Dance of Thieves (Dance of Thieves 1)

Mason opened the door and we walked in.

* * *

It was a small room, windowless, with dark paneled walls, but a candelabra in the corner provided soft golden light. Jase sat slumped in a chair, his boots propped up on the end of a long table, and Gunner and Titus sat on either side of him. Gunner reviewed scattered papers and carefully wrote on another.

Jase jumped to his feet when I walked in. He had a new shirt on. He stared at me. His brown eyes that had once swallowed me whole with their warmth were cold and distant. The anger and blood I tasted in the air was not imagined.

“Hello, Kazi,” he said formally.

A fist pounded my sternum. It was death, fierce and strong, and I couldn’t breathe. “Who have you killed?” I asked immediately, not waiting for any more formalities.

“Who says—”

“I want to see Wren and Synové! Now!”

Jase walked to my side and took my elbow, trying to guide me to a seat. “Sit down. Your friends are fine, but we can’t bring them here—”

I yanked free. “You don’t really have them. Is that it?” I asked, praying I was right. Praying he would confess this one truth to me. “That’s why you won’t let me see them.”

Gunner stood and retrieved something from a leather case on the floor. He threw two items onto the table. Wren’s ziethe clattered and spun on the polished wood. Synové’s leather archer glove slid as smooth and golden as warm butter toward me.

Gunner grunted. “We thought you might need some proof.”

I let out a shuddering breath, letting them think it was fear instead of relief. I maintained my distressed expression, but inwardly I calmed. Now I knew, with little doubt, that they didn’t have them. Each of Wren’s blades had dyed leather wrapping the hilt. The red one was the spare she kept carefully wrapped and buried deep in her saddlebag. The blue and violet ziethes were her blades of choice and the ones she wore at her sides. Synové’s monogrammed archer glove was a gift from the queen, a spare she had not yet worn. She was too much in awe of it. The leather was still pristine and unblemished. Gunner had only gotten hold of their saddlebags, perhaps taken by the magistrate at the livery while we were in town. If they actually had Wren and Synové, they wouldn’t have had to dig deep through their belongings. They could have taken items in plain sight at their sides.

“This doesn’t mean they’re alive. I saw the blood on Mason’s shirt,” I said, keeping up the charade.

Titus shook his head. “She’s a hard one to convince, Jase. I don’t know how you spent all that time with her.” He threw a loosely wrapped packet on the table in front of me.

I pulled a corner of the paper aside and choked back a gag.

“Those look like your friends’ ears?” Titus asked.

“No,” I answered quietly.

“Put them away, Titus,” Jase snapped.

Titus wrapped the ears back in the bloodstained paper and set it aside. I tried to sort out how severed human ears played into this.

“We’ve had more trouble in Hell’s Mouth,” Jase said. “We need your help.”

I looked down at the damson stain that Jase had carelessly overlooked on the toe of his boot. He saw me staring and drew my attention away, taking my arm and leading me to a seat at the table. They all took seats around me. They were sober as they laid it all out. They had found more labor hunters in town. That was the coldness I had seen in Jase’s eyes—and now heard in his voice—his utter hatred for the scavenging predators. It was a hatred we shared and was an especially fresh horror for both of us.

I listened without interrupting, still wondering where “my help” came into play. They explained they were under attack by someone conspiring to oust them in a moment that the Ballengers appeared weakened. Jase said they were increasing defense and protections around the town, which would take care of the short term, but knowing a powerful sovereign was recognizing their authority with a visit would help calm nerves, support their right to rule, and might make whoever was orchestrating these attacks back off. They suspected it could be two or more leagues working in a concerted effort.

I sat back, knowing where this was going. The appearance of more labor hunters had made Gunner’s impulsive outburst rear its ugly head again.

“Then ask the King of Eislandia to come here,” I said. “He has jurisdiction over Hell’s Mouth.”

They all laughed, but it held no genuine mirth. I remembered Griz rolling his eyes when he described the king. Apparently the brothers held a similar opinion of him.

Mason pushed back from the table. “The king is barely a king at all.”

“He’s a joke is what he is,” Titus added.

Gunner’s expression held similar contempt. “Except for drawing his two percent tax, he wouldn’t know Hell’s Mouth from a swamp in the Cam Lanteux. Last time he was here, he only came looking for breeding stock for his farm, and then he was gone.”

Mason sneered. “And the breeding stock he chose was more like a laughingstock. He’s not even good at being a farmer.”