Thren felt the skin of his arm tightening as the needle did its work. He used it to focus, to force things into perspective.
“Edwin’s too much of a coward for this,” he said. “That, and the status quo has served him fine for years. Someone else hatched this plan, and right now, the obvious one is Lord Victor.”
“What about one of the Trifect?” Murphy asked, thread between his teeth.
“Victor might be in their pay,” Martin agreed. “Be an expensive gambit, but by bringing in this outsider, they pull any attention away from them and onto him.”
Thren shook his head, then investigated the stitches on his arm. Clean work as always, but not quite done yet.
“Do it,” he told Murphy. The old man grinned, then grabbed the bottle away from Peb. The liquid poured down Thren’s arm. It burned like fire, but he gave no reaction beyond a tightening of his teeth. That done, he pulled his shirt back over his body. Despite his age, it was still pure muscle.
“We can do what we did before,” Martin suggested. “Declare war against them, and rally the rest of the guilds to counter this new threat.”
Thren met his eyes, saw the hopeful lie for what it was.
“We’re too few now,” he said. “Every night we’ve preyed on each other, and our numbers haven’t recovered from the chaos four years ago. Besides…these mercenaries aren’t normal scum with a sword. They’re too good, too well armed.”
Martin sighed, for he knew the same. Thren and Martin were easily the most skilled of all the Spider Guild, yet even they had suffered wounds in taking a squad down. The rest of the guild-clumsy men accustomed to threatening fat merchants for bribes-would stand no chance.
“We can’t let this go unpunished,” Martin said, dropping his voice lower. “The gold the Trifect pays us is no longer enough. I doubt we are alone in this, either. If every guild breaks, it’ll be anarchy…”
“We will not break!” Thren said. All around him, men quieted, hearing the ice in his voice, the strength of his conviction. He stood from his chair, slammed a fist against the bar. “This is our city-ours. No outsider shall come in, bare swords against us, and expect to live. All of you, cowering here…get out. Now. I want your ears at every wall. I want your eyes on every street. Whatever information you can find, I want to hear it. Where this Victor lives, where he eats, where he sleeps, where he shits-I want to know it all. And if you fear being caught, or arrested, then don’t come back. You aren’t Spiders. You’re worms.”
They filed out, grabbing swords and cloaks on their way. Even Murphy left, though Thren knew he would only go upstairs to wait. Should anyone returned wounded, the surgeon must be ready. When Thren sat down, he noticed a single man remained in the far corner, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his beefy chest and his strange hat in his hands. Thren turned on him, thinking a savage killing might do wonders for his mood. Then he saw the man’s face, and grinned.
“Grayson, you ox,” Thren said. “I’ll never understand how you can hide in a crowd.”
Grayson grinned back. He was an enormous man, dark skinned, and stood at nearly seven feet tall. The thin clothing he wore did little to conceal the muscles beneath. A four-pointed star made of gold thread was sewn into his shirt. His head was shaved, and he wore nine rings in his left ear, running up and down the cartilage. From where he came from, each ring traditionally represented a kill, yet Thren knew Grayson had been forced to adopt a new standard, with each ring counting for ten, lest his ear fall off.
Grayson joined him at the bar, slapping him once on the back.
“You banished our barkeep,” said the man, his voice deep and rumbling.
“Would you make an injured man pour drinks?”
Grayson laughed.
“I’ve never seen you injured, Thren,” he said. “Just sometimes you’re bleeding more than usual.”
Grayson leaned forward, his long arms grabbing bottles and glasses from the wall. Mixing two together, Grayson tasted his drink and then let out a sigh of contentment.
“For all I’ve heard, I thought you’d have little better than donkey piss and water,” he said. “Looks like Veldaren might not be as bad as rumored. Either that, or you’re the richest thief left.”
Thren bit down a retort. Grayson was from the distant city of Mordeina, and was a legendary thief in his own right. In what felt like ages past, they’d worked together, helped build the Spider Guild into something fearsome. But then, one terrible night, it had all come crashing down…
“The gold still flows here,” Thren said, careful to control his tone. “The protection money from the Trifect alone keeps the liquor flowing.”
“That the lie you tell yourselves so you can sleep at night?”
Grayson took a shot, poured himself another. Thren’s eyes narrowed.
“Things are not the same,” he said. “Between the Bloody Kensgold, Alyssa’s mercenaries, and now the Watcher, I dare say no thief has faced such hardships as we have here in Veldaren.”
“Ah yes, the Watcher. I’ve been thinking of hunting him down and seeing how good he really is. You know that word of him has reached all the way to Mordeina?”
“Is that so?” Thren asked, doing his best to sound bored.
“Yes. And you know what’s worse, Thren? That’s not the only thing reaching our ears. The nobles are hearing of your little setup, this game you play. It’s giving them ideas, ideas I don’t fucking like. Already they whisper of similar arrangements, of turning our guilds against each other in the name of protection money. Mordeina won’t turn into Veldaren. The priests alone give us enough trouble. I’m a thief, and a killer. I won’t let myself become some noble’s bootlicking bodyguard.”
Thren felt his blood turn to ice.
“Is that what you think I am?” he asked. “Some low rent bodyguard for the Trifect?”
Grayson grunted.
“That’s what I’m here to find out. A lot has changed over the past ten years, and I want to know just how much.” He stood, put a wide-brimmed hat made of leather on his bald head. “I have my own place to stay, so don’t worry about offering me a bed. Not sure how long I’ll be here, but I thought I’d drop in and give you my greetings.”
“What are you really here for?” Thren asked, as the big man was about to exit. “If all you wanted was information, you’d have sent an underling, not traveled across Dezrel yourself. You’re here for more than that. What is it?”
Grayson stopped, looked back at him with a dangerous grin on his face.
“What if I don’t feel like answering? Will you make me, Thren?”
Thren swallowed, and his hand drifted down to the hilt of a shortsword. Grayson saw this, smirked.
“Careful,” he said. “I have no desire to cross swords with you. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair. After all…you’re injured.”
When he was gone, Thren took his glass and smashed it across the counter. The glass cut his hand, and he stared at the mixing blood and alcohol. His fury grew. Grayson had sensed weakness, and Thren could not refute it. Despite all his best efforts, his guild was weaker than it had ever been. All the guilds were. And if the Suns, or the Stars, or any other guild from Mordeina decided to move in…
Thren shook his head. No, there was no if, only when. Grayson would not have traveled such distance without good cause. The only question was how the foreign guilds planned to make their attack, and how great their cooperation would be. Their first move, though, Grayson had stated clear as day. The truce between the Trifect and the guilds would have to be broken, and the easiest step to that was obvious: ending the life of the Watcher.
“Good luck, Watcher,” Thren said softly, doing everything to subdue his anger, to think clearly and carefully like he knew he must. Despite his frustration, he felt pride. All the way to Mordeina, Grayson had said. The Watcher’s reputation had spread throughout the four nations, coast to coast.
“Good luck,” he wiped his hand with a cloth, “…my son.”