Poison Dance

Chapter Two: Scene 1

James had been fifteen and covered in blood when he first met Clevon. A bar fight had gotten out of hand, and James had hidden in a nearby alleyway to avoid the Red Shields. But it wasn’t Palace soldiers who discovered him. Instead, a plainly dressed man with a sun-darkened face and unshaven chin had come into the alley.

“None of that blood is your own, is it, lad?” Clevon had asked.

James didn’t answer. The drunkard from the fight wasn’t his first kill—James had learned early on to strike first and strike hard—but the aftermath still wasn’t easy. He didn’t like the feel of someone else’s blood drying on his skin.

Clevon continued. “You’re fast, and you don’t hesitate. You were clear across the room by the time anyone even noticed the fool had been stuck.” Clevon reached into his belt pouch and pulled out James’s knife. “This your only knife?”

Leaving it in the man’s body had been beyond foolish. James gathered himself to fight.

“Never carry just one knife,” said Clevon. He studied the blade, rotating it so that it reflected light onto the alley walls. “But I’ll make you a deal. I give your knife back and hide you from the Red Shields—if you come work for me.”

That was how James had joined the Guild. Bacchus and Rand had come in around the same time. The rest of their cohort had either dropped out or died since then, but James found that the work suited him. He was good at it, and over the years he grew used to the feel of blood on his hands.

The job today was a routine one, which meant that James and Bacchus wouldn’t know the specifics until they spoke to Gerred. The Guild’s second-in-command held court in various locations—sometimes public, sometimes private. Today, he was in the back room of a carpenter’s shop.

The smell of sawdust and the soft crunch of wood shavings underfoot greeted them as they entered a room cluttered with tools and lumber. Gerred sat at the carpenter’s work table and acknowledged them with a nod. He was middle-aged, with a paunch that testified to his recent success, though anyone who mistook his girth for weakness did so at his own risk. A few of Gerred’s subordinates were scattered by the walls, and behind Gerred stood a man who was fast becoming familiar to James. The man wore the clothes of a commoner, but his bearing gave him away. He stood tall and looked at people as if they existed at his pleasure. It was Lord Hamel, one of the richest noblemen in Forge. He’d always believed in spreading his influence, and he didn’t restrict himself to legal means. Not for the first time, James wondered how much of his bread and butter came from Hamel’s coffers.

“We’re errand boys for the wallhuggers,” Bacchus muttered. For once, he had the good sense to keep his voice low.

James didn’t give any indication of hearing him, though he agreed. Talesinger accounts of the age-old Assassins Guild abounded with romance and mystique, but actually, the Guild’s current incarnation was pale ash compared to what it once was. A hundred years ago, Guild members had been feared and influential. Nowadays, they were just hired thugs who did unpleasant jobs for pay. James’s own jobs had become more menial over the past few years, though he suspected this had more to do with Gerred taking over job assignments than with the wallhuggers’ meddlings.

“Ho, Gerred,” James said. “How are things?”

Gerred had been writing in a ledger and put his pen down. James did have to give the man credit for being organized. Gerred’s meticulousness had brought a new efficiency to Guild operations. “We’ve got trouble with Red Shields coming after our men,” said Gerred.

“Is that so?” James let the question fall with an unfinished note.

Gerred gave them a probing look. “Clevon’s dead,” he said abruptly.