A Dance of Death (5 page)

Zusa glanced to the city.

“I don’t know much, but what little I do know is grim. Tomorrow, we ride into a pile of kindling and oil. The slightest spark will set it off.”

Haern chuckled, earning him a raised eyebrow.

“Nothing,” he said. “I just have a feeling, given how my life has gone, that we’re about to be that spark.”

Zusa lifted her glass, and finally she smiled.

“To starting fires,” she said.

Haern smiled in return.

“To starting fires.”

U
lrich Blackwater stepped onto the deck of the
Fireheart
and scowled.

“Where’s Pyle?” he asked two nearby crewmen, bare-chested lads soaked with sweat as they labored crate after crate toward the plank leading to the dock.

“The captain’s in his cabin, milord,” said one, bowing low. “Busy.”

Ulrich weaved through the various ropes, cargo, and men until he reached the captain’s quarters. Without knocking he yanked the door open and stepped inside. The quarters were cramped, despite the overall size of the
Fireheart,
just a bed, a desk, and a few maps tacked to a wall. On that bed, with a naked whore riding atop him, lay Captain Darrel Pyle. Seeing his entrance, Darrel laid his head back and sighed.

“Didn’t they tell you I was busy?” he asked.

“Perhaps.” Ulrich glared at the woman, who slipped to the side and grabbed her clothes. “Leave us.”

“Don’t go far, girl,” Darrel said as the whore hurried half-naked past Ulrich and out the door. With only a blanket keeping him decent, Darrel leaned against the bedpost and scratched his neck. He was a burly man, with skin darkened from months spent in the sun. A long scar ran from his lip to his chin, leaving a gap in his brown beard.

“Shouldn’t you be helping them unload?” Ulrich asked.

“My men know what they’re doing.”

“It’s not your men I’m worried about. It’s my cargo.”

Darrel stepped off the bed and pulled on his trousers.

“Your damn wine is safe and dry,” he said, buttoning them. “Not that I give two shits. I could piss in every one and the scum here in Angelport would consider it fine vintage.”

“I would still prefer it if you oversee things, in case such a respectable crew as yours decides to help themselves.”

“You telling me how to run my ship?”

“My ship,” Ulrich said, glaring. “You may captain it, but this is my boat, my cargo, and my reputation on the line. Besides, I don’t give a damn about the wine. You’ll be carrying something worth a thousand times more soon, and I need to be certain it is kept safe and untouched.”

The captain pulled a white shirt over his head; it was hopelessly stained with sweat.

“What could you possibly have worth more?” he asked.

In answer, Ulrich taking out a small pouch from his pocket and opened the drawstrings. From within he drew a single leaf, tore off a small piece, and handed it over. It was green with strange purple veins, and Darrel grunted as he examined it.

“What is this shit?” he asked.

“Bite, but don’t chew. Keep it crushed between your teeth, and focus on breathing steady. Oh, and I suggest you sit down first.”

Darrel shrugged. No stranger to various drugs and drinks, he seemed unimpressed with the simple leaf. Ignoring Ulrich’s advice, he popped the leaf into his mouth and chewed. Within seconds his expression changed, and his chewing slowed. Ulrich watched as Darrel’s pupils dilated and his hands started to twitch. Taking a seat at the captain’s desk, he patiently waited for the drug’s effects to pass so he could continue their conversation. After about five minutes, Darrel’s legs wobbled, and he fell hard onto his elbow. Even though the jolt caused him to bite his tongue, he barely reacted. Blood dribbled down his chin and into his beard.

“Unbelievable,” Darrel said, his voice strangely dreamlike.

Ulrich found the captain’s private stash of alcohol and poured himself a drink. Behind him, the captain remained oddly quiet, other than for the occasional grunt of pleasure. After Ulrich had finished his third drink, Darrel finally came around.

“How long?” he asked, spitting blood to the floor.

“About fifteen minutes,” Ulrich said.

