Blood of the Underworld(95)

Pulling open his mouth, he found the two gold coins, there as always. Lifting the lantern, he looked at the opposite wall for the message.



silver silver

gold and gold

here in the thief den

where are you spider

where are you thren



It was written not once, not twice, but a dozen times all along the walls. Checking the body, Thren found a slit across Alan’s neck, no doubt where this madman had gotten the necessary amount of blood. And Thren knew for certain it was a madman. Unlike in the streets, he, or she, had had time in the basement, and they’d indulged themselves with the display. Everywhere he cast his lantern light he saw the message, and it left no question as to whom it’d been intended for.

The killings had nothing to do with his guild, nothing to do with power or territory. Someone wanted him to suffer. Whatever vendetta they had, it was personal.

“I’m here!” Thren shouted, kicking the table so it slid a foot, and rocking the body atop it. “You want me, here I am! Think you’ll take my eyes? Think you’ll shove gold coins down my throat? Here! Right here!”

Childish outburst out of the way, Thren forced himself to calm down, to think. If the Widow had taken his time, then so could he. First, he needed more light than the little coming in through the windows. Much of their things had been ransacked, but he found a discarded skin with a bit more oil in it, and he refilled the lantern, set it to burning brighter. That done, he dug through the scattered mess in the supply room, scavenging a few candles that he lit and placed about. That done, he began his investigation.

He started with the body, looking it over for any sort of clue. He found no sign of clothing, no dropped personal items. Moving on to the floor, he looked, but again found little. Too much tramping about by guards, too much activity prior to their arrival. Next he scanned the messages, each one. He read them all, to see if they said the same. He looked for any hint to the mindset of the Widow, even something as basic as whether or not the man or woman wrote with their right hand or left.

On the sixth message he checked, he at last found his clue. Pressed against the wall and held there by dried blood was a long strand of brown hair, clearly that of a woman. Thren pulled it free and then wrapped it around his finger. At least he had a color to go on. A flash of thought, and he grinned. No, he had far more than that. Returning to Alan’s body, he took the silver and gold before rushing out.

The Council of Mages’ presence was weak in Veldaren, but they did have a few members. They were unanimously unimpressive, failures to master the craft. Thren viewed them as little more than charlatans, taking the coin of others and offering petty fortunes and trinkets in return. One such charlatan, however, had been somewhat useful. In what felt like an age past, a wizard had once been a member of the Spider Guild. It was his shop Thren went to, the hair still tightly wrapped around his finger.

Inside was cramped, with hardly room for three men to stand side by side. The fat wizard sat on a stool, only a table separating him from the door. A few odds and ends hung from the walls, and behind the wizard was a shelf full of jars, each containing a strange organ or insect. From experience, Thren knew little of them were necessary for spells, only kept there for looks.

“Welcome, welcome,” said the wizard. Most of his clothing was simple, dull browns and grays, but he wore a thin green robe over it, no doubt meant to impress the simpletons. Thren snorted at the sight.

“Hello, Cregon,” Thren said. “How has business fared since you tossed aside your cloak?”

Cregon leaned closer, and then his eyes widened as he realized who was before him.

“Y-y-you let me go willingly,” he stammered. “And I know my protection money’s not been consistent, but business comes and goes...”

“Drop it,” Thren said, taking a seat opposite the wizard. “If I wanted you dead, I’d just kill you. I have a use for your talents.”

“Talents?” Cregon asked. He was already sweating. The sight of it disgusted Thren. Sure, he’d been useful, but he’d let the man go just because he couldn’t stand the sight of his bloated self. “Talents, of course. Whatever you need, I’m sure I can help. What spell would you like? Or do you need some sort of enchantment?”

“I need a scrying spell,” Thren said.

Cregon licked his lips.

“Who is it? If they’re unknown to me, I’ll need a drawing or strongly personal object to see them.”

“I don’t know who she is, and don’t care about her name or what she’s doing. I just need to know where to find her.”

Cregon nodded, but Thren could tell he was starting to worry.