David Dalglish - A Dance of Cloaks

“The smoke won’t kill him, will it?” Thren asked as he glanced at the door.

“There are tiny vents in the ceiling,” Robert said as he hobbled toward a chair. “I have done this a hundred times, guildmaster, so do not worry. After so long in isolation, his mind will be craving my knowledge. Hopefully when his time with me is done, he will remember this level of focus and concentration and mimic it in more chaotic environments.”

Thren pulled his hood over his face and bowed.

“You were expensive,” he said. “As the Trifect grows poorer, so do we.”

“Whether coin, gem, or food, a thief will always have something to steal.”

Thren’s eyes seemed to twinkle at that.

“Well worth the coin,” he said.

The guildmaster bowed, turned, and then vanished into the dark streets of Veldaren. Robert tossed his cane aside and walked without limp to the far side. He poured himself a drink. With a grunt of pleasure, he sat down and gulped down half of the liquid.

He expected more time to pass, but it seemed people had gotten more impatient as Robert grew older. Two thumps against the outside of the door were his only warning before the plainly-dressed man with only the barest hints of gray in his hair entered the living room. His simple face was marred by a scar curling from his left eye to his ear. He did his best to hide it with the hood of his cloak, but Robert had seen it many times before and knew it was there.

“Did Thren leave pleased?” the man asked as he sat down opposite Robert.

“Indeed,” Robert said, letting a bit of his irritation bleed into his voice. “Though I think that pleasure would have faded had he seen the king’s advisor sneaking into my home.”

“I was not spotted,” the man said with an indignant sniff. “Of that, I am certain.”

“With Thren Felhorn you can never be certain,” Robert said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Now what brings you here, Gerand Crold?”

The advisor nodded toward a door. Beyond it was the room Aaron remained within.

“He can’t hear us, can he?” Gerand asked.

“Of course not. Now answer my question.”

Gerand wiped a hand over his cleanly shaven face and let his tone harden.

“For a man living by the king’s grace alone, you seem rather rude to his servants. Should I whisper in his ear how uncooperative you’re being in this endeavor?”

“Whisper all you want,” Robert said. “I am not afraid of that little whelp. He sees spooks in the shadows and jumps with every clap of thunder.”

Gerand’s eyes narrowed.

“Dangerous words, old man. Your life won’t last much longer carrying on with such recklessness.”

“My life is nearing its end whether I am reckless or not,” Robert said before finishing his drink. “I whisper and plot behind Thren Felhorn’s back. I may as well act like the dead man I am.”

When Gerand laughed, his opinion was clear. “You put too much stock in that man’s abilities. He’s getting older, and he is far from the demigod the laymen whisper about when drunk. But if my presence here scares you so, then I will hurry along. Besides, my wife is waiting for me, and she promised a young red-head for us to play with to celebrate my thirtieth birthday.”

Robert rolled his eyes. The boorish advisor was always bragging about his exploits, a third of which were probably true. They were Gerand’s favorite stalling tactic when he wanted to linger, observe, and distract his companions. What he was stalling for, Robert didn’t have a clue.

“We Haerns have no carnal interests,” Robert said, rising from his chair with an exaggerated wince of pain. Gerand saw this and immediately took the cup, offering to fill it instead.

“We just pop right out of our mud fields,” Robert continued. “Ever hear that slurp when your boot gets stuck and you have to force it out? That’s us, making another Haern.”

“Amusing,” Gerand said as he handed Robert the glass. “So did you come from a nobleman’s cloak, or perhaps a wise-man’s discarded sock?”

“Neither,” Robert said. “Someone pissed in a gopher hole, and out I came, wet and angry. Now tell me why you’re here, or I’ll go to King Vaelor myself and let him know how displeased I am with your cooperation in this endeavor.”

If Gerand was upset by the threat, he clearly didn’t show it.

“Love red-heads,” he said. “You know what they say about them? Oh, of course you don’t, mud-birth and all. So feisty. But you want me to hurry, so hurry I shall. I’ve come for the boy.”

“Aaron?”

Gerand poured himself a glass of liquor and toasted the old man from the other side of the room.

“The king has decided, and I agree with his brilliant wisdom. With the boy in hand, we can force Thren to end this annoying little war of his.”

“Have you lost your senses?” asked Robert. “You want to take Aaron hostage? Thren is trying to end this war, not prolong it.”

Then the old man realized why Gerand had stalled. His eyes had swept every corner of the room, as well as peered through the doorways, his attentive ears hearing no other signs of life.

“You have troops surrounding my home,” Robert said.

“We watched Thren leave,” Gerand said. He downed his drink and licked his lips. “He was here alone, and now there are none. You can play your little game all you want, Robert, but you’re still a Haern, and lack any true understanding of matters. You say Thren doesn’t want this war of his to end. You’re wrong. He doesn’t want to lose, and therefore he won’t let it end. The Trifect won’t bow to him, not ever. This will only end when one side is dead. Veldaren can live without the thief guilds. Can we live without the food, wealth, and pleasures of the Trifect?”

“I live off mud,” Robert said. “Can you?”

He flung his cane. The flat bottom smacked through the glass and struck Gerand’s forehead. The man slumped to the floor, blood dripping from his hand. The old man rushed through the doorway as shouts came from the entrance to his home, followed by a loud crack as the door smashed open.

Robert burst into Aaron’s training room. The boy winced at the sudden invasion of light. He jumped to his feet, immediately quiet and attentive. The old man felt a bit of sadness realizing he would never have a chance to continue training such a gifted student.

“You must run,” Robert said. “The soldiers will kill you. There’s a window out back, now go!”

No hesitation. No questions. Aaron did as he was told.

The floor was cold when Robert sat down in the center. He thought about grabbing the dying torch to use as a weapon, but against armored men, it would be a laughable ploy. A burly man stepped inside as others rushed past, no doubt searching for Aaron. He held manacles in one hand and a naked sword in the other.

“Does the king request my tutelage?” Robert asked, chuckling darkly.

In answer, the soldier struck him with the butt of his sword, knocking him out cold.

The exotic fruit cost its weight in gold, but Leon Connington felt it a fair bargain. He bit into the purple skin, making a loud slurp as he sucked in the juice that ran down his chin. The pulp was so soft, he thought it better than a woman’s thigh. He moaned.

“Winter is coming,” one of his advisors said, holding a quill as he stood before an inkwell and some parchment. So far he’d only written down a few random orders involving shipping, plus Leon’s opinion of upcoming marriages between high-blood families in the Hillock west of the Kingstrip. While Leon had no official say in such matters, his opinion had meant both the creation and destruction of many engagements.

“What do I care about winter?” Leon said as he took another bite. “I have enough fat on me to hibernate with the bears. The wind can only tickle me while I laugh.”