A Dance of Blades

chapter 9

She knew Garrick would want an explanation, but Veliana delayed seeing him as long as possible. The longer he wondered and worried, the better. She wanted him to feel belittled, to realize her contempt for him. Anything else might make him think things were different. At last one of their young guild rats found her at a tavern on the other side of the city and informed her of Garrick’s request.

“Tell him I’m on my way,” she said, flicking the boy a copper piece. “But I still plan on finishing my drink first.”

She nursed it for another half-hour. By then several men arrived, all wearing the dark gray of the Ash Guild. They were recent recruits to the guild, men she realized she knew very little about. Garrick’s men, then. Again she cursed herself for being so blind to the man’s ambition. Of course she’d vetted them, knew their names, but that was the limit of her influence upon them.

“Garrick’s waiting,” said one. He was named Gil, if she remembered correctly. Why had she let him in? He looked like a dog had shit out a muscular version of itself that happened to walk on two legs.

“Surely he has more important problems,” she said, draining the last of her glass.

“Than insubordination? No, Veliana, he doesn’t.”

She shot him a wink as she stood.

“Lead on, boys. Three to one to take me to the dance? I feel honored.”

“Shut it.”

It was an hour until sunset, and in the orange glow Veliana felt exposed wearing their cloaks as they traversed across the city. They were deep in Spider territory, and instead of trying to travel through the less profitable outskirts, they marched together through its very center. She saw a few men in the softer gray cloaks, but they did not accost them, nor hail for an explanation. Strange.

Deathmask was already waiting in the chamber when Veliana arrived. Garrick sat on his cushions, smoking as usual. He looked incredibly pleased, which threw her off. She expected him to be ranting and raving. And why was Deathmask there? Was she about to witness another attempt on his life? Not counting herself or Deathmask, twelve men gathered about. All were armed. She felt her worry grow. What if this wasn’t for the stranger they’d invited? What if this was for her execution?

Her hands brushed the daggers at her hip. If it came to that, she’d take Garrick down with her, no matter the cost. Better the Ash Guild dissolved leaderless than continue in the hands of that paranoid bastard.

“You know how to keep a gentleman waiting,” Garrick said as she arrived.

“I’m sure Deathmask will forgive me.”

Garrick chuckled, not at all bothered by the slight.

“Well, we’re all here now. Before we begin…Vel, would you care to hand over your daggers? I’d hate for someone to get hurt.”

It took all her concentration to hide her panic. Should she do it? If she refused, it might make her seem all the more rebellious. Its meaning might also be taken to a far worse, though truthful, extreme. She glanced at Deathmask, and during the brief moment their eyes connected, she saw the corner of his mouth curl into a grin, followed by a wink.

Trusting him, she handed over her daggers and crossed her arms.

“I trust I won’t like what I’m about to hear if you’d insult me so,” she said.

“Perhaps, but I am not the one who shall be speaking.” He turned to Deathmask. “Tell me, please, why Veliana is still alive.”

All about men murmured, and she wondered how they were interpreting that statement.

“I do not understand,” Deathmask said, feigning confusion. “Is there a reason she should not be?”

“Don’t lie to me. I know she attacked you last night. One of my men watched your exchange. Tell me, why is it you didn’t kill her? She did, after all, try to kill you.”

“I assumed it just a training exercise,” Deathmask said, the lie smooth on his tongue. “Veliana confirmed as much near the end of our fight. Was I wrong in my assumption? Was her response to me a lie?”

This was clearly not the answer Garrick had expected. He frowned and shifted in his cushion.

“Yes, you damn fool, you were wrong, and she a liar. You should be dead, yet are not.”

Veliana held her tongue. What game was Garrick playing? She’d warned him at revealing attempts to murder an accepted member without reason or proof, yet here he was exposing his plans to the guild, and not just that, but showing how they had failed.

“For what reason would she attack me?” Deathmask asked.

“Isn’t it obvious? She fears you. She knows with your skill you might quickly ascend to take her place. Isn’t that right, Veliana?”

