A Dance of Cloaks

18

F or over a mile stretched the wagon train. Some were covered with dried hides and white tarps, while others were open and piled high with pumpkins, squash, and winter-corn. In one wagon was a whole troop of dancers, singing and laughing at the sight of Veldaren’s walls. Another two were full of hard men, their faces and hands scarred from the sellsword life. All around the wagons walked servants, cooks, high-born maidens and low-born camp followers. At the far end trailed a small herd of cattle and sheep, ready for the butcher. When the Kensgold started, they would have fresh blood and meat for their festival.

Ahead of it all rode Laurie Keenan.

“We’re bringing twice what we brought last year,” said Torgar riding next to him. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I know things more often than others,” Laurie said, his voice oddly soft and gentle. “Like how I know you should watch your tongue, Torgar, lest I cut it out and feed it to the ravens.”

The sellsword captain laughed at his employer. Laurie was a smart man, but he was often full of idle threats and ambiguous comments. His eyes were dark, his complexion more so. Riding next to the sellsword, he seemed skinny and weak. He wore his hair long and braided, in the popular fashion of Angelport where the caravan had originated, following the highway out from the Ramere and north through the Kingstrip.

“I don’t understand why we bother to return,” Torgar said, ignoring the warning to watch his tongue. “This must cost you a fortune every time we make this trip. Why not make Leon and Maynard come to you? It’s far safer in Angelport than Veldaren, anyway.”

“Because if all three of us left Veldaren, there might not be a city to return to,” Laurie said. His face was clean-shaven except for a thin strip of hair growing from the center of his chin that hung halfway down his neck. Laurie twirled it with his fingers as his caravan wound around a small hill on its way to the city’s western entrance. The southern gate was closer and would have saved them a good twenty minutes of traveling, but the king had forbidden merchants from entering there. That, and being among the poor was not one of Laurie’s favorite pastimes; the south was just crawling with the empty-pocketed cretins.

“A shame you can’t just hire that Thren guy to work for you,” Torgar said after glancing back at the caravan to make sure nothing looked amiss. “Imagine what a man like that might have done as your right hand man.”

“Trust me, I’ve tried,” said Laurie, sounding tired of the topic. “He’s a hard man to get a hold of. Most of my messengers wound up dead, at least the one’s offering him the position. I think he took it as an insult.”

Torgar laughed heartily.

“Only a fool would turn down working for you, milord. Food’s good, the women are fine and clean, and there’s always a steady stream of idiots to kill with a sword.”

“Speaking of idiots with swords,” Laurie said, pointing to the western entrance. The gates were open wide, but there was a lengthy line of peasants, merchants, and mercenaries winding out from it. A thick grouping of guards was the cause.

“Did they check our things last time we came?” asked Torgar.

“That was only two years ago. Have you taken so many blows to the head that you can’t remember even that far?”

Torgar kept his head shaved, and he rapped it with his knuckles and made a hollow knocking noise with his tongue.

“My ma scooped my brains out when I was four. Left just enough to swing a sword, ride a horse, and bed a woman.”

Laurie chuckled.

“I think the third one occupies the most of your meager intelligence,” he said. “Come. Let’s find out what the fuss is all about before we have a thousand people trampling each other to get through.”

Torgar led, and Laurie followed. They rode around the outer edge of the line, ignoring the few angry calls from lowborn merchants and farmers. When they reached the gate, the crowd swelled in a semicircle, making their progress difficult.

“Look for a spare guard,” Torgar said. “I’ll see if I can pull him aside. They’re bound to shit their drawers when they see our caravans coming.”

Laurie looked but saw none. Realizing the same thing, Torgar dismounted and started pushing his way through. When a man cursed him and moved to strike, Torgar grabbed the hilt of his longsword and drew it enough to reveal naked steel.

“I draw, it ain’t going back in without blood on it,” Torgar growled. The man, a haggard farmer with a cartload of pumpkins drawn by a donkey, paled and mumbled an apology. One of the guards, hearing the threat, pushed aside an angry woman and called out to them.

“Draw no blades, or you can sleep outside the walls tonight,” the guard shouted. Torgar stood to his full height so that the guard’s eyes only came up to his neck.

“Hope you brought friends,” Torgar said, but his grin was playful.

“Enough, Torgar,” said Laurie, following in his wake. He glanced about nervously, disliking such close quarters with the unwashed rabble. “Are you in charge of the gates here?”

