A Dance of Blades

23

F or a second night, Alyssa watched the city burn from her window. There were more fires now, at least seven she could see. She wondered what it meant. Were her mercenaries finding more rat-holes for the thieves? She held an empty glass in her hand, and she toasted the stars, which were hidden behind a blanket of smoke.

“You deserve better, Nathaniel,” she whispered.

“I too can think of better homages for your son,” Zusa said, having slipped inside without making a noise. Alyssa had trained herself not to jump at Zusa’s voice, but still she quivered, her nerves frayed.

“Perhaps,” she said as the woman joined her side. “But this is the best I can do.”

“You lie to yourself. This is for you, your hurt. Do what you must, but do it in truth, and bear the burden proudly.”

“Enough,” Alyssa said, hurling her glass against the window. It shattered, small flecks of red wine dripping down to the floor. “I don’t need speeches. I don’t need your wisdom. I need my son back, my little boy…”

She pressed her head against the glass and refused to break. As the tears ran down her face, she stared at the distant fires and tried to revel in the bloodshed they represented. But she only felt hollow.

“As you wish,” she heard Zusa say.

“Stay,” she whispered, knowing the faceless woman would leave her.

“As you wish.”

“Tell me, how goes it out there?”

Zusa gestured to the city. “The thieves are ready, more than they were last night. They started those fires, and they’ve killed many innocents. I think they’re hoping to turn the people against the king, and it might work. If Veldaren is an altar, you’ve covered it in blood as a sacrifice to your son. I don’t know which god will honor it, though. Perhaps they’ve both washed their hands of this miserable city.”

Alyssa nodded. It sounded right. She had opened up her coffers and replaced their stores of gold with bodies of the dead. Was it a fair trade? Could it ever be?

“What about the one who killed my son?” she asked.

Zusa thought of her fight with him, and how she’d been stopped at the last minute by someone with a feminine voice who knew her name. It could only be Veliana, but what might she want with the man? When she checked their usual practice spot, she’d found the area vacant. Despite her best efforts, she hadn’t located where it was she now hid. It seemed both Veliana and the Watcher had eluded her.

“I fought him,” she admitted. “But he escaped before I reached victory. Where he is now, I do not know.”

“Did you hurt him?”

“Yes. I drew blood.”

“Good. At least that’s a start. Will you go out again before the night is over?”

Zusa put a wrapped hand upon the glass and stared out. Slowly, she shook her head.

“No. There’s nothing out there, just men killing one another. I think even the Watcher has stepped back to let it run its course. May I leave?”

Alyssa nodded. When Zusa was halfway to the door, she stopped and glanced back. She looked as tired as Alyssa felt.

“If I may be so bold, I have a request. Make this the last night, Alyssa. Killing doesn’t cover the pain of loss. It’ll only drain you, leave you empty. I do not pretend that these men deserve mercy, not all of them…but this path you’ve chosen will only lead to ruin. Even if it does, I will follow you into it, even unto death.”

“I don’t know if I can stop this,” Alyssa said.

“You’re strong enough, Lady Gemcroft. I know it.”

And with that she left, the door closing with a soft click of wood. Alyssa watched the fires, but it seemed she could not longer keep her mind upon them. She felt tired, and she often thought of returning to her bed. She hadn’t slept well lately, maybe a few hours at most. All throughout the day men and women had come to her, claiming fault for what her mercenaries had done. Near the end, she had paid off every request, whether they could prove it or not. She hadn’t had the energy left to care. At last she’d delegated the responsibility to Bertram.

As if thinking his name had summoned him, the old man opened the door, then knocked upon it after the fact.

“Yes, Bertram?” she said, keeping her face to the window so he couldn’t see her tears. “If this is about the cost of damages and repairs, spare me. I am in no mood, and you should be asleep in any case.”

“As should you,” Bertram said, quietly approaching. “But it seems sleep is a difficult thing for most of us in these troubled times. I’ve come to discuss a different matter.”

“And what is that?”

She could see his reflection in the glass, and she watched him chew on his lower lip while his hands clasped behind his back.

