A Dance of Cloaks

27

T he Naked Bells took almost half an hour to fully deserve their name. Gerand had returned from his duties halfway through their performance, and he watched the dancers with more than a casual interest. Ever since Thren had captured his wife, he’d been worried sick, but he’d also been left to his own devices to satisfy his carnal desires. The exotic women shifted and danced with professional expertise, every movement designed to flaunt a certain curve, emphasize the length of their legs, or bring attention to their lips, breasts, or waist.

Every passing minute saw one of them discard a piece of their silk. The king had watched the entire proceeding with rapt attention. No doubt he would claim two or three to come with him to his bedchambers. The king had no wife, and there were plenty unhappy with this fact, but he was still young enough that Gerand had managed to quell most grumblings. Besides, he figured if worst came to worst, there’d be a handful of bastards to choose from. He watched the naked women dance, the bells on their wrists and ankles jingling, and wondered if one might be the future mother of a king.

One in particular had caught Gerand’s eye. Her hair was a fiery red, just how he liked. Her breasts were smaller than the others, but he found that attractive as well. Most importantly, she had been the last to strip completely naked. Or perhaps it was the way the king’s eyes lingered on her the longest. Gerand consoled himself by remembering that they were hired to please the king, so please him they would.

No, Gerand thought. She’ll be mine, king or no. I may have a touch of gray in my hair, but I’m far more a man that that stupid brat.

The Naked Bells’ undulations increased in intensity. The bells, all different sizes and sounds, rose into a beautiful chaos of sound. The red-head swirled before King Vaelor, almost within his touch. Out of all of them, only she clutched the bells of her wrists in her hands to stop their ring. Gerand watched, curious as to why. With all the others focusing their noise in a final hurrah, why would she…

And then he saw her fingers twist at the bell, pulling something out from its clapper.

“Stop her!” Gerand shouted. From the corner a soldier lowered his crossbow and fired. The bolt struck the red-head in the neck. Her blood splashed across the king’s face. The sound of her skull striking the cold stone made Gerand’s stomach twist. A long, thin needle rolled from her dead fingers, its tip no doubt coated with poison. The rest of the Naked Bells stepped back, some crying, others staring coldly at the loss of one of their own.

“What is going on here?” the king shouted. Gerand retrieved the pin and held it up for the king to see.

“Someone paid her to kill you,” he said.

King Vaelor’s face turned a deep shade of red.

“Thren!” he shouted. “It’s that bastard Felhorn! I want him dead, do you hear me?”

“I have my plans already…”

“Do you know where he is?” the king asked, still shouting.

“Where he is to be, yes,” Gerand admitted.

“Send my soldiers,” the king said. “All of them, every man able to hold a sword. He dies tonight, do you understand?”

“Yes, milord,” Gerand said, bowing low.

King Vaelor pointed to two of the girls, then snapped his fingers.

“Remove their bells,” he said.

Guards neared and undid the leather straps of the bells on their wrists and ankles. The girls reluctantly followed the king into his bedchambers, soldiers following behind with their swords drawn. Once the door was shut, Gerand sighed and turned to the rest.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He left, not wanting to watch as the remaining guards cut them down and covered the throne room with their beautiful, beautiful corpses.

S enke walked through the halls of the Connington mansion feeling a bit let down. While the doors and windows were thick, the lawn had few traps, and the ones it did have were designed to alert, not kill. The inside was even emptier. By his count, ten soldiers had been left behind as guards. They had died quick and easy. Other than that, the mansion was vacant.

Oligart marched alongside Senke, his mood far more sour.

“No pasty rich people to smash,” he grumbled. “So stupid. I bet Gemcroft had men left. I should have gone there. Why Thren make me go here? I wanted head-smashing!”

“Shut up, Oligart,” Senke said. “You’ll still get your chance, remember?”

Oligart shrugged.

“Where’s Norris?” he asked.

“That I don’t know,” Senke said. “Him and his Serpents should be setting up the oil for the fires.”

The two leaders neared the rows of windows that viewed the front lawn.

“Windows won’t open, so we’ll focus on holding the doors,” Oligart said. He pointed outside the gates to the houses on the far side of the road. “We’ll have archers there. Once Maynard comes, we squash them in between.”

“Simple enough plan,” Senke said. “Should work, though. Did hardly a scratch to the manor, so there’s no reason for him to be alarmed.”

