Shadowdance 05 - A Dance of Ghosts (50 page)

“I’m looking for a friend,” Thren said. “Name’s Martin, ten years my younger. Brown hair, sometimes goes by the name of Softhands.”

“Martin Softhands,” said the barkeep, nodding. “He only uses that name when trying to impress the ladies. Surprised he didn’t name himself Longtongue or Goodfuck for all the good it’d do.”

Thren grinned.

“Never let him hear you say that,” he said. “He might adopt Goodfuck out of pure amusement. So, do you know where he is?”

The barkeep paused.

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

Thren reached into his pocket and then dumped out a handful of coins onto the counter.

“A good friend, this Martin,” Thren said, and the barkeep snatched up the coins with practiced speed.

“Upstairs, using those deft hands of his, and not on himself.”

“Which room?”

For a moment, the barkeep ignored him, instead counting up the coins.

“Room three,” said the burly man. “That’s the room you just rented from me for the night. Of course, I might have mixed up numbers, and room three’s already occupied…”

“The night’s busy and the tables loud,” Thren said. “Who would blame you for an honest mistake?”

Thren tipped his head in respect, then made his way to the stairs.

There were five rooms in total, small and cramped from what he could see of the lone door that was open. The others were closed, and the telltale sounds of sex came from within.

Animals,
thought Thren. He approached room three, marked by deep grooves cut into the front. He tested, found it locked. Sighing, Thren put the slightest weight on it to test its strength, discovered it was held shut by a simple chain at the top. Easy enough. Stepping back, he rammed his foot into the door, snapping the chain and smashing open the door to reveal Martin sitting on the edge of the bed, an older woman on her knees before him with her head in his lap.

“What the fu…”

Martin’s voice trailed off, his anger quickly changing to stunned silence. The woman pulled back and rose to her feet, with no care to her modesty, instead reaching for a slender dagger she’d hidden within the folds of her discarded dress.

“He’s finished,” Thren said to the woman. “Take your clothes and go.”

The woman looked back to Martin, who nodded.

“He’s right,” Martin said. “Go ahead and get out of here, and keep the coin.”

“Had no plans on giving it back,” she said, and within moments, she had her blouse back on and her skirt replaced. Thren stepped aside so she could leave, then crossed his arms and waited as Martin put on his pants.

“She seems a bit old,” Thren said, glancing back over his shoulder as the woman climbed down the stairs.

“Just means she knows what she’s doing. I don’t like paying for amateurs, and so long as my eyes are closed, every woman is sixteen and slender.”

Thren shrugged. Fair enough.

Martin tightened his belt, then walked over to him, bare from the waist up. The man had a rugged look to him, face and neck carrying the scars of his livelihood. Of all those he’d recruited into his guild since the Bloody Kensgold, Martin had been the one most practical and aware of how the city worked. Thren had hoped there’d have been fear at seeing his return, or perhaps optimism at a possible resurgence of the Spider Guild … but instead, Martin just looked annoyed and bored.

“What?” he asked.

That tone … he’d never have used that tone with him before, not while wearing the deep gray of the Spider. Gone for but a few months, yet already his reputation was sinking? It was enough to make Thren want to scream.

“Do I bother you?” Thren asked, and his right hand drifted down to the hilt of his sword. “Or did Muzien bore a hole through your skull when you became part of his Suns?”

Finally, a bit of fear in the man’s eyes, a measure of respect. If this was how his second-in-command reacted, well … restoring his Spider Guild to a position of power was going to be harder than he thought.

“Of course not,” Martin said, putting on his shirt. “Just … bad timing. So, you’re back, I see. I hope you enjoyed your time away from this shithole.”

“Pleasant,” Thren said. “But also irrelevant. I’ve come to rebuild, and I need your help to find the others. It’s time we call in every last member, and remind them to whom their true allegiance should be.”

“Former members,” Martin said, walking back to the bed and grabbing a long dagger, which he jammed into his belt. “They’ve joined the Sun Guild now, all but perhaps a few that died to that Victor bastard. Truth be told, Thren, I’m not sure how you plan on convincing them. This city is Muzien’s now, from top to bottom.”

“But only in my absence.”

Martin laughed.

“You think that matters?”

Thren stepped closer, grabbed Martin by the front of his shirt, and yanked him close.

