David Dalglish - A Dance of Cloaks

“Leave your swords here,” she said. “You don’t need them if you’re on business.”

That dangerous smile on Thren’s face never changed, not even when he grabbed her throat and slammed her against a table. Thren drew one of his swords and pressed it against her throat.

“You are not one to give orders to me,” he said. “And death by the sword is always my business.”

Aaron was surprised by how calm Red remained. She stared at Thren, not at all worried. The boy realized that she must be threatened often to be so calm. Either that, or she held very little regard for her life.

“Upstairs then,” she said. “You may keep your blades if you so desire. I only repeat what Billy tells me. You should know that.”

Aaron followed his father up the stairs. Red fixed her clothes, straightened her hair, and then went back to work.

Billy was a fat man, astonishingly so for how short he was. When the Felhorns entered, the man stood, his gut swishing like it was made of curdled milk. His hair was cut short at the ear and dyed a pale brown. When he smiled, his two missing teeth made him look like a gaping schoolchild. Aaron wondered how in Dezrel a man like that could run a brothel. If he had not been commanded against speaking, he would have asked.

“Welcome, welcome,” Billy said, clapping his hands as if excited. He had been seated in a chair woefully small compared to his body. Behind him was a thick ornate railing, and beyond that, a spectacular view of the city. “So good of you to join me in my humble establishment. The Bloodshot rarely gets company of your esteem, my great and powerful master of guilds.”

The compliments flowed like honey from his tongue and sounded as natural as running water. Aaron felt like part of his question had been answered.

“We come on business,” Thren said, his hands resting on the hilts of his swords. He leaned forward just enough so that the sides of his cloaks hid the movements of his hands.

“Yes, of course, why else would such a noble man bother yourself with a worm such as I? Why else would you dirty your hands with the doorknob of my wretched abode? Sit, please, I will not have you stand. Your son as well.”

Thren remained standing, but he nodded at Aaron, who obediently sat down.

“I have looked over your books,” Thren said. His face was a cold mask. “Something is odd about them, Billy. Perhaps you know what?”

“Odd?” Billy said. His smile was grand, and he wasn’t even sweating, an impressive feat for a man his size. Aaron watched him for all the signs of guilt he had been taught to look for. So far, he saw none.

“Of course things should be a little odd,” the fat man continued. “I run an odd place where men ask for odd things, gross things I wouldn’t dare discuss in front of your boy. But my payments are in full. I dare not cheat, not when dealing with a man as skilled in blade as you.”

“It is your coin that intrigues me,” Thren said. “And how much you have paid.”

“What could possibly be the matter?” Billy asked. “At risk of sounding proud, I pay you more than any other brothel in this city! I know, for I hear the other owner’s whining, but I smile and think that I spend my money well for Thren’s protection.”

“That is exactly the matter,” Thren said.

Aaron saw a tiny twitch at the right corner of Billy’s mouth. His father had finally struck a chord.

“How is that the matter?” Billy asked.

“How does a pathetic little brothel like The Bloodshot manage to outperform much grander places like The Silk or The Dandycushion? Your women are no prettier, your beds certainly not cleaner. Tell me, do you have an answer?”

A drop of sweat. Aaron grinned. Billy had no answer for the question. Before he could begin a wave of groveling and worship, Thren held up a hand and continued talking.

“For the past week I have had your building under watch. Most brothels have their men come to them, but you send out your girls to other places, drab places owned by men of no worth. But the men who own those places, or have loaned money to them…”

Aaron tried to make the connection. He had an idea what his father was getting at, but something was missing, some piece. Billy, however, clearly knew what the matter was. Aaron saw him grab at a dagger strapped to his belt, then stop. He must have decided, wisely, to not fight if things went poor. He did not look like a man who could last long in swordplay.

“I strictly forbid selling whores to the Trifect,” said Thren. “All the others have agreed. The influx of mercenaries has kept them afloat. But you…your vaults overflow with gold.”

“I charged them triple,” Billy said. All false affection and worship was gone. He was pleading now. “I’m practically stealing from them. All that money I send to you, to help you. Gold spent on my girls is gold not spent on swords!”

Not even Aaron saw the next movement coming. Thren’s hand caught Billy by his fat throat and flung him back. He slammed into the railing, which groaned in protest. A kick knocked him to one knee. Before he could cry out, the blade of a sword pressed against his breast.

“When I give an order I expect it obeyed,” Thren said. “You broke your word to me. You succumbed to easy coin.”

“I gave it all to you!” shouted Billy. “Please, the girls needed work, and the Trifect was desperate! All of it I’ve given to you, I’d never cross you, I’d never…”

Thren grabbed Billy’s hand, pressed it against the railing, and then slammed his sword down. The sound the flesh made as it tore reminded Aaron of a butcher shop. As Billy screamed, Thren tossed the hand off the balcony.

“I checked your books,” Thren said. “And I compared that to what my men saw coming and going. You did give nearly everything to me, the rest to the girls. That is why you live, Billy. Now you listen closely. Are you listening?”

Billy nodded. He sat on his enormous rump, his hand pressed tight against the folds of his fat to stem the bleeding.

“I want the Trifect starved. I want them without drink, without drug, and without whores. They have made my life miserable, and I will do the same to them. Coin gains me nothing, Billy. Their suffering is all I want. Will you remember that the next time they send for your girls?”

“Yes, my lord,” Billy said. His jowls jostled as he nodded. “I’ll tell Red. I’ll remember.”

“Good.” Thren cleaned his blade on Billy’s shoulder and then turned to go.

“Thank you,” Billy called out as Aaron stepped in line behind his father. “Thank you!”

“Remember this,” Thren said as they descended the stairs. “I cut off his hand, yet he thanks me for not doing worse. That is the power you must one day command. Let them think every breath of theirs is a gift, not from the gods but from you. Do this, and you will become a god among them.”

Because of his father’s order, Aaron could not reply. If he could, he would have mentioned that brief flash of anger he saw in Billy’s eyes when his father turned to go. He would have spoken of the dogged determination lining the fat man’s pained face. But he could not, so he let the matter go.

Power was hurting a man without fear of retribution. That was the lesson Aaron learned.

T he road was quiet. On one side there was the small bakery. On the other was a smithy known for its owner’s teaching abilities rather than his actual work. Six men approached from the east. They showed no weapons, but their rust-colored cloaks hid much of their bodies. They split, three on one side, three on the other, and then hurried down the road. Each of the groups had a member carrying a small pail of paint.

On the sides of both buildings, hidden to be glimpsed in passing but not facing the entrance, was a smeared circle of ash. The men with the pail wiped it with their cloaks, then dipped their brushes into the dark red mixture. It looked like blood when they began drawing their symbol. They painted an unfilled outline of a hawk’s talons followed by three drops dripping from the foremost claw. The others stood about, watching for guards of both the royal and seedy kind.