“He’ll be alarmed,” Oligart said, pointing further to the east. “Look. Smoke.”

Senke lowered his head a little and peered out. Sure enough, a thick plume of smoke rose high from the eastern district.

“That’s Connington’s place, alright,” Senke said. “Do you think they already set it aflame?”

“I look like a soothsayer?” Oligart asked. “Go run and ask if you want answers. I got none but my fists.”

“That might explain Thren’s delay,” Senke muttered.

“What’s that?” asked Oligart.

“Nothing. Nothing. Let me go check on my men. Stay here and watch for any early arrivals. Try to wait until they’re inside to attack. I wouldn’t be surprised if Maynard sends someone to check on his home once he sees the smoke from afar. Let them go if possible.”

“Not an idiot,” Oligart grumbled.

“Prove it,” Senke said as he hurried off. He glanced at the setting sun as he passed by another row of windows. Where was Thren? Why was he so late?

With so many treasures scattered throughout the mansion waiting to be looted, Senke went unnoticed as he walked. He’d already marked his way of escape once the chaos began. It was a slender door that led up to an attic. He’d checked it once, and in the back was a round, dusty window. From there he could reach the roof, and once upon the roof, he could pick any direction he desired to escape. But the plan was worthless without Thren there. Without Thren, he’d accomplish nothing.

As he neared the back of the mansion he heard the sound of a scuffle. Curious, Senke pushed open a door leading into a small but well-lit dining hall. One serpent member lay dead on the floor, another bleeding as he fought a boy with a dirty gray cloak and torn mask over his face. Senke felt his jaw drop at the sight.

“Impossible,” he said.

His voice drew the Serpent’s attention for the briefest moment, and that was all the boy needed. He slipped closer, jammed his dagger through ribs, and then slashed to the side. His opponent dead, the boy turned and dropped into a combat stance Senke recognized well, considering he’d taught it to him.

“What are you doing here, Aaron?” Senke asked, not at all fooled by the mask.

“Not Aaron,” the boy said. “I’m Haern. Aaron is dead.”

Senke shook his head, hardly able to believe it.

“How many have you killed?” Senke asked as he shut the door.

“Five,” said Haern.

“Five?” Senke laughed. “You’re out of your mind, Aaron. Sorry. Haern. I thought you were with the priests?”

“I escaped,” Haern said. He dropped his smaller knives and took a larger pair from the bodies. Cleaning the blood off, he tucked them into his belt and tightened the mask over his face. “I’ve come to stop this, Senke. Will you help me? Or must I kill you too?”

Senke shook his head, torn between horror and hysterics at the boy’s audacity.

“I won’t help you,” he told him. “But I won’t stop you either. I’m getting out, Haern. Tonight.”

“Out?” asked Haern. “How?”

Senke shrugged.

“In about an hour the king’s soldiers will surround the estate. I’ve told them of your father’s plan. If there’s a god, Thren will be here when they arrive. I’ll be just one of the many bodies that’ll get consumed by the fire.”

The way Haern stood, he clearly was not prepared to hear of such betrayal from as close a friend as Senke.

“Why would you betray him?” he asked.

Senke chuckled.

“Actually, because of you. You got me thinking. I’ve collected plenty of money, far more than you can imagine. I could buy a home, some land, and plenty of women. I joined the Spider Guild to escape from the life I was living, yet the life I have now seems no better. Watching what Thren was doing to you, slowly, methodically killing everything good in his own son…”

He shook his head.

“I’m done. I don’t expect much in the way of eternity, but maybe Ashhur will forgive me if I get myself out while there’s still time. Looks like I wasn’t alone in thinking that, too.”

Haern’s cheeks lifted, and Senke could tell the boy was smiling.

“I survived the priests,” he said, clearly proud. “They can’t defeat me. No one can.”

“Don’t get cocky; I could still whoop you with one hand…”

He stopped. A dozen men had begun shouting from the main entrance, Oligart’s voice the loudest.

“Stay here,” Senke told Haern. “Lock the door. I’ll go see what’s going on.”

Senke closed the door behind him, waited until he heard Haern lock it, then hurried toward the entrance. He saw a few thieves dashing around the corner, too far ahead for him to ask questions. Oligart’s shouts were the only ones that he could understand above the throng, and what he heard filled his gut with lead.