“I’ve gone over the mercenaries’ pay, along with our promised payments to the citizens, and the total is…”

“I told you I had no interest,” she snapped.

“It’s more than that,” Bertram said, doing well to keep his tone soothing and controlled. “I did as you requested, and treated cost as no object, but I feared the folly, and like I feared, it has come to pass. The cost has been astronomical, especially with how many have died. The guild requires extra compensation for men who fall in line of duty, for wives, children, mistresses, and the like. Plus the fires were more than we expected, and you have accepted blame for nearly all cases.”

“Your point?” she asked.

He stood up straighter as he spoke.

“We have nothing left, Lady Gemcroft. Your fortune is spent. Unless we delay payments for several years, we will default on at least a third of the mercenaries, and aid with only half of the repairs.”

Her mouth dropped.

“Are you certain?”

He nodded. “I have checked multiple times.”

She saw the fires burning before her, and suddenly they took on a different meaning.

“Is that counting tonight?”

“For the mercenaries, yes, but not necessarily any extra for the dead, since I cannot know for certain until tomorrow. But not the fires, no. I can only assume the worst.”

She felt her whole world spiraling away from her. How could all their wealth have vanished so quickly? It didn’t seem possible. Of course, the mines in the north had lessened in their production over the past year, but still, what of their contracts, their trade? Had the thief guilds truly destroyed so much?

“All is not lost,” he said, sliding closer and wrapping a comforting arm around her shoulders. “I have thought of a way to help ease this burden. We still may delay some payments, especially for those who died without families or still have means to survive.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“Lord Hadfield has an extensive amount of wealth saved up, an amount he hoped to bequeath to an eventual heir. If you were to marry, he would assume your debts. I have already discussed the matter, and he is willing to do his part to help you move on from your son’s death, including this debacle you have unleashed upon our city.”

She crossed her arms and held them against her as if she were cold. Could she marry Arthur? True, he’d been kind since he arrived, and he seemed to have no intention of leaving. They’d shared a bed even, and with him, she did feel some measure of comfort. Her heart ached for Mark, but he was gone, as was her son. Should she continue to let it haunt her? Maybe Zusa was right. Maybe it was time to end all of it.

“When?” she finally asked.

“It will need to be soon, especially given how deep our debt is. If we make significant payments, we can hold our debtors at bay, as well as convince them we have every intention of making good on our promises. Lord Connington will help, if you ask. No member of the Trifect would let the other fall so far as to bring shame upon them as well. Perhaps in a few days, I can have the ceremonies prepared, and all the proper documents written and presented before the king’s council to approve.”

There was something chipper about his tone that scraped against her spine like metal on glass.

“Enough,” she said. “Start on whatever you must, but don’t tell Arthur anything other than that I am open to the idea. He should at least be the one to propose, not my father’s old advisor.”

Bertram smiled. “Quite right, quite right. Goodnight, milady. Perhaps soon you will finally have pleasant dreams.”

“Goodnight, Bertram.”

Once he was gone, she blew out her candles, returned to her bed, and tried to sleep. She couldn’t.

“Arthur Gemcroft,” she whispered, moving the word about her tongue as if trying to taste it. He would adopt her last name, as all men and women did when entering into a family of the Trifect.

“Arthur Gemcroft. Arthur…Gemcroft.”

It had a ring to it, she must admit. She’d put off marriage for long enough. It was time for her to be practical. Still, as much sense as it made, it gave no comfort, and she tossed and turned until the morning light shone through her curtains, falling upon her ragged face and bloodshot eyes.

*

T he wound in Ghost’s leg was worse than he’d originally feared. He’d returned to his squalid inn, carefully put his weapons aside, and then collapsed onto his bed. The windows had no shutters or curtains, and the light streamed in upon his face. Without much reason to join the night’s slaughter, he’d instead languished in his favorite tavern, drowning himself in alcohol to dull his pain. He’d passed out, and no one had had the nerve to wake him. The dressings on his leg, haphazard at best, had leaked through, and were now infected.

