Shadowdance 01 - A Dance of Cloaks

Thren had personally started two fires, and his men had started three more. They did not burn homes. They torched the storehouses, rendering food all the more precious. Butcher after butcher retreated into his shop, persuaded through either coin or dagger. Bakers fared no better. They either shut their ovens down for a day, or shut them down forever.
    “The tradesmen will point their fingers at you once this day is done,” Kayla said as she traveled beside him. Thren only laughed.
    “After this day is done, I don’t care. Today we need hunger and riots.”
    With quick hand gestures, Thren positioned his men up and down the road. In every corner, in every stall, the Spider Guild occupied Merchant Way. Thren stood at the intersection with Castle Road, the main throughway that led north to south from the wall to the castle. A few of his most trusted men had discarded their cloaks and joined the hungry, complaining masses in the south. If they did their jobs, the riots would surge north at a frightening pace.
    For twenty minutes they waited. Thren kept his hood pulled low, and he smiled at those who noticed him. He felt unafraid. Only a full troop of mercenaries would give him concern. Beside him was a modest jeweler selling baubles in preparation for the Kensgold. Accompanying Laurie Keenan to Veldaren would be a host of camp followers, not to mention the many servant girls, dancers, and singers. Every one of the jeweler’s trinkets was sold with the promise of irresistible allure to those women.
    “My things are safe?” the bald jeweler asked him at one point. Thren nodded.
    “You’ve been good to me, Mafee,” the guildmaster said. “When I draw my sword, take your merchandise and go.”
    More minutes crawled by. The only tense moment was when a squad of mercenaries marched through. They didn’t give the gray cloaks a second look, instead hurrying on toward the castle. Thren scratched at his chin, his signal to leave them be.
    A chorus of shouts rose from the south. Thren looked down Castle Road and was pleased at the sight. Over four hundred made up the first wave. He recognized one of their shouts as an anthem Senke had devised. “Bread or blood,” they shouted. One or the other, they’d have it, and Thren knew which one he preferred. He drew his sword and placed the tip by his right foot. All down Merchant Way, gray cloaks did the same. Mafee saw it, shoved his cheap jewelry into a burlap sack, and bolted into his home, directly behind his stall.
    “Bread or blood!” Thren shouted as the mob reached him.
    “Bread or blood!” the mob shouted in return, led by spies of the Spider Guild. The mob had meant to travel north to the castle, but through skillful prodding turned down Merchant Way instead. Stalls for bakers and meat carvers were empty and unguarded, and as the mobs passed, gray cloaks kicked and tore them apart. Given a taste of carnage, the mob wanted more.
    More of Thren’s men appeared, holding lit torches and shouting angrily. More stalls were tipped over. Wagons burned. Donkeys bled out, their mournful screeches haunting the chaos. The crowd swelled in number, joined by looters, bullies, and the coldhearted who felt power in the mob. A human swarm, they tore Merchant Way to pieces. Fires spread along the houses, yet no men came rushing with buckets.
    Thren personally set fire to Mafee’s house. Those pathetic trinkets were a disgrace, and even worse, he’d paid a pittance for protection compared to the money he drained from the desperate and the clueless.
    “Stay safe,” Thren said, the demonic grin on his face flickering in the light of the fire.
    He whistled long and loud. Their work was done. Guards had begun pouring in from the north, chasing away the looters and rioters with shield and blade. At first some resisted, but the men of the Spider Guild shouted false cries of fear and fled. When blood spilled across the streets, the rest followed. It would take several hours to put out the fires. Merchant Way looked like an army had invaded. Laurie Keenan would have his greeting, and if Thren was lucky, they’d thrash his wagons, harass his mercenaries, and steal ungodly amounts of his food.
    One of his men came rushing in from the west. Thren recognized him as Tweed, a simple yet skillful man he’d appointed to watch for the Keenans’ approach.
    “Problems, we gots plenty now,” Tweed said, talking with a lisp. “Keenan’s not coming inside. The rest are going out to