“Guards, guards!” shouted Oligart. “We got guards to smash!”

Senke dashed through a dining room, turned left down a hallway, then hooked toward the main entrance. Over a hundred thieves lined up along the windows facing the front of the house. Oligart towered among them, staring and pointing.

“What is going on here?” Senke shouted.

“Soldiers!” Oligart shouted, spinning to greet Senke. “Royal soldiers, too! They showed up and started surrounding the place. I count at least five-hundred. We got heads to smash, boys, and lots of them!”

While Oligart might have been enthused, Senke’s face paled. The soldiers had arrived too soon. Thren wasn’t even there yet. What was wrong with them? Why had Gerand not waited?

“We need to delay them,” Senke said. “Hold the doors as best we can.”

“They got armor,” one rogue beside them argued. “Platemail, for cripes sake. Helmets, shields, swords…we got daggers and leather. What the fuck you think we can do against that?”

“I expect you to kill them,” Senke shouted, a bit of his hardness returning. “Or do you really think they’ll let you live if you run out the door with your hands up and your tail between your legs?”

Oligart pulled Senke aside and lowered his voice.

“We got a traitor,” Oligart said. “You know who?”

“Not a clue,” Senke lied. “We need to hold. Perhaps once the fire is set, we can escape during the commotion.”

“Or we’ll roast like roaches.”

The two leaders stared eye to eye.

“I don’t see any other way,” Senke said.

“Then we fight,” Oligart grumbled. “And we hope for Thren.”

“They’re coming,” several shouted at once. The soldiers rushed through the gates, swarming like metallic ants. They surrounded the complex, this time within the gate instead of without. Most wielded longswords and shields, though some held halberds, spears, and giant mauls. Four carried a thick log with metal handles bolted into the wood.

The men with the log approached the door, a squad of ten protecting them.

“Hold the door,” Senke said, taking a step back. “I’ll guard the back.”

“Better hurry,” Oligart said. “And you better hope Norris hasn’t lost his spine and run!”

Senke had barely left before the surrounding soldiers with mauls smashed in the windows all throughout the lower level. Soldiers poured inside, through far more windows and places than there were thieves to guard. Senke drew his sword and cut down the first to come near. A second soldier tried to use his shield to block, but Senke rolled atop it, over his head, and then thrust his sword through the shoulder blade. The sounds of battle erupted throughout the mansion.

When he reached the room he found the door open. Haern was gone.

T he proceedings bored Torgar tremendously. The sheer amount of revelry around him only worsened his torture. A thousand gallons of alcohol flowed throughout the crowd, the sound of cheers, sex, and fighting roared for miles, yet he was separated from it all.

“Sit up,” Taras whispered next to him. “You’re slouching.”

Torgar straightened, cracking his back as he did. Sometimes he wondered if boredom was more dangerous than actual combat. Certainly seemed as deadly an opponent. He sat at the incredibly long table set up in the pavilion atop the larger of the two hills chosen for the Kensgold. Members of all three families of the Trifect sat in the hundreds of chairs. He saw ugly cousins, distant relatives, soldiers and merchants of all kinds. They bickered among themselves, hoping to achieve a higher appearance through the sparring of their tongues or the collaborative wealth of their name.

Nonsense, all of it. Torgar knew he could kill every one of them to a man, yet they’d peer down at him as if their noses were a mile long and he were hard to see. At the head of the table, Laurie, Leon, and Maynard talked, sometimes openly, sometimes quiet and hunched together. Taras sat beside his father, listening when it seemed appropriate. Torgar gave the boy credit; he seemed to understand most, and he even chipped in once or twice without earning scorn from any of the three. Leon and Maynard seemed to be enjoying themselves, but Laurie was clearly upset. The empty seat beside Torgar was the reason.

Stupid bitch, thought Torgar. Just had to go running off for her precious walls. Babes in diapers are tougher to scare than that broad.

He might have said it out loud, but he’d been denied the amount of alcohol he’d wanted. Still, his master wanted him at Taras’ side, to serve as protection to both the boy and the father. Judging by the haughty grumbling about him, the only danger he saw was from a flying plate of warm food.

“What are they discussing now?” Torgar asked Taras. He tried to whisper, but his deep voice wasn’t suited for it.

“They’ve finished their trade contracts,” Taras said, glancing back at the mercenary. “They’re discussing the thief guilds now.”

