The Darkslayer: Book 02 - Blades in the Night (12 page)

“
Nice try. Fast. But you missed.”

With that Melegal untucked his finger from beneath his hand. Then he tucked it in and out a more few times, and wriggled it around some, too, for the benefit of the bewildered crowd. All of the Motley Girls’ dropped their jaws at the subtle feat. Venir rolled his eyes. Melegal was showing off. Well, so be it; it was a flat bet, after all. Soon they’d have enough to celebrate for a month.

“
Round two!” the barkeep called.

Venir pushed his big frame closer to the table. Luke stood by his side, his lute silent. Venir watched the haggard woman flatten her palms to the table again. Melegal’s remained in place. That’s when Venir noticed sweat beading on Haze’s brow as she shrugged off encouragement from her sisters behind her.

“
Ready?” the barkeep said once more.

Venir clenched his hands into fists.

“
Go!”

The woman snatched the blade like a viper. She eyed the thief as more grumbling began. The sound of coins being exchanged drifted in and out of the air.

“
Care to try again?” the thief said, grinning.

Venir grimaced.
Get it over with, man!
He bit his tongue. The woman was plenty quick; she didn’t need an extra chance. He scowled at his comrade, but Melegal didn’t notice.

The room hushed again. All eyes were on the woman, and Venir could see her limber body grow tight. She waved the dagger back and forth like a charmed snake. The bets stayed in her favor. The revelers noted Luke’s suggestions.

If he loses a finger, he’ll blame me.
Venir tried to enjoy letting his comrade take the heat for a change, but it did not sit well with him. It seemed like a bad idea.

“
Ready?”

The smoke seemed to curdle in the air from the tension.

“
Go!”

Wham!

The blade slammed straight into the table where Melegal’s left palm had lain. He had tilted his hand up at ninety degrees. Venir heard plenty of gasps among the crowd.

“
She missed!” someone yelled.

Angry voices raised as losses mounted. None seemed more angry than Haze. Venir watched her fidget in her chair, muttering curses under her breath. Her rowdy sisters, meanwhile, had faces drawn tight with doubt. Letting out a deep breath, Venir pulled his thick locks behind his head. Melegal was still full of surprises. His friend was completely in control.

The barkeep readied the table for one final round.

“
Round three!”

The woman’s eyes were focused wide. The room fell silent.

“
Ready … go!”

Haze snatched the blade in her right hand. Venir couldn’t believe it. Melegal’s palms still remained flat on the table. The Motley sister’s exposed arm was glistening with perspiration and her brown eyes seemed unable to hold her opponent’s gaze. Her hand trembled a hair. Venir was dumbfounded. Ten good gold were on the line and Melegal sat there like a mute.
Why?
He began tugging on his ponytail.
He’s getting back at me!

No match had ever gone like this. Everyone knew the rules, but no one had ever witnessed such a loss before, not even Venir. Melegal had turned this challenge into something quite extraordinary.

The barkeep spoke: “You miss a third time, missy, you lose. If you hit, you win.”

No one in the room could decide how to bet this time. It seemed they were incapable of calculating the odds. But Luke snatched more coins in favor of the thief. Venir sipped on his grog while eyeing his friend. He saw Melegal raise his brows a couple of times. He didn’t know what to think. Maybe his friend had lost his mind.

Still, Venir could see the pressure mounting on Haze—and her sisters, who were biting their shirt collars now. Haze was faster than she was smart. He could see her going back and forth over Melegal’s hands. Then Melegal fanned out his fingers on the table. Was he taunting her? Haze’s face turned blood-red.

“
Ready?” the barkeep cried.

There was dead silence.

Venir’s eyes widened.

“
Go!”

Wham!

The blade embedded itself. “A hit!” someone cried. Haze gave a shout of triumph. The room roared, but Melegal never moved. Venir pushed people away from the barkeep. He saw there was no blood. Melegal was sitting, his hand unmoved. The blade was sunk deep, right between Melegal’s middle and right index finger. Haze had missed. She was only a razor’s edge away from either finger, but there was not a nick on the thief’s hand.