He grinned at her, his bloodshot eyes twinkling. Veliana’s hands shook as she choked down her outrage. So that was it. He’d cast the shame of a failed inner-guild execution on her, and if she tried to deny it, it was her word against his. Her word against the word of their guildmaster. One clearly outranked the other. The punishment for such a charge was limited to two options: banishment, or death.

Staring at that grin, she knew which option Garrick had already chosen.

“You planned this from the start,” she said, her voice nearly a whisper. Garrick stood and stepped closer as the rest of the guild tensed. They understood the accusation, and they too knew the possible punishments.

“I merely took advantage of an opportunity,” he whispered so only she could hear. She glared at Deathmask, suddenly wondering how many of his promises had been lies. Perhaps all of them. He’d set her up, she realized. She’d wasted time debating and discussing with Zusa when she should have killed the bastard. All attempts on his life had been made in secret, with no one else informed. They’d all died as well. No one could prove Garrick’s attempts. Once more, his word against hers. Damn it all!

“As you know,” Garrick said, raising his voice to a theatrical level as he turned his back to her. “Our laws are clear for such an attempt. We cannot have anarchy within our ranks, not in this crucial time while we fight for our very survival.” He spun. “You will be made an example, Veliana, one for the entire guild to see.”

“Guildmaster, if I may make a request,” said Deathmask. Garrick seemed worried, but he gestured for him to continue. “Since it was my life she tried to take, I ask that I be the one to carry out her punishment.”

“You f*ck,” she said, her hands clenched tight into fists. “You sick little f*ck.”

She feinted a lunge at Garrick and then hurled herself at Deathmask. She was unarmed, but even with her bare hands she knew a multitude of ways to kill. If she could strike him just right, crush his throat or snap his neck, then at least she’d die taking revenge. Her fist slammed into his mouth, just in case he attempted to cast a spell. With her other fist she doubled him over with a blow to the stomach. She heard men shouting, but she stepped closer and wrapped her arms around his neck. Just a single hard twist and then…

Something hard smacked the back of her head. Her stomach heaved, and her whole body went limp. Deathmask pulled free, and he shouted for the others to leave her be.

“She is mine,” he said. “Guildmaster, I ask, is your punishment for this madwoman execution?”

“It is,” said Garrick. He sounded amused by her display.

Her helpless rage grew. The men let her go, but it took all her strength to stand. Already a knot grew on the back of her head. She felt ready to vomit. Deathmask closed the distance, and her wild punch missed. He grabbed her by the throat and flung her against a wall. A dagger flashed from his belt and pressed against her neck.

“Do you trust me?” he whispered into her ear. His grip tightened around her throat. Her eyes met his, and against all her instincts, something in those brown orbs gave her hope. She nodded, a barely perceptible movement given how tightly he held her against the wall.

“Then stay perfectly still.”

He muttered a few more words, soft whispers hidden by his grin. At last he pulled back his dagger and stabbed her chest, in and out with such speed her blood was flowing before she ever felt the pain. Black dots cluttered her vision as he held her still.

“Sleep in darkness,” she heard him say as the rest of the Ash Guild hooted and hollered. No doubt Garrick was one of them. She tried to curse his name as she died, but her whole body was turning rigid, refusing to cooperate, refusing to struggle, refusing to breathe…

And then the darkness came, and she could only obey Deathmask’s request.

*

Oric waited until mid-afternoon before heading out. He traveled south along the main road, ignoring the peddlers and the beggars. He veered off when appropriate, making his way to the mercenary’s guild. While it had once been a weak entity, the years of battle and constant work had filled its coffers, upgraded its recruitment, and increased its influence. Anyone wanting work had to go through them. There were some advantages, like guarantees in price or insurance should some of the higher ranked fail to fulfill their duties. Mostly Oric thought it a grand scheme to jack up the cost of hiring mercenaries, but what did he know?

The building itself was still small, little more than a large cube to house records and provide the wealthy a place to visit close enough to the main road that they might not be afraid. Oric entered, crossing his fingers as he looked about the office hoping to see an old friend. Sure enough, there he was, white bushy unibrow and all.

