INSIDIOUS ASSASSINS

by Jack Ketchum

  “After your last misstep, this is your last chance.” The other handmaidens tittered and smiled.

  Nidaria nodded and swallowed heavily. “I will not make the same mistake again, mistress. You will not be disappointed.”

  “If you do not please me, I will give you over to The Arkholt’s Seneschal. He was quite keen to inquire if you would be joining us this time.”

  Nidaria shivered, remembering the thin creature of granite skin and onyx teeth, one of the twisted elves that served the Lord of the Screaming Touch. He was a scheming monster that reveled in violence and other, darker practices. “Please do not give me over to him, mistress.”

  “It’s your punishment, should you displease me. You won’t displease me, will you?”

  “No, mistress.” Her mistress knew her darkest secrets and would craft the most fitting punishments. She’d seen to the packing of the cargo and its placement on the mount. Every precaution was taken to ensure nothing went wrong. She spent hours fretting over the details, knowing that it would cost her much were they not to the standards of her mistress. All would go according to her plan.

  Six doors were carved into the base of the tower—an entrance for each, marked with their personal sigils, otherwise unadorned. A meeting of equals, or so they tell each other. Fiction that each paid lip service to with smiles, courtesy, and knives in the dark. The tower rose over the market, a reminder of who held the real power, but contained a single room. No stairs to present an inconvenient climb or embarrassing stumble. A round table of ash dominated the center, six chairs spaced evenly around it, and room enough for a small retinue. Nothing fancy, pretentious, or given to airs.

  Nidaria surveyed the other rulers. The Arkholt dressed in green leather, stained red and yellow. His face was hidden behind a mask of bone and teeth. In the back lurked his Seneschal, bare-chested and scarred. Yellusia Adcraft, the newly coronated Queen of the Winter Night, towered over the rest with her blue skin, four arms, and hooves. The Vulture Lord, Cathare, was decked out in a robe of feathers, a brilliant array of colors. A murder of crows hopped about behind him, silent and observant. Grandfather Tick’s representative stood next to his empty chair. The brass and silver automaton’s head moved side to side in a measured pace, unconcerned at the appraising looks from the others. Arriving last, The Flowering Princess of Dreams wore a gown of gossamer, lily petals, and thorns. Gnomes milled around, folding her train of woven reeds.

  “Why does the Lord of Order and Brass fail to show once again?” Brolga said, her voice a gurgle of contempt.

  “My lord sends his apologies. His other affairs demand his full attention. His wakening is upon us and his wroth knows few boundaries.”

  The Flowering Princess of Dreams smiled and waved a rose-colored hand. “A true lord would not let his realm fall to neglect and disrepair.”

  “Irrelevant,” said the automaton. “He is capable enough to defend his own from assassins and thieves.”

  “He sent a representative. That is not against the accord,” Cathare cawed.

  “Can he leave his realm anymore? Perhaps he’s too weak, despite his protests,” The Arkholt’s Seneschal said, his voice a rasping whisper. His master nodded.

  “It is the letter of the agreement,” the automaton droned. “A more pressing matter is The Arkholt’s actions. He seeks to usurp my master’s domain. I have proof of this perfidy. He assembles an army to invade and take advantage of my master’s divided attention.”

  “Insolent thing! My master’s ambition is one of preservation and security.”

  “Lies. Misdirection. Why do you gather hobgoblins and the minor nobles to your court? The wild and untamed ones. Those that hunger for blood, violence, and flesh.”

  The two representatives faced each other; accusations, denials, and rhetoric flung between them, as the other Fae listened and plotted.

  Nidaria hovered at the edge of the circle, keeping her eyes down, and hands folded. Half-truths danced in her ears. Words masked in glamour and lined with deceit. She touched her mistress’s hand.

  “What proof can the Lord of Brass present?” Brolga said.

  The panel in the automaton’s chest slid open to reveal a tattered scrap of green leather. A dagger-like sigil was embossed in black and red on it. “This was retrieved off a trespassing hobgoblin.”

