David Dalglish - A Dance of Cloaks

“I got dogs howling up a storm,” Jorel said. “Figure I’d make sure you’re nice and cozy.”

“A blanket,” she said. Her teeth chattered, and it was no act.

“Gemcroft says to wait until you can’t stand no more,” the man said, hoisting up his belt. “I think he means to have me wait until you’re close to dead before warming you up.”

A hard edge entered his eye. Alyssa recognized it as perverse joy in seeing one of noble birth sunken down to his level and then put at his mercy. When shadows began coalescing behind his back, she openly smiled.

“I think you can wait a bit longer,” Jorel said.

“A blanket might have saved your life,” Alyssa replied. Jorel gave her a funny look but did not respond. When he turned to leave, a serrated dagger awaited him. It sliced his throat and splattered blood across the floor. The blood slid off the faceless woman’s robes like water.

“He never would have served you,” the woman said. “But there are others that will, and we must spare them if we can. Otherwise, your rule will be disputed and last as long as a sputtering candle in a storm.”

“My rule?”

Alyssa stood, her arms no longer shaking. She waited until the faceless woman opened her cell, then grasped the door with one hand and held it firm.

“Tell me your name,” she said.

“I have no name,” the woman replied.

“You said you are faceless, not nameless, now tell me.”

Alyssa could not see the woman’s eyes through the white cloth, but she had a feeling that behind it hid an amused smile.

“A strong candle,” the woman said. “My name is Eliora.”

“Then listen to me well, Eliora,” Alyssa said. “I will not accept rule of my household over the murdered body of my father. Whatever you were paid or promised, I can match it. All I ask is that Maynard be captured, not killed.”

Eliora let go of the door and stepped back so Alyssa could exit.

“This world is chaos, but I will do what I can. Be warned; your father may already be dead. If that is the case, turn your anger on who hired us. Do not blame the sword for the blood spilled, only the hand that wielded it.”

The faceless woman led them up the winding stairs out of the dungeon. They encountered no guards, dead or living. As they ascended, Alyssa heard the ruckus the dogs were making. Eliora must have noticed the look on her face, for the hounds sounded as if they were ravenous for blood.

“They are frightened and angry,” she explained. “It is a simple spell we cast upon them to draw the guards out of the estate. My sisters are all inside, I assure you.”

Alyssa nodded but said nothing.

The stairs ended in a cramped room with bare walls and a lone door, the outside of which was normally bolted. Eliora gently pushed it open; Jorel must have gone down without alerting anyone, otherwise they would have locked it behind him.

“How many are with you?” Alyssa asked. Eliora shot her a glare.

“We are three,” she said. “Though we may be less if you continue braying louder than a mule.”

With so little time between her arrival and subsequent imprisonment, Alyssa had not taken stock of her father’s defenses. She knew they could not be light. No matter how much she might belittle the thief guilds, she was not an idiot. Without adequate protection, cloaked men with daggers would be lurking under every bed and within every closet.

Of course, those defenses seemed to have meant little to the faceless woman, and that thought gave Alyssa a chill. Surely the Kulls were behind their hiring, but what if it had been Thren Felhorn instead? Suddenly her father’s difficulties dealing with the threat of the guilds didn’t seem quite so pathetic. Clearly the Kulls meant for her to take over the Gemcroft estate. Once in position to rule, she would keep all that in mind when deciding how to deal with her father.

Men shouted in the far distance, their voices muffled through the walls.

“That would be Nava,” Eliora whispered. “She is looping the compound, killing guards foolish enough to leave themselves vulnerable. Hurry now. We go to your father’s room.”

The plush carpet felt wonderful to her bare feet. Even better was the warm burst of air blowing across her skin. She remembered how warm her father kept the mansion, and how she used to stretch out before the large fires roaring in the multitude of hearths throughout its halls. Winter still approached, but already Maynard had begun fighting the chill. Alyssa almost stole away from Eliora for such a fire, desiring nothing more than to huddle close and burn away the deep frost that had settled into her bones. The biting words the faceless woman might say kept her from doing so.

They hurried down a long hall. Over twenty windows stretched along the right, their glass covered by violet curtains. On the left hung paintings of former masters of the Gemcroft estate. A hysterical laugh died in her throat as she wondered if her own painting would hang on the wall. She also wondered if she’d live long enough for someone to paint it.

I come for my crown, she thought. What the bloody abyss has come over me?

She wanted none of this. She had meant to berate her father, show him his cowardice and hesitance and by doing so spur him into harsher dealings with the guilds. Never did she expect to usurp him before the waning of the moon.

They reached the end of the hall. Eliora slipped through the empty doorway, silent as a ghost. A guard stood to the right of it, and he died with a dagger in his throat and a wrapped hand over his mouth. As she watched the blood spill across the floor, Alyssa remembered the questions her father had asked. What did the Kull household plan? Your elimination, she thought. The company of the faceless. Dimly she wondered if her own eyes might be as covered as Eliora’s was with her thin white cloth.

Once certain no more guards were about, Eliora waved Alyssa on through.

“Is there anyone who might help supervise the Gemcroft estate?” the faceless woman asked as they passed through a series of bedrooms. “An advisor or a wise man, perhaps?”

“He does,” Alyssa said. She remembered Eliora’s earlier warning and lowered her voice. “Though I cannot remember his name.”

“Do you remember his face?”

She nodded.

“Describe him.”

A face flashed before her eyes, that of an older man with a short white beard and a shaved head. His eyebrows she especially remembered. He had shaved them regularly, and as a little girl she had been fascinated by the strange way it made his face look.

Eliora bobbed her head up and down, looking like a strange doll with its head off-balance.

“Will you hurt him?” Alyssa asked when done.

“No,” Eliora said. “Now I know, I will let him live. The elder man is the key to your takeover. To the common worker and guard, there is little difference when the figurehead changes names so long as their immediate master stays the same.”

The faceless woman stopped at another hallway and glanced both directions.

“Which way to your father’s bedroom?” she asked.

Alyssa thought for a moment.

“Left,” she said. “Not far from my own.”

“Stay here, and stay silent,” Eliora said. “There will be guards.”

The shadow cloak swirled about her body, her limbs and head fading away into a shapeless blob of black and gray. Only the serrated dagger shone bright and true in her violet hand. Alyssa glanced behind her every few moments, feeling almost certain a guard would find her alone and helpless. She had turned down numerous offers for training (the Pensleys had been particularly adamant that she spar daily with their weaponsmaster, an ex-knight named Durg who reeked more of wine than honor). As she stood there, she wished she had taken up those offers. She would gladly endure Durg’s drunken glances if it meant holding a blade without fear of the shouts she heard throughout the mansion.