“Just helping,” the guard said. “Listen, if you’re in a hurry, you’ll still have to wait just like everyone else.”

“I’m not like anyone else, and I will not wait like anyone else,” Laurie said. He turned and pointed at the massive caravan of horses, wagons, and carts in the distance, billowing dust to the sky. “Those are mine.”

“Damn, never can catch a break,” the guard said. “Which ones are yours?”

“All of them.”

The guard paled, and he seemed to look at Laurie with newly opened eyes. For a moment, he chewed his lip, and then the connection hit him.

“Lord Keenan?” he asked. “Oh shit on me, I’m sorry milord. I’ve a half-dozen merchants all pretending to own Dezrel, and I figured you just another…”

“That’s fine,” Laurie said, interrupting him. “What is your name, soldier?”

“Jess. Jess Brown, milord.”

“Well, Jess, before I bring my convoy through the gate, I’d like to know what is going on. I take it there is some sort of tax or toll?”

“There is,” Jess said, glancing once at Torgar. “Though you might not like it. King Vaelor, Ashhur bless his name, passed the laws not two days ago. There’s some fines involving mercenaries, which you’ll learn about soon enough. The short of it is taxes, though, on all goods and services traveling into the city.”

“On all goods?” said Laurie. He grabbed his long green cloak and wrapped it tighter around his shoulders, as if a bit of his heat had escaped him. “What nonsense. Tell me the taxes.”

Jess did. As he ran through a memorized list, Laurie’s face turned darker and darker. With each item of food, cloth, servant, or animal, he counted, checked against his own stores, and accumulated a total. By the time Jess was done, Laurie’s neck had turned a deep crimson.

“All this due just to enter?” Laurie asked, his quiet voice poorly hiding his anger.

“Forgive me, milord,” said Jess. “Gerand Crold has been most insistent about enforcement. He’s ordered any man caught turning a blind eye or accepting a bribe to be strung up from the wall by his thumbs and left to the ravens.”

“I can’t blame you for your orders, nor for enforcing them with such threats hanging over your head,” Laurie said. He took out a single silver coin and handed it to Torgar, who then passed it on to the soldier.

“Thank you, milord. You are most generous.”

“And thank you for your time,” Laurie said. With a quick nod to Torgar, the two pushed their way out of the crowd and back to their horses.

“The thieves must have gotten to the king,” Laurie said as he mounted his horse. “Either that or his advisor, Crold.”

“More likely the advisor,” Torgar said. “He’s been around awhile, if my meager memory serves me well. How many kings has he seen die? Probably views himself as one. Might not be the thieves involved, either, just greedy hearts knowing you was coming.”

As they rode back toward their caravan, Torgar raised an eyebrow at his master.

“So…how much did it all come to, anyway?”

“Twenty times the normal fare,” Laurie said with a sigh. “I know you’re not the best with big numbers, so let me keep it simple. I’d be paying an entire month’s worth of income just to walk through their bloody gate.”

“Huh,” Torgar said, guiding his horse around a giant rut in the road. “Almost makes you think twice about entering, eh?”

Laurie stopped his horse. Torgar slowed his own and then looped around, his hand on his sword.

“Something amiss?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Laurie said. “But what you said, it might make a bit of sense. Look there, at the two hills we just rode beside. Couldn’t we set up camp on their peaks?”

Torgar scratched the stubble on his jaw, thinking.

“Could put yours and Madelyn’s things on the big hill, surround the lower parts with the wagons so it’ll be easier to guard. Wouldn’t be too tough to put our men in the gaps. That smaller hill could be for your servants and soldiers, ring the lower parts with tents and then build fires at the top.”

“Could you guard it as well as you could our estate?” Laurie asked.

“As well?” Torgar asked. “Course not. Your mansion’s got spiked fences and more traps than even I know about. Out here we’ll have men and wagons. Wagons can be climbed, burned, and cut through. Men can be bought, confused, and killed. But if you’re asking if you think anything could happen out here, I say no. With as many men we’ll have ringing the camp, you’ll be safer than the king.”

“Come then,” Laurie said. “Let us tell my wife and son.”

They rode into the caravan, which had slowed considerably in speed. Apparently the drivers at the front, having seen Lord Keenan ride off to the gate, cut their pace to ensure they didn’t arrive before Laurie returned. The two weaved through the chaos until they reached the largest of the covered wagons, pulled by six gray oxen.

