House of Assassins

by Larry Correia

  “You never thought to follow him home to see about robbing his masters?” Gutch asked incredulously.

  “Of course not, you imbecile. They’re killer wizards. You don’t rob someone with a reputation like they’ve got. Is that what you intend to do? Rob the Lost House? You were always too greedy for your own good, Gutch. My brother was an idiot to trust you.”

  “There’s a long list of reasons your brother was an idiot, but trusting me wasn’t among them.”

  “Enough,” Ashok snapped. He had never been to the region Bajwa spoke of, and knew little of it. There were so few people living in the eastern wastes that it was rare for Protectors to be dispatched there. However, he remembered the ancient world map that was inside the structure which held the Heart of the Mountain, and there had once been a large city at the mouth of the Nansakar long ago, so that much was true. Only in all his education, there had been no mention of this place still existing only a few generations ago. “If these assassins have their own palace, then surely it would have come to the attention of the Law by now.”

  “Some of them know about it, but they’ve got some sort of deal with the assassins. I heard it from one of them with my own ears. He said their master, Sikasso, has gotten them special favors from the Inquisition. They trade, murders for amnesty.”

  “You really expect us to believe that the Inquisition would use criminals to do its bidding?” Jagdish said. “The Inquisition? The men with the scary masks and the sticks up their asses over the tiniest infraction, consorting with shape-changing killers? They’ve got their own wizards, and secret witch hunters hiding in every closet.”

  A year ago Ashok would have been incredulous as well, but he was a living example of Grand Inquisitor Omand’s strange policies. “Continue, Bajwa.”

  “That’s all I know. When a tracker brings me magic, I’d send a runner to Chattarak to negotiate the price. They paid good, fast, and more than fair. Never once broke a deal, and I was smart enough not to cross them. Any other smuggler who did cheat them, shorted them on weight, or tried to pass off empty bones, wound up dead within days, usually strangled inside his room with the door still locked from the inside. You go after them, you can’t say I’m the one who told you.”

  Satisfied that Bajwa was telling the truth, Ashok looked to his companions.

  Gutch obviously still wanted to murder Bajwa, but even he seemed convinced by his story. “I’ve heard rumors about where the Nansakar meets the sea. The south is the Akershan wastes, but the north is thick timber clear to Guntur. There’s a maze of small rivers that come together there, and lots of old ruins up those rivers. I mean really old ruins, from before the demon rain. Places like that often hide black steel, but the trackers who go searching in those parts never come back. It’s got a real bad reputation. Could be wizards don’t like competitors.”

  “You were a lazy and incompetent tracker anyway, Gutch,” Bajwa said.

  The big worker gave the crime boss a swift kick to the stomach.

  While Bajwa gasped and wretched, Ashok looked to Keta, who’d been silent for most of the interrogation. “Keeper?”

  “He could by lying, so that we blunder through the woods while the Lost House is really a thousand miles in the other direction. But…I think the Forgotten delivered this man into our hands for a reason.”

  Jagdish snorted. “I delivered him with a blow to the head.”

  “I believe the gods want us reunited with Thera. We must work with what they have provided. I see no other way.”

  “Jagdish?”

  “This smuggler is probably as trustworthy as Keta’s useless gods, but it sounds reasonable. Wizards need a place to hide in order to work their illegal magic. A swamp in the middle of nowhere’s got to be a damned good place to hide.”

  Ashok mulled over what to do. He didn’t want any more delays, but after the events in Neeramphorn, the Protectors would expect him to try and make as much distance as possible. The idea of fighting more of his former brothers sickened him, and he couldn’t rescue the prophet if he was killed before he could get to her. It had snowed enough last night that their tracks would have been covered. They would be relatively safe here for a time.

  “We will camp here a few days while they widen their search for us. Then we will slip past our pursuers and go south toward the river to find their runner.”

  Gutch jerked his head at Bajwa, who was still coughing. “What about him?”

  “I told you what you wanted to know,” he gasped.

