House of Assassins

by Larry Correia

  As the city had grown, the pleasure district had needed to expand, but trapped in narrow valleys, there was nowhere to go but up. The mountain was not too steep here, so they had built up the sides, driving pilings into the rocks. The buildings had gotten taller and taller over the years, and then they’d been connected by catwalks, to smoothly move customers from their betting to their drinking, all out of the weather. If you hit someone in the face with a cold mountain wind they might sober up enough to want to keep some of their notes. Ashok may not have grasped the intricacies of commerce, but the merchants of Neeramphorn certainly did.

  The Face of the East was a large four-story building, connected to all the other buildings around it. According to the signs and what he could see through the windows and balconies, it catered to workers of wealth and warriors of low to medium status, and it offered gambling, alcohol, poppies, and pleasure women. Judging by the crowd outside, it was a popular place. Well guarded too, judging by the armed men controlling the door.

  A few warriors tried to enter, but they were stopped and told they couldn’t come in wearing their swords. Drunken brawls were one thing, but drunken sword fights could be incredibly destructive. It was an insult to ask a warrior to give up his sword, and offense might be taken, but the clever merchants had found a way around that custom. Right beside the entrance was a sword polisher’s stand. It was a polite lie which enabled the warriors to say they weren’t being disarmed while they drank themselves stupid. Instead they were having their weapon professionally sharpened, cleaned, and secured until they returned to claim it with a ticket.

  If this was where the bounty was to be delivered, then Gutch was more than likely being held inside, or at least somewhere nearby. If he’d still had the full authority of the Law, Ashok would have walked right up to the door, announced himself, made his demands, and then cut down anyone who disagreed. Such behavior now would only bring the Law down on his head. He had to find Gutch another way, but after twenty years as one, it was hard not to think like a Protector.

  He kept his head low so the hood would cover most of his face, in the off chance someone here might recognize him. He pulled up a stool at a noodle stand across the road in order to watch the comings and goings. The proprietor asked what he wanted.

  “May I have a cup of water?”

  “No noodles?”

  Ashok’s stomach growled. It had been a long run. “I have no money for noodles.”

  “Then go!” the man shooed him away, waving his hands like Ashok was a troublesome monkey. “Get out, bum.”

  It was difficult to be snapped at by someone who would have once been as insignificant to him as a flea. Ashok inadvertently slipped, forgetting his current status, and lifted his head. He looked the man in the eyes and, without raising his voice, said, “I thirst. Clean water. Now.”

  The noodle man, or whatever title was fitting for a worker of his rank, nodded fearfully and scurried away. Ashok had been told by many a criminal that he was intimidating. He’d always assumed it was just due to his office. Apparently not. He went back to observing the Face of the East and tried to think like a criminal.

  In the worst possible scenario, he would leave his sword with the polisher to gain entry, find Gutch, then kill whoever was guarding him with his bare hands and take their weapons to fight his way out. Or perhaps he would enter through one of the other establishments around it, then try to find an unguarded catwalk? One side of the building was not as busy as the others, so it looked promising. There was no street below there, only rocks. It was rather dark, and the building it was connected to on that side was rather close. There were rain gutters which would make for an easy climb, and he could enter through a window on the top floor, unseen.

  Noodle man returned and offered him a whole jug of water. “Fresh from the tastiest natural spring on the mountain just this morning, then kept cool in the shade all day. There might even be a little ice in it.”

  Ashok took the jug and drank the whole thing. When he was done he wiped his face on his sleeve. “Ah. Much better.”

  “Of course, noble sir. We often get men of the highest caste who wish to experience the joys of the pleasure district, but who dress humbly to avoid attention. Please forgive my earlier outburst. No offense was intended.”

  “No offense was taken. Thank you, merchant.”

  “Enjoy the stool as long as you wish.” Then he went back to his paying, and far less threatening, customers.

