A Dance of Chaos: Book 6 of Shadowdance (7 page)

Of course, outside his Spider Guild, there was one who could be a powerful ally, one whom Thren could trust to never work with Muzien.

“Only one,” he said, pulling his coat tighter about him. “But he’s the only one that will matter. We’ll bring the Watcher into this war, Deathmask, and we’ll make sure he’s on our side. Once we do, even the most loyal of lapdogs will start to wonder if they made a mistake.”

Deathmask rubbed his chin as he mused aloud.

“Interesting,” he said. “But the Watcher’s always had his own rules and code. Compared to Muzien, he’s predictable, he’s safe. Do you think he can inspire the fear we need?”

Thren felt excitement building in his chest at the idea of him and his son facing off against his former master.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Whoever the Watcher was, he’s different now. Faced with the loss of his city, he’ll become who he needs to be to win it back.”

Deathmask bowed low.

“Then consider him your recruit,” he said. “I doubt your success, but I’m eager to see your results nonetheless.”

After hesitating, Thren extended his hand to the strange man.

“Allies,” Deathmask said, clasping his wrist and shaking it.

“Allies.”

“This city isn’t lost to us yet,” Deathmask said as Thren turned and walked toward the crypt’s exit. “Not if we revel in chaos so great and wild only we know how to endure the dance. If the Watcher’s to join us in it, he better learn to embrace the darker side of things.”

“Trust me,” Thren said, quickening his step as he ran plans through his mind. “At our side, he’ll become the killer we need.”

That, and more
, thought Thren as he stepped out into the graveyard and gazed upon the rooftops his son called home.

The killer he was always meant to be.

   4   

H
aern awoke in his room to the thoroughly unpleasant sight of Tarlak hovering over him, arms crossed, pointy hat tilted to one side. A grin was on the wizard’s face, and that just made everything worse.

“You could knock on the door to wake me, you know,” Haern muttered.

“My tower, my rules. Time to rise and shine.”

“I’d rather sleep.”

Tarlak let out a snort.

“You’ve had four hours, that’s plenty. Antonil sent us a messenger requesting our presence, and it seemed urgent.”

Haern let out a sigh. He should have known the guard captain would attempt to take matters into his own hands after learning of the threat that’d been smuggled into the city right under his nose. But if Antonil wanted to talk to them, then talk they would. In all reality, Antonil was one of the very few good people left.

“Fine,” he said. “Let me change, and then we’ll go.”

Tarlak clapped his hands, then paused, as if confused.

“You have more than one outfit?”

“Out, wizard, or I swear to Ashhur I will cut off your beard and shove it down your damn throat.”

“Fine, fine,” Tarlak said, exiting the room and shutting the door behind him. From the other side, still audible as he descended the stairs, the wizard’s rant continued. “Someone needs to start sleeping more and skulking rooftops less, I swear.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Haern said, sliding out of his bed and beginning to disrobe.

Five minutes later he exited the stairs to the bottom floor to find Tarlak sitting in his favorite chair beside a dormant fireplace, wineglass in hand.

“Is Delysia coming with us?” Haern asked, and he felt slightly awkward in doing so.

“She’s already in the city with Brug,” Tarlak said, finishing the last of his sparkling clear drink and then making the glass vanish with a snap of his fingers. Hopping up from the seat, a bundle of energy that inspired a mixture of annoyance and rage inside Haern, the wizard hurried to the door. “Hoping to see what the priests of Ashhur can make of those tiles, since their sworn enemy had a hand in making them. I’ve already sent Del a whisper spell telling them to meet us when they’re done.”

Haern nodded. He had yet to talk to her since returning, and was hardly looking forward to it.

“All right then,” said Tarlak. “Let’s go.”

According to Tarlak, Antonil’s messenger had requested that they meet him in the far south of the city, just off the main road. After stopping by a stall so Haern could buy something to eat, they made their way south. With Haern in his cloaks and Tarlak in his yellow robes, they were an easy pair to spot, earning themselves plenty of strange glances from those they passed.

“You’d think they’d never seen the color yellow before,” the wizard mused after a woman glared at the two.

“The people here must endure the guilds, the thieves, and the corrupt guards of the city, all to scrape together enough to afford their daily bread,” Haern said. “You, however, can summon yourself a glass of wine with the snap of your fingers. I don’t think it is the color yellow they dislike.”

“Aren’t you cheery this morning?” Tarlak said, thrusting his shoulders back so he stood taller as they walked.

Before Haern could retort, he spotted Antonil waiting in the center of the road, a trio of soldiers with him. He looked calm enough, his demeanor belying whatever urgency the messenger had insisted upon. Tarlak saw the man too, and he straightened up his hat and then quickened his step so that he could greet Antonil first.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Antonil said, seeing the two approach and stepping forward to offer his hand. “You two have my thanks for coming so quickly.”

“Your thanks is hardly what I’m doing this for, but I’ll accept it nonetheless,” Tarlak said, shaking the soldier’s hand. “Care to share what you needed us for?”

Antonil ignored him, instead nodding curtly to Haern.

“It’s good to see you in the daylight for once,” he said.

“It’s hardly the safest for either of us,” Haern said. “I pray this is important?”

“It is,” Antonil said, gesturing to his left, where a dead-end street was blocked off by multiple city guards. “There’s one of the Sun Guild’s tiles in the center of the street. Since Tarlak can’t work on the tiles without the risk of hurting innocents, I’ve done you the favor of removing everyone along the entire street.”