“Oric?” asked the old man as he came from a back room to the front at the sound of a bell ringing above the door. “Come closer, my eyes aren’t what they…so it is you! Good to see you, you ugly son of a bitch.”

Oric grinned. “Was worried you’d died off, or been replaced by someone who can still remember what happened more than an hour prior.”

The old man laughed. His name was Bill Trett, and in Oric’s former sellsword life, a respected colleague. Bill had killed until his strength failed him, but by then he’d acquired such a wealth of knowledge of the various employers that the guild taught him his numbers and set him in charge of the guild’s transactions.

“You see this mess?” he asked, pointing to the various shelves stocked with expensive paper. “Only I know where everything’s at. They’ll keep me on until I die, and perhaps a little bit longer than that if they can figure out a way.”

“Gods know they need you,” Oric said. “The Trifect still filling your purses?”

Bill waved a dismissive hand. “The money’s steadied, nearly every one of ‘em just wanting the bare minimum. Not like when this mess first started, when I saw more gold change hands than I could count. Blood really filled the streets then, didn’t it?”

Oric smiled, remembering the many thieves he’d cut down while in Leon Connington’s pay. It’d been a very good year.

“I think Alyssa’s going to give everyone some work later today, so be prepared,” Oric said. Bill raised his eyebrows but didn’t inquire further. “But for myself, I need a favor, Bill.”

“What’s that? Not that I should be doing you any favors. Last I remember, I saved your life up in Felwood, not the other way around.”

“If not for favor, then for gold,” he said, dropping a bulging coin purse atop the desk. “I need the best you have to hire, and I don’t mean who the guild thinks is the best. You know every sellsword from here to Angelport, and I want your real opinion. I need someone who could find a mouse in a forest before an owl could; that damn good.”

Bill rubbed his chin as his milky eyes stared off into nowhere.

“I suppose you don’t mind if he’s a bit unsavory?”

“He can be the ugliest, meanest bastard you know. I’d probably prefer it. We’d get along.”

Bill laughed, but it was lacking in humor.

“I know of one, and he’s good, Oric. He’s all the way over from southern Ker, though some say he ain’t even from Dezrel. Out of the nine jobs he’s done for me, he’s never once failed to catch his prey, and always done it with days to spare. Been tough getting work lately, though. Charges twice what anyone else does.”

“What’s his name?”

“He calls himself Ghost. I’m not brave enough to tell him to pick something more original. Besides, with this guy, it’s fitting once you see his face.”

Oric crossed his arms. “What’s that mean?”

“You’ll find out for yourself. No point in me telling you. He’s costly, he’s dangerous, but he’s the best. You still want to meet him?”

Oric thought of the six men he and Arthur had lost when this lone Watcher had ambushed them along the northern road. He also thought of how Alyssa might execute him if she found out their role in her son’s death.

“Yeah. I need the best. Where can I find this…Ghost?”

“Know where the Mug and Feather is? No? Lousy tavern built to the far south, just off the main road. Head there a few hours from now. The barkeep’s a cheat, but he’ll point Ghost out for you…though I’m thinking you won’t need him to.”

Bill opened the purse and dumped the coins across his desk. After he counted them up, he nodded.

“You’ve got a few extra in here.”

“Keep them,” Oric said, heading for the exit. “Consider it a gift to an old friend for keeping things quiet.”

“Understood. Safe travels, Oric.”

Though Bill had told him to wait, Oric had no such plans. He wanted to be there when this Ghost showed up for a drink. Besides, if he had enough time, he might glean some information out of the regulars there. Just after midday, anyone in there would certainly be a frequent drinker.

Finding the tavern was easy enough, given the sign hanging above the door: a poorly drawn mug and an even uglier feather. Owner had probably been cheap enough to draw it himself. Oric checked his sword and then stepped inside. The room stank of vomit and alcohol, and the lighting was abysmal. In one corner was a firepit, no doubt the only source of both heat and light at night. Among the various tables he saw a few stragglers, most eating. They glanced back at him as he entered and squinted to see in the dark. None stood out, at least, not as dangerous assassins.

