scatter them, but they always came back, the hungry and homeless too adept at fleeing, too desperate to fear threats. Because of this, few thieves bothered to patrol the area. What was there to steal, or prevent another guild from stealing? With the night so deep, all there were asleep, all but Alan. With a leisurely stroll he passed them by. Only after a quick whistle from Haern did he turn about, heading toward a corridor where shadows were at their deepest.
“You spotted?” Alan asked as Haern dropped to the street before him.
“If someone had spotted me, do you think we’d be talking?”
Alan grunted.
“Confident, aren’t we? You have my coin?”
Haern tossed him another bag.
“Hopefully you have something more useful than last time.”
Alan caught the bag, stashed it away, and then leaned against a wall.
“Depends on what you consider useful. You just pay me to sing, anyway. Not my fault if you don’t like what you hear.”
Haern fingered his sabers, not eager to have their meeting last any longer than Alan did.
“Less arguing, more talking,” he said. “How’s Thren handling the loss?”
“Terribly. He’s planning something big against Victor, but he’s not telling us what, other than it has something to do with the Trifect, as well. I think this Widow-whoever it is-is starting to wear on him. Our numbers are thin as it is. We don’t need some crazy whore killing even more of us. Shit, it’s even making me a little nervous to do my rounds.”
“Why’d the Ash Guild ruin your attack?”
Alan shrugged.
“Grudge? Amusement? Maybe he was bored, I don’t know. I find it a poor use of time trying to guess what Deathmask is thinking. Might as well go hunting ghosts, or searching for dragons.”
Haern frowned.
“Will Thren turn on the Ash Guild for it?”
Alan shook his head.
“Not yet, not unless they provoke him again. Says that’s what everyone wants, to have all our guilds killing each other while Victor goes about picking off the remains. He ain’t falling for the bait.”
Haern figured it also might have something to do with the catastrophic casualties Thren would suffer if he tried storming the Ash Guild’s territory. Deathmask was as dangerous as he was elusive. At best, it’d be a waste of time. At worst, a death sentence. Haern kept such thoughts to himself, instead pulling his hood low and preparing to leave.
“Should you learn anything of the Widow, anything at all, make sure I know,” he said.
“I learn anything, you can be sure-shit, get down!”
Before the curse was even off his lips, Haern had seen the widening of Alan’s eyes and begun to roll. Even then, it was too late. A heavy weight struck the back of his head. Stomach lurching, he fell forward, fighting off the coming waves of darkness. His sabers drawn by instinct, he turned to face his foe.
Grayson followed after Alan with the ease of a man who had shadowed others a thousand times before. It had been years since he walked the streets of Veldaren, but they came back to him like an old friend. When Thren Felhorn was first establishing his reputation, Grayson had been there at his side, the two a vicious team. Every rival learned quickly to leave them be, and those too slow to learn that lesson died painfully. As for this songbird, Alan, the man had only a fraction of the talent Thren had at masking his movements, at sticking to the shadows with an almost unnatural awareness of the flickering of light across cloak and flesh.
By the time they reached the southern wall, Grayson let the thief slink further and further ahead. The Watcher had told Alan they’d meet there, and, unless their conversation lasted only seconds, Grayson knew he’d have time. But his presence couldn’t be known. Skulking through alleys, he found a spot where he could watch Alan patrol the wall. At last they both heard a whistle. Together they headed for the same building, albeit from different angles. Finding a way up, Grayson climbed to the rooftops and carefully made his way to the alley. Though his weight was great, he knew how to space his steps, how to shift his body, so that no sound might alert the two below.
At last he reached the edge. He drew his shortswords, crouched low. He saw the Watcher and Alan talking. A smile spread across his face. Given all the rumors, the borderline worship the man received all the way to Mordeina, surely it would not be so easy to kill him?
Grayson leapt, already disappointed, as Alan let out a frightened cry. But the Watcher was faster than he expected. Unable to slash with his swords, Grayson kicked out his leg as he fell. His heel connected with the back of the Watcher’s head, sending him sprawling. Grayson landed rough, unable to brace because of his kick. Alan took the brief respite to flee to the entrance of the alley, but he still remained nearby, watching. The Watcher spun to his feet, drawing his blades. As he did, the man turned and vomited.
“I know a concussion when I see one,” Grayson said, settling into a combat stance. His two swords tilted, looking almost puny compared to the rest of his large frame. “You should be running.”
“That so?” the Watcher asked. His voice was like a whisper, but Grayson heard it clear as day. Instincts told him it was magic, and the way shadows hid the Watcher’s face, regardless of the direction of the light, hinted at the hood as the source.
“Consider it friendly advice from an equal. Assuming you live up to your reputation, that is.”
He stepped in and slashed, careful to keep one blade back to block in case of a counter. The Watcher spun into action, and with dizzying speed, slashed at his attacks. Grayson found himself retreating, his eyes widening to take in the sight. He could tell the man was off balance, but that didn’t stop him from pressing hard, pushing Grayson to his limits to keep up the blocks. The sound of steel hitting steel rang in his ears. Grayson kept circling, countering only when the moment presented itself. A realization grew in the back of his mind, becoming stronger and stronger with every cut and parry. The fight melded into something familiar, something Grayson knew all too well from years ago.
The Watcher fought like Thren Felhorn.
Not exactly, of course, but the fluidity of movement, the constant motion, the ability to turn from the defensive to the attack within the blink of an eye…it was Thren. It had to be. His build was the same, his height, even the reach of his arms. But that didn’t make one lick of sense.
“Why?” he asked as he forced himself closer. Reach should have been his advantage, given his longer arms, but he knew from a thousand spars with Thren that shrinking the man’s room to maneuver easily outweighed any advantage as simple as reach. The Watcher batted his sabers left and right, then spun about so his cloak blocked his movements. No fool, Grayson fell back, ready for the attack, but it did not come. Instead the Watcher retreated, falling to one knee as he vomited a second time.
“What madness leads you to this?” Grayson asked, welcoming the reprieve himself. His chest ached, and his heart pounded in his chest. “Was it a ploy to save face? Did you need someone else to blame for ending your little war? Or do you like the idea of being paid twice to keep the peace?”
“What are you talking about?” the Watcher asked.
“Don’t lie to me. Take off that hood and show me your damn face, Thren. I know it’s you.”
At first, he thought the Watcher had fallen into a seizure the way his whole body shook, his shoulders bobbing up and down. And then the sound of laughter reached his ears.
“Thren?” asked the Watcher as he stood, his sabers hanging low at his sides. “You think I’m
Grayson tensed for another lunge.
“Last chance,” he said. “Take off the hood, show me your face, and I’ll let you live. Otherwise…”
More laughter, wild, almost mad.
“So perceptive,” he said. “Yet so stupid. You want to remove my hood? Come cut it off yourself.”
Grayson charged, his long arms swinging. This time the Watcher was not so fast, his footing not so sure. The