  Ashok found the whole exchange curious. Even without status, he was treated with deference, just because he acted like he deserved it. It was fascinating…yet led to uncomfortable conclusions. He went back to watching the building, just in time to see a familiar face.

  Jagdish?

  He almost didn’t recognize him since he had shaved his beard off, but he was fairly certain it was Jagdish who had just walked past a balcony on the fourth floor. Only he had been wearing the wrong uniform. Unless Jagdish had a twin brother in the army of Great House Kharsawan, the good risaldar was in disguise.

  Gutch’s letter claimed they had been separated. Jagdish must have followed Gutch’s captors here, and now he was on the same mission as Ashok. Considering this place had to be swarming with criminals, it was a remarkably brave, yet probably foolish move. It made sense though. Jagdish was not the sort inclined toward hesitation.

  Before Ashok could decide how to proceed, another complication presented itself. There was some commotion near the entrance. A man in a gray cloak had been stopped at the door, apparently refusing to give up his sword. His view was blocked, so Ashok couldn’t tell what it was the man showed the guards, but by the way the warriors immediately shut their mouths and scurried fearfully out of the way, he could guess.

  That was a common reaction when a Protector displayed the token of his office.

  No gleaming, intimidating armor. No show of force. No loud declaration to strike fear into the hearts of the lawbreakers. It was rare for a Protector to be so discreet. The only time Ashok had ever behaved that way was when he was worried about frightening away his target.

  The cloaked man walked into the Face of the East, still armed. A guard ran off, probably to alert his employer that one of the ultimate enforcers of the Law had just entered the premises. He knew from experience that now there would be a great rush to hide any illegal activity, and once word got out, anyone who was wanted for a crime would leap out the nearest window and run for their lives.

  The subtlety of the Protector suggested he was more than likely here looking for Ashok. His presence somewhere one, or possibly two, of Ashok’s associates were was no coincidence. Somehow the Order knew of their fellowship. Jagdish had disguised himself, but a Protector learned to read faces, separating out the general unease everyone felt around them from the dread of the guilty. Jagdish would be found, and since he was a man of character, would likely fight to the death rather than allow himself to be captured. He was skilled, but would have little chance against a Protector.

  It was difficult to think like a criminal. The smart thing for a criminal to do in this situation would be to abandon his companions, avoid the Protector, and flee…Luckily for Jagdish, Ashok still struggled with such concepts.

  Trying to appear nonchalant, he walked across the busy street and then around to the rear of the building. The backside had even fewer potential witnesses than expected. There were a few sleeping drunks, and one soldier lying so still he might actually be dead. It stunk, as this was where they threw out their waste when they were too lazy to walk to the proper disposal sites, but Ashok wasn’t here to serve citations for minor violations of the Law concerning sanitation and public health. He got a running start, leapt, and grabbed hold of the second-floor balcony. Pulling himself up, he made sure no one was looking out that window, but the curtain was closed. Then he tested the rain gutter and discovered it was solidly mounted. He began to climb.

  Chapter 13

  Before leaving on this foolish errand, Keta had told
Jagdish that the gods would bless and aid him in his search. Such lies! More like a curse than a blessing. The way things had been going, if Jagdish lived he was going to horsewhip Keta, and then if the priest had any idols or graven images—he didn’t actually know how such things worked—but if he did, then Jagdish would piss on his gods!

  For three days he and Gutch had been pursued by gangs. Each time they’d made it to a different neighborhood, they’d found out that Gutch’s old friends had retired or been murdered, and replaced by greedy scum without a scrap of loyalty. All the smugglers would rather sell them to the apothecary Bajwa than speak of the Lost House. Over the last few days Jagdish had been chased, bruised, battered, slept in a hole, and he’d killed at least six men, maybe more, depending on how good their physicians were at stitching up lacerations in this blasted, soot-encrusted city.

