David Dalglish - A Dance of Cloaks

“I could get killed for this,” Senke said as he stood. He glanced around, as if looking for spies listening in on their conversation. “Fuck me like a Kerran whore. You’re Haern. You took a new name.”

At Aaron’s icy look, Senke broke out into nervous laughter.

“Up, down, and sideways, as our dear Kayla likes to say. I know grown men who would have crumbled and confessed sooner than you did, boy. How old are you again?”

Aaron ignored the question, focusing instead on mopping up the rest of the blood. Senke saw the current blanket he held was completely soaked so he retrieved another. He tossed it over Robert’s body, shaking his head as his grin faded.

“We’ve all got secrets, Aaron,” Senke said as he rubbed his chest again. “Some we tell, and some we keep hidden. Yours must stay hidden. Do you understand that? If anyone finds out what you did, they’ll go to Thren in a heartbeat. I don’t want to imagine your father’s fury. He’ll kill everyone who knew about it, including me and Kayla. I don’t know about you, but I’m quite happy with living, and would like to continue doing so for the next couple of decades.”

“I don’t see a way out,” Aaron said as Senke tucked the sheets around the body. “And what was the point? I prayed, and people died. Hardly mercy. Ashhur’s not even real. He’s…he’s just a shitty dream.”

Senke tsk’ed at him.

“Such language,” he said as he knelt down. He looked to the door, as if expecting it to bang open at any moment. Just in case, he put his back to it and acted as if he were busy wrapping the body. While Aaron watched, he pulled out a small medallion of the golden mountain from underneath his leather armor.

“I’m not the most faithful,” Senke said as Aaron’s eyes widened in shock. “I treat it more like a good luck charm than anything else. Doing what we do makes prayer hard sometimes, you know? But whatever you want to say, or want to learn, I’ll do my best. I might be signing my death warrant, but if you need help with girls, love, or faith, rely on me. You’re a good kid, Aaron. I’m not proud of all I do, but it’s better than what I did before joining the Spider Guild. One day, maybe I’ll get out.”

Aaron stopped scrubbing, seeing that whatever blood was in the carpet wasn’t going anywhere through his meager efforts. He tossed the wet, crimson blanket on top of Robert’s body, glad that his head was covered. He didn’t want to see those sad eyes staring up at him.

“Everyone needs friends,” Senke said. “Even people like you and me. Thren seems determined as the abyss to keep you from having any. But we’ll be training together, hopefully for the next several years. When we do, we can talk more, alright?”

Aaron nodded.

“What do we do about the body?” he asked.

“Leave it here,” Senke said. “We’ve done enough. I’ll get a few of our lower ranks to smuggle it out one of the tunnels. I think it’s time you and me got something stiff to drink.”

Aaron smiled.

“Senke…thank you. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

Senke winked.

“Keep it to yourself, Haern. ”

F or over a mile stretched the wagon train. Some were covered with dried hides and white tarps, while others were open and piled high with pumpkins, squash, and winter-corn. In one wagon was a whole troop of dancers, singing and laughing at the sight of Veldaren’s walls. Another two were full of hard men, their faces and hands scarred from the sellsword life. All around the wagons walked servants, cooks, high-born maidens and low-born camp followers. At the far end trailed a small herd of cattle and sheep, ready for the butcher. When the Kensgold started, they would have fresh blood and meat for their festival.

Ahead of it all rode Laurie Keenan.

“We’re bringing twice what we brought last year,” said Torgar riding next to him. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I know things more often than others,” Laurie said, his voice oddly soft and gentle. “Like how I know you should watch your tongue, Torgar, lest I cut it out and feed it to the ravens.”

The sellsword captain laughed at his employer. Laurie was a smart man, but he was often full of idle threats and ambiguous comments. His eyes were dark, his complexion more so. Riding next to the sellsword, he seemed skinny and weak. He wore his hair long and braided, in the popular fashion of Angelport where the caravan had originated, following the highway out from the Ramere and north through the Kingstrip.

“I don’t understand why we bother to return,” Torgar said, ignoring the warning to watch his tongue. “This must cost you a fortune every time we make this trip. Why not make Leon and Maynard come to you? It’s far safer in Angelport than Veldaren, anyway.”

“Because if all three of us left Veldaren, there might not be a city to return to,” Laurie said. His face was clean-shaven except for a thin strip of hair growing from the center of his chin that hung halfway down his neck. Laurie twirled it with his fingers as his caravan wound around a small hill on its way to the city’s western entrance. The southern gate was closer and would have saved them a good twenty minutes of traveling, but the king had forbidden merchants from entering there. That, and being among the poor was not one of Laurie’s favorite pastimes; the south was just crawling with the empty-pocketed cretins.

“A shame you can’t just hire that Thren guy to work for you,” Torgar said after glancing back at the caravan to make sure nothing looked amiss. “Imagine what a man like that might have done as your right hand man.”

“Trust me, I’ve tried,” said Laurie, sounding tired of the topic. “He’s a hard man to get a hold of. Most of my messengers wound up dead, at least the one’s offering him the position. I think he took it as an insult.”

Torgar laughed heartily.

“Only a fool would turn down working for you, milord. Food’s good, the women are fine and clean, and there’s always a steady stream of idiots to kill with a sword.”

“Speaking of idiots with swords,” Laurie said, pointing to the western entrance. The gates were open wide, but there was a lengthy line of peasants, merchants, and mercenaries winding out from it. A thick grouping of guards was the cause.

“Did they check our things last time we came?” asked Torgar.

“That was only two years ago. Have you taken so many blows to the head that you can’t remember even that far?”

Torgar kept his head shaved, and he rapped it with his knuckles and made a hollow knocking noise with his tongue.

“My ma scooped my brains out when I was four. Left just enough to swing a sword, ride a horse, and bed a woman.”

Laurie chuckled.

“I think the third one occupies the most of your meager intelligence,” he said. “Come. Let’s find out what the fuss is all about before we have a thousand people trampling each other to get through.”

Torgar led, and Laurie followed. They rode around the outer edge of the line, ignoring the few angry calls from lowborn merchants and farmers. When they reached the gate, the crowd swelled in a semicircle, making their progress difficult.

“Look for a spare guard,” Torgar said. “I’ll see if I can pull him aside. They’re bound to shit their drawers when they see our caravans coming.”

Laurie looked but saw none. Realizing the same thing, Torgar dismounted and started pushing his way through. When a man cursed him and moved to strike, Torgar grabbed the hilt of his longsword and drew it enough to reveal naked steel.

“I draw, it ain’t going back in without blood on it,” Torgar growled. The man, a haggard farmer with a cartload of pumpkins drawn by a donkey, paled and mumbled an apology. One of the guards, hearing the threat, pushed aside an angry woman and called out to them.