“Not much to discuss,” Torgar said. “We double up some patrols, hire a few more mercenaries, but it’s like swatting at flies buzzing around your horse’s ass.”

He caught a finely dressed woman in her thirties glaring at him opposite the table so he shot her a wink.

“Forgive the color,” he told her. “My brain is mud and my tongue blue. I’m only here for my lord.”

She sniffed at him and turned toward a lady to her left. They began whispering, each clearly unhappy with his presence. Torgar sighed. By the gods, did he hate it here.

“They’re thinking of going to the king,” Taras said.

“Good luck with that,” Torgar said. “Got better chance…”

He choked down another colorful comment as a priest of Ashhur walk into the pavilion.

“Who in blazes let him in here?” Torgar asked. Taras, too busy listening to his father discuss bribes, didn’t notice. The mercenary captain stood and moved to intercept the priest. The man of cloth seemed lost amid the sea of people.

“Welcome to our gathering,” Torgar said as he grabbed the priest’s hand and shook it. The priest, a younger man with neatly trimmed hair and a shadow of growth on his chin, looked thoroughly relieved.

“I must admit, I’m a bit lost,” the priest said. “I need to speak with Laurie Keenan, though I don’t know his face from a thousand others.”

“I’m head of mercenaries for Lord Keenan,” Torgar said. “He’s busy plotting and planning, so just tell me what you’d tell him and I’ll see if it’s worth interrupting him for.”

The priest didn’t ask for proof of his rank or employer or anything. Torgar felt relieved that he’d gotten a hold of the priest first before he blabbed his message to the closest curious Gemcroft relative or Connington sellsword.

“It involves his wife, Madelyn,” the priest began.

“Hrm, hold up,” Torgar said, pushing his large forefinger into the priest’s face. “Not another word. Let’s go somewhere with less ears, eh?”

The priest nodded. Torgar led them out one of the side-flaps of the tent, nodding at the mercenaries stationed there as they passed.

“What’s your name?” Torgar asked as they walked.

“Derek,” said the priest. “You may call me Derek.”

“Then Derek you are!” said Torgar, laughing in an attempt to put the man at ease. Leaving the tent didn’t seem to as much as he’d hoped. Glancing around at the sheer decadence, Torgar realized why. He wondered how many pillars of Ashhur’s faith were being broken even as they spoke.

“Ignore the show,” Torgar said, grabbing the priest’s shoulders. “Now what is this message about?”

“We found Mrs. Keenan under attack on her way to her estate,” Derek began. “We rescued her before she could suffer any real harm. We hoped she’d stay the night in safety at our temple. Many of her guards did. Yet come the morning, it appeared she had run off.”

Torgar felt anger bubbling in his chest. While he had been escorting Taras with invitations to the Kensgold, another of his charges had been assaulted in the streets. Since he’d received no word otherwise, he’d assumed Madelyn had made it home safe. But had she actually?

“Why did you take so long to bring us word?” Torgar asked.

“We sent a priest to inform your lord of her staying at our temple.” Derek glanced about, his face twitching nervously. “We recently found out he was murdered. The message never made it to your camp. Calan, our high priest, sent members of our order to your estate to see if she were there. She’s not. Did she not come here?”

Torgar’s look was answer enough.

“Then you must tell your master,” Derek insisted. “His wife is missing, and we fear one of the thief guilds were the ones to take her.”

“If they did, she may not be alive,” Torgar said, sighing. “We’ve received no demands.”

“Actually,” Derek said, reaching out a trembling hand. “I think you have.”

Within his shaking fingers was a scroll sealed with wax. The wax itself was smooth, showing no insignia. Torgar took it, raising an eyebrow as he did.

“A man in a gray cloak stopped me on the way here,” Derek said. “He gave me the scroll and told me to deliver it to whom I gave my message. He swore I’d die if I opened it, or even tarried.”

He stepped back a little, as if the note might erupt and kill them all. Torgar broke the seal and unrolled it. The message was short and took him little time to read.

Keenan,

End the Kensgold. Leave Veldaren tonight. If not, Madelyn dies. Then Taras. Then you.

A Spider.

Torgar rolled up the note and held it so tight the paper crumpled and the wax cracked and fell to the ground in tiny pieces.

“Listen to me, Derek,” Torgar said. “Stay here at the Kensgold. They’ll kill you on your way back, do you understand?”

