Fortune's Fools

by Paul Tomlinson

  “If we don’t know his name, we can’t reveal it if we are caught and tortured by the Guard,” Bryn said.

  “I could not have explained it more succinctly myself. There is a young man who must die. And soon. I shall furnish you with both his description and the location of his lodgings in town. You will contrive a set of circumstances such that you will be alone with the gentleman, without anyone else being aware of your activities. You will bring about his demise in as prolonged and violent a manner as possible, and make your escape, again without being observed.”

  “Slow and painful, that’ll cost extra,” Gosling said.

  “A fee will be agreed in advance. You will make your way to a prearranged meeting place, ensuring that you are not being followed, and there you will present me with some proof that the deed has been done. If you agree to accept this assignment, you will receive half of your fee tonight, with the balance being payable upon the presentation of this proof at dawn tomorrow.”

  “You will pay half of the fee tonight?” Bryn asked.

  “If you accept.”

  “What is to stop me killing you here and taking this money from your corpse?” The knife reappeared in the assassin’s hand, the glint of moonlight on the blade reflected in his eyes.

  The old man again seemed to be trying to rid himself of his tonsils. He swallowed loudly, eventually regaining his voice. “Killing such a lowly individual as myself would gain you little prestige, and only half of the normal fee paid for the killing of a man.”

  “True, but it would be money easily made. Do go on,” Gosling urged.

  “The task I wish you to undertake is much more of a challenge, and much more suited to men of your skill and experience in the field of... er...”

  “Cold-blooded murder,” Bryn said.

  “Just so. For a moment there I was at a loss for words.” Henrik smiled weakly.

  “A rare occurrence, no doubt. You have yet to tell me whose life your master wishes us to bring to a premature end,” Gosling said.

  The old man gave them a description of Anton Leyander, and directions to the inn where he was now staying.

  “Is it a mission you would agree to undertake?” the old man said.

  “Indeed, for an adequate fee. If you wish us to dispose of him in such a way as to avoid drawing the attention of the authorities, that will require special attention, and a fee in excess of the norm,” Gosling said.

  “My employer has instructed me to offer a one third bonus over the normal fee, to ensure your discretion. Payable on completion.”

  Bryn seemed fascinated by his reflection in the knife blade and studied it for some moments.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Gosling said. “Your employer offered to pay twice the normal rate for an assassination, and has trusted this sum to your care. It was your intention to persuade us to accept a lower figure, with the surplus going into your own pocket. You do not seek to correct me?”

  Bryn the Blade smiled dangerously.

  “You have said nothing that I find need to correct. A figure double your usual was agreed by my employer, as you surmise. But can you find fault with me for attempting to boost my own meagre funds?” He looked into the eyes of the little assassin and shuddered. Reaching deep inside the breast of his robes, he located the two purses: the half of the assassins’ fee which was payable in advance, plus a smaller purse which held what he had intended to be his own commission. He handed them over to Gosling.

  “The balance will be paid upon proof of the young man’s death. Meet me just before dawn two nights from now, in the yard behind the black smith’s in Shoe Street; be sure that you aren’t followed,” he looked down, adjusting the folds of his clothing. “You know Mr. Gosling, if...” When Henrik looked up, the assassins were gone.

  *

  “You do not think these breeches are too loose?” Anton asked.

  “That depends on how much you would leave to the imagination of the audience,” Varian answered.

  Anton frowned.

  “It is light-weight fabric and tends to reveal in outline what it does cover,” Varian explained, eyeing the front of Anton’s costume breeches.

  “And this shirt is of the correct hue?” Anton asked.

  “It is a white shirt.”

  “But is it the shade of white that my character would choose?” Anton asked.

  Varian sighed.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Bryn stepped out of the shadows and blocked their victim’s way. He looked down at the man and a smile spread across his face. “We meet again,” he said. Receiving no response, his smile faltered. “No greeting for your old friends?”

  “You know this man?” Gosling asked. He was standing behind their victim, blocking any possible escape.

  “You do not recognise him?” Bryn asked.

  The man turned, and Gosling leaned forward, squinting. “It is the man who was described to us,” he said.

  “You must excuse my partner,” Bryn said, “he sees little beyond the end of his own nose.”

  “But there’s nothing wrong with my hearing!” Gosling snapped.

  “Partners now, are you?” Anton asked. “I hope you slay men better than you slay dragons.”

  Bryn scowled.

  “His voice does seem vaguely familiar,” Gosling said, still behind Anton.

  “Who are you hired to kill?” Anton asked.

  The smile spread across Bryn’s face again.

  “Ah,” Anton said.

  “Can we get on with it?” Gosling said. “We haven’t had supper yet. And that serving woman winked at me yesterday: I think my luck’s in there.”

  Bryn rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t a woman.”

  “I heard that!” Gosling said.

  “Your partner was paid to kill me once before: I still live,” Anton said.

  “But not for much longer. I am no slow-witted old man,” Bryn said.

  “You’re not old, I’ll give you that,” Anton said.

  The blow was sudden; a jab that burst Anton’s lip, splattering blood down the front of his shirt. He staggered backwards and was brought up short by the smaller assassin, who grabbed his arms.

