Shadowdance 01 - A Dance of Cloaks

swarmed over alleyways, and pushed aside any they wished. Slowly, systematically, they were sealing off the entire eastern district.
    “Shit,” she muttered.
    Kayla wasn’t exactly the most wanted lady of Veldaren, but she was no friend of the law, either. A guard in a pissy mood could easily take away her daggers, and if any should make the connection between her and the guard she’d just killed…
    “Fuck me up, down, and sideways,” she said, wondering how she’d gotten herself so messed up. She hurried from one side of her current rooftop to the other, taking in the positions of the soldiers. Frantic, she ran back to the north edge, realizing she had taken her eyes off the boy. If he’d made a sudden turn, or jumped through a window, then it would be the soldiers who found him, not her.
    She did know this: Undry would not be the one paying her for capturing the child. Anyone worth having the entire city guard chase after deserved a far better ransom. A king’s ransom, in fact. When she spotted the boy, she let out a sigh. He was a walking bag of gold, and she’d never have forgiven herself for letting him slip away.
    He was limping now, though she wasn’t sure the reason. He was also veering off the road, and she felt a mix of feelings when she realized why. Before him was an old abandoned temple to Ashhur, which had been stripped of all its valuables when the elegant white-marble temple farther north was completed. The grand double doors had been boarded shut, but those boards were long broken. Kayla smiled when he slipped inside, for she knew there was no way out. At the same time, she wanted to strangle the boy. If the guards searched inside, well … there’d be no way out.
    She looked down the street, seeing no nearby patrols. She shimmied down the side of a home. Without pause she ran across the street, kicked one of the doors open, and rushed inside.
    Where there had once been painted glass were now thick boards with even thicker nails. Where there had once been rows of benches were now splinters and ruts in the floor. The entire place stank of feces and urine. She paused just inside the door to look for the boy, and that was when he struck her.
    She felt a fist smash her temple, followed by a swift kick to her groin. As she staggered to one knee, she couldn’t help but smile knowing the boy had assumed a man chased after. Another punch struck her nose, but she caught his wrist before he could pull his fist back. She was not prepared for the sudden maneuver he made. His fingers wrapped around her own wrist, his body twisted, and then she was down on both knees, wincing as the bones of her arm protested in pain.
    Any delusions she had of his being a normal boy vanished with her shriek of pain. Her fingernails clawed his skin, but he didn’t seem to care. Face-to-face they stared, and if she’d expected to find fear or desperation, she was badly mistaken. His blue eyes seemed to sparkle, and as the boy let go of her wrist and tried to kick her chest, she realized he was enjoying himself.
    She ducked under the kick, spun around him, and then jabbed his throat with her elbow. When he collapsed, he rolled his body, avoiding the next two blows from her foot. He caught her heel on her third kick and then shoved it upward. She somersaulted with the push, snapping his chin with her other foot. As he staggered back, she landed lightly on her feet, drew two daggers from her belt, and hurled them across the room.
    They stabbed into the floor barely an inch to either side of his feet.
    “Soldiers give chase, you stupid boy,” Kayla said. “Do you want to get us both killed?”
    He opened his mouth, then closed it. Kayla drew two more daggers, twirling them in her fingers. The boy was smart, she could see that. He had to know he was beaten, yet she’d held back her killing blow. Surely that would earn her some measure of trust.
    “Your name,” she said. “Tell me, and I’ll hide you from them.”
    “My name…” He was not at all winded from the run or their tussle, though he spoke low, as if embarrassed by the sound of his own voice. “My name is Haern.”
    “The Haerns are simple farmers,” Kayla said. “Stop lying to me. We both know you’ve never bent your back in a field or soiled your clothes in pig shit.”
    “Haern is my first name,” the boy said, and he looked insulted she’d found out the lie so easily. “You haven’t asked for my last name yet.”
    She glanced toward the