“We hadn’t heard a word,” Alan said, crossing his arms and leaning against a wall. “Kadish Pel must be getting ballsy if he thinks his guild can take Lord Victor all on his own.”
“What do you know about Lord Victor?”
Alan shrugged.
“Just what everyone knows. Can’t help you there.”
The Watcher frowned, clearly displeased.
“I’m starting to doubt giving you your coin.”
Alan chuckled.
“I never promise what I tell will be useful, or new to you. But I dare you to find anyone else insane enough to sell out Thren Felhorn.”
“Enough. Tell me this, then...what do you know about the murders, the ones being claimed by the Widow?”
Alan grunted, caught off guard by the question. Reaching into his tattered vest, he pulled out one of the silver coins the Watcher had paid him with and began twirling it in his fingers.
“Honestly, we don’t know shit. I might have believed it was you, if I thought you had the ability to rhyme. The two dead were Bert and Troy, neither of them special, or even important. No one’s seen nothing, no one’s heard nothing.”
“What were the two doing when they were killed?”
“Keep asking questions, I might think I don’t have enough silver in my pocket.”
The Watcher’s glare made him chuckle, but his nerves were starting to rise. All it would take was one person telling Thren he’d been seen speaking with the Watcher, just a whisper of betrayal, and he’d be gutted from the Spider Guild’s rooftop...if he were lucky.
“Fine. I don’t know what Troy was doing, but Bert was out looking for whores. That help you any?”
“Perhaps.” The Watcher pulled his hood lower across his face, then leapt from one side of the alley to the other, vaulting himself up to the rooftops. “I’ll find you three days from now, on your patrol by the south wall. If you can tell me anything about this Widow, I’ll pay you in gold.”
“Should be paying me in gold anyway,” Alan said, but the Watcher was already gone. Turning to leave, he found a man leaning against one of the walls, his large frame blocking half the alley. His muscular arms were crossed over his chest, and he almost looked like he was sleeping, with his wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes. Alan felt a chill, but the stranger bore no cloak, nor any other sign of allegiance to the various guilds. Hoping the man just hid there from the carnage, Alan walked past him toward the main street.
As he did, the man let out a soft whistle, that of a songbird.
Alan didn’t dare look back, nor acknowledge the blatant accusation. His hand dropped to his dagger. He slowed his walk, started to shift. But it was too late. Somehow the man was already halfway down the alley, his movement having gone completely unnoticed by Alan. The man turned, smiled at Alan, and then let out another bird whistle.
“The songbirds are singing,” the stranger said, then laughed as he touched one of the nine rings in his left ear.
Alan fled. He knew he should return to his guild, to tell Thren everything he’d seen. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Halfway across Veldaren, he stepped into his favorite tavern, a silver coin in hand. He’d still tell Thren, but he needed a lot more alcohol in him to keep from shaking, and to keep his perceptive guildmaster from seeing the terror in his eyes. With every sip he took, he heard the whistle, the accusation.
It didn’t matter which guild you were in, or even which city. Songbirds died.
“Keep it coming,” he told the tavern wench, pushing away the change she’d brought for the silver. “Go until there ain’t a damn thing left of it.”
8
“That’ll do it,” Tarlak said as he straightened up, wincing as his upper back popped twice.
“Are you sure it will hold, no matter how powerful the spell?” asked Victor, surveying the runes carved into the outside of his temporary home. Ten in all covered the large building, burned in as if by fire.
Tarlak raised an eyebrow. He’d spent the past six hours placing markings with chalk, rearranging runes, and casting a variety of spells that protected the building from magical attacks, from the subtle, like teleportation, to the less subtle, such as giant exploding fireballs. Last, but not least, was the requested surprise escape in case of an attack. His back hurt like crazy, his fingers were sore from all the measuring and writing, and he doubted he could summon anything stronger than a magical fart with how bad his head ached. And yet Victor wanted to question his abilities?
“If you didn’t think I could do the job,” Tarlak asked, “why would you request me in the first place?”