  He was only here because Gutch was a big stupid idiot who had run left when he should have turned right, and wound up cornered by a bunch of Bajwa’s men. It would serve Gutch right, leaving him to die, but Jagdish was terribly loyal, so abandoning a comrade—even a foolish one who had drastically underestimated his popularity—seemed dishonorable. His lovely wife Pakpa had told him many times that he was too dependable for his own good.

  He had tailed them to the Face of the East, easy enough to do, since they’d just put ropes around Gutch’s ankles and dragged him the whole way behind a horse. They’d gone right past a group of warriors obligated to the city watch, and they’d simply averted their eyes, pretending not to see a thing. If Jagdish ever found out any man under his command had ever ignored such brazen criminality, he’d punish them so harshly they’d envy the lifestyle of the casteless.

  Knowing that he’d be recognized by Bajwa’s men, upon arrival in the pleasure district he’d grabbed a new uniform from a hanger. The junior nayak it belonged to had been too distracted by a pleasure woman to notice, and was sure to get ripped when he returned to his barracks naked, but that’s what he deserved for not keeping an eye on his issued equipment. He’d changed his appearance as much as possible, shaving and cutting his hair with his knife, but upon inspection in a mirror Jagdish decided that even though the Kharsawan warrior caste were wretched excuses for real soldiers, their uniforms were nice, and he did look rather dashing in red.

  Then he’d gone after no-good Gutch, into the nest of vipers, hoping that his friend’s quick wit and smooth talk would keep him alive long enough. He’d been forced to leave his sword with the polishers, but he still had his ceremonial knife beneath his sash, a dagger hidden in his boot, and a length of sturdy wire taken from a junk pile for strangling.

  The Face of the East was a popular destination. It was crowded, so packed with warm bodies that even though it was cold out, the balconies were all kept open. Good, otherwise they would have all choked on the pipe smoke and perfume. There were many women here, some slaves obligated to the establishment, but a lot of them were young worker women who came here in giggling groups, probably looking to catch the eye of a rich man from their own caste, or to have a brief fling with a warrior—if they were lucky.

  The metals were painted to look like gold or silver. The wood was all carved, albeit clumsily. There were paintings on every wall, though Jagdish was willing to bet none of them would have been considered good. Not that he knew a thing about paintings of course, but he had been on the Personal Guard of Great House Vadal, so he knew what real wealth looked like. This was not that. Though it was a reasonable copy, more than good enough to fool most warriors into thinking they were living like the first caste for a night.

  If the owner hadn’t been trying to kill him for the last few days, Jagdish probably would have enjoyed the visit. If he ran into Bajwa or any of the men he’d fought with, he would just have to hope they didn’t recognize him.

  Jagdish had slowly made his way through the crowd, searching each floor, looking for some sign of where they would hold a prisoner. There was no basement that he could see, rock was too hard, probably not worth the effort. There were areas for different games, and some of those rooms were by private invitation only, with a guard keeping out unwanted guests. Gutch might be in one of those, but there were too many, and Jagdish couldn’t start strangling people until he’d narrowed it down.

  There were musicians on each floor, each group playing different kinds of songs depending on what was being sold. The gambling areas were playing raucous folk songs, about bravery and heroes, better to motivate warriors to keep throwing dice or drawing cards. The third floor was the brothel, and they kept the music poetic, romantic, and also thankfully, very loud, so as to drown out the moaning. The top floor was for drinking, which was clever, because once filled with wine and lacking sense, the warriors would have to try and make their way back down through the gauntlet of temptation without losing all their notes. The music here was happy, and sung by beautiful women, because nobody wanted a bunch of warriors to become morose while intoxicated. Surely Jagdish wasn’t the only man who’d snuck in some knives.

  Once he had reached the top, Jagdish stopped to think. And it was better to think while sitting at a table with a drink in his hand. To keep wandering would be to attract suspicion. So he ordered a cup of sunda, a local drink made from fermented rice buried in a mud pot, and found a place to sit away from all the other red uniforms in the room. If they tried to make conversation, he was far too ignorant of their ways to pass for one of them. Luckily, he wasn’t the only obvious veteran sitting alone, looking bitter, and nursing a drink. Apparently that behavior was common across every house.