“I heard you left for the gate,” Madelyn Keenan said from her cushioned seat in the back. She wore what she considered an outfit designed for travel: a tightly fitting dress, high-cut with a long V across the front. The outfit exposed her slender legs, which she had stretched out from underneath the tarp in hopes of getting what little sun she could before winter arrived in fullest, along with its dim light and numerous clouds. She’d tied her brown hair into a ponytail so long that it wrapped twice about her waist before clipping into her silver-leafed belt.

Torgar had long ago learned that an errant whistle could cost him half his month’s pay, but still he felt tempted when he saw her.

“The king, may Karak curse his name, imposed a outrageously high tax on all goods entering the city,” Laurie said as he accepted his wife’s outstretched hand and kissed her fingers. “So it appears we must camp outside the walls.”

“Must we?” asked Madelyn. “You’ll deny us a roof over our heads all for a silly tax? Bribe the guards and get us through. I’ve heard quite enough of the serving girls bitching about the bumpy trip. I don’t want to imagine how they’ll whine about this.”

“Guards won’t take bribes,” Torgar said. “King’s riding them hard on this one. And if it is a roof you want, milady, we have more than enough tents for that. We’ll erect you a fine pavilion to call your own.”

Madelyn rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to her husband. She’d never liked the smelly sellsword, especially the way he looked at her. When it came to dress, attitude, and words, she knew how to drive men wild, and in doing so, control them. When it came to Torgar, though, she never felt that control. Instead, she felt like he was the one ready to dominate her, status and repercussions be damned.

“What about Maynard and that fat Connington fellow?” she asked. “Will they bring their wealth out of the walls to join us here in the wild?”

“We’re within spitting distance of the walls,” Torgar said. “This ain’t the wild, woman.”

“Remember what I said about your tongue and the ravens?” asked Laurie. “Think on that for awhile, and leave me be with my wife. Oh, and find Taras. He’s probably getting friendly with the camp followers.”

“As you wish,” Torgar said with an over-exaggerated bow.

“Must you make him so involved in your decisions,” Madelyn complained after the sellsword was gone.

“His usefulness makes up for any of his vulgarities,” Laurie said. The wagon jostled and slowed, so Laurie pulled back a bit. He looked around as he did, then swore.

“Forgive me, I must go. The wagon leaders are unaware of our change of destination.”

Madelyn watched him ride around the wagon and out of sight. She tucked her legs underneath her knees, realizing she would see more of the fading sun than she’d prefer over the next couple days. The journey north from Angelport was far from pleasant, even with the cushions and company of her servant girls in the giant wagon. They were so excited by arriving at the city that she’d forced them away so she could have a moment of peace.

The lady gazed around at the multitude of gently sloping hills covered with grass that grew up to the thigh. Hopefully that thick a bed of grass would soften the rocks that seemed to lurk everywhere just below the soil. She and Laurie had made love once on the grass in their journey north, and her back had ached for days because of it. She’d rather be bedded on a plank of nails. At least that way the pain would be uniform across her body.

She felt unease growing in her stomach. Seeing the many hills, void of walls, lampposts, and guards, seemed to have awoken an old fear within her. It was one thing to trust her guards; it was another to lock her door and bar it with a thick plank of wood. Here she would have…what did Torgar call it? ‘A fine pavilion of her own.’ She couldn’t lock a pavilion. By the Abyss, they didn’t even have doors to shut, just thick flaps.

“They’ve been told,” Laurie said as he came back, startling her a little. “Something amiss?” he asked when he saw her jump.

“No, only thinking. Are you sure this is wise? With the thief guilds still trying so hard to survive, wouldn’t it be safer in our estate?”

Laurie settled his horse into a gentle trot that matched the wagon’s speed.

“Truth be told, I think we’ll need to be diligent no matter where we hold the Kensgold. But do you know what I see when I look at those hills? I see no rooftops for assassins to hang from. I see no shadows in which to hide. I see no crawlspaces, basements, hidden ways and forgotten doors. Whatever traps Thren and his pets have planned for me, I know damn well they weren’t made with wide open fields in mind.”

“I’d much rather have my room, our room, in our mansion safely tucked in city walls,” Madelyn insisted.

“Do you desire tight spaces so strongly?” he asked, frowning.

Madelyn sighed.

“I don’t know. Perhaps when your camp is made I’ll change my mind. Just promise me, if I desire to return to the city, you will let me go? I can take some of the sellswords with me, and I doubt I will be hard pressed finding a legion of servants and working girls wishing to come with me into the city.”