  “Planted evidence. A flimsy excuse to divert attention away from Grandfather Tick’s weakness.” The Seneschal pointed a knifelike finger at the automaton. “We shall not allow this accusation to go unanswered.”

  “Nor shall it,” Brolga said. “As the designated host, I call for a vote to censure The Arkholt based upon the proof proved. My handmaiden will collect your tokens.”

  Nidaria moved between the Fae rulers at her mistress’s command. She shied away from the Seneschal’s leer, flinching as his hand brushed hers as she took the token. They were disks of silver with one side blank and the other marked. A single line to signal neutrality, a thorn for a vote to condemn, and a twisted vine to show support. It allowed an anonymous vote and none would use it to gain an advantage on their fellow nobles.

  Vines crushed the automaton’s head and wrenched off its limbs with a dazzling swiftness. Oil leaked from the broken form as the remains were cast aside. The Flowering Princess of Dreams smiled with a mouth of thorn-like teeth as her creations retreated into the floor.

  The Seneschal glowered at the wreckage. “My master wishes to convey his appreciation for the swift action on his behalf.”

  “Baseless accusations are not to be tolerated,” Brolga said. “Nidaria, retrieve the gifts you’ve prepared for my peers. I shall send Grandfather Tick’s offering another time.”

  “Yes, mistress.” She retreated to the crate and traced a hand along the edge. The wax seal melted away and she pushed the lid off. The vote sided with The Arkholt, as did the subsequent one against his accuser. Her mistress’s designation of punishment happened without a word of debate. Fae alliances dissolved on a whim and the action today made a clear shift in power. There might soon only be five Fae of power and a realm carved up between them. Nidaria reached in to remove the first gift.

  Spun glass figurines covered in thousands of tiny pearlescent shells. Hundreds of hours of work had gone into each unique piece of work. She turned to present the first one, the fabric of her sleeve catching on the lock hasp and pulling on the crate. It teetered for a second, then slid off the salamander’s back. The lid caught her arm, sending the statuette to the stone floor to join the others. Shiny fragments of glass and shell glittered on the floor. Her heart sank.

  “Mistress, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” Tears streamed down her face as she cowered, knowing she’d lost her last chance and what fate awaited her. The other Undines covered their mouths in shock and surprise, to hide the smiles at their turn of good fortune.

  “Fool of a girl!” A hand slapped her aside with rough coral knuckles. Brolga leaned over the mess, anger spreading across her face in an instant. “Useless girl! You’ve ruined our gifts!”

  She rubbed the bruised area on her arm and sobbed, knowing her punishment. “I’m sorry, mistress. I can replace them. Please, give me another chance.”

  Snickers and shocked gasps rose from the retinue at her temerity.

  “You’ve embarrassed me for the last time! I gave you a chance to redeem yourself and this is how you repay me? I’m disgraced in front of my peers.”

  “I’m sure that it’s a mere accident,” Akholt’s Seneschal said. “My master takes no insult from such things. They happen to even the best of us.”

  “He is gracious, but she must be punished.” Brolga pulled Nidaria off the floor, her breath heavy with the smell of salt. “I told you what would happen, did I not?”

  “Yes, mistress.” Her voice came out weak and distant. She found herself cast to the floor, slamming into the hard stone surface.

  “She is yours, Lord Arkholt. Do with her as you see fit.”

  “My master is pleased and convey
s that no further gift is needed.” The Seneschal smiled at her. “I look forward to seeing how well you scream.”

  His malice and anticipation, a lust for violence and pain, hammered on Nidaria’s mind. The stink of decay and blood overwhelmed her as he bent close and pulled her up with steel, dagger-like fingers.

  He tapped on the dress of shell and coral. “Unsuitable clothing, but we shall not shame you further in this company.”

  Her former mistress flitted away to lecture her retinue over the disaster. One cast a glance of pity in her direction, but the other two stared with satisfaction and delight. The lesson of her downfall lost to them as they plotted to usurp the now-vacant position. Nidaria cast her head down, letting her limp hair dangle to cover the look of fear and dismay. She cringed as his touch, wanting to pull away, but daring not to.

