A Dance of Cloaks

Book 1: Shadowdance

by David Dalglish

Genres: Fantasy action & adventure; Action & Adventure; Dark Fantasy; Epic Fantasy; Historical Fantasy; Urban Fantasy

Synopsis

The Underworld rules the city of Veldaren. Thieves, smugglers, assassins... they fear only one man.

Thren Felhorn is the greatest assassin of his time. All the thieves' guilds of the city are under his unflinching control. If he has his way, death will soon spill out from the shadows and into the streets.

Aaron is Thren's son, trained to be heir to his father's criminal empire. He's cold, ruthless – everything an assassin should be. But when Aaron risks his life to protect a priest's daughter from his own guild, he glimpses a world beyond piston, daggers, and the iron rule of his father.

Assassin or protector; every choice has its consequences.

Fantasy author David Dalglish spins a tale of retribution and darkness, and an underworld reaching for ultimate power.

A Hachette Audio production.

Release date: October 8, 2013

Publisher: Hachette Audio

Print pages: 480

Sample

For the past two weeks the simple building had been his safe house, but now Thren Felhorn distrusted its protection as he limped through the door. He clutched his right arm to his body, fighting to halt its trembling. Blood ran from his shoulder to his elbow, the arm cut by a poisoned blade.

“Damn you, Leon,” he said as he staggered across the wood floor, through a sparsely decorated room, and up to a wall made of plaster and oak. Even with his blurred vision he located the slight groove with his fingers. He pressed down, detaching an iron lock on the other side of the wall. A small door swung inward.

The master of the Spider Guild collapsed in a chair and removed his gray hood and cloak. He sat in a much larger room painted silver and decorated with pictures of mountains and fields. Removing his shirt, he gritted his teeth while pulling it over his wounded arm. The toxin had been meant to paralyze him, not kill him, but the fact was little comfort. Most likely Leon Connington had wanted him alive so he could sit in his padded chair and watch his “gentle touchers” bleed Thren drop by drop. The fat man’s treacherous words from their meeting ignited a fire in his gut that refused to die.

“We will not cower to rats that live off our shit,” Leon had said while brushing his thin mustache. “Do you really think you stand a chance against the wealth of the Trifect? We could buy your soul from the gods.”

Such arrogance. Such pride. Thren had fought down his initial impulse to bury a short sword in the fat man’s throat upon hearing such mockery. For centuries the three families of the Trifect, the Conningtons, the Keenans, and the Gemcrofts, had ruled in the shadows. Over that time they’d certainly bought enough priests and kings to believe that the gods wouldn’t be beyond the reach of their gilded fingers either.

It had been a mistake to deny his original impulse, Thren knew. Leon should have bled out then and there, his guards be damned. They’d met inside Leon’s extravagant mansion, another mistake. Thren vowed to correct his carelessness in the coming months. For three years he’d done his best to stop the war from erupting, but it appeared everyone in the city of Veldaren desired chaos.

If the city wants blood, it can have it, Thren thought. But it won’t be mine.

“Is that you, Father?” he heard his elder son ask from an adjacent room.

“It is,” Thren said, holding his anger in check. “But if it were not, what would you do, having given away your presence?”

His son Randith entered from the other room. He looked much like his father, having the same sharp features, thin nose, and grim smile. His hair was brown like his mother’s, and that alone endeared him to Thren. They both wore the gray trousers of their guild, and from Randith’s shoulders hung a gray cloak similar to Thren’s. A long rapier hung from one side of Randith’s belt, a dagger from the other. His blue eyes met his father’s.

“I’d kill you,” Randith said, a cocky grin pulling up the left side of his face. “As if I need surprise to do it.”

“Shut the damn door,” Thren said, ignoring the bravado. “Where’s our mage? Connington’s men cut me with a toxin, and its effect is… troublesome.”

Troublesome hardly described it, but Thren wouldn’t let his son know that. His flight from the mansion was a blur in his memory. The toxin had numbed his arm and made his entire side sting with pain. His neck muscles had fired off at random, and one of his knees kept locking up during his run. Like a cripple he’d fled through the alleyways of Veldaren, but the moon was waning and the streets empty, so none had seen his pathetic stumbling.

“Not here,” Randith said as he leaned toward his father’s exposed shoulder and examined the cut.

“Then go find him,” Thren said. “How did events go at the Gemcroft mansion?”

