Blood of the Underworld (35 page)

One of his former members lay on the table, arms and legs spread wide. An arrow protruded from his chest. Carrying the lantern over, he felt stones turn in his gut as the light glinted off silver coins in the man’s eyes. Alan, Thren realized. His name was Alan. After the raid, all of the captured Spider guildmembers had been questioned and brought before judges. Those who turned on others had been spared and sent away. Alan had been one of them.

Pulling open his mouth, he found the two gold coins, there as always. Lifting the lantern, he looked at the opposite wall for the message.

silver silver

gold and gold

here in the thief den

where are you spider

where are you thren

It was written not once, not twice, but a dozen times all along the walls. Checking the body, Thren found a slit across Alan’s neck, no doubt where this madman had gotten the necessary amount of blood. And Thren knew for certain it was a madman. Unlike in the streets, he, or she, had had time in the basement, and they’d indulged themselves with the display. Everywhere he cast his lantern light he saw the message, and it left no question as to whom it’d been intended for.

The killings had nothing to do with his guild, nothing to do with power or territory. Someone wanted him to suffer. Whatever vendetta they had, it was personal.

“I’m here!” Thren shouted, kicking the table so it slid a foot, and rocking the body atop it. “You want me, here I am! Think you’ll take my eyes? Think you’ll shove gold coins down my throat? Here! Right here!”

Childish outburst out of the way, Thren forced himself to calm down, to think. If the Widow had taken his time, then so could he. First, he needed more light than the little coming in through the windows. Much of their things had been ransacked, but he found a discarded skin with a bit more oil in it, and he refilled the lantern, set it to burning brighter. That done, he dug through the scattered mess in the supply room, scavenging a few candles that he lit and placed about. That done, he began his investigation.

He started with the body, looking it over for any sort of clue. He found no sign of clothing, no dropped personal items. Moving on to the floor, he looked, but again found little. Too much tramping about by guards, too much activity prior to their arrival. Next he scanned the messages, each one. He read them all, to see if they said the same. He looked for any hint to the mindset of the Widow, even something as basic as whether or not the man or woman wrote with their right hand or left.

On the sixth message he checked, he at last found his clue. Pressed against the wall and held there by dried blood was a long strand of brown hair, clearly that of a woman. Thren pulled it free and then wrapped it around his finger. At least he had a color to go on. A flash of thought, and he grinned. No, he had far more than that. Returning to Alan’s body, he took the silver and gold before rushing out.

The Council of Mages’ presence was weak in Veldaren, but they did have a few members. They were unanimously unimpressive, failures to master the craft. Thren viewed them as little more than charlatans, taking the coin of others and offering petty fortunes and trinkets in return. One such charlatan, however, had been somewhat useful. In what felt like an age past, a wizard had once been a member of the Spider Guild. It was his shop Thren went to, the hair still tightly wrapped around his finger.

Inside was cramped, with hardly room for three men to stand side by side. The fat wizard sat on a stool, only a table separating him from the door. A few odds and ends hung from the walls, and behind the wizard was a shelf full of jars, each containing a strange organ or insect. From experience, Thren knew little of them were necessary for spells, only kept there for looks.

“Welcome, welcome,” said the wizard. Most of his clothing was simple, dull browns and grays, but he wore a thin green robe over it, no doubt meant to impress the simpletons. Thren snorted at the sight.

“Hello, Cregon,” Thren said. “How has business fared since you tossed aside your cloak?”

Cregon leaned closer, and then his eyes widened as he realized who was before him.

“Y-y-you let me go willingly,” he stammered. “And I know my protection money’s not been consistent, but business comes and goes...”

“Drop it,” Thren said, taking a seat opposite the wizard. “If I wanted you dead, I’d just kill you. I have a use for your talents.”

“Talents?” Cregon asked. He was already sweating. The sight of it disgusted Thren. Sure, he’d been useful, but he’d let the man go just because he couldn’t stand the sight of his bloated self. “Talents, of course. Whatever you need, I’m sure I can help. What spell would you like? Or do you need some sort of enchantment?”

“I need a scrying spell,” Thren said.

Cregon licked his lips.

“Who is it? If they’re unknown to me, I’ll need a drawing or strongly personal object to see them.”

“I don’t know who she is, and don’t care about her name or what she’s doing. I just need to know where to find her.”

Cregon nodded, but Thren could tell he was starting to worry.

“That’s better, but still not cheap, nor easy. Do you have anything of hers?”

In answer, Thren tossed the silver and gold he’d taken from Alan’s body, then put the strand of hair atop it.

“That’s for the cost, and that’s for the spell,” Thren explained. “Just a location.”

Cregon pocketed the coins, then grabbed the hair. He frowned at it as he wrapped it twice around his beefy hand.

“Not a lot to go on,” he said. “But I think I can manage. This person important to you in some way?”

Thren chuckled.

“You might say that. I want her dead, but to do that, I need to find her.”

Cregon nodded, the movement shaking his fat jowls.

“Of course, of course. Just wait a moment. I’ll see what I can do.”

He put his hands over the hair, closed his eyes, and began murmuring the spidery words of magic. Thren waited, wise enough to not interrupt such an incantation. A soft light surrounded Cregon’s fingers, and then it plunged into the hair. It shimmered yellow, then faded. Cregon frowned.

“What is it?” Thren asked.

“I found her,” he said. “But it’s somewhere dark. Not a building...I don’t know. It’s outside the city, though, not far from the wall.”

“Not good enough, Cregon. I need to know where to look.”

“I’m telling you! It’s just beyond the west wall, little bit off the road into the city. I can’t tell you how to get there when there is nothing. Maybe it’s a camp...”

