A Dance of Chaos: Book 6 of Shadowdance (16 page)

Thren fell silent for a moment, and when Haern looked his way, he was stunned to see his father subtly shifting his gaze to not look him in the eye.

“I was just a street orphan,” Thren said. “My mother worked at a tavern, and I never met my father, only knew he was a soldier she slept with for a few days. When she died, I had nothing, no one, and so I stole to live. Muzien came upon me one day, and he … saw something in me, as well as my only friend, Grayson. He tested us, made us prove ourselves, and when we succeeded, he adopted us as his heirs. He was the closest person I ever had to a father, teaching me how to kill, how to hide, how to command attention and respect. It was his lessons I tried to emulate the best I could with my own sons…”

Again came the heavy silence, and with it came a thousand childhood memories, each one tainted by the haunting specter of Muzien the Darkhand.

“When did you turn against him?” Haern asked, unable to bear the silence.

“Only when Grayson returned with the Sun Guild a few months back. Coming to Veldaren was our final test. I was to conquer the underworld to prove my worthiness as his heir. Apparently I failed, and you’re largely considered the reason why, Watcher. Consider that another of your accomplishments, if you wish.”

“I’d rather be remembered for stopping Muzien. You’re a has-been at this point, old man.”

He grinned at Thren, who shockingly enough grinned back.

“My time is not yet passed, Watcher. We’ll take down Muzien, but we won’t do it how you suggested, not piece by piece. It must be complete and thorough, the cutting off of a head with a single clean stroke. A gradual defeat will give him time to recover, to plan, or even worse, to destroy the entire city with those tiles. Muzien will never surrender. The thought will never enter his mind. But if he thinks the city is lost to him, he’ll burn it all to the ground before letting it fall into anyone else’s hands.”

“Reminds me of someone else I know.”

From the dark corner came Thren’s laughter.

“So true,” he said. “So very true.”

Haern looked once more, then pushed open the closet door.

“They’re bound to have moved on by now,” he said.

“Not quite,” Thren said. “Scouts will remain behind, but we can handle a few scouts, can’t we?”

He led the way, shifting so he could peer left and right without sticking his head out the window.

“One, to the right,” he whispered. “Follow my lead.”

Thren turned about, reached through the window to grab the roof, and then yanked himself up. Haern did likewise, and once both were on the rooftop, Haern did a quick scan of his surroundings. Scouts did indeed remain, two that he could see. The one Thren had spotted lurked with his back to them on the edge of a rooftop, scanning the street below. The other was several hundred feet away, just a brown outline in the distance.

“Move fast,” Thren whispered.

Together they ran across the rooftop, leaped across the street, and grabbed the roof on the other side. Twin images, they pulled up, bounded forward, and drew their weapons. Their passing made no noise, gave the scout no warning. Haern fell back a half-step to let his father take the lead, and like a bull, Thren slammed into the man, his horns the two short swords he wielded in his hands. Blood spilled as they toppled over the roof, Thren shifting so his knees were braced against the scout’s chest. When they hit the ground, the wet, crunching noise of lungs and ribs mashing together was the only death cry the scout would make.

Hooking a hand on the side of the roof, Haern used it to swing low, hung for a moment to kill his momentum, and then released so he could fall silently beside the mess. A glance about showed they had not yet been noticed by those passing on either side of the alley. Meanwhile Thren pulled himself free of the body, unfazed by the gore on his clothes. Instead he took his sword, covered it with fresh blood, and then started sliding it along the brick wall of the building they’d just leaped off of. With the smooth precision of a painter, Thren dipped his sword in and out of the blood as he drew.

“You counter fear with defiance,” his father said, voice soft, resolve hardened. “You counter arrogance with mockery. It’s been a long time since someone truly challenged Muzien, and even longer since he had his nose bloodied. But this is my city, and he’s going to learn the hard way that I will never drink from the cup he offers.”

When he was done, he stepped back to examine the mark of the Spider scrawled across the wall. Haern stared at it, remembering how that symbol had given him pride when he was a child, then fear and loathing when he was a homeless vagrant rebelling against the underworld. After he assumed his role as the Watcher, the Spider had become something weaker, something managed and controlled. But what was it now? Defiance? Rebellion? Why did it no longer fill his stomach with dread?

Haern knelt down beside the body, and he drew his own dagger to dip into the bloody mess. They were fighting a war, he realized. War had casualties, both on and off the battlefield. He couldn’t keep dreading doing the wrong thing. They had to win. For the sake of everyone. What had he told Ghost once?
I’m the monster this city needs
. Not its protector. Not its savior. Its monster. Which meant no longer feeling guilt at the killings, wincing at the pain of his enemies. It was time to embrace a far darker part of his past.

Four strokes in and out of the blood, that was all it took for him to draw a symbol he’d not used in years.

“We should find the other scouts,” Haern said when he was done. “Muzien’s fond of messages, so let’s send him one in return. He’ll learn to fear us equally in both day and night.”

Thren agreed, and back to the rooftops they climbed, leaving behind the message that would grace many other walls that day. Two marks drawn in blood, Thren’s spider and the Watcher’s eye.

Two marks, side-by-side.