“Maynard Gemcroft’s men fired arrows from their windows as we approached,” Randith said. He turned his back to his father and opened a few cupboards until he found a small black bottle. He popped the cork, but when he moved to pour the liquid on his father’s cut, Thren yanked the bottle out of his hand. Dripping the brown liquid across the cut, he let out a hiss through clenched teeth. It burned like fire, but already he felt the tingle of the toxin beginning to fade. When finished, he accepted some strips of cloth from his son and tied them tight around the wound.

“Where is Aaron?” Thren asked when the pain subsided. “If you won’t fetch the mage, at least he will.”

“Lurking as always,” Randith said. “Reading too. I tell him mercenaries may soon storm in with orders to eradicate all thief guilds, and he looks at me like I’m a lowly fishmonger mumbling about the weather.”

Thren held in a grimace.

“You’re too impatient with him,” he said. “Aaron understands more than you think.”

“He’s soft, and a coward. This life will never suit him.”

Thren reached out with his good hand, grabbed Randith by the front of his shirt, and yanked him close so they might stare face-to-face.

“Listen well,” he said. “Aaron is my son, as are you. Whatever contempt you have, you swallow it down. Even the wealthiest king is still dirt in my eyes compared to my own flesh and blood, and I expect the same respect from you.”

He shoved Randith away, then called out farther into the hideout.

“Aaron! Your family needs you, now come in here.”

A short child of eight stepped into the room, clutching a worn book to his chest. His features were soft and curved, and he would no doubt grow up to be a comely man. He had his father’s hair, though, a soft blond that curled around his ears and hung low to his deep blue eyes. He fell to one knee and bowed his head without saying a word, all while still holding the book.

“Do you know where Cregon is?” Thren asked, referring to the mage in their employ. Aaron nodded. “Good. Where?”

Aaron said nothing. Thren, tired and wounded, had no time for his younger son’s nonsense. While other children grew up babbling nonstop, a good day for Aaron involved nine words, and rarely would they be used in one sentence.

“Tell me where he is, or you’ll taste blood on your tongue,” Randith said, sensing his father’s exasperation.

“He went away,” Aaron said, his voice barely above a whisper. “He’s a fool.”

“A fool or not, he’s my fool, and damn good at keeping us alive,” Thren said. “Go bring him here. If he argues, slash your finger across your neck. He’ll understand.”

Aaron bowed and did as he was told.

“I wonder if he’s practicing for a vow of silence,” Randith said as he watched his brother leave without any hurry.

“Did he lock the outer door?” Thren asked.

“Shut and latched,” Randith said after checking.

“Then he’s smarter than you.”

Randith smirked.

“If you say so. But right now, I think we have bigger concerns. The Gemcrofts firing at my men, Leon setting up a trap… this means war, doesn’t it?”

Thren swallowed hard, then nodded.

“The Trifect have turned their backs on peace. They want blood, our blood, and unless we act fast they are going to get it.”

“Perhaps if we offer even more in bribes?” Randith suggested.

Thren shook his head.

“They’ve tired of the game. We rob them until they are red with rage, then pay bribes with their own wealth. You’ve seen how much they’ve invested in mercenaries over the past few months. Their minds are set. They want us exterminated.”

“That’s ludicrous,” Randith insisted. “You’ve united nearly every guild in the city. Between our assassins, our spies, our thugs… what makes them think they can withstand all-out war?”

Thren frowned as Randith’s fingers drummed the hilt of his rapier.

“Give me a few of our best men,” his son said. “When Leon Connington bleeds out in his giant bed, the rest will learn that accepting our bribes is far better than accepting our mercy.”

“You are still a young man,” Thren said. “You are not ready for what Leon has prepared.”

“I am seventeen,” Randith said. “A man grown, and I have more kills to my name than years.”

“And I’ve more than you’ve drawn breaths,” Thren said, a hard edge entering his voice. “But even I will not return to that mansion. They are eager for this, can’t you see that? Entire guilds will be wiped out in days. Those who survive will inherit this city, and I will not have my heir run off and die in the opening hours.”

Thren placed one of his short swords on the table with his uninjured hand. Holding it there, he met Randith’s gaze, challenging him, looking to see just what sort of man his son truly was.

“I’ll leave the mansion be, as you suggest,” Randith said. “But I will not cower and hide. You are right, Father. These are the opening hours. Our actions here will decide the course of months of fighting. Let the merchants and nobles hide. We rule the night.”