  “Not slow either,” Bryn said. His fist shot out again.

  The blow slammed into Anton below the sternum, and the breath was forced from his body. He gasped for breath like a beached fish.

  “Hold him up, I’m not done yet,” Bryn said.

  Anton felt Gosling’s grip on him tighten. A blow to the temple had him sagging into momentary unconsciousness. A hand grabbed his hair, shaking him awake. Red shadows swam in front of his eyes, darkness clouding his peripheral vision. Bryn leaned towards him, and his face was distorted as if seen through water. Anton spat blood into his face. A backhanded slap snapped Anton’s head to one side.

  “Punch him in the face again,” Gosling urged.

  The fist connected with Anton’s nose: his sinuses popped, deafening him briefly, and blood streamed from his nostrils. Gosling released him, letting him fall to the cobbled street.

  “Aren’t you going to fight back?” Gosling was leaning over him.

  Anton got back to his feet and stared the little man in the eye. “I have been beaten senseless by better scum than you.”

  Gosling’s punch rattled Anton’s teeth and set his ears ringing. He took a step back, but Bryn pushed him forward again. Another blow left his eye swelling shut, and the next had him on his knees trying to shake his head clear of the noisy little sparks that were flitting before his eyes.

  “Is that the best you can manage?” Anton asked.

  “He’s got guts this one,” Gosling said.

  “Then let’s spread them all over the street,” Bryn said.

  The kick came from behind, and would probably have Anton pissing blood for days, if he survived. Gosling kicked him in the stomach as he fell forwards. Anton caught himself before his face hit the ground. He vomited.

  “I hate it when they do that.” Bryn
sounded as if he loved it.

  A kick in the ribs sent Anton sprawling sideways. He curled up to protect his face and his stomach. Would the kicking be the last punishment before death?

  “Get him on his feet. We haven’t even started yet!” Gosling sounded gleeful.

  Hands took hold of Anton’s clothing, lifting him to his feet. He stood unsteadily, his throat burning.

  Gosling pulled a length of heavy chain from inside his leather jerkin, swinging it gently, a slowly lengthening pendulum, gaining mass as it was revealed, link by link. “We’re going to give you a little chance,” he said, then turned to Bryn. “Let him go.”

  “We’ll give you a bit of a head start,” Bryn said. The smile was back on his face.

  Anton swayed on his feet, his body heavy with pain. Breath rasped in his bile-burned throat, his nose was swollen and blocked.

  “Run, you little bastard!” Bryn urged.

  Unthinking, Anton turned, staggered a few steps, then broke into a shambling run.

  Laughter behind him. The sound of the chain dragging on cobbles.

  Anton staggered into a low wall: had they given him a head start into a dead end? No, steps curving down to the next street twenty feet below. Footsteps behind him. The chain whistled through the air, brushing his left ear and smashing down across his shoulder and back. Anton turned, catching hold of the chain. He pulled.

  Caught off-guard, Gosling took an involuntary step forward, still clutching the chain. He planted his feet then, and pulled hard on the chain: he wasn’t about to lose a tug-o-war with his half-dead victim. Anton released the chain and the assassin staggered backwards, stumbled and sat down heavily. Whoof!

  Bryn sniggered.

  “Shut up and get him!” Gosling scrambled to his feet, throwing his companion a threatening look. They both turned to their prey. Anton was making for the steps.

  The chain flew through the air, spinning, and its momentum wrapped around Anton’s legs, tripping him. He fell forwards, inches from the top of the steps. Anton got to his knees, pulling the chain free. He turned to judge the distance between himself and his attackers, and a boot caught him under the chin, sending him flying backwards. Anton fell end over end, down the cold stone steps towards the road below. He tried to relax, to tuck his arms in front of his face. His head struck the cobbled road surface and he rolled to a stop.

  The heavy footsteps above stopped for a moment as the two assassins leaned forward to see if he was still moving.

  Anton lay motionless, dizzy, on the road. The footsteps continued more slowly down towards him. Then the assassins stood over him.

  “Now the fun really starts,” Gosling sneered.

  “I want his tongue,” Bryn said, unsheathing his knife.

  “Forget the threats. You haven’t the imagination to scare me. Just get on with it,” Anton gasped, he slumped forward and lay still.

  “Do not damage the face, we have to take the head back as proof of his death,” Gosling said.

  The larger assassin approached warily, knife ready.

  Bryn did not see Anton move, could not even afterwards recall how he came to find himself flat on his back on the cobbles pinned down and with his own knife at his throat. “Kill him!” he shouted.

  But Gosling hesitated, he had seen their victim move, and yet was still unsure how he had achieved his dominant position.

  “I could cut Bryn’s throat, and you might begin running. It is some time since I threw a dagger, perhaps I would miss and you would escape,” Anton said to Gosling.

  “Kill him!” Bryn urged.

  “Back away, or you lose another partner,” Anton said.

  Frowning, Gosling took a step back. Then, under Anton’s gaze, he moved further away.

  “He’s weak, get him!” Bryn said. “Anton doesn’t have the magic anymore.”