  “Ashok told him to cooperate. He did,” Jagdish said. “Letting him go is the honorable thing to do.”

  “What? No!” Gutch shouted, spittle flying from his split and scabbed-over lips. “This isn’t one of your fellow warriors, Jagdish, to be bound by a concept as tenuous as honor. Yesterday he was bragging about how after he robbed and murdered whichever poor servant delivered my ransom, he was going to castrate me and force feed me my own testicles. We let him go, he’ll return to Neeramphorn and tell the Protectors right where we’re heading. Or worse, get word to the wizards so they can ambush us on the way!”

  “I said honorable, not wise.”

  “Gutch is right. The important thing is getting our prophet back,” Keta seemed uncomfortable with his agreement. He had started a rebellion, but Keta didn’t delight in shedding the blood of someone who had never wronged his people. He sighed. “We can’t risk it.”

  “No. I’ll keep quiet! Really I—”

  Ashok reached out, took hold of Bajwa’s head, and with a violent twist, snapped his neck. Gutch leapt back and Keta gasped.

  It happened so suddenly that even Jagdish was taken by surprise. “I suppose that settles the debate then.”

  Ashok stood up and dusted off his hands. Their assessment of the danger had been correct. The criminal’s fate had been sealed. Once decided, there had been no need to make Bajwa linger on in fear after that. It spared them all the indignity of begging. Ashok was a pragmatic man, but he was not a cruel one.

  Gutch spit on the corpse. “Don’t let this wretch trouble your sleep, Keta. Believe me, the world is a far better place without Bajwa in it. He hurt a lot of people who didn’t deserve it. Good riddance.”

  Ashok looked toward Keta, who seemed a bit shaken, but determined. For some odd reason, it made him glad that the priest was not too comfortable with casual executions. “You said your gods expected their servants to get their hands dirty, Keeper.” He showed Keta his palms. “These are what dirty hands look like.”

  Ashok walked back to the shack. By the time he got there the casteless had already stolen all of Bajwa’s fine clothing and tossed his body over the fence to feed their pigs.

  Chapter 20

  Grand Inquisitor Omand watched with glee as Ashok Vadal fought a dozen Great House Vadal warriors to the death in a knife fight.

  “Oh, this is truly fantastic,” he said as an actor was hurled over the dinner table and another had a wooden blade trapped in his armpit. Fake warriors tumbled from the stage or writhed around on the stage, feigning fatal wounds. It was a crescendo of violence. The audience would love it.

  “During the actual performance the stage hands will be throwing cups of fake blood on them,” Artya whispered back to him.

  Omand had always enjoyed the theater. “Brilliant, my dear. Brilliant.”

  The actor they’d chosen to play Ashok was physically imposing, but also very dramatically talented. The speech he had given after kicking in the doors to interrupt Bidaya’s banquet had given Omand chills. The lines about how the old gods had sent him to destroy the Law had been extremely well done, with just the right touch of fanaticism. Omand had said that he didn’t just want Ashok portrayed as a brute, but rather someone who fit the part of a hero turned to darkness, evil, yet still intelligent.

  Great houses didn’t fear brutes. Brutes were simplistic and easily defeated, but everyone feared a visionary. Their villain needed to be seductive. So Artya had hired one of the most respected actors in
the Capitol to play the Black Heart.

  During rehearsals the amphitheater was usually empty. Opening night there would be thousands of high-status guests gathered to watch the premiere, but not counting their nearby bodyguards, there were only four people in the audience today, a tiny island in a sea of empty seats.

  Grand Inquisitor Omand Vokkan was the honored guest of Artya Zati dar Zarger, Arbiter of the Order of Census and Taxation, who had funded the production of this new play, The Black Heart’s Rebellion. It was sure to be huge success. Artya had not been obligated to the Capitol for long, but had already become a force to be reckoned with among the social circles of the city’s elite.

  It was said by many that young Artya was charming, beautiful, and threw the best parties. It was also said by a few that she secretly worked for the Inquisition, but whenever Omand found out someone was actively spreading that rumor, he promptly had them killed.