“
I can’t believe it,” the barkeep said. “The man wins!”

While the winners rejoiced, the losers shouted “cheat” from their frothing lips. Luke offered to buy some rounds but many scowled and left. Grinning, Venir took the gold from Sis, smiling at her scowling face. Haze nodded at Melegal, shoulders sagging, and walked away. Venir watched Sis and Haze help the biggest sister walk to the far side of the tavern and sit her down. Only Venir, Melegal, and Luke remained at the punctured table.

“
How’d we do, Luke?” Venir asked.

“
Embarrassingly well,” he said, beaming a wide smile.

“
Well, I’m certainly not embarrassed to take their money,” Melegal said, “so hand it over.”

Luke set down the coins. Melegal made them disappear.

“
Well, Melegal,” said Venir, “that was pretty good, I have to say.”

“
No, that was great,” the thief said.

“
Indeed ,” Venir said, slapping him on the back and pouring him a fresh goblet of wine.

It wasn’t long before the crowd was nipping at their heels again and they relished every minute of it so much so that Venir soon forgot the Motley Girls were still in the tavern. He even forgot about Dresla—but that was only because other suitors came his way.

The night was still young, and danger still hung in the air, despite Venir’s lack of perception. The Motley Girls weren’t done with the men just yet.

Royal Lord Almen strode through his courtyard and out the portcullis gate, where a guard snapped to attention. With his house ranked fourth in the City of Bone, Almen remained a very busy man.

It was the Royals who kept order in the world of Bish, using their power and wealth for both good and evil, and for keeping a grip on the cities. Though they were also subject to the natural order of things, they were at the top of the food chain. The Royal houses in each city varied in ranking and responsibility. The houses were neither purely good or evil, but in general an entire family leaned one way or the other. In the pursuit of greater power, houses would strive to destroy or align themselves with others. When they were not united by waging war abroad, they waged war games among themselves instead. Their plots and schemes were so thick, insidious, and fluid that an outsider would never know what was happening.

At the time of Lord Almen’s birth, his house had ranked tenth, and much of its rise had been due to his singlehanded success. Now, at age forty, he was in his prime: handsome, tall, athletic, and broad shouldered, with thick brown hair and clothed in rare fabrics of crimson and gold.

The guard exhaled as Almen passed, for the slightest discrepancy in the Royal lord’s eyes had cost many sentries a night in the dungeon—or worse. Royal Lord Almen was not a good man, nor were most who shared his exquisite castle. He relished his power over others.

Castle Almen boasted marble, inlaid gold, silver, and gems, all worked into spectacular designs and breathtaking artwork. Royal families loved to invite members of other Royal houses to show off their latest finds. Candles by the thousands of all shapes, colors, and sizes were lit in every room and corridor to set the mood and best accent the decorations.

Each house had its talking point. The Almens had a knack for spectacular design that ensured their name would be held in awe in every other Royal house. It was a practice among their kind to enslave a talented commoner long enough to create a few masterpieces. Then they would dispose of them. No one else could make use of their talent or learn to replicate it. Few outsiders knew what occurred on the inside, for servants stayed within the walls, but a few succulent morsels of gossip escaped, for most residents of the city served these houses in one way or another.

Royal Lord Almen was rounding the corner toward his study below the castle when he nearly bumped into his half-naked cleric, Sefron.

“
What are you doing here?” Almen said. “You know I don’t want you running about my castle unsettling my guests. Your business better be good.”

“
I apologize, my lord. But you told me that Te—“

“
Stop, idiot!”

The Royal lord clutched his hand around Sefron’s greasy throat, making the cleric’s normally bulbous eyes bulge even farther.

“
How many times do I have to tell you not to use names. Must I feed you to the dogs?” He wanted to flay the skin off the troublesome man. “Do not speak, Sefron. Follow.”