The barkeep was a thin man with a blond beard that reached to the bottom of his neck. He nodded at Oric and then waited for him to take a seat before coming over.

“Whatever’s cheapest,” Oric muttered, tossing him several coppers. When the barkeep came back with a third of his mug froth, Oric rolled his eyes. A cheat, indeed. Deciding he needed information more than he needed to give a good beatdown, he let it slide.

“Need anything to eat?” the barkeep asked.

“What’s warm?”

“Haven’t started the soup yet. Got a bit of bread, though, and butter if you’re willing to pay.”

“That’ll do.”

He kept his eyes to himself as he waited for his food. Just in case the Ghost was already there, he didn’t want to make it seem like he was looking. When they met, he wanted to have the upper hand, just in case this Ghost tried to haggle for more pay, which he might given the target. When his bread arrived he smothered it with butter and ate. When he caught the barkeep watching, he pulled out a silver.

“Keep the rest,” he said. “Care to answer me a question?”

The barkeep held the silver piece close to his eyes as he inspected it, frowned, and then put it away.

“Sure thing,” he said. “Not so busy I can’t stay away from the bar long enough to talk with a customer.”

Oric chuckled at his sarcasm, then lowered his voice.

“I’m looking for a man who calls himself the Ghost.”

The barkeep wiped his hands on his pants and laughed. “Not too many go looking for him. Usually he’s got to go to those making offers no one else is dumb enough to accept. What business you have with that dark-skinned monster?”

An actual dark-skin from Ker? thought Oric. Interesting.

“No business of yours,” he said. “Now fill the rest of my mug, and with ale, not foam, got it?”

The barkeep glared but obeyed. Oric washed the rest of the bread and butter down, then glanced around once more. No dark-skin in the tavern. Shit, he wasn’t even sure if he’d seen a dark-skin in all of Veldaren. No wonder the guy had trouble getting work. Settling in for a wait, he moved from his table to one farthest from the door. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. He didn’t actually sleep, but let it look like he was. If anyone was dumb enough to try and rob him, well, they’d get a nice surprise.

As the sun moved across the sky, steadily approaching dusk, more men filtered into the tavern. Oric thought it might be the only tavern left in southern Veldaren ever since King Vaelor’s edict banned the caravans from entering the southern entrance, forcing them to the east. All the merchants, and subsequent wealth, had shifted further and further north. The men who entered looked tired and haggard, and he guessed many of them worked the nearby fields outside the city walls. The ale was terrible, same as the prices, but they were probably far closer to home and among friends.

“You’re in our seat,” he heard someone say. He opened his eyes to see three men, their tanned skin covered with soil. All three of them combined might still be skinnier than he was.

“That’s a damn shame,” Oric said, shifting so they could see the sword sheathed at his side.

“Ain’t no swords allowed in here,” said one of them.

“Like to see him stop me,” Oric said, nodding toward the barkeep.

The men scowled, but armed with only their fists, they dared not challenge him and his blade. They backed down to another seat, and as they moved out of his way, he finally saw Ghost. He sat alone in the center of the tavern. His skin was indeed dark, reminding Oric of obsidian. The man’s head was shaved, and he wore loose clothing more appropriate for a warmer climate. His enormous strength was obvious, his arms thick as tree trunks. Most shocking, though, was the brilliant white paint he wore across his face.

Oric stood, glared at the men who’d wanted his seat, as if daring them to try and take it back, and then approached Ghost.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked.

The man looked up, and he flashed a smile, revealing clean white teeth.

“I have a seat to spare, so take it if you wish.” His voice was deep, intimidating. Oric sat and leaned back in his chair. If not for the white paint, this Ghost might have been handsome. He tried to decide why he wore it, yet could not. Was it because of his name? A pathetic attempt to fit in?

“Not much need to ask, but I assume you’re the one called Ghost?”

The mercenary chuckled. “I am.”

“They say you’re good.”

“Who is they? That blind fool running the guild’s coffers? Or the rest of my colleagues? I’d be surprised if any bothered to speak of me except in disdain.”