As he lay there, he felt the pain crawling its way up his thigh, as if it were a spider scurrying through his veins. If he didn’t do something soon, he’d lose use of the knee, if not the entire leg. He wouldn’t be the best anymore. He wouldn’t even be a threat. A man of his strength, his skill, was not meant to be a cripple. Surely the gods did not intend such a fate for him.

The gods…

Ghost rolled off the bed, putting all his weight on his good leg. Damn that priestess. The Watcher had been his, thoroughly beaten. He didn’t give a shit that he’d appeared wounded and weaponless. Assassinations, by their very nature, were unfair. But he’d been a fool to let her tend to the wounded Senke. He’d thought her too young to be a threat, but how wrong he’d been.

“It’s not the big snakes you need to fear,” he remembered a friend telling him once as they crossed the grasslands toward Veldaren. “It’s the tiny ones who carry the real venom. Put that on your darts if you want a sure kill.”

The priestess was the tiny snake, the insignificant one among the wizard and warriors. Stupid. Stupid!

He took a hobbled step toward the only decoration in his room, a large dresser full of clothes and outfits. Leaning against it for support, he yanked out the top drawer, letting it crash to the floor. Reaching into the gap, he pulled out a small bag of coin. It’d have to do. Retrieving his swords, he opened the door and stepped out into the painful morning light.

Twice on the way to the temple he collapsed, his knee unable to bear his weight. A black bruise swelled across it, and the puss from where the Watcher’s sword had cut him was turning green. No one paid him any attention, the crowd flowing to either side as if he were an overturned cart, or a dead body.

Reaching the temple offered Ghost little comfort. He still had to climb the many steps, and after the first few, he gave up any pretense of pride. He sat down upon them, put his back to the temple, and pushed himself up one at a time. At the top, he braced himself on a pillar and used it to keep his balance while he stood. Men and women gathered about the wooden doors, crying out for aid. No doubt the temple was swarming with people inside as well. He’d seen the fires, heard the sounds of combat flowing up and down the streets. The thieves had put up a fight this time, firing arrows from the rooftops and preparing a hundred ambushes.

He pushed his way through them, the wound in his leg meaning nothing to his enormous arms. Most turned to glare at him, then decided otherwise seeing his size and painted face. Once inside the temple, he leaned against a wall and surveyed the madness. Priests and priestesses of all ages were running about. They looked like white bees zipping from flower to flower. They’d kneel, exchange a word, maybe a prayer, and then move on. The older ones lingered, and with many, he saw them put their hands on wounds and whisper words of prayer to Ashhur. White light would cover their hands, sometimes weak, sometimes strong, and then sink into the wound. That was what he needed. Faithful or not, he wouldn’t deny that the priests had their uses. But he wouldn’t risk some juvenile treating him. He wanted a master, someone who knew what he was doing.

“Where is Calan?” he asked as he grabbed an elderly priestess, her face a circle-web of wrinkles.

“Busy,” she said, giving him a reproachful glare. She didn’t seem the slightest bit unnerved by his size or skin.

“Bring him,” he said, refusing to let go despite her tugging to break free. “He owes me one. Tell him that.”

“And who are you?” she asked as he released her sleeve.

“Just point him my way. He’ll recognize me.”

She looked him up and down, and though it seemed impossible, her frown grew deeper.

“I can imagine so,” she said, then hurried on her way. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. If he could ignore every noise, every visual distraction, he could focus on the pain, and doing so made him feel better. His temples throbbed with each pulse of pain, but he kept it under control. He felt the pain’s limits, how far it stretched throughout his leg. Time passed, and he was dimly aware of it.

“I see you’ve returned,” a man’s voice said. Ghost stirred to see Calan standing before him. He looked tired, with dark circles under his eyes and his smile forced. “May I ask why you’ve given us the pleasure?”

In answer, Ghost pulled up his pant leg to reveal the wound. He winced when he saw it himself. The purple bruise had spread, and the green puss was filling up his bandage. Calan’s smile immediately vanished, and he grabbed Ghost’s arm.

