A Dance of Cloaks (4 page)

“I live off mud,” Robert said. “Can you?”

He flung his cane. The flat bottom smacked through the glass and struck Gerand’s forehead. The man slumped to the floor, blood dripping from his hand. The old man rushed through the doorway as shouts came from the entrance to his home, followed by a loud crack as the door smashed open.

Robert burst into Aaron’s training room. The boy winced at the sudden invasion of light. He jumped to his feet, immediately quiet and attentive. The old man felt a bit of sadness realizing he would never have a chance to continue training such a gifted student.

“You must run,” Robert said. “The soldiers will kill you. There’s a window out back, now go!”

No hesitation. No questions. Aaron did as he was told.

The floor was cold when Robert sat down in the center. He thought about grabbing the dying torch to use as a weapon, but against armored men, it would be a laughable ploy. A burly man stepped inside as others rushed past, no doubt searching for Aaron. He held manacles in one hand and a naked sword in the other.

“Does the king request my tutelage?” Robert asked, chuckling darkly.

In answer, the soldier struck him with the butt of his sword, knocking him out cold.

2

T
he exotic fruit cost its weight in gold, but Leon Connington felt it a fair bargain. He bit into the purple skin, making a loud slurp as he sucked in the juice that ran down his chin. The pulp was so soft, he thought it better than a woman’s thigh. He moaned.

“Winter is coming,” one of his advisors said, holding a quill as he stood before an inkwell and some parchment. So far he’d only written down a few random orders involving shipping, plus Leon’s opinion of upcoming marriages between high-blood families in the Hillock west of the Kingstrip. While Leon had no official say in such matters, his opinion had meant both the creation and destruction of many engagements.

“What do I care about winter?” Leon said as he took another bite. “I have enough fat on me to hibernate with the bears. The wind can only tickle me while I laugh.”

“I more meant the fruit,” the advisor said. “Try not to get too addicted to the plums. They come all the way from Ker, and I doubt any more shipments will arrive. I’ve heard reports of an early frost.”

“A shame,” Leon said. He sucked the rest of the fruit into his mouth and chewed around the pit. “So, what word from our little puppet?” he asked, slobbering the whole while.

“Gerand Crold has taken the tutor Haern into custody, although it appears the boy, Aaron, escaped just before the soldiers stormed the home.”

“Little runt knows how to run and hide, huh?” Leon laughed. “Sounds like his father. Stung him with the venom of a sea-mantis, and he still escaped. Have our men keep an eye out for him. He’d be a lovely bargaining chip. Remember that wagon of peaches Thren ambushed on the Kingstrip? He had his men piss all over them before feeding them to herds of swine. I’d love to piss all over his little boy’s head…”

“Perhaps if the gods are kind, you will get your wish,” the advisor said in a dull tone. “We’ve also received a report from one of our cutthroats inside the Gemcroft home. Maynard has thrown his daughter, Alyssa, into the cold cells for supposedly planning to overthrow him.”

“All children plan to overthrow their parents,” Leon said as he grabbed another plum from the basket beside his enormous chair. “That’s why I never had any.”

The advisor, an elderly man from the humble Potts family, bit his tongue.

“Wise planning, my lord,” Potts said.

“This is interesting, though, most interesting. I didn’t think Alyssa was even inside Veldaren’s walls. Surely someone else had a hand in this. We must find out who. If it is just a personal grudge, perhaps we can help take that insufferable Maynard down a notch. If they are working with the guilds, or have some agenda against the Trifect, well…”

He bit into another plum.

“I’ll put some coin into the right hands,” Potts said. “No one can move against the Trifect without us knowing it.”

Leon laughed.

“Thren did, not so long ago,” the fat man said. “Look what it cost him.”

I
t seemed the nights had grown darker and silent over the past five years. Moonlit revelries had lost their allure, and most kept their drink and their women inside. No one wanted to be mistaken for either a member of the thief guilds or a turntail for the Trifect. Daggers and poison floated through the streets when the sun was set, and only those prepared to deal with them dared walk in the open.

Yoren Kull was competent with a blade, but that was not why he walked with his head held high. No, the reason was the man who traveled with him, dressed in the black robes and silver sash of a priest of Karak. Officially, their kind was banned from the city. Unofficially, they made sure every king knew of their presence, and of the immediate death that would follow if he tried removing them. Yoren felt quite confident no one would dare harass him with a priest at his side.

“When will we arrive at the temple,” Yoren asked. The priest responded in a soft voice honed by years of practiced control.

“I am not taking you to the temple. If I was, you’d be blindfolded.”

Yoren chuckled. He stood a bit straighter, as if insulted by the very notion. His left hand clutched his sword while his right straightened a few errant hairs hovering over his forehead. He was a handsome man, his skin smooth and bronze while his hair was a dark red. When he smiled, his golden teeth gleamed in the light of the torch the priest carried.

