House of Assassins

by Larry Correia

  “Noted.” From the noise in the Face of the East, it sounded like everyone was trying to leave. If the Protectors were raiding an establishment it could only mean that criminal activity was afoot. Nobody wanted to get caught up in that. If something illegal was found here, even if innocent, the lower-status bystanders might accidently end up among the executions, and the higher might become embroiled in a scandal. “Let’s go.”

  The guards had taken most of Gutch’s clothing and his boots, but luckily a customer had left in such a hurry they’d forgotten their fine sandals. They must have come from someone who’d ridden here on a rickshaw or carriage, because they weren’t fit for the winter, but Gutch took them because it beat running through the frozen mud in bare feet. Another customer had left behind a fine silk cape, which Gutch threw over his shoulders. It was comically small, but would have to do.

  They made it down the next flight of stairs without incident. Nobody noticed them. Judging by the large number of people who’d rushed to the windows shouting about watching a sword fight, Ashok and the Protector had survived their fall and had gone about trying to murder each other.

  “I should help Ashok.”

  “No offense intended, Risaldar, you’re good, but even if you had your sword, in a Protector fight you’d be as useful as tits on a boar.”

  Gutch was as insulting as he was correct. Besides, Ashok would want him to focus on their mission. If he’d wanted Jagdish’s help he wouldn’t have jumped off a balcony where Jagdish could not follow. “Come on. We’ll try to sneak out in the confusion.”

  The first floor was chaos. Customers, eager not to be caught up in Protector business, were trying to push and shove their way out. But some of the watch had heard the commotion and were trying to keep people in until they could figure out what was going on. Only all of the watch obligated to this district were of Kharsawan’s warrior caste, as were many of the customers, so lots of them were escaping as the watch allowed their brothers to pass. To be fair, none of them had been implicated in whatever law breaking had attracted the Protectors…Yet.

  The workers were not so lucky. Warriors loved any opportunity to put what they considered the uppity caste back in their place, and there were already a few broken noses on workers who’d overstepped their bounds. Jagdish felt pity for any warrior who mistook a disguised firster for a lesser man. Bloodying a high-status nose would probably result in a hanging.

  Jagdish had an idea. If nobody recognized him from upstairs it might actually work. He dragged Gutch along toward a side door where the watch was letting their fellow warriors escape. “Hide your face. Act like you don’t want to be recognized.”

  “What?”

  “Do it!”

  Gutch used the cape to cover his face. He looked absurd.

  Jagdish cleared his throat as he approached the watchmen. “Let us through.”

  A Kharsawan soldier stepped in front of the door. He let his cudgel land in his open palm with a menacing thump. “I don’t know you, brother.”

  Even though he was only wearing the insignia of a lowly nayak, Jagdish carried himself like an officer as he got right into the guard’s face. He kept his voice low, as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “Listen carefully. This uniform was borrowed for the night. I’m a risaldar of the Kwang garrison.” Jagdish picked the most distant and obscure Kharsawan holding he could remember from a map. “Some of our officers wanted to inconspicuously taste the pleasures of Neeramphorn, and we were invited here by Bajwa himself. This is our phontho.” He jerked his head toward Gutch, who didn’t look like a warrior, let alone a leader of an entire garrison, but at that level appointments were more political than anything, so it was possible. “He is an extremely important man. If his wife finds out he was seen in a brothel, she’ll rip him, he’ll rip us, and when he gets angry my whole garrison gets flogged. Then he’ll probably come looking for you.”

  “I can’t—”

  “That woman is practically a sea demon, Nayak! He will need someone to blame and it will be you if you do not step aside.”

  It worked. “All right, hurry.”

  “Good decision. This favor will be remembered.” They made it onto the side street. The crowd was scattering. Jagdish noticed one of the warriors he’d slashed, holding a bandage on his hand, as he explained to the watch what had happened. “Keep your head down and keep walking, Phontho.”