“This way,” he said. “You need a bed, now.”

Ghost wanted to protest but didn’t. He’d hoped for a bit of healing magic, and then off he’d be. Instead, he obeyed without argument, for his head ached, his stomach continued to do loops, and he felt intensely drained. It was as if the pain were a fire burning away his energy. Calan led them through the maze of people and pews. His head swiveled, but he saw no opening, no space available. Muttering, he turned them toward the back, then through a door to a quaint room. It had a small desk, a bookshelf, and a bed, and it was that bed Calan set him upon.

“My quarters will have to do,” the priest said. “Though I fear the bed might be small for you.”

“A bed’s a bed,” Ghost mumbled.

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Here.” He tossed the small bag of coins to pay for his treatment. “Save my leg, will you?”

Calan rolled the pant leg, carefully folding it over and over until it was up to his thigh. Ghost closed his eyes. For some strange reason, he didn’t want to watch. He didn’t want to understand what it was the priest would do, or what its implications meant. Gods were for other people, not him. Gold and killing, that was god enough for him. He heard whispers, undoubtedly prayers, so he leaned his head back and tried to relax. The pain continued to throb, its reach growing. He felt it down to his shin, as if instead of a single cut, the Watcher had beaten and smashed his whole leg with a club.

A strange sound met his ears. It was like a soft breeze blowing past the entrance of a cave, yet deeper, fuller. Even through his closed eyelids he saw the light flare. When it plunged into his legs, it was like fire. He clutched the sides of the bed and clenched his teeth. His nostrils flared as he breathed in and out.

“The infection is deep,” he heard Calan say. “Bear with me, Ghost. I know you’re strong. You will endure.”

More prayers, and another burst of light. This time when it plunged into him, there was no feeling of fire, only a cold numbness that spread with alarming speed. He worried if it reached his lungs he’d never breathe again. It stopped at his thigh, though, and then seemed to shrink back in on itself. With its retreat, he realized he felt no pain, even when the coldness left his leg entirely.

“What did you do?” he asked, daring to open his eyes.

“What you wanted me to do,” Calan said, looking down at him. “What else?”

The priest resumed his prayers, and as his hands hovered over Ghost’s knee, the flesh began to knit itself together, forming a pale white scar on his dark skin. When finished, Calan took a step back and more collapsed than sat with his weight pressed against the door. His head thumped against the wood, and it seemed those dark circles had increased.

“A long two days,” he said, as if to himself.

“Blame the Trifect,” Ghost said.

“I blame no one. Have no reason. Some days are long, and some painfully short. Must say, I do prefer the calmer ones to this, however.”

Ghost chuckled, but he didn’t have the strength to continue. Drowsiness was stealing over him. He’d only slept a few hours in the tavern, and it’d hardly been deep or comforting. The pain had found him even in his dreams.

“I think I’ll sleep now,” he said.

And then he did. His sleep was deep, dark, and strangely without dreams. When he awoke, he felt as if an immense amount of time had passed. His leg felt worlds better, though he was still hesitant to bend it. What if it were all an illusion, and the pain returned tenfold when he finally tested it? Rubbing his eyes with his hand, he shook his head to speed up his waking. He found himself alone in the room.

When he put his weight on his knee, it buckled and gave completely. He caught himself on the bed and collapsed back atop it.

“What the fuck?” he asked, then felt guilty for cursing in the middle of a temple. It was a silly feeling, but still his neck flushed. He stretched his arms and back, then settled in. What should he do now? It wasn’t like he was in any real danger, and he’d already paid for the bed and healing. The only thing nagging on his mind was the Watcher. He needed another confrontation, one without those annoying mercenaries getting in the way. How could he manage it? And would the Watcher be foolish enough to return to that building, return to where he knew others might find him? What he knew about the Watcher could be written on a pebble. The man might still be with the Eschaton, or he might be halfway to Ker.

Ten minutes later the door opened, and in stepped Calan. He looked a little better, but not much.

