A Dance of Cloaks

chapter 3

The message had come yet again, and this time James Beren was tempted to shout out his Ash Guild’s response at the top of this lungs. At least that would get Thren off his ass. Either that, or a dagger stabbed into it, but by this point he might have preferred the brutal attempt than the sickeningly sweet diplomacy Thren seemed prone to lately.

“Shall we give our usual answer?” asked Veliana, his right hand man…although being a woman, he figured he should change her title, but crude amusement kept him from doing so. She was a pretty thing with cream-colored skin, red hair tied in a long pony tail, and dazzling violet eyes. Several daggers were clipped to her belt, her skill with them almost legendary for her age, and she was rumored to have a bit of magic in her, as well. A few had murmured about how the little girl of eighteen had slept her way to James’ side, but they were all hogwash. Her mind was as sharp as her dagger, frightening in its deadliness.

“His plan is suicide,” James said, pacing within the warmly lit study. They were holed up in a safehouse deep within the slums of Veldaren. Hundreds of families provided ample cover for their coming and going, and a bit of well-placed coin and occasional bread did wonders to ensure their discretion. A few hanging bodies had helped, as well.

“Perhaps such a risk must be taken to end this,” Veliana said. “He writes that we are the last hold-out; all the other guildmasters have signed on.”

“That’s because he’s killed everyone who disagreed,” James said, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. “And the rest he cowed with a few subtle threats dripping with poison. He’s grown desperate and delusional. Surely you can agree with me on that?”

Veliana smiled at him, a practiced smile that hid any of her true emotions. The lady watched her guildmaster pace. He was pushing forty, and his gray hair did little to hide that fact. His face had begun to wrinkle, and he constantly rubbed his large nose while he walked. The rest of his hand curled against his chin and pressed against his lips. The Ash Guild was the smallest of all the thieves’ guilds, but it was certainly not the weakest. With small size came added secrecy and stealth. They did not need to pad their numbers with riffraff and lowborn drunkards who couldn’t steal a diaper from a suckling babe.

“I’m not sure I agree,” she said, not revealing whether she meant Thren or James. “But we’ve entered the fifth year. We’ve tried hurting their wealth, and the gods know we have, but it’s like bailing water out of a river. It all just runs back. We steal from the Trifect, and then our men spend it on wine, room, clothes, and petty trinkets, and who do you think supplies every one of those?”

“But all of us?” James asked. “He really thinks with the guilds combined that someone won’t leak word to the Trifect? His plan requires an almost impossible level of secrecy. One errant word and we’re all hanging from nooses…if we’re lucky.”

“If he’s only contacted the guildmasters,” Veliana said, “it is possible to keep silence, at least as long as necessary.”

“And those guildmasters will tell advisors or close friends, and then they will tell their close friends, and then one of them will leak word to a turncoat for Connington or Keenan, and then we’re all f*cked.”

Veliana laughed.

“Then tell him no,” she said. “Stop asking for delays.”

“Do that and I become just another body at Thren’s feet,” James said. He sounded tired. “I didn’t live this long, clawing and climbing my way past friends and enemies, just to watch it all vanish in smoke and ash.”

“Ash is what we are,” Veliana said, tossing the note from Thren Felhorn into the fireplace and watching it be consumed. “And Ash is what Veldaren will be soon. Do what you think is best, regardless of whether I agree or not, but at least make sure you do something. Waiting for Thren or the Trifect to act will get us killed.”

“You’re right,” James said after a length. “Either we aid him, or stop him. He is either friend or enemy. The question is, can we afford Thren as anything other than a friend?”

“That,” Veliana said, “is a very dangerous question.”

At least she had a blanket. For that, Alyssa was grateful. The cells underneath the Gemcroft estate weren’t built with comfort in mind, and in the deep stone underground the warmth of the sun was a forgotten notion. While growing up, she had heard one of her father’s men brag about how the stone walls had been cut just the right way to always ensure a draft blew to every corner of the room.

Soaked in moisture that dripped from the ceiling and unable to avoid the constant, chilling blow of air, many prisoners had broken down in desperate clamoring for warmth. While the deep cold of snow and ice eventually numbed the skin, the Gemcroft cells chilled relentlessly.

