A Dance of Cloaks (12 page)

“We don’t know for sure he’s even there,” Senke argued.

“Then let’s go find out.”

They climbed up to the roof of the home they hid beside. As they prepared to move west along the rooftops for a better view, Kayla wondered at Will’s dexterity. He climbed as well as her, and although he weighed more, the boards and plaster made no extra groans or creaks compared to her.

Lady luck was not with them. Leaning against the corner, whistling a tune, was their unknown guard.

“Damn,” Senke whispered as he lay on his belly peering off the roof. “That complicates things tremendously.”

“We need him diverted,” Kayla said. “But that may mean only two of us going inside.”

“We go as three, or not at all,” Will said.

The woman spun at him and glared.

“Then give us an idea, ox.”

As if this were a serious request, Will nodded and crossed his arms.

“Fine. Wait for me.”

Will climbed down, his giant girth looking comical as he hung from slender handholds. Once on the ground, he strode up to the guard without any attempt to hide his presence.

“What is he doing?” Kayla asked.

“Calm yourself,” Senke said. He put a hand on her shoulder, and this time she did pull away. If he was offended, he didn’t show it. “Will knows what he’s doing. And if he doesn’t, well, we’re up here and he’s down there, right?”

She didn’t reply. Silent, they watched as Will waved at the guard, a noticeable drunken gait suddenly overcoming him. He said something, but what they could not hear. The guard pointed away, as if shooing a mutt. Will turned, as if considering, and then spun around, his massive fist clobbering the guard. His beefy arms wrapped around the guard’s neck as he fell, tightening, twisting, and then the guard went still.

Kayla counted in her head, tracking how long until the patrol would find them. Will had thirty seconds, forty at most.

If Will was worried, he didn’t show it. Calmly, he picked up the body and propped him against the wall. He crossed the guard’s arms, adjusted his legs a tiny bit, and tilted his helmet so that it appeared he had nodded off. He kicked the legs a couple of times until they locked.

A moment later and Will was climbing up the house, rejoining them on their rooftop perch.

“Surely they will wake their friend,” Kayla said, not impressed with the ploy. “Once he’s awake, they will search for us.”

“You don’t know guards,” Will said. A crude smile spread across his lips. “Why is he in back and alone? Because he’s not liked. You will see, but for now, hurry. Our chance approaches.”

They skirted around the light of the various torches hanging from large brass rings off the sides of the prison roof. They were nearing the giant wall surrounding the city, and therefore were out of homes to climb across and use to hide their presence. Only their cloaks and the shadows offered them protection, but they used them with the calm skill of experienced thieves.

When the two patrolling guards walked around the corner, Kayla felt a bit of vindication at how quickly they noticed the guard sleeping. One yanked the helmet off him, while the other prodded him in the stomach with the hilt of his sword. When he did not awake, the first guard slapped him across the face, and then he finally startled. She listened as the guards mocked him, grabbed his arm, and then marched him toward the front.

“He’s to be punished,” Kayla whispered, suddenly feeling very foolish.

“Go, now,” Will said.

The three of them ran behind the soldiers and to the back of the now unguarded prison. They made not a sound. Senke knelt beside the center of the wall and unrolled the scroll from the pocket in his cloak. He pressed it against the stone and whispered the activation word. The scroll sunk inward, dissolved, and then with an audible pop that made all of them wince, it vanished.

Senke slowly pressed his hands against the bare stone, a grin spreading across his face as it passed through like a desert mirage. His arm sank in further, and after a wink to the others, he dove head-first inside. Kayla followed.

5

I
t did not exist, but if it did, the temple to Karak would have been a most impressive structure cut from black-marble and lined with pillars. A roaring lion skull would have hung above the doorway. It had no priests, but if it did, they would have been quiet, subdued men wearing black robes and long hair pulled tight behind their heads. They would have wielded powerful cleric magic, and done all in their power to further the cause of their dark god of Order. They played no part in policy of the king, but if they did, the priests would have informed the royal crown of the dangers involved in exposing their presence to the city. If war was ever waged between the priests of Ashhur and Karak, assuming the priests of Karak somehow existed, then the streets would soon be cluttered with the dead.

Maynard Gemcroft, in disguise and escorted by two of his most trusted guards, arrived at the building that did not exist. The gate opened, and inside they went.

“Pelarak will see you shortly, Gemcroft,” one of the younger priests said to them as he opened the double-doors leading into the temple. Maynard did not respond. A bit of annoyance at not being called a Lord in such a formal setting rumbled in his chest, but Pelarak had explained long ago that the priests would refer to no man as Lord other than Karak.

The hour was late, but inside the temple, routines went on as if it were midday. Younger men, boys really, traveled from corner to corner, lighting candles with thin, long punks. Purple curtains draped across hidden windows. Following their guide, they stepped into the great congregation room. Maynard had never considered himself a religious man, but the statue of Karak always made a deeply buried part of his mind wonder if he were in error.

Chiseled in ancient stone, the statue towered over those bowed before it. Its image was of a beautiful man with long hair, battle-scarred armor, and blood-soaked greaves. The idol held a serrated sword in one hand, the other clenched into a fist that shook toward the heavens. Twin altars churned violet flame at his feet, yet they produced no smoke.

Many men knelt at the foot of the purple flames, crying out heartfelt prayers for forgiveness and atonement. Any other time, Maynard would have felt the noise annoying and somewhat embarrassing to the wailer, but before that statue, it seemed perfectly natural. In awe as he was, he was glad when Pelarak approached from the middle aisle and shook his hand. With his attention diverted, the statue seemed to lose a bit of its power.

“Welcome, friend,” Pelarak said. He swung open the doors.

