“Complications?”
Grayson laughed out loud.
“He means that devil woman in the gray cloak. I watched her tear through her enemies like they were straw men. Love to have an hour with her in bed. But so long as she’s guarding Alyssa, I doubt anyone’s killing her.”
Laerek looked to Daverik for confirmation, who nodded.
“She killed two of my Faceless,” he said. “Her name is Zusa. She was once a member of the Faceless herself, years ago.”
“Then she needs to be eliminated,” Laerek said. “If your Faceless cannot handle her, then perhaps I will send our third after her.”
Grayson grunted.
“They’re calling him the Widow now,” he said. “Some sick joke he is. Not sure what you think he’ll accomplish against…”
“Leave that to me,” Laerek snapped.
Grayson shrugged. Laerek had made it clear that there were three key players working together in Veldaren. Two were Grayson and Daverik, but as for the third, he’d never met him, nor even seen his face. He only knew what everyone else knew: he killed members of the Spider Guild, took their eyes, and mocked them in rhymes written in their blood.
“We have more problems to deal with than just Victor and the Trifect,” Daverik said, glancing up and down the alley. “The Ash Guild, for whatever reason, is actively working to protect Victor. The other is the Eschaton Mercenaries. That wizard of theirs kept Victor alive, and their arrival turned the fight against us at the mansion. The Watcher is also in their pay, assuming,” he glanced at Grayson, “that he’s still alive, of course.”
Laerek nodded, palm pressed against his mouth as he thought.
“We have more enemies than allies,” he said at last, looking up. “The guilds and the Trifect will break each other in time. It’s these interlopers that must be dealt with.”
“And how do you plan on doing that?” Grayson asked. “Going up to them and asking nicely to stay out of our way?”
“By hiring the Bloodcrafts. They are already here in Neldar, simply awaiting my orders.”
That earned a surprised look from Grayson.
“You brought them all the way from Mordeina?”
“I did,” Laerek said. “Given the scope of our ambitions, I thought it likely we would need their help in some aspect, especially with how much our plan relies on the abilities of a mudborn thief. The Bloodcrafts come highly regarded, and their success is all but guaranteed.”
Grayson chuckled, pulled his hat tighter on his head so his hands had something to do instead of throttling Laerek for the ‘mudborn’ comment.
“If by success you mean killing their target and everyone remotely related to them, then sure,” he said. “But the Bloodcrafts aren’t exactly subtle.”
“Neither are the Eschaton or the Ash,” Daverik said.
Grayson shrugged. He had a point there. He’d seen the fire unleashed by that yellow bastard’s spells, and pretty much everyone knew of the crater left by Deathmask in the middle of the damn street.
“Continue on as we have,” Laerek said. “Grayson, ready your men. We must prepare this city as Karak has demanded. In this, we cannot fail. Go, and be blessed by the Lion’s protection.”
Grayson didn’t give a shit about the Lion’s protection, but his gold was real enough. He tipped his hat, then trudged off into the night. Laerek said he wanted the city prepared, and somehow that involved plunging it into total chaos. So be it. With the guilds destroyed, and the Trifect weakened, no one would have the strength to stop him. Didn’t matter if Laerek’s secret master wanted Veldaren taken over to worship of Karak, or was planning some sort of war with one of the other three nations. In Mordeina, Grayson had overcome both wars and gods. In Veldaren, he could do the same.
Besides, once the Suns claimed the city, Laerek had an ugly surprise awaiting him if he thought he could still call Grayson ‘mudborn’ and live.
17
Victor looked up at his tavern and sighed with relief. He’d left only a token guard, and come morning, he fully expected it to be a burned heap instead of safe and sound. His head ached, and his armor felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, but the night was done, the sun rose above the walls, and at last he might have some rest.
“Get men sleeping in shifts, all that you can,” he told Sef. “We’ll need to be rested for tonight. There’s no guarantee this one will be any better than the last.”
“Course it won’t,” Sef said. Victor thought to reprimand him for the lack of respect, then let it go. They were all exhausted, their nerves shot. Pulling off pieces of his armor, Victor strode into his tavern. Within were around thirty men and women, people given shelter for fear of the guilds. Overnight, it’d been closer to a hundred crammed in there, but most had work to do, and mouths to feed. Cowering all day was just not an option.
A few looked his way, and he nodded to them in return. One in particular, a man with long dark hair, rose from his chair. Several of the guards reached for their weapons, but the man lifted his hands to show he was unarmed.
“A word with Victor,” the man said. “I know things, things you’ll pay much to know, but I speak only to him.”
Two of the guards were on him then, each grabbing an arm. They looked to Victor, seeking confirmation one way or the other. Victor rubbed his eyes and stepped off the stairs to the higher floor. His boots thudded in the crowded tavern.
“Come over here, and tell me your name.”
The guards brought him near. The man bowed low.
“I won’t give you my name, not with so many near,” he said. “But for the past six years, I have served Thren Felhorn and the Spider Guild.”
Victor glanced at the people under his protection, all watching with rapt attention. He frowned.
“Check him thoroughly for weapons,” he told his guards. “Then send him up.”
They saluted, and without another word, Victor climbed the stairs to his room. He’d planned to change completely, but instead only removed his outer armor, leaving on the inner padding despite it stinking of sweat and blood. The washbasin had been filled recently, steam still rising from the top. He washed his hands and face, the warm water feeling divine on his skin. When the door opened, he turned about and leaned against a wall of his room.
“Well, we’re alone,” Victor said, still holding a washcloth. In its folds was a slender dagger, which he kept carefully hidden. “I assume this is when you try to kill me?”
“Not at all,” said the man as the guards shut the door behind him. “Killing isn’t something I’m good at. Talking, really, and listening. That’s what I do. My name’s Alan. Pleasure to meet you at last, Victor. You’ve caused quite a stir.”
Victor chuckled.
“I think others have caused greater. Wasn’t my men who stormed Lady Gemcroft’s mansion last night. No, I do believe that was you.”
Alan shrugged.
“I wasn’t there myself. Told you, killing ain’t my thing.”
Victor didn’t care if he had or not, and given how badly his bed was crying out for him, he had no desire to argue.
“Why are you here, Alan?” he asked. “My time is short, and my temper shorter. Speak your mind, and then be gone.”
Victor noticed Alan held a copper coin, kept it turning between his thumb and forefinger. A nervous tic, perhaps?