The draft in mind, her father’s head guardsman had given her a thick blanket. Still, no matter how tight she wrapped it around her body, she always felt a draft sneaking up her leg or down the small of her back. She trembled, remembering tales of men who had been thrown into their cell naked and without any source of light. Growing up as a girl, she thought it an uncomfortable situation. Given just a taste, she now understood its potential for torture.

And that wasn’t even counting the actual torture that went on either, something she was most obviously spared.

Alyssa wasn’t sure how long she’d been in her cell, though judging by her meals it had only been two days. The first day she had shouted and threatened and demanded her release. When she finally crumpled into a corner huddled underneath her blanket, most of her anger had subsided. A deep core remained in her breast, but she did her best to keep it contained. She had more important things to deal with.

There was only one thing that could have rankled Maynard so, and that was her mention of the Kulls. They certainly held no love of her father. Through whispers and traders, they had convinced nearly every man and woman outside of Veldaren that the Trifect had grown soft and stupid. While Alyssa did not believe it all, she knew mistakes had been made, and a menace like the thief guilds should have been eradicated years before.

He’ll come for me, she thought. Her father would have to. He just wanted to show her how serious he took her words. Perhaps when the door opened, and he appeared holding a torch in one hand and another blanket in the other, she’d forgive his punishment. She’d wrap her arms around him, kiss his cheek, and willingly tell him everything about the Kulls. They had no sinister plans. They had no ulterior motives. How much time had she spent with Yoren? The Kull family felt that if the Trifect fell, then they would be the next in line for the hungry maw of the guilds to feast upon.

“You know how you stop a raging bull?” Yoren had asked her. “Kill it before it starts running. It has already gored the Trifect. It needs to die before it turns its horns to us.”

Maynard did not come that second day.

On the third morning, he appeared with two guards. One held another blanket, while the other carried her food. Maynard stood between them, his arms crossed. He wore no cloak or vest, as if the sweeping chill meant nothing to him.

“Believe me, my daughter, when I say I have no ill will toward you for this foolishness,” he said. Alyssa fought down an urge to stand and fling her arms around him. “But you must tell me what the Kulls are planning. They are liars, girl, liars and thieves and conniving men, so tell me what it is they want.”

She shook her head. Her anger lashed out, temporarily uncontrolled.

“They’re mad at your incompetence, same as I,” she said. “And if they plan a move against you, it is your own doing, but I swear I know nothing.”

Maynard Gemcroft nodded, and the sides of his mouth drooped a little.

“A shame,” he said. He turned to one of the guards. “Take her blanket.”

She felt panic bubble up her throat as she watched the second blanket leave, and she felt even worse when her first blanket was ripped from her arms. She clawed at it frantically, screaming that it was hers, hers, they couldn’t take it. But they did, and she was cold now, very cold, and it was only day three, and she still knew nothing.

On the fourth night, she was cold, miserable, and suddenly not alone.

“Do not be frightened,” a voice whispered into the cell. Alyssa jumped like a startled rabbit. Her lips were blue, and her skin a sickly pale color, wrinkled from the moisture that hung thick in the air and clung to the stone walls. She felt wet and disgusting, and her mind leapt to the darkest conclusions of why someone might come calling in the deep of night.

“My father will find out,” she said from her crouched position on the far side from the cell bars. “He’ll punish you if he…”

Unless her father had sent the stranger. She choked the thought down. Her voice caught in her throat, for there was no one at her cell. Again she heard the voice, echoing from wall to wall like a magician’s trick. This time she clearly realized that a woman was doing the whispering, a fact that should have calmed her but strangely did not.

“We are Karak’s outcast children,” said the whisper. “We are his most fervent, his most faithful, for we have much to atone. Are you a sinner, girl? Will you lift your arms to us and accept our mercy?”

Shadows danced around her cell, not cast from the single torch flickering on the outside of her bars. Alyssa put her hands atop her head and buried her face into her knees.

“I want to be warm,” she said. “Please, my father, he’s not bad, he isn’t. I just want to be warm.”

While Alyssa peered over her knees, she saw the shadows swarm together, grow volume and mass, and then finally fill with color, becoming a woman shrouded in black with a white cloth covering her face.

