David Dalglish - A Dance of Cloaks

“Tell me everything,” he said. “All that’s happened.”

Veliana told her tale, of being captured, left for Gileas, and her encounter with the faceless women. She hid nothing, not even her trip to Karak’s temple. When she finished, his face was the calm, angry stone she most often saw when he was contemplating death.

“So Victor betrayed you to the Spider Guild?” he said. “I knew he was gone, though I assumed he died in the ambush that had killed Walt, and presumably you. He must be laying low. We’ll find him in time and teach him the revenge of the Ash Guild.”

“What do we do?” Veliana asked. “We tried feeding the king misinformation, but Gileas fucked that up and told him the truth. Now we’re sworn to a promise that means death, yet can’t back off from it else we find death in a whole new way.”

James squeezed her shoulder.

“We’ll play along,” he said. “I plan to survive, and settle our score with Victor and Kadish. But come the Kensgold, we will not be the ones dying that night.”

“What do you mean?” Veliana asked. “Surely you don’t…”

“I do,” said James. “What night will Thren be more vulnerable? What night will his entire reputation hinge upon? The Kensgold is the key, Vel. We wreck him, and everything he’s built fractures. We’ll negotiate our own peace with the Trifect. Let the others fight the mercenaries. We’ll make ten times their coin from our whores alone.”

“I’ll trust you,” Veliana said, pulling out from his grip. “I’ll even help you, after I return to the faceless women. But first, you have to promise me something.”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Leave his son, Aaron, to me.”

Not even a moment of hesitation.

“Done!”

G erand Crold sat in his chair, feeling particularly vulnerable even though the thick stone of the castle’s walls surrounded him. He went over his conversation with Gileas repeatedly in his head.

“He knows you know about the Kensgold,” the ugly worm had said.

“How?” Gerand had asked him.

“Because I told him. He’ll come for you, tonight. He won’t change his plans. It’s all he has. So he’ll kill you before you can alert the Trifect. When he arrives, consider that proof of the words I told you. Assuming you live past tonight, of course.”

Gerand still could not understand why Gileas had told Thren of his knowledge, and then subsequently warned him about Thren knowing. It made no sense. The ugly man was playing a game, but what it was, he didn’t know.

However, if he were telling the truth, an assassin from the Spider Guild would soon make an attempt on his life. It should have been ludicrous. His quarters in the castle were small but luxurious, and more importantly, extremely safe. He was surrounded by guards and protected by sheer walls of stone and roving patrols of soldiers. Never before had he worried for his life when his door was locked and his window barred.

Yet for years he had listened to the wild tales of Thren Felhorn’s exploits. The man had killed an entire royal family, two if the rumors were true. He had stolen the family jewels from Connington’s very head without the man noticing. He had killed Ser Morak, the greatest swordsman from the nation of Ker (though whether fairly or not was under constant debate). To a man like that, what were a few walls or a door?

Gerand put down his glass and started pacing the room. He wished his wife were there, but he had sent her away, and not to their small estate, either. Deep in the southern district he owned a modest jewelry shop, and he had instructed her to hide there for the next two days. Now he wondered if that would be safe. Sure, they had some guards, enough to deter any regular thieves and cutpurses…but Thren?

“Damn it,” said Gerand, striking the top of his dresser. “He’s a man, not a ghost. Walls and doors mean the same to him as any other man.”

Strong, angry words, but they did little to calm him. Therefore, he walked over to his bed and pulled his rapier off of its wall-stand. Holding the cold hilt in his hand, he felt a little better. Perhaps he wasn’t as good as Ser Morak, but he was a fine bladesman in his own right. At least he might die fighting instead of gagging on poisoned food.

The hours crawled by. He read when he could calm himself enough to focus, his rapier spread across his legs as he turned the pages. Other times he looped the weapon through a few stances, trying to remember the last time he had sparred. It had been a year or two, he decided, and that was a year or two too many. He’d have to find a partner, and a good one too. Perhaps Antonil Copernus, the guard captain, would suffice…

A knock on his door sent Gerand spinning, his blade cutting air. When he realized the door was still closed, and no specter had come for him, he felt incredibly foolish. He slid his rapier into his belt and put his hand on the handle.

“Who is there?” he asked.

The door blasted inward, wrenching his hand painfully. The solid oak slammed his forehead. As he fell he tried to draw his blade, but then his back smacked atop the small chest at the foot of his bed. The rapier clattered uselessly along the stone floor. He reached for it, only to have a heavy boot slam atop his fingers.

“Get up,” said a voice. Rough hands grabbed the back of his clothes, yanking him to his feet, and then flung him into his chair. Clutching his wounded hand to his chest, Gerand got his first good look at his attackers. One was a woman with raven hair tied back. The other was most certainly Thren Felhorn. Gerand had never met the man before, but he’d both heard and read many descriptions.

The woman drew one of many throwing daggers from her belt and twirled it in her fingers while Thren shut the door to the crowded room. When Gerand’s eyes flitted over to the rapier, the woman threw her dagger, piercing the chair so close to his skin it cut the cloth of his robe. She shook her head at him but said nothing.

Thren gently pushed the woman out of the way and then stood before Gerand with his arms crossed. He frowned down at Gerand. Death was in his eyes.

“Do you know who I am?” Thren asked.

“I do,” Gerand said, doing his best to sound brave. How many times had he belittled Thren to the other nobles, even the king? He took every word back. Gods damn it all, where were his guards?

“Do you know why I’m here?” Thren asked.

Again Gerand nodded.

“I do,” he said.

“Kayla, could you hand me his rapier, please?”

The woman retrieved the sword and handed it hilt-first to Thren.

“Thank you,” Thren said as he quickly inspected the blade. “Solid craftsmanship, if a bit on the self-indulgent side. I know many men and women who could live for a month on what this single ruby in the hilt would fetch them. I’ve known of you for some time, Crold. Your family line has been as decadent and pointless as the hilt of your rapier. Always aspiring to be boot lickers and ass kissers, never to be leaders.”

Thren drew one of his shortswords and held it in front of Gerand’s face.

“You see this?” he asked. “Plain, but well made. Nothing beyond the necessary. You have forgotten you are a tool, Gerand Crold, and nothing more. To pretend to be something else can lead to…dangerous circumstances. Tell me, my dear advisor to the king, which would you rather be pierced by: my shortsword, or your rapier?”

Gerand glanced between the two blades.

“My rapier,” he said.

“A good choice,” said Thren before stabbing Gerand in the chest with it. He made sure to hit nothing vital, just the meat near the shoulder. Gerand choked down his pain as blood spilled across the violet of his robes.

“People will always fear me over you,” said Thren. “That is why I am more powerful than you, more powerful than the Trifect, more powerful than even the king. I will not have you interfering in my affairs. You play games, I deal in blood, and my son is not one of your pieces!”