Blood of the Underworld

misunderstand me. I am doing this regardless of what you say. All I ask for is your help. If I must, I will bear the burden on my shoulders alone.”

“Damn it, man,” Antonil said. “My men are exhausted. Was there not enough death last night?”

This time it was Victor who could not control his anger.

“Not enough?” he asked. “No, there wasn’t enough. Murderers and thieves still live. They still hold the heart of this city in their hands, and even brave men quiver at the thought of what they might do. No, the dying must go on, the blood must continue to flow, until the guilty are the ones filling the graveyards, not the innocent. Now will you help me or not?”

Antonil swore again, clearly unhappy. Victor waited him out, let him fume and think. At last the Guard Captain met his gaze.

“All on you,” he said at last. “If this burns us, I’ll have Edwin banish you faster than you can blink. Have I made myself clear?”

“Clear as day,” Victor said. “Though you make it sound as if my men were not out there last night, and did nothing to help keep the peace.”

“Since your arrival, this city has gone to the Abyss,” Antonil said, shaking his head. “Forgive me for not being so sure you’re more help than burden.”

Victor swallowed down his frustration and pride. Time would be his judge, not a mere soldier, regardless of his rank.

“Keep your faith in me,” he said, once more offering his hand to Antonil. “Our freedom is coming. Trust me.”

Letting out a sigh, Antonil clasped his wrist, then stepped back.

“So,” he said. “Where is that bastard hiding, anyway?”

18

Thren leaned back in his seat, feet up on the table. He drank alone. Martin had tried coming over to talk, but he’d waved him away. The rest had gone to various rooms of the inn to lick their wounds, rest their eyes, and sleep with their whores. He didn’t blame them. Not that he’d ever find himself a whore. To have his desires overcome him so fully that he’d pay to have them satisfied? No, he had better discipline than that. Besides, Marion was fresh in his mind, and it would be an insult to her memory to bed another woman now.

“Do you miss me, Marion?” he asked his glass. “Or do you watch me even now? How many tears have you shed?”

She’d been a stunning woman, her beauty almost exotic. While Grayson’s parents had both borne the dark skin common to those in Ker, Marion’s father had been a soldier from Neldar, instead. She’d inherited his brown hair, and her skin had softened so that no matter where she went, she stood out, his beautiful angel with sapphire eyes. She’d been no stranger to the life of a thief, and behind her well-crafted act of tenderness and humility, there’d been a will of iron. Of all the women he’d met, she’d been the only one he fully respected. The one time he’d struck her, she’d slapped him right back in return.

“Never told you,” he muttered. “I wasn’t mad, not then. I just wanted to know how you’d react. By the gods, you were fire in a dress.”

He’d had too much to drink, he knew. What had started as a celebration had settled into quiet reminiscence as the guild turned in one by one. Much as Thren didn’t want to admit it, Grayson’s comment had cut deep, but of course the man had known it would. Even though it’d been many years since their parting, few knew him better than his old friend.

Former friend, Thren thought, correcting himself. Things had changed ever since Marion’s death. Even then, he’d known Grayson would never forgive him. More than a decade later, he now had his proof. His wife was dead, and his sons were lost to him. Whatever remnants of her that remained in this world were in Thren and Grayson’s memories. Staring into his glass, he felt his stomach twist. Had Grayson told the truth about the Watcher? Was he really dead? If he was, that was just one more piece of Marion gone from the world, forever denied to him.

Thren let out a bitter laugh. Grayson had killed his own nephew. Would he even believe it if he told him?

The door opened, and the look on the man’s face upon entering was enough to startle Thren.

“What is it?” he asked as the thief shut the door. Through his alcohol-addled mind, Thren forced a name to match the face. Ricki. That was it.

“Something ain’t right,” Ricki said, his squished, oval face glancing about the empty cellar. “Where’s everyone? We need to get out, now!”

“Calm yourself,” Thren said as he rose from his chair. “Speak clearly, and tell me what is going on.”

“City Guard’s closing off streets all around here,” Ricki said, tugging at the collar to his shirt. “Was coming back from the market, spending what little I got from the Gemcroft’s place, you know? Just barely snuck past while they was setting up, yelling at people to get in their homes.”

“You think they will come for us?” Thren asked, struggling to believe it. How would they even know of their location, let alone have the guts to make a move?

“They ain’t alone,” Ricki said, pulling open the door. “I saw Victor’s men gathering far up Iron Street. Don’t take much to figure out what they’re doing. Looks like someone decided to take us out.”

That was enough to spur Thren to action. He pushed Ricki aside, dashed up the stairs, and burst into the proper rooms of the inn.

“Wake everyone,” he yelled at the innkeeper. “Now! You, too, Ricki!”

Both rushed toward the rooms, the innkeeper the ones on the lower, Ricki the upper. Thren pulled his cloak tight about him and pulled its hood over his head. The more he looked like every other thief, the better. He was no fool. Victor had no interest in scum like Ricki, or even Martin. No, they wanted him. Of course they wanted him. Question was, how did they know? Who had sold out their location?

Men and women began stumbling down the stairs and into the main hall, most drunk or in a stupor.

“Ready your things,” Thren yelled to them. “Our lives are in danger. Soldiers come with swords!”

This awoke a fire in them. The inn grew more chaotic, and amid that, Thren went back to the door and glanced down the street. In the far distance he saw squads of soldiers in approach. He had thirty seconds, perhaps a minute at most, before he was surrounded.

Thren ducked back inside, found what was left of his guild anxiously awaiting orders. He looked to them all, and feeling his insides hardening into stone, he gave them.

“This is not the end of my guild,” he told them. “But wherever you go, whoever of you lives, toss aside your cloak and colors. I know your names, your faces, and will forever remember your vows. Listen, and wait. The reaper cannot take me, the guard cannot break me, and no whoreson of a noble will defeat me. Not now. Not this day.”

He saw the shock in their eyes, the disbelief. But Thren could see the writing on the wall, whether it was carved into the stone or written with blood. Someone conspired against him. Perhaps it was Victor. Perhaps it was one of the Trifect. It might even be the Widow that killed his men and mocked him afterward. Whoever it was, he needed to be found, and killed. The lesson of the Watcher weighed heavy on Thren’s mind. Free of all ties, one man alone could accomplish so much if he had the strength and will to do it.

“Go,” he told them, and that one word broke the spell. The shattered remnants of his guild rushed to the doors, a few returning to their rooms to grab their things. Thren did not wait, nor did he make for a door. Instead he climbed the stairs, having prepared for such an event. In a far room he stood on the bed and pushed against the ceiling, lifting several boards to reveal a hole to the roof. Climbing up, Thren replaced the boards, then slunk to the edge. From there he looked down and surveyed the forces arrayed against him.

It wasn’t good. They’d brought at least a hundred armed men, if not more. Every which way he looked, there was a squad of six to ten guarding a street. No doubt more lurked in the alleyways closer to the inn. Only the rooftops remained open to him, though the crossbows he saw the various soldiers holding made him nervous. Crouching lower, he waited, just a moment, to see how the chaos played out. His former guild members fled in all directions, like rats abandoning a sinking ship. The squads closed in, and more worrisome, none gave chase. It was