“I have been here for decades,” he said, feeling his temper overwhelming him. “I’ve watched guilds rise and fall, I’ve cut off the heads of kings and queens, and I’ve earned every last bit of respect the scum of this city can muster. I will not be turned away nor insulted. You think my name means nothing? We’ll find out, Martin. When I remind them of who I am and what I can do, we’ll see if they’re willing to throw their lot in with a damn elf over one of their own.”

Martin swallowed, clearly worried but still able to meet Thren’s stare with his own.

“Have I made myself clear?” Thren asked.

“Perfectly,” Martin said.

Thren let him go, and his former most trusted smoothed out his shirt, and just like that, his worry was gone, and he slipped into the role he’d filled for many a year.

“Muzien’s kept most of the guilds together, even if unofficially,” he said. “Helps with the transition, I’m guessing. Most of those downstairs once wore the gray as well, and that’s where we’ll start. It’ll be tricky though, Thren. One word to Muzien, and it all goes to shit.”

“Then we have to make them afraid,” Thren said. “More afraid of me than of Muzien.”

Martin grinned.

“Is that all?” he asked. “So be it. Find yourself a room, and once I get myself a good night’s sleep, I’ll start working on the others tomorrow. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go find another girl to finish what you interrupted.”

Thren stepped out of the room, and he frowned.

“Take care of it yourself. Cheaper that way.”

“Not all of us want to build up a fortune like you,” Martin said, walking past him to the stairs. “Some of us would rather enjoy the spending.”

Thren looked to the empty room, shook his head, and then followed Martin down the stairs.

“Sorry about that,” the barkeep said, gesturing Thren over. “Room five’s the one open. Five. Hope you don’t mind the slipup.”

Thren smiled, deciding he liked the man.

“Not at all,” he said, heading toward the door. He was too wired to sleep, not yet. The journey had worn on him, but damn, it felt good to begin planning again. It’d be slow, steady work, but strand by strand was how you built a web, not all at once. No doubt a few of his former members would have to die to make the others realize the consequence of denying him and remaining loyal to the Suns. Truth be told, he felt himself looking forward to it.

Out into the night he stepped, breathing in the lingering odors of the marketplace tinged with the scent of alcohol and rotting fruit and bread cast off from earlier in the day. He looked to the stars and tried to tell himself that the city was his, no matter the dozens of tiles marked with the Sun he’d passed on his way there. His city. His home.

As he stared, he saw someone crouching at the edge of a building, watching. Thren grunted, and he pretended not to see. Down the street he walked, aimless, in no hurry. He didn’t want to let whoever tailed him realize he’d been spotted, not yet …

The tail was on the rooftop on the right side of the street, so once Thren reached an alley on his left, he suddenly sprinted down it, racing as fast as his legs could carry him. He’d thought it’d be an easy enough task to leave whoever it was behind, but instead, he had to come to a sliding halt before reaching the other side. A man had stepped out, the four-pointed star sewn onto the front of his shirt, the daggers in his hands gleaming in the moonlight. Spinning about, Thren saw the other entrance blocked by two more. Gritting his teeth, he looked skyward, saw three more lurking above him, faces hidden by the hoods of their cloaks.

Damn it,
Thren swore.
Someone alerted them, but who? Martin? The barkeep?

Assuming he lived, Thren knew who the first would be to serve as an example for those who would deny his return.

“Thren Felhorn,” said a haunting voice behind him. Slowly, Thren turned, pulled the hood away from his face, and stood tall before his former master.

“It’s been a long time, Muzien,” Thren said to the elf at the far end of the alley, flanked by two more of his guild. “Have you finally come to greet me?”

Muzien stepped into the alley, eyes like ice, mutilated ears seeming all the more grotesque with the way the moonlight colored them, making the scars seem almost purple.

“It seems I must,” said the elf. “For you sneaked into my home and did not think to seek me out.”

Your home?

It made Thren want to smack him across the face with a blade, but he kept his temper in check. If there was one thing Muzien knew how to wield as both weapon and shield, it was arrogance.

“It has been my home for far longer,” Thren said. “I’d like to think of it as you merely borrowing the place prior to my return.”