  Nidaria let out an involuntary whimper as she passed from the goblin market into the realm of her new lord. No sun lit the sky, just the gloom of dusk and a half-formed moon to illuminate the landscape. No breeze to disturb the stillness or provide relief from the oppressive air. A path of paving stones ran through the plain of stunted weeds and bushes, the surfaces worn smooth by the passage of feet and the cold wind. Crevices ripped jagged tears, plunging into unfathomable darkness. Standing stones rose from the ground; black granite monoliths and plinths that stabbed toward the low-hanging clouds. Rusted chains dangled off them. Many empty, flecked with blood. Others held leather-wrapped mummies dangling from their feet, fluids dripping off to pool at the base.

  “Come along. My master wishes to return home with all speed,” the Seneschal said. He pulled at the leash wrapped around her neck. A train of robed cultists followed them, treading along the path without sound, heads bowed, and mouthing a wordless prayer. In the gloom, a spire of silver and black thrust into the sky to disappear into the cloud cover.

  Her dress hung in tatters, flecks of material fluttering away as she walked. Each step fractured her desiccated hair, shards of orange melting as they touched the surface of the ground. The leather collar bit into her neck—not enough to cut off her air, but making each breath a struggle. She tugged at edges, seeking to loosen it, to give her a small bit of relief.

  He slashed at her hand with a finger, cutting deeply across the back. “It is forbidden to touch the collar. Suffer well and you will be rewarded. After we pass over the Bridge of Fossa, the way shall not be as easy.”

  “It hurts,” she whined, stumbling as they reached a wooden bridge. Below, a river of reddish water raced, sweeping past boulders and over half-submerged bodies.

  “Get up!” He yanked on the leash.

  She choked and vomited, spewing forth a glamour-laced bile of blue and green, stinking of fish and salt. It splashed on the surface, oozing over the edge in a thin stream.

  Drops fell on his boots, staining them with dark spots. “You dare soil my presence! Now I see why your mistress was so eager to rid herself of you. Weak and pathetic. Unable to withstand even the smallest privation. I should throw you over the edge.”

  A lash tore across her back, flaying the dress. She held back another wave of nausea and rivulets of blue blood snaked down her back. “No. I can serve you,” she gasped.

  “Pitiful creature, would you act as my plaything? You’d not survive more than an hour before your heart gave out. To think that I coveted such a weak thing.”

  Her feet left the ground as his fingers wrapped around her throat. He tilted her head to meet his gaze. Eyes of blue stared from behind the leather mask. Hard. Uncaring. Disdainful. “Please ...”

  “You’re too pretty to meet with an accident.” The Seneschal threw her to the bridge’s surface. “My master wishes you to survive for now. He feels you might be useful.”

  Nidaria choked and warm tears flowed down her cheeks. The collar loosened a fraction. Just enough to provide a respite. “Thank you, master.”

  “Do not thank me. I merely obey. You will find that he’s done you no favor.”

  Walls of red-washed stone encircled the keep. Hobgoblins patrolled the ramparts—pig-like snouts sniffing and grunting, testing the air for danger—a low breed of hedge creatures well equipped for violence and little else. Larger creatures, backs humped like boars with wiry hair, shouted commands as the procession approached. Bricks peeled back to allow passage, and then returned to form a seamless barrier. Nidaria dropped to her knees, unable to stave off the exhaustion of the march. Sweat streaked her soot-covered hands and arms. She could only imagine the rest of her mirrored the same condition.

  “General Nin, report!” the Seneschal said. None dared to crowd him, the hustle and bustle of the fort flowing around him like a river.

  “We discovered three spies. Two await interrogation,” Nin said, as he pushed his way through the crowd. He towered over his subordinates and the Seneschal—nine feet of wiry-furred, porcine muscle. Six tusks, two upper and four lower, jutted from his jaw.

  “Two?”

  “One perished trying to escape. An unavoidable accident. At least one of Grandfather Tick’s minions provided some sport.”

  “No matter. Display the body until it rusts to nothing as a warning. Find out what the other two know, then dispose of them.”

  “As you wish.” The general spared a glance at her. “A new prize for our master?”

