Shadowdance 01 - A Dance of Cloaks

practically stealing from them. All that money I send to you, to help you. Gold spent on my girls is gold not spent on swords!”
    Not even Aaron saw the next movement coming. Thren’s hand caught Billy by his fat throat and flung him back. He slammed into the railing, which groaned in protest. A kick knocked him to one knee. Before he could cry out, the blade of a sword pressed against his breast.
    “When I give an order, I expect it obeyed,” Thren said. “You broke your word to me. You succumbed to easy coin.”
    “I gave it all to you!” shouted Billy. “Please, the girls needed work, and the Trifect was desperate! All of it I’ve given to you, I’d never cross you, I’d never…”
    Thren grabbed Billy’s hand, pressed it against the railing, and then slammed his sword down. The sound the flesh made as it tore reminded Aaron of a butcher shop. As Billy screamed, Thren tossed the hand off the balcony.
    “I checked your books,” Thren said. “And I compared that to what my men saw coming and going. You did give nearly everything to me, the rest to the girls. That is why you live, Billy. Now you listen closely. Are you listening?”
    Billy nodded. He sat on his enormous rump, his stump pressed tight against the folds of his fat to stem the bleeding.
    “I want the Trifect starved. I want them without drink, without drug, and without whores. They have made my life miserable, and I will do the same to them. Coin gains me nothing. Their suffering is all I want. Will you remember that the next time they send for your girls?”
    “Yes, my lord,” Billy said. His jowls jostled as he nodded. “I’ll tell Red. I’ll remember.”
    “Good.” Thren cleaned his blade on Billy’s shoulder and then turned to go.
    “Thank you,” Billy called out as Aaron stepped in line behind his father. “Thank you!”
    They left the stairs, Aaron glancing back only once.
    “Remember this,” Thren said as they descended. “I cut off his hand, yet he thanks me for not doing worse. That is the power you must one day command. Let them think every breath of theirs is a gift, not from the gods, but from you. Do this, and you will become a god among them.”
    Because of his father’s order, Aaron could not reply. If he could, he would have mentioned that brief flash of anger he saw in Billy’s eyes when his father turned to go. He would have spoken of the dogged determination lining the fat man’s pained face, and the potential enemy Thren had just made. But Aaron could not, so he let the matter go.
    Power was hurting a man without fear of retribution. That was the lesson Aaron learned.
    Exiting the brothel, Aaron was surprised to see an ugly man waiting by the door. His clothes were ratty, his face strangely scrunched. By the way he reacted, it seemed he had been waiting for them.
    “Master Thren,” the man said, dipping his head and rubbing together his fingers, which had no fingernails, just fleshy red bruises where they should have been. “If you would only lend me your ear, there are things I could tell you. A great many things, if only you would pay the price…”

CHAPTER
12
    T he road was quiet. On one side was a small bakery. On the other was a smithy known for its owner’s teaching abilities rather than his actual work. Six men approached from the east. They showed no weapons, but their rust-colored cloaks hid much of their bodies. They split, three on one side, three on the other, and then hurried down the road. Each of the groups had a member carrying a small pail of paint.
    On the sides of both buildings, hidden so as to be glimpsed only in passing, was a smeared circle of ash. The men with the pail wiped it with their cloaks, then dipped their brushes into the dark red mixture. It looked like blood when they began drawing their symbol. They painted an unfilled outline of a hawk’s talons, followed by three drops dripping from the foremost claw. The others stood about, watching for guards of both the royal and seedy kind.
    They did not see any, for they did not look up. Crouched on the roof of the bakery waited Veliana and two of her men.
    “This deep down Warden Street?” Veliana muttered as she watched them paint. “Have they truly grown so bold?”
    “They’ve gone unchecked,” said Walt, crouched beside her. His face was tanned and lean, his smile missing many teeth. By no means was she friends with him, but he was skilled in battle and reliable when it came to matters of stealth. For those