He pulled his gray cloak over his head and turned to the hidden door. Thren watched him go, his hands shaking, but not from the toxin.

“Be wary,” Thren said, careful to keep his face a mask. “Everything you do has consequences.”

If Randith sensed the threat, he didn’t let it show.

“I’ll go get Senke,” said Randith. “He’ll watch over you until Aaron returns with the mage.”

Then he was gone. Thren struck the table with his palm and swore. He thought of the countless hours he’d invested in Randith, the training, the sparring, and the many lectures, all in an attempt to cultivate a worthy heir for the Spider Guild.

Wasted, Thren thought. Wasted.

He heard the click of the latch, and then the door creaked open. Thren expected the mage, or perhaps his son returning to smooth over his abrupt exit, but instead a short man with a black cloth wrapped around his face stepped inside.

“Don’t run,” the intruder said. Thren snapped up his short sword and blocked the first two blows from the man’s dagger. He tried to counter, but his vision was still blurred and his speed a pathetic remnant of his finely honed reflexes. A savage chop knocked the sword from his hand. Thren fell back, using his chair to force a stumble out of his pursuer. The best he could do was limp, though, and when a heel kicked his knee, he fell. He spun, refusing to die with a dagger in his back.

“Leon sends his greetings,” the man said, his dagger pulled back for a final, lethal blow.

He suddenly jerked forward, his eyes widening. The dagger fell from his limp hand as the would-be assassin collapsed. Behind him stood Aaron, holding a bloody short sword. Thren’s eyes widened as his younger son knelt. The flat edge rested on his palms, blood running down his wrists.

“Your sword,” Aaron said, presenting the blade.

“How… why did you return?” Thren asked.

“The man was hiding,” the boy said, his voice still quiet. He didn’t sound the least bit upset. “Waiting for us to go. So I waited for him.”

Thren felt the corners of his mouth twitch. He took the sword from a boy who spent his days reading underneath his bed and skulking within closets, often mocked by his older brother for being too soft. A boy who never threw a punch when forced into a fight, never dared raise his voice in anger.

A boy who had killed a man at the age of eight.

“I know you’re bright,” Thren said. “But the life we live is twisted, and we are forever surrounded by liars and betrayers. You must trust your instincts, and learn to listen to not just what is said, but what is not. Can you do this? Can you view men and women as if they are pieces to a game, and understand what must be done, my son?”

Aaron looked up at him. If he was bothered by the blood on him, it didn’t show.

“I can,” Aaron said.

“Good,” said Thren. “Wait with me. Randith will return soon.”

Ten minutes later the door crept open.

“Father?” Randith asked as he stepped inside. Senke, Thren’s right-hand man, was with him. He looked slightly older than Randith, with a trimmed blond beard and a thick mace held in hand. They both startled at the dead body lying on the floor, a gaping wound in its back.

“He waited until you left,” Thren said from his chair, which he’d positioned to face the entrance.

“Where?” Randith asked. He pointed to Aaron. “And why is he here?”

Thren shook his head.

“You don’t understand, Randith. You disobey me, not out of wisdom, but out of arrogance and pride. You treat our enemies with contempt instead of respect worthy of their danger. Worst of all, you put my life at risk.”

He looked to Aaron, back to Randith.

“Too many mistakes,” he said. “Far too many.”

Then he waited. And hoped.

Aaron stepped toward his older brother. His blue eyes were calm, unworried. In a single smooth motion, he yanked Randith’s dagger from his belt, flipped it around, and thrust it to the hilt in his brother’s chest. Senke stepped back, jaw hanging open, but he wisely held his tongue. Aaron withdrew the dagger, spun around, and presented it as a gift to his father.

Thren rose from his seat and placed a hand on Aaron’s shoulder.

“You did well, my son,” he said. “My heir.”

“Thank you,” Aaron whispered, tears in his eyes. He bowed low as behind him the body of his brother bled out on the floor.

Aaron sat alone. The walls were bare wood. The floor had no carpet. There were no windows and only a single door, locked and barred from the outside. The silence was heavy, broken only by his occasional cough. In the far corner was a pail full of his waste. Thankfully, he had gotten used to the smell after the first day.

His new teacher had given him only one instruction: wait. He had been given a waterskin, but no food, no timetable, and worst of all, nothing to read. The boredom was far worse than his previous instructor’s constant beatings and shouts. Gus the Gruff he had called himself. The other members of the guild whispered that Thren had lashed Gus thirty times after his son’s training was finished. Aaron hoped his new teacher would be outright killed. Of all his teachers over the past five years, he was starting to think Robert Haern was the cruelest.