  The last of the Vadal warriors had been fake stabbed to death, and now a shirtless giant walked onto the stage. “Oh, this is the part where Ashok faces Bidaya’s champion. What was his name?”

  “Sankhamur,” said the man to sitting to his left. “I knew him.”

  “Really, Javed? I did not know that.”

  Inquisitor Javed had recently returned from his secret mission in Shabdkosh, and surely had no idea why his superior had invited him here. Witch hunters were weapons of guile and deceit, reserved for missions of infiltration and assassination. It must have seemed odd to him, inviting a vicious dog out of his kennel to go among polite society.

  “Yes, sir. We met once when I was on assignment in the north. Sankhamur was a supremely skilled bodyguard, keen eyed, and steady with a blade.”

  “Yet, I heard Ashok gutted him like a pig. I hope this version at least puts up a good show.”

  And indeed, he did. The actor playing Sankhamur was very imposing, shaved and oiled, a walking wall of exaggerated muscle. No real warrior looked so puffy, but what did most of the first caste know of such things? They were so insulated from strife that what they knew about war came from plays like this. Artya had explained that she’d picked this actor specifically to symbolize the physical might of the warrior caste. So when Ashok killed even this mighty specimen, what hope could their real warriors have against such a monster?

  “What do you think of all this, Taraba?”

  His assistant was sitting on the row behind them. “Very impressive, sir. I’m sure it will be the talk of the Capitol.”

  “And you, Javed?”

  Since they were nominally in public, the three Inquisitors were all wearing their masks, so Omand could not read the hardened witch hunter’s expression, but Javed sounded amused. “I don’t know. This is all so flamboyant.”

  “It is effective,” Artya insisted.

  “What I do, what the Grand Inquisitor once did, that’s real acting. Not this exaggerated business. We blend in and become someone else entirely. We change personalities as easily as these fops change their costume, only we wear them for months at a time, becoming whoever necessary to complete our mission.”

  “Remarkable…” she murmured. “I did not know our Grand Inquisitor had such an exciting background.”

  “He rooted out subversives for years. From the jungles of the north to the icy south, the triumphs of Omand Vokkan are legend.”

  Omand enjoyed the flattery, but even the members of his own order had no idea just how much he had accomplished during his time in the field. In the darkest corners of Lok he had witnessed things seen by no other man since the Age of Kings. The world had given up its secrets, and he had tasted power beyond imagining.

  “Perhaps you could teach me more about what you do later, Inquisitor Javed?”

  “Maybe. You seem like a quick learner, Arbiter Artya. But back to this play of yours, I can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a tragedy or a comedy.”

  “It’s a serious drama,” Artya snapped, since she took great pride in her propaganda.

  “It’s certainly a tragedy for Great House Vadal,” Omand said, silencing his subordinates.

  With all of the warriors dispatched, and the actors playing the party guests cowering in terror, Bidaya Vadal came back onstage and gave a speech about how the great houses would never stand for such casteless butchery. Omand found the actress to be a bit shrill, but considering the real Bidaya, that was accurate casting. She walked to where the prop of Angruvadal had been stuck in the floor, declared that the first caste could never fall as long as they had black steel on their side, and dramatically lifted the sword into the air.

  “This is the best part,” Artya whispered as she leaned forward.

  The actress began to tremble. “It guides my hand toward evil! What madness will result when even our ancestor blade turns against us? With such power in filthy untouchable hands, nothing will stop their evil! Nothing!” And then she screamed as she struck herself in the head and fell, seemingly lifeless, to the stage.

  Taraba began to clap. “Well done.”

  Artya was rather pleased with herself. “During the actual play, she’ll have a sack filled with fake blood hidden in her wig. It’ll burst when struck and she’ll be positively drenched.”

  Omand would make certain his opening night seat was located somewhere that he could see the look on Harta Vadal’s face, as he watched the reenactment of his mother’s death. That would be a good opportunity to judge a potential opponent’s state of mind, and also be amusing at the same time. But Omand wasn’t completely satisfied yet.