“Damn. That was better than fucking.” His eyes were bloodshot, and he stared at the pocket where the rest of the leaf remained in its pouch.

“That was just a piece,” Ulrich said, holding in his grin. “Imagine a whole leaf. You’d be out for hours.”

“If I could just have…”

“No,” Ulrich said, standing. “No more, not while you are captain of my ship. In a day or two, it’ll be gone from your blood, and you’ll be able to control your desire for it. But while you sail for me, I can’t risk it. I’m sure you understand.”

For a moment, Darrel looked ready to strike him, then regained his composure.

“Gods damn it,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Give me that bottle.”

“It has several names, but the one most seem to use is Violet,” said Ulrich as the captain downed half the bottle in a series of gulps.

“Never felt so good in my life,” he said, wiping his chin. He looked down at his pants, realizing they were stained with semen. Instead of being embarrassed, he laughed.

“We have only a little, but I anticipate more soon.” Ulrich tossed the captain a rag. “Clean yourself up, and get the rest of the crates unloaded. Whatever untrustworthy crewmen you have, get rid of them. When the first shipment of Violet sails west, nothing, and I mean nothing, must go wrong. For now, I’ll be loading a single crate into your hold, for safekeeping only. You are not to open it, let alone take a leaf, understand?”

Darrel stared off for a moment, as if still longing for the leaf, then shook his head to clear it.

“You’ll make a fortune with that,” he said. “Give me even a few samples, and I could get everyone west of the rivers hooked.” He sniffed his fingers. “This stuff even legal?”

“For now, and I’ve taken steps to keep it that way. Good day, captain. I have matters I must attend. Stay in port and wait for my orders. It may be a few weeks, but I’m sure you will find a way to pass the time. Make sure the crate is kept carefully guarded.”

He turned for the door, then stopped. It was ajar, but only slightly. He was certain he’d closed it.

“Such interesting pleasures,” said a man perched atop Darrel’s bed, his legs crossed beneath him. Both whirled, and Ulrich drew his dagger. Wrapped in cloaks and black leather sat someone Ulrich had thought only existed in rumors and stories. His face was hidden by heavy shadows cast by his hood, but his grin remained perfectly visible.

“The Wraith,” Ulrich said. “That’s who you are, isn’t it?”

“Such brilliant wisdom,” said the intruder. “Though perhaps I give you too much praise. You would have noticed me ten minutes ago if you were truly clever.”

“What in blazes are you doing on my ship?” Darrel asked. He took a step back, to where his sword hung on the wall. The Wraith tsk’ed at him, and he put a hand on the hilt of his blade.

“Stay still, sea vermin. I have no reason to kill you, but I will if you do something so irrevocably stupid. I come bearing gifts for our dear Merchant Lord.”

Ulrich stood straighter, and he tried to put on an air of superiority.

“So be it, stranger. I will accept your gift, if it is worthwhile, but then I must demand you leave the
Fireheart
at once.”

“Demand,” said the Wraith, his grin growing. “You amuse me.”

He tossed him a heavy bag that had been hidden behind his back. It thudded to the floor. Slowly Ulrich bent down, opening the top so he might look inside. His throat tightened, and he stepped away.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked.

“I told you, a gift.”

Ulrich kicked it to Darrel, who opened it without hesitation. Pulling it out by the hair, the captain held a severed head, all the blood drained so that it did not drip across the cabin. The face was familiar, despite its pale color and obvious mutilation.

“Who…?” Ulrich asked, trying to swallow down the lump in his throat.

“Must I do everything?” the Wraith stepped off the bed, the movement startling both of them. Ulrich felt certain the man would draw his sword, but he kept it sheathed…for now. Once again Ulrich looked at the severed head, trying to make out the face. The bulbous nose, the slender chin. Familiar…

When it hit, he put his back to the wall and held out his dagger.

“An attack on one of us is an attack on us all,” he said, wishing he sounded braver than the panicked whine that came from his lips.

“Please,” the Wraith said, offering him an elegant bow. “I look forward to your retaliation.”