“I’ve found the boy,” Torgar shouted as he rode up from the south.

“A boy no longer,” Laurie said, turning to greet them. Taras Keenan rode beside Torgar, looking more the son of the sellsword than the thin noble. He was on the cusp of his seventeenth birthday, and had spent every day of their slow trek to Veldaren practicing with the mercenaries. More annoying to Madelyn, he had grown rather fond of Torgar and chosen him as his favored teacher and sparring partner.

“Until I fight a man in honest combat, I’ll still be a boy,” said Taras.

“That sounds like Torgar talking,” Madelyn said, her tone disapproving.

“Just a gentle reminder to mother that I’ll still be her precious child for a little while longer,” Taras said.

“Good to know you have your mother’s tongue instead of Torgar’s, at least,” Laurie said. “But now I have something a bit more important for you, Torgar. Go to both Connington and Gemcroft and invite them to our lovely hills. Do your best to convince them. Remind them it is my year to host, and they cannot refuse a place given once I have tables down and food to eat.”

“Mention food and we’ll get Leon down here, even if it’s in the middle of a pig sty,” Torgar said with a deep laugh. “Heard he’s having a hard time getting his delicacies with all the guilds running amok. Shall I bring the boy with me on my duties, milord?”

Madelyn’s glare was a clear no, and that was enough to make up Laurie’s mind.

“Aye, you should,” he said. “Remember, Taras, I have given Torgar charge in these matters, not you, so do not contradict him unless absolutely necessary.”

Taras could hardly contain his excitement. He hadn’t been to Karak’s city of stone since he was nine, and his memories had long faded into worthless patches of images.

“Come,” he shouted to Torgar. “The city’s waiting for us!”

He galloped off, the sellsword dashing after. Madelyn scowled and looked away. When Laurie saw this, he felt anger growing in his chest.

“He must learn responsibility in these matters,” he said. “Dealing with the other members of the Trifect will do him good.”

“It’ll do him dead,” Madelyn said. “You send your own son into Veldaren with a single mercenary to guard his back? We’ll find them tossed aside in the street, rotting in the sewers, all because you’d rather camp under stars and save yourself an orc-scrap of coin.”

“Mind your tongue, woman,” Laurie said.

For a minute they rode in silence, Laurie’s horse trotting slowly behind the wagon as Madelyn sat with crossed arms atop her cushions. When the wagon halted suddenly, Laurie veered to side. They’d come to the first of the hills, and slowly the lead riders were heading off into the high grass, moving carefully with men on foot scouting ahead to make sure no holes or sudden dips threatened their wagon wheels.

“We’re here,” Laurie said. “We’ll have a comfortable camp set up for you in no time.”

“No you won’t,” Madelyn said. “I’m going home. Our real home.”

When Laurie glared, she glared back.

“You promised,” she reminded him.

The man swallowed, swishing his tongue side to side as if swallowing something distasteful.

“I will miss you dearly,” he said. “But go to the city if you must. I’ll get you an escort. Two armed men traveling together may not appeal much to the mob, but a gaggle of servant girls and a noble lady in her litter will prove a different matter entirely.”

He rode away in a far fouler mood than when he’d returned from the gate.

E thric had been involved in many riots, but he’d never seen one created so spontaneously out of so little. He walked down the middle of the open street, almost euphoric at the chaos. Karak, being a god of order before his banishment by Celestia, should have frowned upon such activities, but Ethric felt them lift his heart. The only thing worse than chaos was false order, the kind established by faithless kings and the worshippers of Ashhur. Let chaos burn down the falsehood like fire upon a crumbling home. From the ashes, he and his kind would build anew.

At the western gate he came across a filthy beggar sitting beside the road. He was blind, and before him was a clay pot. Ethric watched as a chubby merchant wearing red and purple silks atop his tunic tossed in a handful of coins. Before the merchant could escape, the dark paladin was there, grabbing his arm while stabbing his sword into the pot.

“Let go of me,” the merchant shouted as he tried to wrench his arm away. Ethric’s grip did not release. When he pulled the sword out of the pot, the sharp tip had pierced through the center of one of the coins.

“What charity is this?” Ethric asked as black fire surrounded the blade.

“Help for those less fortunate,” said the chubby man as he looked around for someone to aid him. There were none. Everyone recognized Ethric’s black armor, the dark flame of his blade, and the white lion skull painted on his breastplate. Just like the priests of Karak, the paladins were forbidden from entering Veldaren, but when inside they were never seen. Better to safely ignore the darkness than call it out and risk death.