  “It isn’t quite right though. This actress is too sanctimonious. I don’t want anyone rooting for Ashok. He cannot be sympathetic in any way. Have her replaced with a younger, prettier actress, so there is a greater feeling of loss.”

  “Of course, Grand Inquisitor. I was thinking the same thing. I have a few others in mind already.” As the false Ashok cruelly stepped on the bodies to walk off stage, the curtain fell. “Now will be the intermission while we change the set. Next is the scene where Ashok murders his way out of the prison, demonstrating his complete disdain for the Law.”

  One of the bodyguards approached and handed Taraba a note. He read it, and then passed it to the Grand Inquisitor without comment. It was in a cipher that only a select few within their Order could understand.

  The historian Vikram Akershan has been found.

  That was splendid news. Omand passed the note back to Taraba, who would burn it at the first opportunity.

  “Sadly, we must return to our duties. I will watch the rest opening night, but fine work, Artya. Between this and the recent unpleasantness in Shabdkosh, the Capitol will be speaking of nothing but the untouchable menace. I’ve found most judges to be remarkably pliable once you set the tone of the conversation. During the next open session in the Chamber of Argument I would have you once again propose a great extermination of the casteless. You are seen as eloquent and passionate about the topic.”

  Artya really did have a charming smile, even as she contemplated genocide. “I shall prepare my remarks.”

  “Good. Be aware that I just received word this morning by magical courier that Ashok murdered a Protector in Neeramphorn. Be sure to include that in your list of outrages. By next week the rest of the Capitol will have heard as well. Shabdkosh hit close to home. The judges know that could have just as easily been any of them who had stopped there on their way from the Capitol back to their homes. And if the Protectors can’t save them, who can? Important people do not like feeling unsafe. Now they are imagining what it would be like to wake up, surrounded in fire, the victim of rebellious arson.”

  “Unfortunate business,” agreed the witch hunter who had burned them.

  “Use their fear to your advantage, Artya. That will be all.”

  Artya made her farewells and then went to replace her actress. Omand watched her go. “If I had ten more like her, I could rule the Capitol through dinner parties alone.”

  “A capable woman,” Javed agreed. “A man cou
ld go far with her at his side. Is she in need of a husband?”

  “She’s too high status for you,” Taraba said.

  “Then I shall have to earn more promotions.” It was unwise to speak in such a brazen manner in front of the Grand Inquisitor, foolhardy even, or was that just the role he had chosen to play today? “May I ask why you brought me here, Grand Inquisitor?”

  Javed was one of their most accomplished witch hunters. After his performance in Shabdkosh, Omand had welcomed him into the conspiracy. As suspected, Javed had no issue with the idea of the Inquisition secretly controlling politics—better them than anyone else—and he seemed to find the idea of ridding the world of untouchables to be a worthy one. After all, they were just more mouths to feed. The witch hunter had talent, but more importantly Omand sensed that like him, Javed possessed detachment. He suspected Javed only felt truly alive when given a challenge. Omand could use such a man to accomplish great things.

  “I have an exceedingly difficult assignment for you.”

  “I am honored to be chosen.”

  “Ashok Vadal is in the east, somewhere near Neeramphorn, and it sounds like he’s building an army. Those I originally tasked to observe him have proven unreliable. Your new assignment is to infiltrate the so called Sons of the Black Sword.”

  “Do you wish Ashok dead?” Javed asked.

  “Not yet. He is a useful asset, but he is proving to be an unpredictable one. I want a spy in his camp. When the cost outweighs the benefits, I will have you eliminate him. But remember, though exaggerated, this play is based upon true events. Ashok is deadly to his enemies, so if you are to have any chance, he must see you as an ally until it is too late. Taraba will provide you with any resources you need, banknotes, traveling papers, our files about these cultists, and even a poison capable of felling a mighty Protector. How are you with magic?”