He released his grip but had to restrain himself from slapping him. Sefron was annoying, but a serviceable man whom he needed. The flabby middle-aged house cleric scurried behind the lord, dark eyes round like a frightened child, his naked, pale, and hairless form lumbering to keep up.

A lone armed sentry stood steadfast by a stone entrance beyond the castle kitchens. Torches were spaced ten feet apart along a sloping spiral staircase chiseled from the rock. Few but Lord Almen were allowed down here; indeed, few family members knew or even cared where the lord did their dirty work, for which he retained their unwavering loyalty. Sefron pushed open the thick oaken door at the bottom and closed it again behind Almen.

The room was unlike any other in the castle. Walls of rough sandstone fanned out, forming catacombs that were lit by ample torchlight wavering in the constant draft. Several tables and desks sat here and there, all stacked neatly with papers and maps. Beside one stood a tall, sinewy olive-skinned man in white cotton robes, studying something.

“
Teku, what news?” Almen said.

“
Greetings, my lord.” Teku bowed. “I have had an encounter with some of the adversaries you inquired about. It seems your suspicions are well founded. The Twelfth House of Bone has been behind recent events. The prisoner was unwilling, though she was convinced after a time.”

Almen pulled up a chair and sat down, considering the words from Teku’s rich voice. Sefron wheezed behind him and the torches crackled. The Twelfth House was the Slerg family, once the Sixth House of Bone, whose fall had come at the hands of the Almens—his very own hands at that.
The Slergs should have seen it coming,
he thought. He remembered the day he took them down to nothing.

Well over a decade had passed since then, and the Slergs had barely been able to maintain their Royal status. Had they not been absorbed into another house, the family line would have become extinct. But they had survived near the bottom and even managed to absorb some weaker houses. He always knew they were still a threat, but so were all the others. He was accustomed to watching his back.

Now the Slergs wanted to get back on top—or wanted revenge—and had made their first move. Almen wasn’t sure which. They had managed to damage Lord Almen’s reputation by exposing a weakness in his family line. Tonio, his most promising son, had disappeared, as well as Almen’s finest house detective, McKnight. Despite a lack of proof, the Slergs were receiving all the credit, and now it seemed they
did
have a hand in it after all. No one knew for sure what had happened to Royal Lord Tonio or Detective McKnight, but Almen was proceeding with his plans regardless. He would have the Slergs where he wanted them soon enough.

Almen studied the silent Teku, who had been on this assignment for weeks. He was his trusted chief assassin. Teku relied on hand-to-hand combat as opposed to poison, traps, and the like. The man took pleasure in doing the killing himself. Almen admired that.

And even though Teku was as mysterious as a ghost, over the years Almen had come to appreciate him. He trusted him as far his gold could pay, and that was a lot.

“
Anything else, Teku?”

Almen was hoping for news about Tonio and McKnight. It still frustrated him that little evidence of their disappearance had surfaced.

“
No, sir.” Teku bowed.

Then Sefron spoke up, no doubt to shift Almen’s attention away from Teku.

“
Can I get anything for you or your guest, my lord?” Sefron said.

“
Food and wine for me,” Almen said. “Teku?”

“
Fruit and water, my lord,” he said.

“
Have the servants prepare plenty, Sefron. We will be here awhile.”

*****

Sefron closed the large oaken door behind him. He pressed his ear to the door, waited, and then raced up the stairs. At the top of the steps, he was panting as he passed the sentry and entered the kitchen. The heavy aroma of beast, stew, and wood-baked bread filled the room, as dinner for the fifty-odd family members and guests was being prepared for the most exquisite part of the day.

The women would look ravishing, their lips bathed in wine pressed from the finest slaves in Bish. The men would gorge themselves while blathering on about their reputations and meaningless accomplishments. Royal Lord Almen knew Sefron loved the romance of it, but he would never let the cleric attend. He just didn’t belong—and Sefron’s resentment made him strong.