by A Van Wyck
A gauntleted hand followed, the disembodied arm it belonged to disappearing into an impossible rent, bleeding shadows from its jagged edges. The midnight dagger writhed like smoke. Its intricate inlay traced a golden afterimage as the wielding arm coiled upwards. And stabbed down.
The dancing tip met resistance where magical wards flared but failed to halt its advance. Shriven wards blew apart with an outpouring of cooked air, making the fan girls stagger back. Enchanted jewels of protection at the lord’s fingers and neck popped audibly like ticks on a hot rock and Cantella gasped as his imbibed shielding potions instantly boiled in protest.
His puffy eyes bulged horribly as the sorcerous blade unerringly found the space between the vertebrae of his neck. The gauntleted hand surrendered its grip, leaving the weapon to work its dying magic: to become molten red and destroy itself along with most of the lord’s corpse. The unseen killer’s arm retreated through the rent, which drew its darkness in upon itself. The shadows roiled and raced to return through the thinning gap before it too faded away into nothing. And was gone.
And then the screaming started.
Unseen, the dark clad assassin stepped off the mansion’s parapet and arrowed down the thirty foot plummet, disappearing in the rearing canopies of the garden below.
Yinra y’bin Toh strolled unhurriedly from the foliage a moment later, her common fisherwoman’s dress beneath notice.
She was not a violent woman by nature but by vocation. Those who enjoyed killing, she reasoned, were simply not taking their jobs seriously. That kind of emotion was a dangerous thing for an assassin to cultivate. She had met such killers, of course. She’d sometimes been the last person they’d met. The ones who went to pains to make a chase of it and enjoyed their victim’s terrified flight or desperate pleas. The ones who were addicted to the sight of the soul spark fleeing their mark’s eyes. She had no time for such as them. Killing was a cold business. The only satisfaction to be found was in the knowledge of a job well done. And she did all her jobs very well indeed.
There was one more thing to do tonight. Someone to meet. She preferred not to interact with her clients directly, when it could be avoided. But since the broker that had brought her the assignment seemed to have disappeared, it was unavoidable. It wouldn’t be long until the alarm of the manor spilled over into the sleepy town that ringed the lord’s residence and she wanted to be gone by then. Trusting in her chosen costume, she stayed on the main lanes, turning aside only when she’d reached the designated tavern. It was a bad meeting place. But perhaps that was just her natural unease at being near live people. She didn’t mind dead ones. And the soon-to-be-dead didn’t bother her too much. Unless they put up a struggle. It wasn’t that she was bad with people. She could play a role to perfection. She could be a prostitute, a princess or anything in between. If a stranger stopped her right now, she could give him or her perfect directions to anywhere in town. She knew where the fish had been biting today and how the weather had been on the lake. She even had a few tidbits of choice gossip. And she’d relate it all in a local accent a local wouldn’t remark on. But that was the costume talking, not her. She didn’t like people much.
Not wishing to be seen, she cut through the yard around the back and started counting windows. She scaled the sheer wall easily, the cat-hooks strapped to her palms biting securely into the wood. She swung herself silently up onto the sill to crouch in the open window. No lamps had been lit and the client sat in the darkened room, the single chair hidden in a murky corner, facing the closed door.
Cautious.
Under her breath, she muttered a cantrip, tasting the familiar dust and rot of the magic on her tongue. To her eyes, the interior of the room sprang into pale, wavering focus. A hooded head turned in her direction, hiding the client’s face even from her enhanced vision.
And thorough.
“It is done?”
A woman’s voice, not bothering to hide the ring of class.
She nodded.
“And it cannot be traced to you?”
She shook her head. The shamans, witches and fortune tellers could try if they liked. She was no amateur.
“Good,” the client commended. “I must say, I am impressed. Many thought it could not be done. I have another assignment for you, if you’re interested. Triple the current fee.”
That made her blink. The current fee alone would have bankrupted a lesser lord. Whose death could possibly be worth three times as much? And who would be able to pay it? She let none of these thoughts show on her face.