  From the noise around the corner, people were shouting about a battle. The crowd was of two minds: get out, or get a good vantage point to watch. Even if Ashok beat the Protectors, every warrior in the city would attack him as soon as they figured out who he was. Ashok had provided a good distraction for Jagdish, it was only right to return the favor. So as they walked through the crowd, Jagdish casually grabbed an oil lantern from a peg on the wall of a food vendor and tossed it into a nearby wagon full of straw.

  In a place like this, with so many sprawling wooden buildings stacked right on top of each, fire was a terrible danger. It was the only thing he could think of that would be of more interest to the witnesses than a sword fight. They’d walked another twenty feet before anyone noticed and began to shout “Fire! Fire!”

  “I hope that works.” Gutch lowered the cape so he could see better. All eyes would either be on Ashok or the fire. Nobody would be paying them any mind. “The fastest route to a gate is that way…” He trailed off as he saw something interesting. “I’ll be damned.”

  Jagdish followed his eyes. A hundred feet away, the fine coat of the apothecary stood out in the drab crowd. “Well hello there, Bajwa.”

  The chief criminal of Neeramphorn must have been alerted that one of his holdings was being raided by Protectors, and had come to see for himself. He might have bribed every official in the city, but Protectors were outsiders, and so devoted they couldn’t be bought. The smart thing for Bajwa to do would be to run and hide. Only members of that deadly order of Law enforcers were rare, so Bajwa must have thought the alarm to be wrong or exaggerated.

  Bajwa was busy listening while one of his men who had fled the Face of the East gave his report. There were a great number of workers rushing to and fro, trying to organize a bucket brigade before the fire spread, so between the distance and the commotion, Jagdish couldn’t tell what was being said, but Bajwa looked very upset as he began walking away from his establishment. Yes, the Law is really here. Now go run and hide.

  The criminal only had two burly workers as bodyguards with him, and they were heading down a narrow lane filled with many shadowy alcoves, perfect for murder.

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?” Gutch asked.

  Jagdish began following them with malicious intent. “I was supposed to remind you, don’t forget to ask about the wizards.”

  Chapter 16

  After crossing back through the casino, Ashok searched for an escape route. He was spotted by a few warrior customers, but with their swords left at the polishers, they were wise enough to not get in his way. There was another walkway to a different building, so he took that one. Only the instant he closed the door behind him, he glanced around, decided it was momentarily clear, and then vaulted over the side to land in the road. There were people here, but they were far more worried about a rapidly spreading fire than any fleeing lawbreaker. So Ashok put his hood up and began walking away.

  More city watch were rushing toward the Face of the East to see what the commotion was about. Someone began ringing an alarm bell. That would rouse the fire crews—the Law was very specific about the minimum percentages to workers who had to be obligated and trained for that additional duty—and they would only add to the commotion. His best chance to escape was before the fire was contained.

  Running would only draw attention, so he walked a block. It seemed as if all of Neeramphorn was perpetually under construction, old buildings being torn down, with new taller ones raised in their place, so a nearby construction site looked like a good short cut out of the district. Many workers were still toiling
here even at this late hour, but when they’d heard the alarm bell they’d rushed to help. In a dense wooden city, fire was everyone’s problem, and obligations aside, their families lived here. As they hurried outside, Ashok slipped in unnoticed.

  As he crossed the cluttered construction site, he marveled at their efforts. Once finished this building would be impressive. It was vast already, not quite big enough to equal one of the smaller palaces in the Capitol, but still a testament to the industry of the worker caste. It was hard to imagine they could accomplish such a thing without being directed by their betters.

  The skeletal frame stretched high above, a multitude of floors, all connected by bamboo scaffolding. Many workers were still up there, comfortable in that dangerous environment, but they’d all started climbing down when they’d heard the bell. Five or six stories up was a terrible place to be in case the fire spread this direction. It was actually impressive how some of the workers seemed able to climb down the poles and ropes as effortlessly as monkeys.

  There was a loud crack behind him. Without looking, he could tell it was the sound of a metal capped shaft striking stone. It was a noise anyone who’d trained in the Protectors’ Hall recognized immediately, a sound of challenge.