“After last night, it is good to hear you call me friend,” Maynard said. He didn’t know what to make of Pelarak’s puzzled expression. If the high priest was truly in the dark to the faceless women’s actions, then their talks that night would be of an unrehearsed sort.
Surprise is on my side,
Maynard thought.
I best use it wisely.

“I’m not sure what else you would be,” Pelarak said as he led them off to the side, where his own private room was attached. “Our friendship is offered nightly, though I think it is we that should worry for you. A man’s heart and his gold sleep in the same bed, and the Gemcroft estate has been very…heartless in recent years.”

The rebuke stung, but Maynard kept his tongue in check. Let Pelarak think he was in control. When the truth of his minions came to light, those stings would be forgotten.

“Times are harsh,” he said. “Trust me, when the rogues are defeated, your coffers will fill with the gold no longer needed to fill the pockets of mercenaries and sellswords.”

Pelarak shut the door. Maynard’s two guards remained outside. The room was small and sparsely furnished. Maynard sat in a small, unpadded chair while Pelarak crossed his arms and stood beside his bed.

“You speak truth, Maynard, but you did not come here wearing that amusing wig and beard to talk to me about tithes. What is the matter, and why do you worry about Karak’s friendship?”

That was it, no dancing around the matter. No stalling left, Maynard let the truth be told while he carefully watched the high priest’s reaction.

“Last night, three of your faceless women assaulted my mansion and kidnapped my daughter.”

Maynard was in no way prepared for the cold anger that flooded Pelarak’s eyes.

“I would ask if you were certain, but of course you are,” the priest said. “You would not be here, otherwise. Women of darkness and shadow, their bodies wrapped in purple and black? Who else could they be?”

Maynard felt a bit of fear bubble up in his throat seeing how tightly the priest clenched his fists. So much for thinking he was in control, the one with all the surprises. In truth, he knew very little about the faceless women other than that they existed, and that they were deadly. He had never actually sought their aid, and knew of no one else who had, either.

“Did you know of their involvement?” Maynard asked.

“Know? Of course not,” Pelarak said. His normally smooth voice was sharp and abrupt. “They are whores and adulterers, slaves to their sex and disobedient to Karak’s commands. They live their lives outside the temple to atone for their sins. I had thought my command to remain neutral in your troublesome war sufficient, but perhaps I should have tattooed it into their flesh instead of merely asking.”

“I lost several guards,” Maynard said. “And my daughter, Pelarak,
my daughter!
”

Pelarak sat down atop his bed and rubbed his chin. His eyes seemed to clear, as if the clouds had parted in his mind.

“You know who did this,” the priest said.

“I believe I do.”

“Then who?”

If it had been the thieves, Pelarak saw little recourse to joining in with their ludicrous war. Instead, it was a different name spoken, one he vaguely recognized.

“The Kulls,” Maynard said. “I have reason to believe it was the Kulls.”

“Forgive me, but I am not familiar with the name,” Pelarak said. “Are they a lesser family of Veldaren?”

“They don’t live in the city,” Maynard explained. “And lesser doesn’t describe what they are. Theo Kull is the head tax collector at Riverrun. He does all but steal from the boats traveling down the Queln River to the Lost Coast. I control much of the lands there, and it’s been a point of contention between us over who I pay taxes to. By paying here in Veldaren, I avoid the triple amount he takes in Riverrun. He knows the courts are no friend of his, at least not the ones that matter.”

“How does your daughter come into play?” Pelarak asked.

“A few months back, Theo sent in some of his mercenaries to claim all my assets in Riverrun to pay my supposed debt. I have my own mercenaries, however, and they are of far greater skill and number. The Kulls wanted my large stretches of bountiful land around the city, plus my stores of valuables. They can’t get to them, not with my guards, but if those guards were suddenly sworn to my daughter Alyssa instead of myself…”

The priest made the connection.

“They hope to use her to supplant you, and when that happens, through debt or loyalty, obtain what they desire in Riverrun.”

“Those are my thoughts,” Maynard said. “I’ve thwarted them twice now, though with the faceless aiding them, I don’t know how much longer I may last.”

Pelarak resumed his pacing. His fingers tapped against his thin lips.

“I do not know why the faceless women might have chosen to aid Theo Kull in this matter, though I suspect the land near Riverrun may be the reason. Regardless, I will punish them accordingly. Fear not; the hand of Karak has not turned against you and the Trifect.”

“Not good enough,” Maynard said, standing to his full height. He was a good foot taller than the priest, and he frowned down at him with an outward strength he struggled to match in his heart. “You have stayed neutral for far too long. Not once have I heard a valid explanation for doing so. These thieves are dangerous to the city, and they represent the total opposite of the order Karak claims to love.”

“You speak of Karak as if you were intimate with his desires,” Pelarak said. “You demand our allegiance to your war. What do we stand to gain, Maynard? Will you offer us tithes, making us no better than the mercenary dogs you employ?”

“If you will not see reason,” said Maynard, “then perhaps self-preservation will suffice.”

He pulled out a letter from his pocket and handed it over. Maynard felt his heartbeat pounding in his ears, but he would not let such a cowardly symptom show. This was it. He had crossed a bridge, and that letter was the torch to set it aflame.

“That letter is to be read aloud seven times a day to the people of Veldaren upon my death,” Maynard said. “And it matters not how I die, by poison, blade, Kull or Karak.”

“You would announce our existence to the people,” Pelarak said as his eyes finished skimming over the words. “You would blame their troubles on us? To force our obedience, you threaten to tell lies and half-truths to the city? We fear no mob.”

“You should,” Maynard said. “My people will be among them, and I assure you, they are excellent at inciting violence. Once people die, the king will be forced to send his soldiers. Tell me, how does one win over a city after slaughtering their peoples and their guards? Even better, how does one preach to a city after one’s death?”