That was all he knew, the man’s name. He was a wiry old man with a gray beard curled around his neck and tied behind his head. When he’d led Aaron to the room, he had walked with a cane. Aaron had never minded isolation, so at first the idea of a few hours in the dark sounded rather enjoyable. He had always stayed in corners and shadows, greatly preferring to watch people talk than take part in their conversation.

But now? After spending untold hours, perhaps even days, locked in darkness? Even with his love of isolation and quiet, this was…

And then Aaron felt certain of what was going on. Walking over to the door, he knelt before it and pushed his fingers into the crack beneath. For a little while light had crept in underneath the frame, but then someone had stuffed a rag across it, completing the darkness. Using his slender fingers he pushed the rag back, letting in a bit of light. He had not done so earlier for fear of angering his new master. Now he couldn’t care less. They wanted him to speak. They wanted him to crave conversation with others. Whoever this Robert Haern was, his father had surely hired him for that purpose.

“Let me out.”

The words came out as a raspy whisper, yet the volume startled him. He had meant to boom the command at the top of his lungs. Was he really so timid?

“I said let me out,” he shouted, raising the volume tremendously.

The door opened. The light hurt his eyes, and during the brief blindness, his teacher slipped inside and shut the door. He held a torch in one hand and a book in the other. His smile was partially hidden behind his beard.

“Excellent,” Robert said. “I’ve only had two students last longer, both with more muscle than sense.” His voice was firm but grainy, and it seemed to thunder in the small dark room.

“I know what you’re doing,” Aaron said.

“Come now, what’s that?” the old man asked. “My ears haven’t been youthful for thirty years. Speak up, lad!”

“I said I know what you’re doing.”

Robert laughed.

“Is that so? Well, knowing and preventing are two different things. You may know a punch is coming, but does that mean you can stop it? Well, your father has told me of your training, so perhaps you could, yes, perhaps.”

As his eyes adjusted to the torchlight, Aaron slowly backed into a corner. With the darkness gone he felt naked. His eyes flicked to the pail in the corner, and he suddenly felt embarrassed. If the old man was bothered by the smell, he didn’t seem to show it.

“Who are you?” Aaron asked after the silence had stretched longer than a minute.

“My name is Robert Haern. I told you that when I first brought you in here.”

“That tells me nothing,” Aaron said. “Who are you?”

Robert smiled, just a flash of amusement on his wrinkled face, but Aaron caught it and wondered what it meant.

“Very well, Aaron. At one point I was the tutor of King Edwin Vaelor, but he has since gotten older and tired of my… corrections.”

“Corrections,” Aaron said, and it all confirmed what he’d guessed. “Was this my correction for not talking enough?”

To Aaron’s own surprise, Robert looked shocked.

“Correction? Dear lord, boy, no, no. I was told of your quiet nature, but that is not what your father has paid me for. This dark room is a lesson that I hope you will soon understand. You have learned how to wield a sword and sneak through shadows. I, however, walk with a cane and make loud popping noises. So tell me, what purpose might I have with you?”

Aaron shifted his arms tighter about himself. He had no idea whether it was day or night, but the room felt cold and he had nothing but his thin clothing for warmth.

“You’re to teach me,” Aaron said.

“That’s stating the bloody obvious. What is it I will teach you?”

He sat down in the middle of the room while still holding the torch aloft. He grunted, and true to his word his back popped when he stretched.

“I don’t know,” the boy said.

“A good start,” Robert said. “If you don’t know an answer, just say so and save everyone the embarrassment. Uninformed guesses only stall the conversation. However, you should have known the answer. I tutored a king, remember? Mind my words. You will always know the answer to every question I ask you.”

“A tutor,” said Aaron. “I can already read and write. What else can an old man teach me?”

Robert smiled in the flickering torchlight.

“There are men trying to kill you, Aaron. Did you know that?”

At first Aaron opened his mouth to deny it, then stopped. The look in his teacher’s eye suggested Aaron think carefully before answering.

“Yes,” he finally said. “Though I convinced myself otherwise. The Trifect want all the thief guilds destroyed, their members dead. I am no different.”

“Oh, but you are different,” Robert said as he put his book down and shifted the torch to his other hand. “You’re the heir to Thren Felhorn, one of the most feared men in all of Veldaren. Some say you’ll find no finer a thief even if you searched every corner of Dezrel.”