“I’m not afraid to die,” Derek said, but he certainly looked fearful.

“Scared or not, there’s no point in walking back into their trap,” the mercenary captain insisted. “But go off and die if you want. I’ve got more important things to do.”

He hurried back into the pavilion, honestly not caring whether or not the priest remained. Laurie was laughing loudly when he arrived, ignoring Taras’s inquisitive look.

“Milord,” Torgar said, kneeling down beside Laurie’s ear. “We need to talk.”

“Just a moment,” Laurie said, patting the mercenary on the shoulder. “Leon here was just telling a wonderful story about…”

“Now,” Torgar insisted. The mood soured immediately. Leon gave him a glare that said in no uncertain terms that if he were his mercenary, he’d be joining Will as game for the gentle touchers. Laurie looked at Torgar for a moment, seeing the urgency in his eyes, and then turned to the others.

“A moment, if you will,” he said, standing. Taras followed unasked.

“What is so damn important that I must appear subservient to my own mercenary?” Laurie asked once they were outside the tent. In answer, Torgar handed him the scroll. Laurie read it, swore, then threw it to the ground and stomped on it with his heel.

“Where’s Madelyn?” he asked.

“She never made it home,” Torgar explained. He summarized what the priest of Ashhur had told him. When finished, he stepped back and crossed his arms, wondering what his master would do.

“We don’t know if she’s dead or alive,” Laurie said, his face red with anger. “And even if I do what they say, there’s no guarantee they’ll let her live.”

“And the threat on your life, and your son’s?”

Laurie glanced at Taras, who had remained quiet.

“I have received a hundred of these every year for the past five,” Laurie said. “Why should I treat this one any different?”

Torgar shrugged his shoulders.

“How badly do you want her back?” he asked.

“That’s not the point,” Laurie said.

“That is the point. It is the only damn point. You want to remain powerful in the eyes of the Trifect, then stay. You want to keep your own ego intact, then stay. But if you want her back, then say the word. Pack up all our servants, our food, and our ale, and we go. What will it matter? We’ve had our feast. You’ve made your plans.”

Laurie looked furious enough to kill. His hand moved to the jeweled dagger hanging from his belt. Torgar refused to move. He knew he’d spoken out of line, but there was one last thing he had to say.

“Give me time,” he insisted. “I can find her on my own. I’ll bleed these cowards, find where she is, and bring her back safe. Give them what they want. What they ask for is so little. Either way they might kill her, but if they delay for even a few hours, that may decide whether I find a prisoner or a corpse.”

Laurie drew the dagger. He pointed its blade at Torgar’s throat. The hand shook.

“He’s right,” Taras said. “Either way they’ll kill her. This gives us a chance.”

The dagger lowered.

“Kneel,” Laurie said. Torgar did as told. He didn’t even wince when his master grabbed his neck and cut a thin line of blood across his forehead.

“Swear upon your blood,” Laurie said, his voice soft and shaking with intensity.

Torgar put his hands to his forehead, feeling the warmth flowing across his palms. After a count of ten, he pulled them back and lifted his hands to the night sky.

“I swear upon my lifeblood that I will bring her back.”

Laurie wiped the dagger clean with a cloth and then sheathed it.

“Almost,” he said. “But not quite. You’ll bring her back alive, Torgar. If not, I call your honor false. I call your wisdom foolishness, and my retreat a great jape against my name. If you find her dead, then fall upon your sword, because that death will be far better than the one I will give you.”

He stormed back into the pavilion, shouting orders. Cries of disappointment followed. The Kensgold was over.

“Let me come with you,” Taras said once his father was gone.

“Stay here,” Torgar said. “I have enough on my shoulders. I won’t have you dying on me while I find your mother.”

“I can fight,” Taras insisted.

“Follow me outside the camp and I’ll kill you myself,” Torgar threatened. That seemed to jolt the boy a little. Reluctantly, he turned and joined his father in the tent. Torgar shook his head. In truth, he’d love to have Taras with him, but the risks were already too great. He would work alone, and he’d work both bloody and fast.

He swung by the rest of his mercenaries, appointing another in charge and informing them of the Kensgold’s disbandment. Once that was done, he took a horse from their stable and rode like a demon to the walls of Veldaren. On his way there he rode past a body lying in the grass, its white robes stained crimson with blood.