“It was Bill,” Oric admitted. “Is it true? I’m starting to have my doubts.”

“Is that an attempt to make me boast? No boast. There is none better. Now tell me your name, and your business, otherwise I might decide I prefer to drink alone.”

“Sad man that’d prefer to drink alone.”

Ghost grinned again, and there was something wolfish in his brown eyes.

“Come now, stranger, do you think I am unused to being alone?”

Oric felt put off guard, and he cursed his verbal clumsiness. Arthur would have been so much better at milking information out of this guy, figuring out who he was, what made him tick.

“Fair enough. My name’s Oric. Who I work for is my own business. I need you for a job, and I’ve already paid Bill for your services.”

Ghost leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. Oric saw two hilts just below his elbows. It seemed Ghost didn’t care much for the barkeep’s no weapons policy either.

“I can refuse if I wish, so don’t think I am already in your pocket, Oric. Do you wish for someone found, killed, or both?”

“Both.”

Again that wolfish smile.

“Excellent. Who?”

“They call him the Watcher.”

Oric was surprised by the sudden burst of laughter. It seemed the rest of the tavern winced at the sound, as if they expected him to explode any second.

“The Watcher?” asked Ghost. “Now that is interesting. I’ve heard a rumor of him here or there, but they make him sound as real as the reaper. But now you come and ask me to kill him? Do you have anything for me other than a name?”

“I saw him with my own eyes,” Oric said, annoyed. “He wore gray, and kept his face hidden with the hood of his cloak.”

“You describe nearly every beggar in this city.”

“He wielded two swords, one for each hand.”

“I’d be more impressed if he wielded two swords in the same hand.”

“Enough!” Oric slammed his hand against the table. “I won’t be intimidated by a freak like you.”

The entire tavern quieted at his words. Ghost smiled, not angry, just amused, but something twinkled in his eyes, something dangerous. He leaned closer to Oric, letting his voice drop to a whisper.

“A freak?” he asked. “Why is that? Is it my skin? There are thousands like me in Ker.”

“Only a freak would paint his face to look like a dead whore,” Oric said, still trying to rein in his temper.

“Ah, the paint.” His voice dropped even lower, as if he were to say something intimate for only Oric to hear. “It itches like ivy, and does not come cheap here. Do you know why I wear it?”

“Because you’re trying to fit in?”

“Fit in?” He laughed, loud, a boisterous eruption that startled the nearest tables. Oric felt himself jump, though he didn’t know why. He’d lost control of the conversation, he knew that much. If he wanted to be in charge of any further negotiations, he needed to get his act together, and fast.

“No, not to fit in,” Ghost continued. “I wear it to stand out. When people see this paint, it only reminds them of why I must wear it. People cannot hide from me, Oric. That is why I am the best. Everyone I talk to feels fear, for they know nothing of who I am, only that I am different. Do you see that farmer over there? I could find out the name of his wife faster than you could introduce yourself. When you ask questions, they’ll evade, they’ll delay, they’ll hope for bribes or favors. When I ask questions, they wish me gone, because I make them afraid without a single threatening word. Fear is stronger than gold. All the wealth in the world cannot make someone conquer their fear, not when it comes to death and blood. They will tell me everything so I’ll let them go back to their safe little existence. Fit in? What an unimaginative man you are.”

“Enough,” Oric said. “Will you accept the job or not?”

Ghost took a drink of his ale and set down the glass.

“Triple what Bill told you,” he said. “I won’t accept a copper less.”

“I could hire fifty men for that price!”

“And all fifty would stomp about unable to find their own a*sholes. Triple.”

Oric stood, having had enough. “I won’t, dark-skin. I refuse. Either accept your standard pay, or nothing at all.”

Ghost drew his sword and slammed it onto the table. Oric jumped, but instead of reaching for his sword, he realized he had turned to run for the door. His cheeks flushed, and he knew Ghost had seen it as well.

“I expect the rest in Bill’s hands by nightfall. Farewell, Oric. I will have the Watcher’s head in two weeks. Should I fail, though I won’t, all the coin will be returned to you.”

