to pass,” he said, “then I will reward you a hundredfold. Tell no one else.”
“My ears and mouth are yours alone,” Gileas said. Gerand didn’t believe it for a second. He left the room and shut the door behind him, for Gileas demanded secrecy in his method of departure, just as he did his arrival. His head leaning against the splintered wood of the door, Gerand allowed himself to smile.
“You finally erred,” he said, his smile growing. “About bloody time, Thren. Your war is done. Done.”
He hurried down the steps, a plan already forming in his mind.
Veliana waited in the corner of the tavern, a small place frequented more by soldiers than rogues of the undercity. Her beauty was enough to keep her welcome, and her coin smoothed over things with those who still persisted in questioning. If she ever wanted something done without the denizens of the night knowing, it was in that tavern.
The door opened, and in walked Gileas the Worm. He saw her at her regular seat and smiled his ugly smile.
“You are as beautiful as you are intelligent,” he said as he took a seat.
“Then I must be a horrible sight,” she replied.
Gileas scoffed.
“Forget it,” she said. “Tell me, did he believe you?”
The Worm grinned, revealing his black, rotting teeth.
“Every word,” he said.
Kayla wasn’t sure what she expected of Thren’s safehouse, but the elegant mansion surrounded by steel bars was certainly not it. She asked for an explanation from Aaron, who kept making excuses to see her.
“Some rich merchant fled to Mordeina,” he said, his voice much quieter than it had been during their flight from the soldiers. “All his helpers stayed to keep the mansion clean, warm, and safe. My father moved in shortly after. I’ve even heard he keeps a few business contracts with various men about the city while pretending to be a friend of the real owner.”
“What happens when the merchant returns to his home?” she had asked.
“He will not return until our war is done,” Aaron said. “By then, we will need this place no longer.”
Kayla thought the logic sound, but in the back of her mind she wondered what might happen if the merchant showed up with his possessions and servants and the rest of his guards. She doubted it would be Thren that ended up looking for a new home.
As she walked through the estate, marveling at various paintings of the faraway lands of Omn, Ker, and Mordan, she let her mind wander to her own situation. She had avoided guilds, instead relying on her information and her contacts to keep her warm, fed, and safe. Now she had allied with the most dangerous man in Veldaren, and for what? A vague promise of wealth, the same vague promise that she had mocked hundreds of others for following.
No, it wasn’t the wealth. It was the power, she realized. He had offered her a role at his side, the highest reward he could bestow. If the entire city quaked in fear at the name of Felhorn, might not the same one day happen for Kayla? Foolish fantasies, perhaps, but she could not shake them away. They sucked wisdom from her heart like leeches. She distantly hoped that her folly would not be too severe.
The hall of paintings ended at Thren’s room. She knocked twice, then waited patiently. A moment later, the door crept open, and a mailed hand waved her in. She entered, passing between two guards with their dirks drawn. Inside was a plush room of velvet reds and silky purples. The enormous bed, its wood painted silver and its knobs carved into the shape of owls, had once occupied the center, but it was now relegated to a far corner. In its place was a plain table with eight chairs, seeming like a strange joke with its dull finish and undecorated nature amid a sea of decadence.
Thren sat at the center, facing the door. He waved her to him. Two other men sat with him, one on each side. She recognized neither.
“Kayla, I would like you to meet two of my closest friends,” Thren said. The man on his left stood and outstretched his hand. She took it and accepted his kiss on her wrist.
“My name is Senke,” he said. “I am honored to be in the presence of such beauty.”
He was a handsome man, although some of that was hidden by the numerous scars along his cheeks and neck, like fleshy pale crosses.