But greed wasn’t one of her vices. And neither was curiosity. She rarely did more than one job for any employer and never back to back. It invited dependency and worse, propriety, on the part of the patron. And that could get dangerous. For the assassin. No, better to maintain a healthy distance. Engaged but not retained.
“No.”
The cowled head cocked to the side.
“It is a generous offer. And the fee is negotiable. We could say quadruple…” the offer was left hanging tantalizingly in the air.
Quadruple? Not likely. Not unless you had access to the royal mints or the bankers’ guild vaults.
“Thank you. No.”
Necessary courtesy. If the woman were serious and not simply crazy, it wouldn’t do to make an enemy of her.
“You are positive I cannot convince you to reconsider?”
She shook her head. The client sighed.
“In that case,” the cowl tipped in the direction of the lone table, “the remainder of your fee.”
Yinra slipped down from the sill to pad over. The simple wooden box had no catch. Out of habit, she circled around to open it from behind, you never knew what spring loaded mechanisms might hide in a foreign container. Reaching out, she tilted the lid toward her… Or tried to.
The moment her fingers alighted on the varnished surface, her night sight failed and her entire body went rigid. Shock ran through her as the spell took hold of her, turning the little box into an immovable anchor at the end of her arm. She tried to leap away but her muscles had seized completely, trapping her inside her own skin. The spell was powerful to have overwhelmed her own magical defenses and she mentally rocked back on her heels as her layered wards collapsed under the immense pressure. She was snared.
She rolled her eyes in the client’s direction.
Tutting disappointedly, the woman rose slowly to her feet and spent an unhurried moment arranging her rich cloak into a more pleasing drapery.
“A pity,” she drawled in insincere regret, “to waste someone of your talents. But a tool I cannot use is a tool that can be used against me and that I cannot allow.”
There was a whisper of steel. A delicate blade glinted in the gloom. Another disingenuous sigh. “You would have been perfect for what I require. Now I must reconsider my tactics.”
Yinra stared her cold defiance into the darkened cowl as it came to hover before her.
“Oh, well.”
The prick of the razor edged stiletto was barely felt, tracing a delicate line beneath her eye. The poison made itself felt immediately, tendrils of sickly searing heat spreading from the shallow cut. Feather snake, she couldn’t help identifying, expensive stuff.
A gloved hand pulled the ensorcelled box from beneath her hand and she collapsed heavily to the floor, her limbs already in the throes of toxic spasm. Unable to move, her lungs slowly filling, she watched the door open, briefly framing her killer and then she was alone.
She’d always known she’d die by betrayal and alone. Somehow, she’d never imagined it happening quite like this. Life fled before the tingle of the poison.
Oh, well, indeed.
A league away, on the shore of Cantella’s fishing lake, candlelight still flickered from beneath the door of one of the wooden shacks. Inside, a straw puppet collapsed to the warped boards, its magical strings severed. A bowed head gave up its vigil and warm tears joined the puppet on the floor.
City of Oaragh
Jiminy’s legs were aching and his breath all but gone. This was ridiculous! Everyone knew the redbacks stopped chasing you after three or four blocks! These clung to him like spotted ticks.
He glanced over his shoulder as he ran. From around the corner he’d just turned, startled oaths and angry shouts confirmed it. He leapt lightly over a haphazard stack of crates. Two dozen paces behind him, the splintering of wood announced his pursuer.
Salt and silver!
They were catching up. Absolutely ludicrous! He knew most of the City Guard on sight. They were swaggering, overweight bullies one and all. None of them could possibly run him down.
He fled up a dead-end alley he knew well. Timing it right, he launched himself at the blocking wall, riding his momentum four paces up the sheer stone before kicking off hard. A midair twist and an outstretched hand latched him onto a low balcony, forested with potted plants. Swinging, he clambered onto the rail, jumping again to scramble desperately for the roof. He raced away across the flat surface. Moments behind him, he heard the sound of a heavy boot impacting a sheer wall, a grunt and the sound of shattering pottery.