“There is warmth in the abyss,” the woman said as she drew a serrated dagger. “Would you like me to send you there? Careful of what you ask, girl. Be clear with your demands, or accept the cruel gifts fools and selfish men may give.”

Alyssa forced herself to stand. She felt skinny and naked before the strange woman, and it took all her willpower to keep her hands at her sides, stop them from shaking.

“I want out of this prison,” she said. “I have done nothing to deserve its cold. Now tell me, who sent you here?”

“Who else would send us?” the woman asked. “Do not ask questions where you already know the answers. Remain quiet. We are few, and some things must be done in silence.”

She wrapped her cloak around her body, its fabric seemingly made of liquid shadow. A sudden jerk and she was gone, her body exploding into dark fragments that splashed across the walls and faded like smoke.

“You have accepted the help of the faceless,” echoed a whisper throughout her cell. “Always remember, the cost you pay is always dearer once it has left your hand.”

Alyssa sat back down, curled her knees to her chin, and began to cry. She wondered what Yoren would say if he saw her like that. He was so beautiful, and she knew she could be too, but not here, not cold and wet and crying like a pathetic street urchin. Her tears did not stop like she hoped. Instead, she cried louder.

Far away, she heard a door open, the sound thick with bolts and metal. Her eyes lifted, and with detached curiosity, she watched and waited.

A hefty man lumbered into view, his thumbs tucked into his belt. His eyes were beady and close together, and his long mustache dripped with grease. Alyssa had never met him before returning home to Veldaren, though she had quickly learned his name. Jorel Tule, master of the cold cells.

“I got dogs howling up a storm,” Jorel said. “Figure I’d make sure you’re nice and cozy.”

“A blanket,” she said. Her teeth chattered, and it was no act.

“Gemcroft says to wait until you can’t stand no more,” the man said, hoisting up his belt. “I think he means to have me wait until you’re close to dead before warming you up.”

A hard edge entered his eye. Alyssa recognized it as perverse joy in seeing one of noble birth sunken down to his level and then put at his mercy. When shadows began coalescing behind his back, she openly smiled.

“I think you can wait a bit longer,” Jorel said.

“A blanket might have saved your life,” Alyssa replied. Jorel gave her a funny look but did not respond. When he turned to leave, a serrated dagger awaited him. It sliced his throat and splattered blood across the floor. The blood slid off the faceless woman’s robes like water.

“He never would have served you,” the woman said. “But there are others that will, and we must spare them if we can. Otherwise, your rule will be disputed and last as long as a sputtering candle in a storm.”

“My rule?”

Alyssa stood, her arms no longer shaking. She waited until the faceless woman opened her cell, then grasped the door with one hand and held it firm.

“Tell me your name,” she said.

“I have no name,” the woman replied.

“You said you are faceless, not nameless, now tell me.”

Alyssa could not see the woman’s eyes through the white cloth, but she had a feeling that behind it hid an amused smile.

“A strong candle,” the woman said. “My name is Eliora.”

“Then listen to me well, Eliora,” Alyssa said. “I will not accept rule of my household over the murdered body of my father. Whatever you were paid or promised, I can match it. All I ask is that Maynard be captured, not killed.”

Eliora let go of the door and stepped back so Alyssa could exit.

“This world is chaos, but I will do what I can. Be warned; your father may already be dead. If that is the case, turn your anger on who hired us. Do not blame the sword for the blood spilled, only the hand that wielded it.”

The faceless woman led them up the winding stairs out of the dungeon. They encountered no guards, dead or living. As they ascended, Alyssa heard the ruckus the dogs were making. Eliora must have noticed the look on her face, for the hounds sounded as if they were ravenous for blood.

“They are frightened and angry,” she explained. “It is a simple spell we cast upon them to draw the guards out of the estate. My sisters are all inside, I assure you.”

Alyssa nodded but said nothing.

The stairs ended in a cramped room with bare walls and a lone door, the outside of which was normally bolted. Eliora gently pushed it open; Jorel must have gone down without alerting anyone, otherwise they would have locked it behind him.

“How many are with you?” Alyssa asked. Eliora shot her a glare.

“We are three,” she said. “Though we may be less if you continue braying louder than a mule.”