Such worship of his father was hardly foreign to Aaron, and something he always took for granted. For once, he dared ask something he’d never had the courage to ask.

“Is he the finest?” Aaron asked.

“I don’t know enough of such matters to have a worthwhile opinion,” Robert said. “Though I know he has lived a long time, and the wealth he amassed in his younger years is legendary.”

Silence came over them. Aaron looked about the room, but it was bare and covered with shadows. He sensed his teacher waiting for him to speak, but he knew not what to say. His gaze lingered on the torchlight as Robert spat to the side.

“There are many questions you should ask, though one is the most obvious and most important. Think, boy.”

Aaron’s eyes flitted from the torchlight to the old man.

“Who are the Trifect?” he asked.

“Who is what? Speak up, I’m a flea’s jump away from deaf.”

“The Trifect,” Aaron nearly shouted. “Who are they?”

“That is an excellent question,” Robert said. “The lords of the Trifect have a saying: ‘After the gods, us.’ When the Gods’ War ended, and Karak and Ashhur were banished by the goddess, the land was a devastated mess. Countries fractured, people rebelled, and pillagers marched up and down the coasts. Three wealthy men formed an alliance to protect their assets. Five hundred years ago they adopted their sigil, that of an eagle perched on a golden branch. They’ve been loyal to it ever since.”

He paused and rubbed his beard. The torch switched hands.

“A question for you, boy: why do they want the thief guilds dead?”

The question was not difficult. The sigil was the answer.

“They never let go of their gold,” Aaron said. “Yet we take it from them.”

“Precisely,” Robert said. “To be sure, they’ll spend their gold, sometimes frivolously and without good reason. But even in giving away their coin, they are still master of it. But to have it taken? That is unacceptable to them. The Trifect tolerated the various thief guilds for many centuries while focusing on growing their power. And grow it did. Nearly the entire nation of Neldar is under their control in some way. For the longest of times they viewed the guilds as a nuisance, nothing more. That changed. Tell me why, boy; that is your next question.”

This one was tougher. Aaron went over the words of his master. His memory was sharp, and at last he remembered a comment that seemed appropriate.

“My father amassed a legendary amount of wealth,” he said. He smiled, proud of deducing the answer. “He must have taken too much from the Trifect, and they no longer considered him a nuisance.”

“He was now a threat,” Robert agreed. “And he was wealthy. Worse, though, was that his prestige was uniting the other guilds. Mostly your father tempted the stronger members and brought them into his fold, but about eight years ago he started making promises, threats, bribes, and even assassinations to bring about the leaders he needed. As a united presence, he thought even the Trifect would be reluctant to challenge their strength.”

The old man opened his book, which turned out to not be a book at all. The inside was hollow, containing some hard cheese and dried meat. It took all of Aaron’s willpower to keep from lunging for the food. From his short time with his teacher, he knew such a rash, discourteous action would be rebuked.

“Take it,” Robert said. “You have honored me well with your attention.”

Aaron didn’t need to be told twice. The old man rose to his feet and walked to the door.

“I will return,” he said. His fingers brushed over a slot in the wall, too fast for Aaron to see. He heard a soft pop, and then a tiny jut of metal sprung outward. Robert slid the torch through the metal, fastening it to the wall.

“Thank you,” Aaron said, thrilled to know the torchlight would remain.

“Think on this,” Robert said. “Eight years ago, your father united the guilds. Five years ago, war broke out between them and the Trifect. What caused your father’s failure?”

The door opened, bright light flooded in, and then the old man was gone.

Thren was waiting for Robert not far from the door. They were inside a large and tastefully decorated home. Thren leaned against the wall, positioned so he could see both entrances to the living room.

“You told me the first session was the most important,” Thren said, his arms crossed over his chest. “How did my son perform?”

“Admirably,” Robert said. “And I do not say so out of fear. I’ve told kings their princes were brats with more snot than brains.”

“I can hurt you worse than any king,” Thren said, but his comment lacked teeth.

“You should see Vaelor’s dungeon sometime,” Robert said. “But yes, your son was intelligent and receptive, and most importantly, he let go of his anger for being subjected to the room’s darkness once I told him it wasn’t a punishment. A few more torches and I’ll give him some books to read.”

“The smoke won’t kill him, will it?” Thren asked as he glanced at the door.