“Was your rest pleasant?” he asked. He sounded distracted, the question more obligatory than any conscious desire to know.

“Best in years. How long was I out?”

“Five hours,” Calan said. He pulled the chair out from the desk and plopped into it. Massaging his forehead with his fingers, he stared down at the wood and appeared to soak in the calm. Ghost had seen people look like that before, after they’d endured a long stretch on a battlefield. Once the blood and bodies were gone, the men looked as if solitude was something physical they could soak in like a sponge, silence a concoction they could massage through their temples and neck.

“It bad out there?” he asked, disliking the lack of noise.

“It was,” Calan said, his eyes staring through his desk. “Better now. A lot of dead, and even more anger and hopelessness. Too many expect miracles, as if I had any to give.”

Ghost felt another awkward silence descend over them. Deciding he was out of his league, he pulled things back to something more grounded, more real to him.

“What’s wrong with my knee?” he asked. “I can’t stand on it.”

Calan looked up. “I cleansed the infection and knit the flesh, but it is still tender. The spell I used to numb your pain will take time to fade, and until it does, most of your muscles will ignore any request you make of them. Don’t fight it; there isn’t much point. In another few hours, you’ll be walking, albeit with a limp. A few more and you’ll be back to doing whatever it is you do. Killing, I assume, sending me even more men and women to care for.”

“I came and paid good coin for healing, not insults.”

“My apologies, that was uncalled for.”

“It was.”

He tilted his head toward the wall, not even wanting to look at the old man. The only ones he’d killed recently were those he’d been contracted for, or defending the priests’ temple. That was the thanks he got? Vague accusations of making his life harder, and a claim that he was nothing but a killer?

“You know what it’s like to live in a place where everyone who sees you either hates you or is afraid?” Ghost asked.

“There are many who are unsettled by my presence, and more who are angered by what I speak.”

“But it isn’t the whole city. Even those who fear you do so because you’ve got something they don’t understand. They don’t understand me either, but you, they could choose to be like you if they wanted. They can’t be like me, no matter what they do. They best they could do is smear themselves with coal, and that’d vanish with a good scrub.”

Calan leaned back in his chair, and he seemed to truly look at him for the first time.

“Is that why you paint your face? To show them how different you are?”

Ghost chuckled. “You want to know why? Truly why? It should show them how the difference between us, between me and you, is something as stupid as a strip of paint, something so thin and artificial we think nothing of it if done to a wall or a piece of armor. But that never happens. Instead they look at me with even greater fear. When I first started, those I hunted called me Ghost, and so I took the name and abandoned my old one. At least if they hated the Ghost, feared it, it was my own creation they feared. It wasn’t me; it wasn’t who I really was. Let them focus their hatred on something I can shed as easily as I shed this paint upon my face.”

“Are you a killer?” the priest asked.

“No. But I think Ghost is.”

“And who are you when you are not the Ghost?”

Ghost looked at him, trying to understand the true desire behind the question. Calan seemed interested, almost invested in what he might say and do. There was no lie or deceit in him, and Ghost considered himself an excellent judge of both. Who was he when not the man with the white face? Who was he when not hunting, when not contracted to capture or kill another?

“I’m not sure I remember anymore,” he said.

“Do you still remember your name?”

He should have, but suddenly it didn’t seem so clear. It’d been over ten years since he adopted the Ghost moniker. Before that, he’d gone by a dozen names, changing them as he traveled east, each city a new name. He tried to pull up childhood memories, of hearing his mother say his name, but each one was different in the time-worn haze. Suddenly he felt ashamed, and he wanted to be anywhere other than beneath the priest’s unrelenting gaze.

“No,” he said at last. “And I may never. Why does it matter to you, old man?”

“If you have to ask, I fear your mistrust has sunken in far deeper than any infection.”

Ghost used the wall to shove himself onto his good leg.

“Enough,” he said. “My thanks for your help. Good luck with your wounded.”

“And you with your wounds as well.”

Ghost limped from the temple, more than ever certain that Haern needed to die, if only to put his suddenly troubled mind to rest.