With so little time between her arrival and subsequent imprisonment, Alyssa had not taken stock of her father’s defenses. She knew they could not be light. No matter how much she might belittle the thief guilds, she was not an idiot. Without adequate protection, cloaked men with daggers would be lurking under every bed and within every closet.

Of course, those defenses seemed to have meant little to the faceless woman, and that thought gave Alyssa a chill. Surely the Kulls were behind their hiring, but what if it had been Thren Felhorn instead? Suddenly her father’s difficulties dealing with the threat of the guilds didn’t seem quite so pathetic. Clearly the Kulls meant for her to take over the Gemcroft estate. Once in position to rule, she would keep all that in mind when deciding how to deal with her father.

Men shouted in the far distance, their voices muffled through the walls.

“That would be Nava,” Eliora whispered. “She is looping the compound, killing guards foolish enough to leave themselves vulnerable. Hurry now. We go to your father’s room.”

The plush carpet felt wonderful to her bare feet. Even better was the warm burst of air blowing across her skin. She remembered how warm her father kept the mansion, and how she used to stretch out before the large fires roaring in the multitude of hearths throughout its halls. Winter still approached, but already Maynard had begun fighting the chill. Alyssa almost stole away from Eliora for such a fire, desiring nothing more than to huddle close and burn away the deep frost that had settled into her bones. The biting words the faceless woman might say kept her from doing so.

They hurried down a long hall. Over twenty windows stretched along the right, their glass covered by violet curtains. On the left hung paintings of former masters of the Gemcroft estate. A hysterical laugh died in her throat as she wondered if her own painting would hang on the wall. She also wondered if she’d live long enough for someone to paint it.

I come for my crown, she thought. What the bloody abyss has come over me?

She wanted none of this. She had meant to berate her father, show him his cowardice and hesitance and by doing so spur him into harsher dealings with the guilds. Never did she expect to usurp him before the waning of the moon.

They reached the end of the hall. Eliora slipped through the empty doorway, silent as a ghost. A guard stood to the right of it, and he died with a dagger in his throat and a wrapped hand over his mouth. As she watched the blood spill across the floor, Alyssa remembered the questions her father had asked. What did the Kull household plan? Your elimination, she thought. The company of the faceless. Dimly she wondered if her own eyes might be as covered as Eliora’s was with her thin white cloth.

Once certain no more guards were about, Eliora waved Alyssa on through.

“Is there anyone who might help supervise the Gemcroft estate?” the faceless woman asked as they passed through a series of bedrooms. “An advisor or a wise man, perhaps?”

“He does,” Alyssa said. She remembered Eliora’s earlier warning and lowered her voice. “Though I cannot remember his name.”

“Do you remember his face?”

She nodded.

“Describe him.”

A face flashed before her eyes, that of an older man with a short white beard and a shaved head. His eyebrows she especially remembered. He had shaved them regularly, and as a little girl she had been fascinated by the strange way it made his face look.

Eliora bobbed her head up and down, looking like a strange doll with its head off-balance.

“Will you hurt him?” Alyssa asked when done.

“No,” Eliora said. “Now I know, I will let him live. The elder man is the key to your takeover. To the common worker and guard, there is little difference when the figurehead changes names so long as their immediate master stays the same.”

The faceless woman stopped at another hallway and glanced both directions.

“Which way to your father’s bedroom?” she asked.

Alyssa thought for a moment.

“Left,” she said. “Not far from my own.”

“Stay here, and stay silent,” Eliora said. “There will be guards.”

The shadow cloak swirled about her body, her limbs and head fading away into a shapeless blob of black and gray. Only the serrated dagger shone bright and true in her violet hand. Alyssa glanced behind her every few moments, feeling almost certain a guard would find her alone and helpless. She had turned down numerous offers for training (the Pensleys had been particularly adamant that she spar daily with their weaponsmaster, an ex-knight named Durg who reeked more of wine than honor). As she stood there, she wished she had taken up those offers. She would gladly endure Durg’s drunken glances if it meant holding a blade without fear of the shouts she heard throughout the mansion.