  He had walked by six locked and guarded doors. Approximately half of those had been quiet, the others had sounded like gambling had been going on inside. There were more private rooms in the brothel, but those were for paying customers. First, Jagdish was far too loyal to Pakpa to think of such a thing, and second, he didn’t have enough money to buy his way in there anyway.

  There was no choice. He would simply have to pick a door and hope for the best. It was just another game of chance in a palace full of them. Maybe Keta’s gods would guide him to the right one? That thought made him laugh, so he finished his sunda and gagged on the taste. He had no idea how the warriors of Kharsawan drank the stuff. In Vadal they’d use it to strip paint from armor.

  Before Jagdish could stand, he realized something was wrong. Soldiers were shouting for more drinks, but getting no response. The service had gone from speedy to nonexistent. Jagdish noted both bartenders were gone, their aprons untied and discarded on the bar. He glanced to the door, where two large guards had been waiting with clubs to bust open the head of anyone who got too drunk and started a fight. They were also gone.

  A man in a gray cloak was walking among the patrons. He wasn’t going out of his way to be rude, but he was also not meek about it. He simply pushed them aside, indifferent. A few warriors looked to take offense, but when they saw what was beneath that cloak, their expressions turned from annoyance to fear, and they quickly stepped aside. Between the bodies, for just a moment, Jagdish saw the flash of a golden symbol, hanging from the man’s neck by a chain. With pointed teeth and eyes that never closed, it was the leering face of the Law.

  Oh no.

  He lowered his head and stared at the table. Jagdish didn’t dare move.

  The Protector slowly made his way around the room, glancing briefly at each man, judging them for a moment, and then moving on. As he did so, the warriors who’d seen him began to whisper warnings to their companions. Even men who had broken no Law were right to be terrified of its enforcers. The nervousness spread, but nobody left the bar. To do so at this point would be to attract attention.

  The rich workers seated behind Jagdish began to speak nervously to each other. What is one of them doing here? He could hear the open fear in their voices. The warriors were all trained to have brave faces or risk disgrace. Killing a warrior would at least require some explanation to their commanders about why the Law was depriving them of assets. If a Pr
otector killed a worker he probably wouldn’t even have to do any paperwork.

  Someone must have told the band, or maybe they just realized that something was amiss, because they stopped playing their instruments. The woman quit singing. The sudden quiet made everything worse.

  The Protector paused in his search, looked to the stand where the musicians were seated, and spoke loud enough for everyone present to hear. “Why did you stop?”

  The singer gave him an abrupt, fearful nod. “Forgiveness, Protector. I was afraid—”

  “Only lawbreakers need fear.” He pulled his hood back, revealing sharp, angular features. His hair was long, tied in a knot on top, but shaved on both sides, a style common among the warrior caste in the western houses. “I like that tune. You were doing fine. Please, continue.”

  It was rather awkward, but the band began to play it again from the beginning. The woman sang, but there was a bit of a crack in her voice this time. The Protector resumed his search, far more overtly now, eyeing each of them one by one. Jagdish just kept trying to memorize the pattern of the wood grain of his tabletop.

  If it came to a fight, he had fought a Protector before, perhaps the greatest of them all, but Jagdish had lost badly. All of his sparring with Ashok had made him a better swordsman, but that meant nothing without a sword, and he knew damned good and well there was no way a Protector cared about polite fictions enough to be unarmed. That man certainly hadn’t left his sword with any damned polishers! If the Protector’s sword was drawn, he certainly wasn’t going to block it with a claim ticket. Jagdish knew he would have better odds of surviving a leap off the fourth floor balcony than fighting his way out.

  The Protector stopped in front of Jagdish’s table, and just…stood there.