Crap!
What had he done to deserve this? Sure, he’d stolen some things. For survival’s sake. After all, how could one survive without the small luxuries? He was a thief, dammit, what did they expect?!
He made the jump over to the next roof without breaking stride. At its far end, another out-of-uniform redback stuck his head up over the ledge, an ugly scowl on his face. Veering, Jiminy jumped the gap to the adjacent building, aware of booted footfalls following at closer than a score paces. He tried to coax a little more speed from his exhausted legs.
And that was another thing. Redbacks were supposed to announce themselves. Things along the lines of Halt! and You’re under arrest! or even Hey, you! They were supposed to wear uniforms. They were supposed to spend their days harmlessly strolling the streets, treating semi honest people to suspicious glares. You could tell where they were just by being on the lookout for nervous pedestrians.
But oh, no. Not these bastards.
It was lucky old Hammud sweated like a pig when he was nervous. That had been warning enough and he’d left his moth eaten gadi dangling in the grip of the first bastard who’d tried to grab him. The stall right next to Hammud had been a spice vendor and he’d gained a precious head start amid choking clouds of very expensive red, yellow and ochre powder.
And now this. Ten blocks! It was unheard of!
The next building was too far to jump but a city of thieves had long since overcome such obstacles. He tightroped across a convenient cat line, camouflaged between the washing lines, speed warring with balance. One of the up shots of living in the silk capital of the known world – silken cord was common as dirt. Even the lower quality weaves were immensely strong. He smiled to himself as he reached the opposite side, resuming his run with slightly less urgency.
Let’s see those lead footed mules follow me n–
–the crash of booted feet made him hiccup in surprise.
Bastard actually jumped it!
Panicked, he exploded into a renewed sprint.
It wasn’t even as if he’d killed anyone! Recently. At least, no one important enough to warrant this kind of attention. You couldn’t count casualties of turf wars or self defense or drunken brawls or...
Drunken brawls.
His head pounded, fogging his memories of his evening gone by.
He’d remember if he’d killed someone.
Sure he would.
Crap!
The two adjoining buildings were of differing heights and he jumped down to the lower a heartbeat before a silvery blur whipped past his cheek. The throwing knife bit sparks and mortar from a brick chimney up ahead. He watched in amazed disbelief as his earring tracked a slow arc of his own blood across his vision. Clapping a hand to his injured ear, he risked a running glance over his shoulder just in time to see another knife come winging his way.
He ducked hurriedly behind the chimney and its metal hood clanged as the second knife spun away across the roof.
Nameless dead of the dunes! They’re trying to kill me!
The realization gave him new strength and he sped away across the rooftop.
What was going on?! You had to be real stupid – or have pissed someone off mightily – to get a redback to swop his stick for his sword. And since when did the city guard carry throwing knives…?
Not redbacks then.
That put this little chase in a whole different league. He wasn’t without enemies. But he made a point of never being enough of an itch to warrant scratching. He stayed carefully within the semi safe realm of the mild and occasionally useful irritant. He risked another peek over his shoulder. Throwing knives on the fly had slowed his pursuer but the muscled thug was still persistently in pursuit.
This… This was expensive.
Who did he know who had this kind of clout? Surely a lowly thief wasn’t worth this? And besides, in his world, there were rules for this kind of thing.
The roof ended abruptly in an open courtyard, the kind that crop up accidentally as a result of poor city planning. Another silken line ran at a diagonal to the building across the way.
Bad idea.
It would take too long to cross and he’d be vulnerable while he was on it. He cast about for another way off the roof and saw none. He could circle it and see if there were any high windows he could climb down t–
Boots landed on the roof somewhere behind him. Cursing, he ran for the rope. If that bastard has another knife… It was an unpleasant thought.