The core of anger hidden in her breast flared. She had strode into her father’s house as cocksure as any other man might have. Had the chill of the cells stolen that away from her? She was the rightful heir, and after the embarrassment of five years worth of secret warfare against an inferior opponent, most members of her household would certainly be glad of a stronger, smarter leader. If any guard appeared, she would demand the loyalty of his sword.

The sounds of a scuffle reached her ears, coupled with a single, pained scream that was cut off halfway through. She was afraid to look around the corner to see, but did so anyway. She saw several bodies lying in a bloody path that ended at another corner. She thought to give chase when a dagger pressed against her neck.

“Where is my sister?” she heard a voice ask.

“Are you Nava?” Alyssa asked, trying her hardest not to sound afraid. Her voice came out sounding weak but annoyed. Given the circumstances, she thought that was acceptable. The dagger shifted against her skin, and from the brief pause, she figured the woman surprised.

“Not Nava,” she whispered. “Zusa. Now where is my sister?”

“Eliora went ahead,” Alyssa said, telling no more than what was asked. She tried to remind herself that this was her home, and that she should ask the questions, but her logic was weak against the serrated edge pressed against her soft skin.

“Little woman better not lie,” Zusa said. “False tongues are often split.”

The dagger scraped across her neck. Alyssa was certain blood would run down her back, but none did.

“No lie,” she said. “Now remove that blade. I am Alyssa Gemcroft, and it was your task to free me from my prison. Threaten harm upon me, and you risk the boon you were promised for this affair.”

The dagger left her neck. At first, Alyssa felt pride at her handling the situation, but when she turned she saw that another of the faceless women had joined them. Disguised in their black and purple cloth, she had not a clue who it might be, but then she heard the soft whisper and knew.

“Maynard is not in his room,” Eliora said. “Something is amiss.”

“Find him quick,” Zusa said. “Time is our enemy.”

The dogs howled louder as both faceless women turned to Alyssa.

“Where is your father?” they demanded.

“I don’t know,” she said, taken aback. “The hour is late; he should be in bed. Maybe something needed his attention, or his sleep was troubled and he took to wandering…”

“Or he was waiting for us,” Eliora said. “May Karak damn them all. Move, while Nava still buys us time outside.”

They hurried down the hall, Alyssa’s mind racing. She wondered if her father had any hidden rooms or safe places tucked away in corners of the estate, but she remembered none. She had been a rambunctious girl, and curious, too. If there had been any, she would have known.

Unless father added them recently, she thought. With five years of secret war, he would have had plenty of time to build and remodel.

Their path led them to the dining hall, which looked naked with the empty chairs, covered table, and unlit chandeliers. The shouts of the guards grew louder. The faceless women tilted their heads toward each other, as if sharing a thought. Guards were pouring into the mansion.

“Alerted,” Zusa said. “But how?”

Alyssa knew of no other way to describe it: the bare wall to her left exploded inward. What should have been solid stone crumpled and curled, red smoke wafting off it. Inside was a room of which she had no memory. The walls were gray plaster, undecorated and leading further into the mansion. Filling that room were more than twenty guards, armored in steel and armed with swords. Tabards emblazoned with the Gemcroft sigil covered their tunics.

“We play the fool!” Zusa shouted, drawing her dagger and lunging toward the entrance. Eliora was quick behind her. The guards attempted to flood into the room, but they were held back at the narrow exit. Those in the front battled with the faceless women, but their movements seemed slow compared to the grace of their opponent. Alyssa thought their armor might be her companions’ doom, but the serrated dagger sliced through the mail like butter. The metal melted and smoked purple after each cut, helpless before the powerful magic.

The women held strong, but they were pushing back a river with only daggers. Five died at their feet, but the rest pressed forward, shoving aside their dying comrades. As the guards spread out to surround them, the two assassins flipped back and away, their bodies curling around sword strikes as if their bones were water.

“Run, girl!” Eliora shouted. Alyssa sprinted down the hall and into a long corridor. She glanced out the rows of windows, her heart shuddering at the sight. Pouring in through the front gates in frightening numbers were various mercenaries wearing the Gemcroft standard. Whatever her punishment would have been in the cell, Alyssa realized that her attempt to escape and supplant her father would increase it tenfold.