He kicked open the door and sprinted across the deck, leaving their line of sight before either could react. The moment he was gone, Darrel tossed the head back into the bag.

“What the
fuck
was that?” asked the captain.

“I don’t know,” Ulrich said, feeling his legs go weak. “But you’re holding the head of William Amour.”

The two exchanged a look. William Amour, one of the six Merchant Lords of Angelport, of which Ulrich was also a member…

“Shove a rock in its mouth and toss it overboard. I will accept no blame for this.”

“Will do.”

Still trying to regain his composure, Ulrich exited the cabin. Much of the cargo was unloaded, and his own people scurried about the dock, directing the crates to various stores, merchants, and warehouses. If any had noticed the Wraith and his strange garb, none showed it. He spoke with a few, to calm himself down more than anything, then hurried north. With the sea vanishing behind him, along with its salty smell and vulgar cries of sailors, Ulrich felt much better. As he walked, he checked to make sure nothing untoward stained his fine clothing. He would be arriving late, but so long as he looked dashing, he wouldn’t mind.

Normally Ulrich traveled without guards, but the incident with the Wraith had him rethinking that policy. Still, the streets were generally regarded as safe, so long as you were of high enough station that the city guards left you alone. At various gateways between walls, soldiers made sure the riffraff stayed in their appropriate place. In the outer ring, Ulrich curled south to meet his brother in the Keenan mansion. At their gate, he was searched well, which would have insulted him if he hadn’t known of the attack weeks prior. Doing everything he could to push the Wraith and that severed head from his mind, he joined the service held within.

About fifty people mingled throughout the first few rooms of the mansion, drinking wine and conversing in soft tones. Many candles hung from the ceiling, but only a third were lit, keeping the tone of the place somber. The walls were elegantly painted into a representation of stone, the carpet a deep blue, which seemed to grotesquely resemble blood in the dim orange light. Before anyone noticed his arrival, Ulrich spotted his brother Stern alone in a corner and joined him.

“I assume I have not missed the burial,” he said, motioning over a servant so he might have a drink. He knew he was pushing it given how much he’d downed in Pyle’s cabin, but he needed all the help he could get to remain calm.

“Lady Gemcroft just arrived,” said Stern. “It’ll be awhile before the pointless introductions are finished and we can begin.”

Stern looked him up and down, then frowned.

“Are you all right?”

The two were not twins, but they looked enough alike that most people thought they were. They had the same blond hair, pale skin, and brown eyes. Stern was older, though, and taller by an inch. With how similar they were, and how alike their minds worked, Ulrich was not surprised that Stern could sense his unease.

“Do not worry about me. I’m here for you, after all. To lose Julie like that…”

Stern finished his glass, then set it down hard on a nearby shelf.

“It’s the damn Trifect,” he said. “They’re no better than the thieves they warred with for years, and my daughter had to get into the middle of it. Knew she shouldn’t have married Taras, married into that privileged, murderous circle of…”

“Enough,” Ulrich said, glancing about to make sure no one heard. “You know why we let her, what we all stood to gain. Their marriage was to help create peace. Don’t ruin that now by ranting like a drunken idiot at their funeral!”

Stern took a deep breath, and he nodded.

“Forgive me,” he said, tears breaking through his steely facade. “I have not slept well in weeks. She was all I had left, Ulrich. The last piece of Lynn in this world. Now she’s gone, and why? The whim of a madman? What could he want?”

Ulrich thought of the meeting with the Wraith on the
Fireheart
and decided now was not the time to discuss it.

“Go wash your face,” he said, squeezing his brother’s shoulder. “I’ll mingle fine on my own while you compose yourself.”

Stern thanked him and left. After refilling his drink, Ulrich wandered through the mansion, paying more attention to the art than the people. The three families of the Trifect might be arrogant, overconfident, and wasteful, he thought, but they had good taste in paintings. While admiring a portrait of a paladin, the right half of the canvas purposely charred and burned, he heard someone clear their throat behind him.