Muzien smiled, but there was no enjoyment in it. It was a smile Thren recognized all too well from growing up under Muzien’s tutelage. It meant the elf was tiring of a game, and when he tired of a game, he didn’t stop playing. He simply won it.

“You know you have no more power here,” Muzien said. “And I will not pretend otherwise to satisfy your tired pride. This is my city now, Thren, and if you wish to live in it, I will have you bow before me and serve.”

Thren glanced back to the rooftops. All three above had crossbows drawn and aimed. Much as he wanted to make a move toward the elf, he knew he’d die before ever getting close, and that wasn’t counting the two at his side who would certainly move to block the way.

“Why now?” Thren asked. “I’ve done everything you asked. You wanted me to come to Veldaren, and I did. You wanted me to create an empire, and I did. Everything you taught me, I used. Every trick and scheme, I performed to the highest of standards. Yet you sent Grayson in to kill me, and now your guild has moved in, crushing everything I built. I was your heir, damn you, so tell me what I did that had you turn on me so.”

Muzien approached, and with a wave of his hand, those with him stayed behind. Confidence, Thren knew. Arrogance. No fear of him whatsoever, and if Thren were honest with himself, he knew it was true. Muzien had taught him all he knew of swordplay, and not once had he ever,
ever
won a duel. The elf’s face remained cold, passive, but his blue eyes seemed to sparkle with a disgust Thren felt betrayed by. What had he ever done to deserve such emotion?

“You were indeed my heir,” Muzien said. “I put my years into you, training you, molding your mind and body. A single breath of mine is worth more than the lifetime of your kind, yet still I devoted it to your betterment, creating an heir worthy of my legacy. A
worthy
heir, Thren. I could name any fool as my successor, but I desired someone who could keep my empire together instead of letting it crumble mere moments after my death. Yet you…”

Muzien gestured about.

“What is your legacy here? Everything you built fell to ashes and dirt, and from what? An interloping lord, a few wealthy merchants, and a mysterious vigilante killer?”

“You belittle my challenges,” Thren said.

“Your challenges belittle you! I listened to the excuses. I observed from afar as your war was waged, as the Trifect bled and the guilds consumed one another. At last, I knew I had to come for myself. What did I accomplish in your absence? Domination, Thren. In four months, I have accomplished what you have not in all your years stalking these streets. Four months.”

The elf shook his head.

“I know your abilities. I know what you can do, and everything I have done was always within your reach. Something held you back, Thren. What, I cannot guess. I thought I had purged your weaknesses, but some remain. Complacency, in merely ruling a few guilds? Foolishness, in trusting the wrong men? Cowardice, in signing the Watcher’s agreement? I’d ask, but truth be told, Thren … I don’t care. You are old and unworthy. With Grayson dead, I must begin anew and adopt new heirs to potentially inherit my wealth and power. It won’t be you. It cannot be.”

“Do you think to insult me?” Thren asked as Muzien turned away. “That I
want
to inherit a single coin after your death? I built everything here on my own, and I will do it again if I must. No matter how certain you are, Muzien, this city will never be yours. I won’t allow it. I will leave you with a graveyard of fire and death before I let you pretend to be its god.”

Muzien turned back about, his blue eyes seemingly on fire with his rage. Closer he came, towering before him, their faces mere inches apart. So close. So easily could Thren draw a blade, but instead, he met Muzien’s gaze and refused to back down.

“
How?
” Muzien asked, full of mockery, that one word defining his entire opinion of Thren and his worth.

Thren gave no answer. He dared not even move. The slightest insult meant death. He would challenge the Darkhand in time, but not yet. Not there … and not alone.

“I thought not,” Muzien said. “I’d hoped you could at least loyally serve, despite your faults, until a new heir could be trained. I had even entertained the idea of you helping with the training, but that was my own fault for thinking you could be of any use.”

He turned, long coat flapping behind him as he strode away.

“Get out of my city, Thren,” Muzien called after, not bothering to turn around. “The next time we meet, it will end with your head in a bag.”

And just like that, they were gone. The Suns at either side of the alley vanished, and when he looked up, the rooftops were clear, only stars looking back. Thren stood there, breathing heavily, doing his best to stay calm. Despite all his years, he’d never once endured such disrespect from his teacher as he had then. Before, Muzien had always believed there was some sort of promise in him and Grayson, something special and worthy of his time. No longer.