  Ashok turned.

  He had been followed. It was Protector of the Law, ten-year senior, Bundit Vokkan. He was dressed as the other two had been, plain as a Protector could manage, but was armed with a very intimidating weapon. The pole arm was six feet long, with the last foot being a blade heavy enough to easily take the leg off a horse. The back of the blade had a spike for hooking or piercing armor. They called such a weapon a reclining moon blade in northern lands, though Master Ratul had told his students the old name for it was guandao. Either way, he had made sure all of the Protector acolytes had been taught in its use.

  Most Protectors preferred swords due to the convenience, but Bundit had taken to fighting with a pole arm as naturally as the monkey workers here took to climbing ropes. He was one of the more effective combatants in the entire Order, so Ashok had sparred with him many times.

  Bundit was a round-faced, solemn man, given to little conversation even in the best of times.

  “Give up.”

  “I can’t.” Ashok drew his sword.

  “Very well.”

  The Protector charged.

  The blade came at him, striking fast as a cobra. Ashok darted to the side, knowing that attack was just the beginning. Bundit liked to overwhelm his opponents with a flurry of unexpected attacks. The steel came back around, from below, then from above, always twisting, ready to slice him wide open. Bundit was a master. He kept back, using his superior reach, one hand on the metal cap on the end, using that to steer the blade with precision, or with a sudden shift, a great deal of force.

  Ashok struggled to stay ahead of the blade. If he’d still had Angruvadal a single blow would have pulverized the shaft into splinters, but all he had was this ordinary sword. Fighting in the open, with room to work, the advantage belonged to Bundit.

  They fought back and forth across the stone. Ashok continued to parry, but the attacks just kept coming. Whenever he tried to capitalize on turning aside a blow, Bundit simply danced back until he could bring the blade up between them again. The instant Ashok focused too much on the blade, the shaft spun about, and the hardwood clipped his leg. A savage minute of this back and forth and Ashok’s arms were burning as much as they had after a whole morning of practicing against his Somsak followers.

  They were both breathing heavily.

  “Your footwork is the equal of Master Ratul’s. He taught you well.”

  “Thank you.” Bundit nodded at the compliment, and then went back to trying to decapitate him.

  Only this time, Ashok moved to the side, running toward the scaffolding.

  Bundit realized what he was doing and tried to intercept him, but it was too late. Once Ashok was between the bamboo poles, the Protector lost his ability to swing wide. But he could still thrust, and Ashok narrowly avoided being pierced through his sternum.

  Going ten feet to the side and it was as if their battle had moved from the plains to the forest. Now their movements were restricted, and Ashok had the advantage. A sword could be maneuvered in far tighter quarters than a reclining moon blade. Bundit struck, but the haft skidded off some bamboo, slowing him just enough for Ashok to step around and slash. The Protector grimaced as a long cut appeared on his shoulder. It was Bundit’s turn to retreat.

  No fools survived the Order’s program, so Bundit didn’t charge back in blindly. Instead he stepped out from beneath the scaffolding, cocked back his arms, and struck directly at the poles. Protectors kept their weapons sharp enough to shave their faces. With the momentum at the end of a pole driven by super-human strength bestowed by the Heart of the Mountain, the blade tore through the bamboo like it wasn’t even there. Several poles were sliced in half. Bundit swung again, and again, like a farmer threshing a field.

  Ashok looked up. There was a long creak, and then a cascading series of cracks. Dust rained down as the scaffolding above him began to collapse. A worker screamed as he plummeted to the ground. Ashok moved back. Bundit followed, still cutting, as the canopy of Ashok’s temporary forest came crashing down.

  A board struck him on the side of the head hard enough to break skin. He was separated from Bundit by clouds of dust and falling objects, but the Protector was willing to bring this whole place down on top of them. Ashok no longer possessed the ability to feel fear, but he retained a perfect understanding of his situation and mortality. It was dive back into the open or risk being crushed; neither were good options.

