they were all hogwash. Her mind was as sharp as her dagger, frightening in its deadliness.

“His plan is suicide,” James said, pacing within the warmly lit study. They were holed up in a safehouse deep within the slums of Veldaren. Hundreds of families provided ample cover for their coming and going, and a bit of well-placed coin and occasional bread did wonders to ensure their discretion. A few hanging bodies had helped, as well.

“Perhaps such a risk must be taken to end this,” Veliana said. “He writes that we are the last hold-out; all the other guildmasters have signed on.”

“That’s because he’s killed everyone who disagreed,” James said, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. “And the rest he cowed with a few subtle threats dripping with poison. He’s grown desperate and delusional. Surely you can agree with me on that?”

Veliana smiled at him, a practiced smile that hid any of her true emotions. The lady watched her guildmaster pace. He was pushing forty, and his gray hair did little to hide that fact. His face had begun to wrinkle, and he constantly rubbed his large nose while he walked. The rest of his hand curled against his chin and pressed against his lips. The Ash Guild was the smallest of all the thieves’ guilds, but it was certainly not the weakest. With small size came added secrecy and stealth. They did not need to pad their numbers with riffraff and lowborn drunkards who couldn’t steal a diaper from a suckling babe.

“I’m not sure I agree,” she said, not revealing whether she meant Thren or James. “But we’ve entered the fifth year. We’ve tried hurting their wealth, and the gods know we have, but it’s like bailing water out of a river. It all just runs back. We steal from the Trifect, and then our men spend it on wine, room, clothes, and petty trinkets, and who do you think supplies every one of those?”

“But all of us?” James asked. “He really thinks with the guilds combined that someone won’t leak word to the Trifect? His plan requires an almost impossible level of secrecy. One errant word and we’re all hanging from nooses…if we’re lucky.”

“If he’s only contacted the guildmasters,” Veliana said, “it is possible to keep silence, at least as long as necessary.”

“And those guildmasters will tell advisors or close friends, and then they will tell their close friends, and then one of them will leak word to a turncoat for Connington or Keenan, and then we’re all fucked.”

Veliana laughed.

“Then tell him no,” she said. “Stop asking for delays.”

“Do that and I become just another body at Thren’s feet,” James said. He sounded tired. “I didn’t live this long, clawing and climbing my way past friends and enemies, just to watch it all vanish in smoke and ash.”

“Ash is what we are,” Veliana said, tossing the note from Thren Felhorn into the fireplace and watching it be consumed. “And Ash is what Veldaren will be soon. Do what you think is best, regardless of whether I agree or not, but at least make sure you do something. Waiting for Thren or the Trifect to act will get us killed.”