“Shall you buy your way into eternity?” asked Ethric. The coin slowly melted, the copper dripping down the length, bubbling and popping. “If copper to a blind man saves your soul, imagine your rewards if you threw gold to the feet of a truly holy man.”

“You’re evil,” the merchant said. Ethric felt impressed by his courage.

“Evil?” he asked. He ripped the silks from the man’s tunic and held them aloft. “You parade before a blind man in wealth that could feed him for years while tossing him a pittance you will never miss. That is not piety. That is disgusting.”

He turned and rammed the silk into the blind man’s pot. The merchant stood with his hands shaking, his eyes torn between the dark paladin and the silk.

“No fighting, have mercy. A kindness is a kindness no matter the size,” the blind man said, trying to defuse the situation. Ethric only smiled and gestured to the pot. His sword still burned with fire.

“What is more important to you?” he asked. “Your wealth, or your supposed bribes to the fates?”

When the merchant reached down for the silk, Ethric cut him down. With two vicious hacks, he separated the head and dumped it atop the pot. The blood poured freely, ruining the silk and drenching the few coins within.

“Gifts are always repaid in blood,” Ethric said to the blind man. “Mercy is a delusion. Grace is weakness masked in lies.”

By now a crowd had surrounded him, shouting and pointing angrily. The dark paladin smiled, and when he stretched out his sword, the people made him a path. With so many swarming the streets, it took a good while for the city guard to arrive. The guards, hearing his description, put up only a token search before returning to their patrols. They would cross no swords with a dark paladin of Karak, not without an army at their back.

Despite the delay, Ethric’s mood remained good. He had very little to work with in his search for the faceless women, but Pelarak had given him one tangible lead. On the inside of the wall, about half a mile north of the western gate, Pelarak had told him of a crack. It was wide, running perpendicular to the stones of the wall like a lone bolt of lightning. If he ever needed to contact the faceless women in urgency, he would have an apprentice leave a note in the crack while the stars were bright. By morning, it’d be gone.

Ethric found the crack, looking exactly as it’d been described to him. The street was quiet, modest homes with immodest fences on either side. They appeared new, most likely built after Thren’s little war had started. He removed his glove and put his hand against the deepest part of the crack.

A smile lit up his face. His lengthy training had taught his body to become attuned to all things magical, both clerical and wizardly in nature. Deep inside the crack was a simple alert spell, one that would send warning to the caster whenever the ward was tripped. The faceless women would never need to check, yet would always know when they had a message and could retrieve it before the dawn. Seeing such beauty in its simplicity, Ethric reminded himself to treat his foes with greater respect.

Deciding to treat simplicity with simplicity, he found a large rock and shoved it into the crack, tripping the ward. Now the only question that remained was how long it’d take one of the women to arrive. Since he’d placed the ‘message’ in the middle of the day, they’d certainly know something was amiss.

“Patience serves the wise,” Ethric said, finding himself a seat beside a fence. He leaned his back against the bars. He was out of sight from any travelers on the road, and he doubted the owner of the home would be stupid enough to call him out from his position. All he had to do was watch and wait.

T hren led the way, the rest of his guild following, minus Aaron and Senke who were still busy cleaning blood off the floor. They weaved through the Merchant Way, for once their hands staying out of foreign pockets. The riots would soon be there. Thren had personally started two fires, and his men had started three more. They did not burn homes. They torched the storehouses, rendering food all the more precious. Butcher after butcher retreated into his shop, persuaded through either coin or dagger. Bakers fared no better. They either shut their ovens down for a day, or shut them down forever.

“The tradesmen will point their finger at you once this day is done,” Kayla said as she traveled beside him. Thren only laughed.

“After this day is done, I don’t care. Today we need hunger and riots.”

With quick hand gestures, Thren positioned his men up and down the road. In every corner, in every stall, the Spider Guild occupied Merchant Way. Thren stood at the intersection with Castle Road, the main throughway that led north to south from the wall to the castle. A few of his most trusted men had discarded their cloaks and joined the hungry, complaining masses in the south. If they did their jobs, the riots would surge north at a frightening pace.