“Forgive me for my false assumption,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “I assumed meeting disciples of Karak would involve the actual temple.”

“Our ways are best learned within our hallowed walls,” the priest said. “But discipleship to Karak involves a life immersed in the sinful world, and there are times when even the faithful go astray. Keep your sword sheathed. My presence may keep us safe, but if you draw steel, you will deal with the consequences on your own.”

Yoren had never been to Veldaren before, but so far he was hugely unimpressed. The enormous wall surrounding the city had seemed ominous, and the towering castle doubly so. The god Karak was rumored to have built them, and it seemed few argued otherwise. Inside, however, seemed to almost mock the great walls and castle. Much of the southern district had slowly died off. King Vaelor had ordered all trading caravans to enter through the west gate, where the guards were thicker and the road easier to watch. Poor slums and weather-beaten homes had greeted Yoren when he entered from the south.

The city improved near the center, but it was all wood and plaster buildings. Other than the sheer size, Yoren saw little that would make him wish to live within the walls.

“Where are we now?” he asked.

“It is better you not know,” the priest said. “It would be dangerous for you to come again without my assistance.”

After meeting in the center of the city beside some ancient fountain of an even more ancient king, the priest had led Yoren through a winding criss-cross of roads and back alleys. Yoren had long lost track of which direction he headed, though from what he saw it seemed they had traversed back into the southern slums.

“I am not the weakling babe you treat me as,” Yoren said.

“You are young. Young men are often hotheaded, foolish, and governed by their loins as often as their wits. Forgive me if I treat you like all other men of Dezrel.”

Yoren felt his face flush but bit his tongue. His father, Theo Kull, had insisted he treat the priests better than he would the king. If that meant enduring a few false comments about his nature, so be it. Yoren stood to gain much from his father’s plan. His pride could withstand a few barbs.

“Here,” the priest said, stopping before a house that looked just as dilapidated as any other. “Enter through the window, not the door.”

Perhaps it was a trick of the eye, but when Yoren pushed his fingers up against the glass of the window his fingers slid through, and he realized no glass was there at all. He lifted his foot and climbed the rest of the way inside. He turned, expecting the priest to follow, but his guide had already vanished.

“Such wonderful hospitality,” Yoren muttered before turning and taking stock of his surroundings. The walls and floor had been stripped bare. Stairs led higher up, the steps rotted and broken. Through the single doorway further in, he saw shelves coated with mold. Massive piles of rat droppings covered the floor.

He took a step, and then the room darkened. He heard whispers in his ears, but every time he turned there was no one there. The words kept changing, his mind unable to lock down a meaning. Yoren reached for his sword before remembering the priest’s words. Shadows swirling all around him, the young man released his blade and stood up straight. He would not be afraid of cantrips and echoing whispers.

“You are brave, for a coward,” a serpentine voice whispered just inches from behind his neck. Yoren jumped but refused to turn around.

“That seems a contradiction,” he managed to say.

“Just as there are skinny sows and smart dogs, there are brave cowards,” said another voice, eerily similar in sound and tone. Instead of behind his head, this one seemed to sound from under his feet.

“I have done as asked,” Yoren said as the shadows thickened before him. “My sword is sheathed, and I came through the window instead of the door.”

The shadows coalesced before him into a shrouded figure. Every inch of skin was wrapped in purple and black cloth. Even the eyes were hidden behind a single strip of thin white material, obscuring her features just enough while still allowing sight. Despite the tight wrapping and modified voice, Yoren could tell by the slenderness of body and the curve of her chest that he dealt with a woman.

“Doing Karak’s will involves more than following orders,” the woman said, wisps of shadow floating off her like smoke. “You ask for aid from the faceless. For us to interfere in the squabbles of lesser men, we must be certain of your heart, as well as whatever sacrifice Karak may receive for his blessing.”

A serrated dagger curled around his throat and pressed against his flesh.

“Sacrifice,” whispered the faceless shadow behind him.

“I come with the promise of my father,” Yoren said, for once glad of his infallible sense of ego. It was the only thing that kept him from stammering. “We have no temple in Riverrun, though the priests of Ashhur have begun building one. If you aid us, then that land will become my inheritance. We shall cast out the priests of Ashhur. Karak may have the temple and the land on which it was built. Will that suffice?”

The faceless woman’s ragged cloak pooled on the floor as if it were liquid darkness, yet when she stepped back, it immediately snapped erect and covered her sides.

“It is a start,” she said. “What is it you need from Karak’s most zealous servants?”

Yoren licked his lips.

“I need you to kill Maynard Gemcroft.”

I
nformation meant wealth, and Kayla loved both. She was not the quietest thief, and unlike many in her line of work, she did not take to the shadows like fish took to water. Her fingers lacked the dexterity for caressing locks into opening. Her ears worked well, and her eyes were sharp, and throughout her rough life she had learned that dealing with information could net her coin…although many times it nearly earned her death. Sometimes secrets were too dangerous to sell.