Thren stood, and his hand fell to the hilt of a shortsword.

“Can you find the way?” he asked. Cregon’s eyes widened, and he nodded. “Good. Then close up shop. You’re leading me there.”

Cregon locked the door to the shop, pocketed the key, and then hurried off. Thren followed, lurking a few feet behind him.

“Pick up the pace,” Thren told him, rolling his eyes. The man looked like a pregnant sow trying to waddle on two legs. “I don’t want this Widow to move before we get there.”

“The Widow?” Cregon asked, glancing behind him. “
That’s
who we’re looking for?”

“It is. Now move.”

Cregon hurried faster, huffing and puffing as they made for the west gate. A few passing by recognized him and said hello, and the wizard tipped his hat in return. At the gate, the guards waved him on by without a word. Thren followed, looking much like the poor commoner and hardly earning a second glance.

“How far?” Thren asked as they traveled the road.

“Not far,” Cregon said, very much out of breath. “Not...” He swallowed. “Not far.”

Quarter mile from the city Cregon turned sharply off the path. Realizing where they traveled, Thren quietly drew his shortswords, thinking the wizard leading him into a trap. Cregon stopped just short, and he gestured before him.

“In there,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”

He’d taken them to a pauper’s graveyard, where the city guards buried the nameless dead without a single copper in their possession to earn them a gravestone or marker.

“This Widow is still alive,” Thren said. “You’ve made a mistake. You must have.”

“No mistake,” Cregon said. “I assure you, she must be here.”

Thren pointed a shortsword toward the graveyard.

“Then find her.”

Cregon held the fist with the hair to his lips, and he closed his eyes. After a few whispers, he opened them.

“Follow me.”

Near the far corner he stopped, and with his heel he made a small x.

“Right here,” he said.

Thren wanted to believe the wizard was lying to him, but he’d always been a coward, and the fear in his eyes was genuine. Surely he’d made a mistake, but Cregon appeared convinced otherwise.

“Go on back to your shop,” he said. “Leave me be.”

Cregon was more than happy to obey. When he trundled off, Thren remained, staring at the mark in the dirt. At last he returned to the city and swiped a trowel small enough to hide underneath his thin coat. Once more he walked to the graveyard, and without a care for time, began to dig. The day passed by, hour by hour, as he unearthed the grave. At last he hit bone, and then started digging around it. By the time the woman’s skull was revealed, the sun had begun to set. Exhausted, he sat back and viewed the results of his work.

The body was far from fresh, at least several years buried to his untrained eye. The dead woman still had her teeth, and her fingernails. As for her hair, though...

He broke the skull free and lifted it up to the waning light. All across the bare skull he saw tiny marks, scratches as if from a small blade.

“A wig,” Thren said, tossing the skull back into the shallow grave. “What is it you hide, Widow? Who are you really?”

Still, he had a few clues now, however meager. Standing, he kicked dirt into the grave until the body was covered, then looked back to Veldaren. Her lanterns were starting to twinkle into existence one by one. There was a time when Thren had considered Veldaren his city, all his. How far had he fallen to be outside it, digging up a poor woman’s corpse, while the rest of the guilds and Trifect plotted and maneuvered? Hands clenched into fists, he stabbed the trowel into the earth to serve as a burial marker. Alone he walked toward the road.

Veldaren would be his city again. He swore it. Once he had his vengeance, once he knew who was out there pulling the strings of puppets, he would retake his city brick by brick.

My city
.

The thought put a grim smile on his face. For a while he’d accepted that the city was no longer his, but his son’s. That was over. The rumors of the Watcher’s survival meant nothing to him. He’d started them, playing the sham in a failed attempt to shame Grayson in the eyes of the underworld. But Victor’s arrival had shifted things beyond his control, had made it so Grayson needed to only watch as Thren’s guild was broken.

Darkness settled across the land as he walked his path. He’d take it all back. He’d rebuild, fight for it with every last measure of his skill. He would find victory. And if he couldn’t, then he’d burn it all to the ground.

My city,
thought Thren.

My city...

Or ashes and rubble.

25

V
ictor stepped inside his makeshift home and let out a sigh of relief. Another day over, another twelve gone to the executioner’s blade. The light was fading as the sun dipped below the walls of the city, but inside was well lit, and crowded with families still seeking refuge from the vengeance of the thief guilds.

“Where’s your guard?” Sef asked, sitting at the bar where Victor joined him. “You did have a guard, right?”

“What business of yours is that?” Victor asked, accepting the drink Sef slid over to him.

“My business is to keep you alive, and to kill the rats of Veldaren. So far, I think I’m doing better at one than the other.”

Victor shrugged.

“The streets have grown calmer. You know that.”

Sef rolled his eyes.

“So no escort, then?” At Victor’s chuckle, Sef shook his head. “Going to get your damn self killed, Victor. I thought you’d learned better.”

“Can’t help it. I am no helpless child.”

Sef stroked at his beard, a habit Victor recognized well. It meant Sef was growing frustrated with him.

“Our foes aren’t so helpless, either. But if you want to go about trusting only your sword arm, then go right ahead.”

Victor stood, patted Sef on the shoulder.

“You know the gods have a better fate for me than dying to some soulless vagabond. Stay safe on your patrols tonight.”

Sef grunted.

“Thought you said the city had grown calmer.”

Victor grinned at him as he headed for the stairs.

“Did I? But my advisors insist the world is still a dangerous place, and I feel it best to listen.”

“Bastard.”

Victor waved without looking. At the top of the stairs were the two guards watching his room, to ensure no one entered during his absence. Victor nodded at them, then waited for his door to be unlocked.