For twenty minutes, they waited. Thren kept his hood pulled low, and he smiled at those that noticed him. He felt unafraid. Only a full troop of mercenaries would give him concern. Beside him was a modest jeweler selling baubles in preparation for the Kensgold. Accompanying Laurie Keenan’s return to Veldaren would be a host of camp followers, not to mention the many servant girls, dancers, and singers. Every one of the jeweler’s trinkets was sold with the promise of irresistible allure to those women.

“My things are safe?” the bald jeweler asked him at one point. Thren nodded.

“You’ve been good to me, Mafee,” the guildmaster said. “When I draw my sword, take your merchandise and go.”

More minutes crawled by. The only tense moment was when a squad of mercenaries marched through. They didn’t give the gray cloaks a second look, instead hurrying on toward the castle. Thren scratched at his chin, his signal to leave them be.

A chorus of shouts rose from the south. Thren looked down Castle Road and was pleased at the sight. Over four hundred made up the first wave. He recognized one of their shouts as an anthem Senke had devised. ‘Bread or blood,’ they shouted. One or the other, they’d have it, and Thren knew which one he preferred. He drew his sword and placed the tip by his right foot. All down Merchant Way, gray cloaks did the same. Mafee saw it, shoved his cheap jewelry into a burlap sack, and bolted into his home directly behind his stall.

“Bread or blood!” Thren shouted as the mob reached him.

“Bread or blood!” the mob shouted in return, led loudest by spies of the Spider Guild. They had meant to travel north to the castle, but by skillful prodding, they turned down Merchant Way instead. Stalls for bakers and meat carvers were empty and unguarded, and as the mobs passed, gray cloaks kicked and tore them apart. Given a taste of carnage, the mob wanted more.

More men of Thren’s appeared, holding lit torches and shouting angrily. More stalls tipped over. Wagons burned. Donkeys bled out, their mournful screeches haunting the chaos. The crowd swelled in number, joined by looters, bullies, and the cold-hearted who felt power in the mob. Like a human swarm they tore Merchant Way to pieces. Fires spread along the houses, yet no men came rushing with buckets.

Thren personally set fire to Mafee’s house and then barred the door. Those pathetic trinkets were a disgrace, and even worse, he’d paid a pittance for protection compared to the money he drained from the desperate and the clueless.

“Stay safe,” Thren said, the demonic grin on his face flickering in the light of the fire.

He whistled long and loud. Their work was done. Guards had begun pouring in from the north, chasing away the looters and rioters with shield and blade. At first some resisted, but the men of the Spider Guild shouted false cries of fear and fled. When blood spilled across the streets, the rest followed. It would take several hours to put out the fires. Merchant Way looked like an army had invaded. Laurie Keenan would have his greeting, and if Thren was lucky, they’d thrash his wagons, harass his mercenaries, and steal ungodly amounts of his food.

One of his men came rushing in from the west. Thren recognized him as Tweed, a simple yet skillful man he’d appointed to watch for Keenan’s approach.

“Problems, we gots plenty now,” Tweed said, talking with a lisp. “Keenan’s not coming inside. The rest are going out to him.”

Thren pulled him off the main road, certain he had misheard due to the horrid commotion.

“Tell me again,” Thren said. “Make it clear.”

“I’ve seen them, the Keenans, putting up big, big tents and circling their wagons,” said Tweed. “Looks like the new taxes set them off. They ain’t going to see the riots, only hear about them.”

Thren’s jaw clenched tight. He sheathed his sword and grabbed Tweed by the shoulder.

“Answer me carefully,” he said. “Did you see anyone from the caravans come inside? Anyone at all?”

“I saw some before I leapt off the wall,” Tweed said, looking a little nervous. “Not many, a soldier here, a boy there. Only large group was some women surrounded by a few guards. I thought they was just some mercs taking their whores in to look for beds and drinks.”

“You did good, Tweed,” Thren said, releasing his shoulder. “Hurry back to the gate and watch for any other large groups. Report to me immediately if you do.”

Thren looked about, calling over members of the Spider Guild with his hand. He wished Senke was with him, and he felt foolish for leaving such a sharp-witted man behind to babysit his son while important matters were afoot. There was a chance the group of women and soldiers was nothing, but his gut told him otherwise. Once he had about five men beside him, he gave his orders, trusting them to relay the message throughout the guild.

“Only alive?” one asked when Thren was done.

“Death causes anger and sadness,” Thren told them. “Capture inspires horror and desperation. Cut a blade of her hair, and I’ll scalp you. I want Madelyn Keenan as a hostage, not a corpse.”