He left, and it seemed the whole tavern breathed easier with him gone. To his shame, Oric realized he did too. He ordered another glass, drained it, and then hurried off. He still had another pressing matter to attend, and he needed to handle it far better than he had with Ghost. Further into southern Veldaren he approached a large wooden structure with two floors. It’d been there several years ago, when he’d last been to the city, and thankfully it still was.

Inside at least fifty boys and girls hurried about, cleaning, sweeping, and preparing their beds for nightfall. A man of forty hurried to the door to greet him.

“Hello, my friend,” said the man. “My name is Laurence, and welcome to our orphanage. May I help you, perhaps with finding an apprentice or maidservant?”

“Show me the boys,” Oric said.

Laurence whistled and sent them running. They traveled further in. It looked like a giant warehouse, with rows of bunk beds on either side. He lined up twenty boys of various ages, parading them before Oric as if they were cattle. For the most part, the children behaved, having certainly gone through this before.

“Anything particular you’re looking for?” Laurence asked, licking his lips.

“That’s my own business, not yours.”

“Of course, sir, of course.”

Oric kept Nathaniel in mind as he looked over the younger ones. One in particular looked close in size, maybe an inch taller. His hair was even the same color, which might help match the illusion.

“Step forward,” he said, nodding toward that boy. “He’ll do. What’s the cost?”

“Adoptions are not cheap, but he’s still young, so it’ll be nine silvers.”

Oric reached into his pocket and pulled out twice the amount.

“No papers,” he said. “I was never here.”

Laurence’s eyes bulged, and he glanced between the man and the boy.

“His name’s Dirk,” he said.

“That’s fine. Come on, boy.”

Laurence watched them leave but said nothing.

Oric traveled by foot, so he took Dirk by the hand and told him to hurry along.

“No questions,” he said. “We’re heading along the northern road. I’ve got a house for you there, where you can work off all that silver I just spent on you. You understand?”

Dirk nodded.

“Good.”

He took him to the southern gate, not wishing to travel through the more populated areas of the city regardless of how close to night it was getting. The guards gave him a cursory glance before letting him through. At a branch in the road they followed the loop back around the city and then to the north. Dirk looked maybe six, and his legs were nowhere near as long as Oric’s. He tired rapidly, and by the way his skin clung to his bones, it’d probably been forever since he had a filling meal. Oric eventually picked him up and carried him until the city was behind them and the sun almost set.

“How long until we’re there?” Dirk asked, the first time he’d spoken in an hour.

“No questions,” Oric growled. He glanced about as the first of many stars appeared in the sky. He was nearing the King’s Forest. Stretching out to the east were acres of hills. He turned toward one of them, still holding the boy.

“Almost there,” he muttered. Once he put the closest hill between him and the road, he set Dirk down. “You see that forest over on the other side of the road? I want you to go fetch me some sticks, whatever you can carry.”

“Yes, sir.”

Oric pulled out his sword and a piece of flint. While the boy was gone, he gathered enough dry grass to create kindling. He carefully shielded it with his hands once he got it lit. When Dirk returned, holding about six sticks, Oric snapped them on his knee and carefully set them into the kindling. He sprinkled a tiny bit of lamp oil from his pack to get it going, then stood.

“We need far more wood than that,” he said, still holding his sword. “But I’ve got time. First, Arthur’s orders. Come here, Dirk.”

While the boy’s body bled out on the grass, Oric went to the forest and broke off several thick branches. He dragged them back to his camp, grunting as he did. He used his boot to break the branches into pieces, and one by one he tossed them upon the fire. Once it was roaring, he picked up the body. It felt stiff and cold. He hoped it’d burn. Without a bit of ceremony he tossed it into the fire. The ragged clothing caught first, then the hair, and finally flesh. The burning meat smelled sweet, but he always hated the scent of burning hair.

Deciding he could go without the warmth, he unpacked his bedroll and slept upwind so he wouldn’t be bothered by the smell. Come morning, he gathered up the bones into a sack and returned to Veldaren.