“I doubt those living there were too happy about that,” Haern said.

“True, they’d probably be happier dead,” Antonil said, “but I’m willing to endure their angry words. I’ve got soldiers posted all about the area, and if anyone tries sneaking in to watch, they’ll let us know. You have your privacy, Tarlak, and a reasonably safe environment. This is the best I can do. The rest is up to you. Do you think you can find a way to render the magic within them harmless?”

Tarlak cracked his knuckles, and he offered the guard captain a smile Haern immediately knew was fake.

“I’m willing to try,” he said. “Beyond that, no promises.”

As Tarlak strolled down the street to where the tile was buried, Haern found a spot of shade against one of the dilapidated homes and nestled into it, pulling his hood low over his face.

“Not sure why I have to be here,” he shouted to Tarlak as the wizard knelt in the center of the street, his back to him.

“Emotional support,” Tarlak shouted back. “That, and in case someone doesn’t like what I’m doing, you’re here to save me. I’m sure Antonil’s soldiers are fine men, but they’re no match for someone like Muzien.”

Haern wasn’t sure he considered himself a match for Muzien either. He hadn’t told Tarlak of his meeting with Antonil the night before, and he didn’t feel like doing so now. Sleep sounded wonderful, and while Haern didn’t think he could, at the least he could shut his eyes and do his best to relax. The empty street was eerily quiet, with just the soft whisper of a wind that had picked up over the past two days, plus Tarlak’s occasional mutters and curses as he examined the tile. Time drifted along, and twice Haern had to shift his weight to remain comfortable.

“Anything yet?” he asked Tarlak.

“I’m not sure.”

The wizard sat on his rump before the tile, chin resting in the palms of his hands. Though Haern couldn’t see his face, he had a feeling Tarlak was drilling holes into the tile with his eyes.

“What do you mean?” Haern asked. “It’s magical. You know how to manipulate magic. Just … remove whatever’s on it.”

Tarlak slowly turned his head, giving Haern the worst glare he’d ever seen in his life.

“Just remove it?” he asked. “Is that it? Is it really that easy? Thank you, Mister Stabby Sword Man, for telling me how to do my job. I’d have
never
figured that out without your help. If you would, though, please humor me. Have you ever picked a lock? Imagine doing that, except instead of using thin strips of metal, you only have a piece of string, a chicken bone, and a rock the size of your head. Oh, and the lock is surrounded by mirrors, and if you accidentally break one of the mirrors, you get the privilege of dying in a great fiery explosion. Just remove whatever’s on it? Praise Ashhur for sending us your brilliance and wisdom.”

When he was finally done ranting, Haern offered him his biggest grin.

“Happy to help,” he said.

Haern wondered which was more likely to explode in the next few minutes, Tarlak or the tile he was working on. So far, his gut said the wizard.

“I see I haven’t missed much,” Delysia interrupted, and the two men turned to see her passing between Antonil and his soldiers to join them. She looked radiant in her white priestess robes, though her face lacked any of the humor her words implied.

“Come, have a seat,” Haern said, tapping the dirt beside him. “Where’d Brug run off to?”

“To use his words, ‘I’d rather find something to eat than get blown up by that fool wizard,’” she said, smoothing out her dress and then sitting down next to Haern. “Though his language was a bit more … colorful.”

Haern laughed, glad for something to smile about to hide his unease. The last he’d talked to her, Ghost had been dying before him. Having her so close, acting as if nothing were wrong, nothing troubling between them … could it be so? Might they put behind them the horrible trials they’d endured on the road to the Stronghold? Much as he wished that were true, he knew it wouldn’t be that easy. Things rarely were.

“Did you learn anything from the priests?” he asked, trying to keep the conversation going, and on anything other than themselves.

“I spoke with Calan himself,” Delysia said, shaking her head. “The magic upon the tiles is incredibly powerful. Worse, they were specifically warded against Ashhur’s faithful. Given the seriousness of the matter, he’s pledged the aid of the temple in any way we need it, but when it comes to removing their danger, they cannot help us.”

Haern tapped at his lips with his fingers, thinking. The priests of Ashhur were powerful allies indeed. If he could find a way to turn them against the Sun Guild, perhaps …

“Well, I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks these things are difficult,” Tarlak said, wiping at his eyes. “Gods damn it, this is giving me a headache. What I’d give to shake the hand of whoever came up with such clever protections.”

“Thren killed him, remember?” Haern said.

“Right. Well. Shake the hand of his corpse, and then burn it to a cinder. He’s equally deserving of both, the bastard.”

The wizard stood, popping his back and letting out loud groans. His pointy hat fell from his head, and muttering, Tarlak swept it off the ground and put it back on. As he did, he paused, staring at the tile as if seeing it for the first time.

“You said it was warded against Ashhur’s followers, right? I think I can spot that inscription. If I can, I wonder…”

He knelt before the tile again, putting his fingers on the edge.

“Discover something?” Haern asked.

“Divine magic is not my specialty, but I’m thinking if I can remove that specific protection against Ashhur’s priests so they can take a crack at this instead, just maybe…”

He ignored them for a moment to instead begin whispering the soft, peculiar words of magic. A silver light shone around his hands, the edges of it creeping down into the tile like a living mist. Beside Haern, Delysia straightened up, the worry plain on her face.

“Tar?” she said.

Tarlak whispered a few more incantations, then abruptly halted.