  Anton raised the knife and swung it down sharply, hammering it into Bryn’s temple. After two or three more blows, he felt the blond man’s body go slack under him.

  Gosling leaned forward, squinting. “You are Anton Leyander?” he asked. “If I had known you were the contract, I would have asked a bigger fee.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Edison caught hold of Anton’s arm. “I would speak with you,” he said.

  “We are about to take the stage,” Anton protested.

  A small crowd had assembled in the courtyard behind the inn to witness the opening night of Doran Jarrett’s play. Phantom from the Underworld, and nervous actors had taken to the stage to perform the first act; Edison and Anton were waiting their cue to enter for the second.

  “It will not wait,” Edison insisted.

  “What is so important it cannot wait a few hours?”

  “Megan Jarrett.”

  “What of her?” Anton asked.

  “Why do you fool with her affections? Do you use her only so you may perform on her father’s stage?”

  Anton laughed. “You should not read your own motives into other people’s actions. Meg and I are friends.”

  “Nothing more?”

  Anton shook his head. “But if we were lovers, it would be no concern of yours. Your relationship with her is over, ended because of your own actions, as I understand it.”

  “That is no concern of yours.”

  “You are correct, I have no interest in the matter.” Anton started to turn away, but Edison seized his arm again.

  “It is wrong that you allow her to cling to you,” Edison said.

  “You are jealous because she enjoys my company.”

  “I am jealous, aye. But only because I love her.”

  “If you loved her, you would prove it to her,” Anton said.

  “Have you proved that you love her?”

  “I have not, because I do not.”

  “You have no love for her? And yet you allow her to think that she loves you?”

  “She does not love me,” Anton said. “She is drawn to me because she seeks a friend, to help her fill the void your rejection of her has created.”

  “If it was not for you, I might have made amends already and Meg would again be happy in my arms.”

  “I think she will find greater happiness in the arms of some other other,” Anton said. “Someone worthy of her affections.”

  “I am unworthy?”

  “On that we are agreed.”

  “Why do you seek to ruin my life?” Edison asked.

  “I do not, for you need no help on that score.”

  Doran indicated that their cue was near.

  “It would seem we have spoken enough, and now is the time action.” Edison handed Anton a sword, and it was not a blunt-ended stage sword. “Let us give them a real show!”

  Anton took his place on the stage, seated on a low wall, wrapped in his cloak.

  Edison entered in his shirt sleeves, looking left and right, eyes wide. “Who calls out thus? Who taunts me and brings me forth from my bed?”

  Anton stood, casting off his cloak. “Lemarchand, I believe we left unfinished a small matter...”

  “You!”

  “It is time this dispute was ended conclusively, draw your sword and defend yourself!”

  Steel clashed against steel, and in the low light of dusk, sparks flew.

  “I should warn you that I was trained by one of the greatest swordsmen in Raensburgh,” Anton whispered.

  “Let us see how much of that training you remember,” Edison said. He and Anton circled each other warily. Flashes of light danced on their blades.

  Anton feinted to the left and Edison parried a blow that was not there. Anton’s sword drew a contemptuous red line across his opponent’s forehead. There were gasps and murmuring from the front row.

  “Clumsy,” Anton said. Edison fought to control his temper: Anton could almost hear him counting under his breath. He smiled. “An angry opponent becomes careless: always remain calm,” he quoted.

  “Well, remembered. You have mastered the theory. But what of the practice?” E
dison’s jab caught Anton unexpectedly in the thigh.

  Anton cursed.

  Edison wiped away the blood from his forehead with the back of his hand. His thrust was parried. Again. He whipped his blade down to swipe aside a jab aimed for his side, but Anton’s jab became an upward flick, slashing a bloody streak diagonally across Edison’s shirt front.

  Ooohs from the crowd.

  “Always keep one eye on your opponent’s sword and the other on his eyes,” Anton lectured. His kick caught Edison at the side of the knee and he staggered. Anton’s blade flashed diagonally again, completing a red ‘X’ on Edison’s shirt front.

  The director stood in the shadows beside the stage. “What are they doing?” Doran hissed.

  “Improvising,” Meg muttered.

  “They will do each other serious damage!” Doran said.

  “Which is the better swordsman, do you think?” Meg asked.

  “My money is on the new boy,” Doran said.

  “True he appears to be the superior, but why is he just playing with Edric like that? Does he seek to anger him?”

  “Perhaps he wishes to humiliate him?” Doran suggested.

  “Or provoke him.”

  On stage, blades clashed again and again, light flashing and sparks flying. The audience was leaning forward expectantly: sensing they were watching something more than a play, that the two men on stage were engaged in true conflict. It was clear the outcome of this fight had not been scripted, and that one of the players might not survive to take a bow.

  The swords struck against one another, rasping and sliding as Anton twisted them together, forcing them downwards. He stepped onto his opponent’s blade, pinning it to the stage. His left hand became a fist, swooping down towards Edison’s head in a lazy arc. Edison tried to pull back, free his blade, ducking sideways to try and avoid the blow. The fist became an open palm. The slap echoed. It stung Edison’s cheek.

  The audience giggled.