Screams chased her down the hall. Escape was all that mattered now, she realized. There would be no grab for power, no careful bartering of life for rule. The thought of returning to her cold, drafty cell spurred her on. When she reached a door, she glanced behind. None of the faceless had come yet.

Glass shattered, and Alyssa cried out as shards of it cut across her face. A figure crashed in through the window. She felt arms wrap around her body.

“Worry not for my sisters,” said a deep-voiced woman that could only be Nava. “Your life is precious. Follow me into the night.”

Alyssa’s breathing was ragged, frightened gasps. Her pulse was a war-drum in her ears. With trembling fingers, she took Nava’s hand. A painful lurch later, they tumbled through the broken window and onto the cool grass of the lawn.

“No words,” Nava said, pressing a wrapped finger across Alyssa’s lips. “Not until we leave the gate. Understand?”

Alyssa nodded.

“Good. Come.”

They were on the western side of the complex. The main gates were to the south, but instead of going there, Nava pulled her north. The stars were hidden behind clouds, and in the dim light Alyssa stumbled as she ran. Only the strong grip on her wrist kept her moving. More mercenaries spread around the house, and she heard their shouts behind her. They had not yet been spotted, but how long until they were?

The tall gate loomed high to her left. She felt the tug on her wrist lead her closer and closer, until suddenly a hand clasped over her mouth, holding in her startled cry as they halted all movement.

“Shhh,” Nava hissed into Alyssa’s ear.

The faceless woman removed her cloak, the fabric making a soft sigh as it slipped through her fingers. A single word of magic and it snapped erect. Nava flung it across the bars, where it stuck like honey. The woman rolled through it, spun on her heels, and then reached back. Her hand pressed through the bars as if they were darkness, only darkness. Alyssa swallowed her fear and took her hand. A hard jerk forward, and then she was on the other side.

Nava snapped her fingers. The cloak returned to cloth, glinting as if a thousand stars were woven into its fabric. She wrapped it across her shoulders and took Alyssa’s hand. Together they fled from the shouts of soldiers and mercenaries. Alyssa gave one last look at the mansion, knowing in her heart that it would never be hers.



Deep within, Maynard stepped out from the gray tunnels winding throughout his estate. His advisor, the gray-bearded man with shaved eyebrows stood beside him. His name was Bertram Sully.

“I knew the Kulls were desperate,” Bertram said, frowning at the mess the mercenaries were making as they stamped throughout the place. “But to hire faceless women? Have they gone mad?”

“Perhaps,” Maynard said. “And I wonder what they could have offered, but that is not important, not now. The priests of Karak have sworn they would remain out of our war. It would seem that promise has finally been broken.”

Bertram stroked his beard.

“Perhaps not. The left hand does not always know the actions of the right. If this is true, then we might have an opportunity here.”

“And what is that?” Maynard asked. He kicked a nearby chair, knocking it to the floor. He had known the Kulls would try to rescue Alyssa, and he had hoped to capture a few of their kind in the attempt. How he would have loved to shave the head of that pompous Yoren and then hang him with his own golden locks. Instead, his daughter had escaped, and he had over twenty guards dead. From what he had seen, his own men had not scored a single cut.

Bertram saw his master lost in thought and waited until Maynard’s eyes looked his direction.

“Well?” Maynard asked impatiently. “What opportunity is there for us in this calamity?”

“If we confront the priests about the faceless women, they have few recourses of action. They can punish the faceless for disobedience, thereby removing the only weapon the Kulls have against us. The priests may also try to atone for the broken promise by allying with us, perhaps even giving us the service of the faceless. We can smite the Kulls with their own weapon.”

“You forgot a third option,” Maynard said. “The priests deny any involvement while secretly accepting whatever bribe the Kulls offered, and nothing changes.”

“The priests would not be so foolish as to betray the Trifect,” Bertram insisted.

“This war has made fools of everyone,” Maynard said. “But it will not happen to me again. Set up a meeting with high priest Pelarak. We will force the servants of Karak to break their neutrality, one way or another.”

“And if they refuse?”

Maynard Gemcroft’s eyes glinted with danger.

“Then we expose their existence to the city. Let the mobs burn their temple and tear them limb from limb. We shall see if they remain neutral when that is the fate I offer.”