David Dalglish - A Dance of Cloaks

Nonsense, all of it. Torgar knew he could kill every one of them to a man, yet they’d peer down at him as if their noses were a mile long and he were hard to see. At the head of the table, Laurie, Leon, and Maynard talked, sometimes openly, sometimes quiet and hunched together. Taras sat beside his father, listening when it seemed appropriate. Torgar gave the boy credit; he seemed to understand most, and he even chipped in once or twice without earning scorn from any of the three. Leon and Maynard seemed to be enjoying themselves, but Laurie was clearly upset. The empty seat beside Torgar was the reason.

Stupid bitch, thought Torgar. Just had to go running off for her precious walls. Babes in diapers are tougher to scare than that broad.

He might have said it out loud, but he’d been denied the amount of alcohol he’d wanted. Still, his master wanted him at Taras’ side, to serve as protection to both the boy and the father. Judging by the haughty grumbling about him, the only danger he saw was from a flying plate of warm food.

“What are they discussing now?” Torgar asked Taras. He tried to whisper, but his deep voice wasn’t suited for it.

“They’ve finished their trade contracts,” Taras said, glancing back at the mercenary. “They’re discussing the thief guilds now.”

“Not much to discuss,” Torgar said. “We double up some patrols, hire a few more mercenaries, but it’s like swatting at flies buzzing around your horse’s ass.”

He caught a finely dressed woman in her thirties glaring at him opposite the table so he shot her a wink.

“Forgive the color,” he told her. “My brain is mud and my tongue blue. I’m only here for my lord.”

She sniffed at him and turned toward a lady to her left. They began whispering, each clearly unhappy with his presence. Torgar sighed. By the gods, did he hate it here.

“They’re thinking of going to the king,” Taras said.

“Good luck with that,” Torgar said. “Got better chance…”

He choked down another colorful comment as a priest of Ashhur walk into the pavilion.

“Who in blazes let him in here?” Torgar asked. Taras, too busy listening to his father discuss bribes, didn’t notice. The mercenary captain stood and moved to intercept the priest. The man of cloth seemed lost amid the sea of people.

“Welcome to our gathering,” Torgar said as he grabbed the priest’s hand and shook it. The priest, a younger man with neatly trimmed hair and a shadow of growth on his chin, looked thoroughly relieved.

“I must admit, I’m a bit lost,” the priest said. “I need to speak with Laurie Keenan, though I don’t know his face from a thousand others.”

“I’m head of mercenaries for Lord Keenan,” Torgar said. “He’s busy plotting and planning, so just tell me what you’d tell him and I’ll see if it’s worth interrupting him for.”

The priest didn’t ask for proof of his rank or employer or anything. Torgar felt relieved that he’d gotten a hold of the priest first before he blabbed his message to the closest curious Gemcroft relative or Connington sellsword.

“It involves his wife, Madelyn,” the priest began.

“Hrm, hold up,” Torgar said, pushing his large forefinger into the priest’s face. “Not another word. Let’s go somewhere with less ears, eh?”

The priest nodded. Torgar led them out one of the side-flaps of the tent, nodding at the mercenaries stationed there as they passed.

“What’s your name?” Torgar asked as they walked.

“Derek,” said the priest. “You may call me Derek.”

“Then Derek you are!” said Torgar, laughing in an attempt to put the man at ease. Leaving the tent didn’t seem to as much as he’d hoped. Glancing around at the sheer decadence, Torgar realized why. He wondered how many pillars of Ashhur’s faith were being broken even as they spoke.

“Ignore the show,” Torgar said, grabbing the priest’s shoulders. “Now what is this message about?”

“We found Mrs. Keenan under attack on her way to her estate,” Derek began. “We rescued her before she could suffer any real harm. We hoped she’d stay the night in safety at our temple. Many of her guards did. Yet come the morning, it appeared she had run off.”

Torgar felt anger bubbling in his chest. While he had been escorting Taras with invitations to the Kensgold, another of his charges had been assaulted in the streets. Since he’d received no word otherwise, he’d assumed Madelyn had made it home safe. But had she actually?

“Why did you take so long to bring us word?” Torgar asked.

“We sent a priest to inform your lord of her staying at our temple.” Derek glanced about, his face twitching nervously. “We recently found out he was murdered. The message never made it to your camp. Calan, our high priest, sent members of our order to your estate to see if she were there. She’s not. Did she not come here?”

Torgar’s look was answer enough.

“Then you must tell your master,” Derek insisted. “His wife is missing, and we fear one of the thief guilds were the ones to take her.”

“If they did, she may not be alive,” Torgar said, sighing. “We’ve received no demands.”

“Actually,” Derek said, reaching out a trembling hand. “I think you have.”

Within his shaking fingers was a scroll sealed with wax. The wax itself was smooth, showing no insignia. Torgar took it, raising an eyebrow as he did.

“A man in a gray cloak stopped me on the way here,” Derek said. “He gave me the scroll and told me to deliver it to whom I gave my message. He swore I’d die if I opened it, or even tarried.”

He stepped back a little, as if the note might erupt and kill them all. Torgar broke the seal and unrolled it. The message was short and took him little time to read.

Keenan,

End the Kensgold. Leave Veldaren tonight. If not, Madelyn dies. Then Taras. Then you.

A Spider.

Torgar rolled up the note and held it so tight the paper crumpled and the wax cracked and fell to the ground in tiny pieces.

“Listen to me, Derek,” Torgar said. “Stay here at the Kensgold. They’ll kill you on your way back, do you understand?”

“I’m not afraid to die,” Derek said, but he certainly looked fearful.

“Scared or not, there’s no point in walking back into their trap,” the mercenary captain insisted. “But go off and die if you want. I’ve got more important things to do.”

He hurried back into the pavilion, honestly not caring whether or not the priest remained. Laurie was laughing loudly when he arrived, ignoring Taras’s inquisitive look.

“Milord,” Torgar said, kneeling down beside Laurie’s ear. “We need to talk.”

“Just a moment,” Laurie said, patting the mercenary on the shoulder. “Leon here was just telling a wonderful story about…”

“Now,” Torgar insisted. The mood soured immediately. Leon gave him a glare that said in no uncertain terms that if he were his mercenary, he’d be joining Will as game for the gentle touchers. Laurie looked at Torgar for a moment, seeing the urgency in his eyes, and then turned to the others.

“A moment, if you will,” he said, standing. Taras followed unasked.

“What is so damn important that I must appear subservient to my own mercenary?” Laurie asked once they were outside the tent. In answer, Torgar handed him the scroll. Laurie read it, swore, then threw it to the ground and stomped on it with his heel.

“Where’s Madelyn?” he asked.

“She never made it home,” Torgar explained. He summarized what the priest of Ashhur had told him. When finished, he stepped back and crossed his arms, wondering what his master would do.

“We don’t know if she’s dead or alive,” Laurie said, his face red with anger. “And even if I do what they say, there’s no guarantee they’ll let her live.”