  “She’s mine, though a more worthless handmaiden could not be found.”

  “Her face and body are fair enough. The troops could use a new camp follower.”

  The Seneschal stared at her and smiled thinly. “No, she would not provide them much pleasure. I have plans for her. Until then, she will serve in other ways.”

  Nidaria lowered her eyes. The soldiers would not have been gentle with her. Only the strong would survive more than a few nights and she had no such strength to resist. Whatever else he might do, she would live to see the end.

  “Already she quakes with fear. Fetch the jailor and put her to work serving meals to the soldiers.”

  The walls of the underground stockade dripped with moisture wherever the moss failed to cover. Humid air stifled and strangled as she was led down flights of steps. Spiked bars of black stone sealed off the prison cells, the gaps between them almost too small for even her arm to pass through. Shapes huddled in the dark recesses, none stirring at her passage. Weak flames sparked and popped from sconces, spattering drops of oil on her as she passed.

  “Here’s your new home.” The jailor, a whip-thin pig-man, shoved her into a cell and pressed a tarnished metal stud on the wall, sealing her in. “Meals are at dawn. You’ll be expected to serve the others before eating. Too slow and no food for you.”

  She staggered to her feet as the jailor walked away, laughing to himself. A pile of rags in one corner and a foul-smelling bucket in the other were the furnishings of her new home. Each step brought a fresh reminder of her ruined feet as Nidaria rested against the bars. She leeched their cool touch, gathering and focusing minute bits of glamour. A small magic. One that would go unnoticed amid the squalor and filth. She gave it life and let it go. With a smile, she stumbled to the rags and fell, drifting off to sleep. Dreaming of the sea, the endless call of the depths, and the stinging lash.

  Nidaria placed the bowls of soup in front of the officers, hurrying between the kitchen and the tables. Whitish vegetables, green starchy roots, and meat from no known animal floated to the top. They grunted and slobbered, pushing their snouts into the slimy broth, and licking the remnants with thick, pink tongues. Her own stomach roiled and growled at the smell, a putrid scent of rotted onions and waste. She had kept little down the first night, earning lashes from the jailor. Her back glistened with red welts and semidried blood.

  The chef slopped a bowl on the counter. “Eat quickly. The sappers shall be here soon, then the high guard.”

  She said nothing, but lifted the soup to her lips, feeling the contents flow down her throat. A few bits of solid food to keep her alive. Her skin drew in the broth, struggling to heal agains
t the dry heat of the realm. Just enough to survive and serve. The Seneschal had visited her once during this time, channeling his anger and frustration in the whipping. He stopped only when she lost consciousness.

  Dwarf pig-men marched into the tent, broad and humpbacked with thick limbs, smelling of cordite and grease. She rose, along with the other slaves, to serve the next round of meals. The soldiers paid her little attention, talking in low grunts about the upcoming war, how they would take a new realm and how The Arkholt would gain an edge over the other Fae. That he would, in time, rule over all of Arcadia.

  Nidaria no sooner set down the last bowl when the ground heaved and shook. A column of fire and smoke rose from the prison. Chunks of masonry tumbled through the air, crushing the unlucky and slow as they crashed down. Goblin bodies, flung by the explosion, windmilled into the stone wall of the fortress, leaving streaks of red as they slid to the base.

  Shouts of confusion and anger. Bells clanged, sounding the alarm and rousting the troops. She lay under an overturned table, amidst the stunned and shocked sappers, covered by the spilled soup. Unnoticed and ignored in the confusion, she drew in a thin stream of glamour as the liquid absorbed into her skin. It concentrated in her core, masked behind a shroud of pain and weakness.

  “How did that happen?” The Seneschal stormed about his chamber. His attendants fidgeted and sweated under his gaze. The jailor knelt on the ground and cradled his arm. Flesh, blackened and charred, flaked off with each movement. The smell of cooked pork dominated the room, masking his unwashed stink—a small favor to those present.

  “The prisoner self-destructed when General Nin and his retinue arrived for the interrogation,” the jailor said, grunting with pain. “A bomb hidden inside his chest.”