  When Angruvadal had been in his possession, it had given him access to all its former bearers’ combative memories. In desperate moments like this, it would suggest courses of action or warn him of dangers. An odd—yet somewhat familiar—sensation came over him. Time seemed to slow, and an instinct that was not his own told him to reach out.

  Angruvadal?

  It couldn’t be.

  But Ashok obeyed the instinct, and reached with his open hand into the cascading dust and debris. As the scaffold above him collapsed, the items the workers had left behind came crashing down. Something solid fell, two feet long, metallic and deadly.

  Ashok caught the heavy saw by the handle, spun about, and aiming purely by instinct not his own, hurled it back through the dust. The saw whipped through the air, end over end, to hit with a tooth-snapping crack.

  Leaping through the falling boards, he saw Bundit was still reeling, spitting blood. The saw had slashed through his cheek, laying it wide open, before breaking his jaw. Aiming his sword for Bundit’s fingers, Ashok’s strike exposed bones and tendons. The Protector lost control of his pole arm and fell sideways. He immediately began to rise, but Ashok kicked him violently in the side of the head. Bundit flopped over, and rolled down a ramp.

  He stood there, panting, as the scaffolding continued to collapse and shake the place to its new foundations. Bundit had landed on his back, eyes closed, skull broken. Blood was coming from his mouth and leaking from one ear. Ashok had felt the skull give beneath his heel, so he was unsure if he’d killed his brother…former brother. It would depend on if—or how deeply—fragments had been driven into his brain.

  Damn it. Ignoring the falling catwalks, the snapping ropes, and the screaming workers, he went toward Bundit. If he was still breathing, then the least Ashok could do was pull him out of the way so he wouldn’t be crushed.

  He could feel heat radiating from the shard in his chest…Part of Angruvadal still lived. A small measure of its ability to guide him had returned. And in the very instant it had come back, he had used that assistance to murder a loyal servant of the Law.

  But if Angruvadal still lived, it wasn’t nearly as prescient as when it had been whole, because the instinctive warning of danger came too late.

  Ashok sensed someone running through the dust from behind him, but before he could react, hot pain
pierced his body. He looked down to see the bloody tip of a sword sticking out of his abdomen. A boot landed on his spine, and he was shoved forward. The sword cleanly slid out of his body.

  He landed on his knees but immediately rolled to the side. The swing that had been meant to remove his head whistled uselessly through the air.

  Even run through the guts, Ashok got right back up to meet the new threat.

  It was Protector Ishaan Harban, injured, but unbowed. Ishaan was a westerner, so he preferred to fight with the two-blade style, in this case, with a sword in one hand, and a dagger in the other. The sword was red with Ashok’s blood.

  The Heart of the Mountain did not favor one and deny the other as they fought to the death. It didn’t care about right or wrong, it simply gave its energy to any who had touched it. Blood ran down Ashok’s belly, quickly soaking through his shirt. Ishaan was ashen faced. The Heart would allow both of them to fight on despite their wounds.

  The Protector attacked, guiding his sword with perfect control. The second blade would be used to intercept Ashok’s strikes, but it could kill just as easily. Swords flew back and forth. Steel struck steel. Edges chipped and cracked. Cloth parted. Skin split. Blood flew. The two master swordsmen moved between the poles, up and down ramps, across boards precariously balanced over deep trenches. There were no words, only constant movement, advancing, retreating, circling, always striking. Afterward, the workers who were trapped and unable to flee would describe the clash as like watching two bloody whirlwinds collide.

  Since both were using the Heart to control their bleeding, neither could increase his strength or speed. This was a contest of muscle and will. But even without magic, these were two of the most dangerous men alive.

  With both of them balanced atop a plank, Ashok trapped a downward strike of Ishaan’s sword, but then the Protector lunged inside, trying to finish the fight with a rapid series of stab wounds from his dagger. Only perfect coordination allowed Ashok’s free hand to grab Ishaan’s wrist. Ashok was sliding around in a puddle of his own blood, but as he shoved Ishaan’s sword away, he brought his own down, turning into the cut.