   9   

I
t was a day Alyssa had thought would never come, despite having dreamed of it for years while growing up a child of the Trifect. Back then she’d imagined extravagant parties, exotic food, and distinguished guests gathered from all four corners of Dezrel to witness her take the hand of a handsome man of noble birth, stare lovingly into his eyes, and declare herself his wife until the last breath upon this world. But there would be no guests, no parties, and when she gazed up into the eyes of her betrothed, she would see darkness, not love.

“You look lovely,” one of her servants said as they finished tightening and tying the last of the strings upon the back of her corset.

“You tell me that every morning.”

“More lovely than usual,” she said in a vain attempt to correct herself.

Stop being cruel
, Alyssa told herself, and she forced a smile.

“If you say so, then I believe you,” she said. “Given how long it’s taken, it’d be insulting for me to think you’ve not given me your best efforts.”

There were three servant girls applying her cosmetics and aiding in dressing her, and she sensed all three let out sighs of relief. Of all parts of the day, Alyssa treated the ritual of primping and preening with the least amount of patience. But this was the day of her wedding. If any day was worth the time and effort, this was it.

“If you’re finished, leave me be,” she told them.

“Yes, milady,” they said in unison, quickly filing out and leaving Alyssa alone in a grand washroom. Before her was a mirror, and she pretended to see herself in its reflection. Every time she failed. Her skin and hair she could picture easily enough, a soft smile on her lips, but her eyes ruined the illusion. They were always solid black orbs, lifeless, dead.
Windows to the soul
, she thought.
If that’s true, what soul is left within me?

A knock on the door stirred her from that grim thought.

“Yes?” she asked.

“It’s … it’s me, Terrance. I was hoping I could have a word with you before the ceremony.”

Alyssa felt a tingle in the back of her mind, one of warning. Terrance was a distant cousin of hers, a kind, intelligent young man who’d aided with the management of her finances and trade for over four years. Terrance rarely came to her unless he wished to talk business, and only then if it was important. So what was so important he must discuss it prior to the wedding?

“Come in,” she said, and the door opened and then shut. “Though there’s not much ceremony to speak of, Terrance. We’ll be wed before one of the king’s lawyers, not a crowd of friends.”

She heard Terrance clear his throat, and unable to endure his lurking behind her like that, she spun around on her seat and crossed her arms over her tight, grossly expensive dress.

“What is it?” she asked. “Even without eyes I can tell you’re shifting about as if holding in a piss.”

A crude joke might have relaxed most people and pried open their lips, but with Terrance it seemed only to make things worse. Wishing she had eyes so she could roll them, Alyssa uncrossed her arms and adopted a more nurturing tone.

“Whatever it is, don’t be afraid to tell me. You know how much I trust you.”

“It’s about Victor,” Terrance blurted out.

Of course it is
, thought Alyssa.

“Oh?” she said, pretending to be surprised. “And what of him?”

The young man cleared his throat, and by his footsteps she could tell he’d begun pacing.

“Well, after your engagement, he came to me about integrating his property, as well as his debts, into the Gemcroft family holdings. All fair, of course, but his debts…”

“I know Victor’s holdings were not great,” she said, hoping that was all Terrance fretted over. It wasn’t.

“No,” he said. “It’s not just that. He’s been taking coin from our savings to pay his mercenaries. He claimed it part of his debts, but I’ve had discussions with the leaders, and it’s clear what’s going on, especially when looking over his holdings. We’re paying for both his family soldiers and his mercenaries. All of them, for work both the past six months, and six months from now.”

Alyssa felt her throat tighten. A large part of why she’d agreed to an engagement with Victor had been his loyal soldiers, and the respect he commanded. But if she could have gained all of that just by contacting the mercenary guild and throwing around a mess of coin …

“Why did you not speak with me about this sooner?” she asked him.

Terrance cleared his throat, a nervous tic of his she was well familiar with.

“Victor strongly implied it would be unwise for me to bring this to your attention.”

I’m sure he did.

“You’ve done the right thing,” she told him. “Please, have a servant fetch Victor so I may speak with him.”

“As you wish, milady.”

As she sat there in her chair, Alyssa’s mind raced over what she might say, what she might do. Did it matter if he was spending her coin? Come their marriage, she’d assume all his debts, all his costs, and be paying for the men just the same. Something about it unnerved her, though. It felt like a portent of things to come, of deals made behind her back and servants threatened in the dark. Worse, though, was how Victor saw himself as an honorable man. No doubt everything he’d done, everything he’d one day do, he’d justify to himself as necessary.

No, she decided. She was entering into the marriage under promises of future greatness, and for a pretense of stability and power she no longer had. To go in blind …

Alyssa laughed at herself.

Of course she was going in blind. But at least she could try, however vainly, to open her eyes to the man Zusa had feared he was.

A knock on the door, no doubt Victor.

“Come in,” she said, folding her hands on her lap. She heard the door open and close, then heavy footsteps as Victor entered the room, crossing the distance. Gently she felt him take her hand, and she did her best to smile.

“By the gods,” said Victor. “Your beauty is stunning, truly stunning.”

“So my girls tell me.”

“They were not lying, I can assure you of that. With but a smile, I’d wager you could make yourself queen.”

“Was that not what our marriage was for?” she asked, deciding there would be no dancing around the issue. Truth be told, such games didn’t suit her.
Strength
, she told herself.
You once relied on strength. You can do so again
.