“There are tiny vents in the ceiling,” Robert said as he hobbled toward a chair. “I have done this a hundred times, guildmaster, so do not worry. Due to the isolation, his mind will be craving knowledge. He’ll learn to master his mind, which I’ll hone sharper than any dagger of yours. Hopefully when his time with me is done, he will remember this level of focus and mimic it in more chaotic environments.”

Thren pulled his hood over his face and bowed.

“You were expensive,” he said. “As the Trifect grows poorer, so do we.”

“Whether coin, gem, or food, a thief will always have something to steal.”

Thren’s eyes seemed to twinkle at that.

“Well worth the coin,” he said.

The guildmaster bowed, turned, and then vanished into the dark streets of Veldaren. Robert tossed his cane aside and walked without a limp to the far side of the room. After pouring himself a drink, he sat down in his chair with a grunt of pleasure.

He expected more time to pass, but it seemed people had gotten more impatient as Robert grew older. Barely halfway into his glass, he heard two thumps against the outside of his door. They were his only warning before the plainly dressed man with only the barest hints of gray in his hair entered the living room. His simple face was marred by a scar curling from his left eye to his ear. He did his best to hide it with the hood of his cloak, but Robert had seen it many times before. The man was Gerand Crold, who had replaced Robert as the king’s most trusted teacher and advisor.

“Did Thren leave pleased?” Gerand asked as he sat down opposite Robert.

“Indeed,” Robert said, letting a bit of his irritation bleed into his voice. “Though I think that pleasure would have faded had he seen the king’s advisor sneaking into my home.”

“I was not spotted,” the man said with an indignant sniff. “Of that, I am certain.”

“With Thren Felhorn you can never be certain,” Robert said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Now what brings you here?”

The advisor nodded toward a door. Beyond it was the room Aaron remained within.

“He can’t hear us, can he?” Gerand asked.

“Of course not. Now answer my question.”

Gerand wiped a hand over his clean-shaven face and let his tone harden.

“For a man living by the king’s grace alone, you seem rather rude to his servants. Should I whisper in his ear how uncooperative you’re being in this endeavor?”

“Whisper all you want,” Robert said. “I am not afraid of that little whelp. He sees spooks in the shadows and jumps with every clap of thunder.”

Gerand’s eyes narrowed.

“Dangerous words, old man. Your life won’t last much longer carrying on with such recklessness.”

“My life is nearing its end whether I am reckless or not,” Robert said before finishing his drink. “I whisper and plot behind Thren Felhorn’s back. I may as well act like the dead man I am.”

Gerand let out a laugh.

“You put too much stock in that man’s abilities. He’s getting older, and he is far from the demigod the laymen whisper about when drunk. But if my presence here scares you so, then I will hurry along. Besides, my wife is waiting for me, and she promised a young redhead for us to play with to celebrate my thirtieth birthday.”

Robert rolled his eyes. The boorish advisor was always bragging about his exploits, a third of which were probably true. They were Gerand’s favorite stalling tactic when he wanted to linger, observe, and distract his companions. What he was stalling for, Robert didn’t have a clue.

“We Haerns have no carnal interests,” Robert said, rising from his chair with an exaggerated wince of pain. Gerand saw this and immediately took the cup, offering to fill it for him.

“We just pop right out of our mud fields,” Robert continued. “Ever hear that slurp when your boot gets stuck and you have to force it out? That’s us, making another Haern.”

“Amusing,” Gerand said as he handed Robert the glass. “So did you come from a nobleman’s cloak, or perhaps a wise man’s discarded sock?”

“Neither,” Robert said. “Someone pissed in a gopher hole, and out I came, wet and angry. Now tell me why you’re here, or I’ll go to King Vaelor myself and let him know how displeased I am with your cooperation in this endeavor.”

If Gerand was upset by the threat, he didn’t show it.

“Love redheads,” he said. “You know what they say about them? Oh, of course you don’t, mud-birth and all. So feisty. But you want me to hurry, so hurry I shall. I’ve come for the boy.”

“Aaron?”

Gerand poured himself a glass of liquor and toasted the old man from the other side of the room.

“The king has decided so, and I agree with his brilliant wisdom. With the boy in hand, we can force Thren to end this annoying little war of his.”

“Have you lost your senses?” asked Robert. “You want to take Aaron hostage? Thren is trying to end this war, not prolong it.”

He thought of Gerand’s stalling, of the way his eyes had swept every corner of the room and peered through all the doorways. A stone dropped into his gut.

“You h