Arms outstretched, he shuffled across the wobbly cord as fast as he dared. He couldn’t risk looking around now but from the frustrated growl that drifted after him, he guessed his friend wouldn’t be following this way. Now if only he didn’t think of cutting the damned rope, every–
The metallic glint snagged his peripheral vision. On the rooftop to his right stood another of his pursuers, sighting carefully along the stock of a crossbow.
Oh, shivering sands…
He dropped to all fours, grabbing onto the cord with both hands. The crossbow bolt ripped through the air above him. Bucking with his sudden movement, the rope bobbed dangerously, swinging him around so he hung from it, treading air four stories above the hard ground. The strain proved too much and the cord snapped with a sharp retort somewhere behind him. The silken length went limp in his grip and he dropped a few sickening feet before it made up the slack. The jerk of it drawing taut nearly broke his grip and he slid a hand’s breadth, scorching his palms. Gasping, he held on so tight his knuckles cracked.
Gravity sucked at him hungrily, fighting him as he tried desperately to raise his legs up. He didn’t make it. The wall that rushed at him slammed into his shoulder, hammering the air out of him. His hands sprang open around the rope. What should have been at least a two story drop ended almost immediately as he crashed onto the narrow balcony he’d failed to spot. Winded and whimpering, he curled around his pain. That part of him that wasn’t wondering how many ribs he’d just cracked was hoping fervently the bastard on the other roof didn’t reload in a hurry. That thought cut through the pain and he pushed himself to his feet, sucking air through his teeth.
He looked left and right. The balcony was little more than an extended window sill, with no walls or trellis, which was probably why he hadn’t seen it. He saw no adjacent balconies. Looking up, he saw no handholds. A peek over the edge showed a small garden with shrubs and pots off to one side. He had a quick look at the doors that led from the balcony. The patterned cast iron appeared rust flecked but still solid, though the latch looked simple enough. He reached for his dagger, glancing over at the other rooftop as he did. His heart skipped a beat as he watched the crossbowman flip his weapon over, bringing its unfired bolt into play – a double crossbow.
Well, skewer me sideways and spice me sweetly…
The crossbowman went down on one
knee, taking careful aim to do just that. In desperation, he vaulted over the edge. The ground rushed up to meet him. The shooter must have tracked his fall because the bolt whistled by beneath him, tugging one of his moccasins off his feet. He barely felt it. The colony of pots he dropped towards filled his vision. Nearer now, he could make out the pale, sun warped boards beneath them and he realized what they must be. With no time even to swear, he tossed his dagger, crossed his arms under his chin and stiffened his legs.
The wooden manhole cover wasn’t rotten all the way through and it slammed the life from his legs before it splintered beneath him. He dropped down the dank shaft with balks of halfway rotten timber and potsherds bouncing off the sides, pummeling him raw. Two, perhaps three man heights, added onto a two story fall with only the rotten boards to slow him down… Knee deep water exploded under the sudden impact, fountaining in all directions. He felt his ankle twist painfully beneath him and he crumpled into the stagnant filth before the rest of the wooden cover and splintered pots crashed down on top of him. The pounding drove his head beneath the surface of the turgid muck. He had a horrible image of himself drowning in human waste. In a blind panic, he managed to thrash himself out from under the hampering weight, sputtered and choking in the half-dark. He tasted watery shit on his lips.
Dazed, he looked up into the shaft of sunlight, spearing down from the opening up above. He would still be visible from up there. Groaning, spitting, his whole body on fire, he dragged himself out of the wreckage and away from the revealing light.
The stench was overpowering. The swirl of noxious fumes so close to his nose were making him lightheaded. Dragging himself a short way along the sewer, he wormed into a shallow niche and struggled to sit up, panting as slime from the slick walls crawled over his shoulders and down his neck. Gradually, he became aware of the dull, unhealthy throb in his side. Probing gently with his fingers, he loosed an involuntary yelp. A quick glance showed a bloody splinter of wood, as thick around as his thumb, poking from his side. He groaned in defeat, letting his head fall back against the semi-soft brick.