The Matriarch tapped her thin fingers together. “You did not think a man as notorious as the Master Thief of Cintarra would exercise caution?”
“The what?” said Mara, puzzled. “He is a merchant, Matriarch. Or so I believed.”
Rotherius looked at Cassius and let out a nasty laugh, and the younger man shifted.
“You truly do not know?” said the Matriarch. “Cassius, I am disappointed in you. I instructed you to tell Mara of her target. Did you disobey me?”
“Of course not, Matriarch,” said Cassius, a faint sheen of sweat appearing on his brow. For an assassin, the man could not keep a straight face. “I went to tell her of your instructions, but she had already left the domus, and by then…”
Mara understood. The Matriarch enjoyed playing little games with the Red Family, setting them against each other in petty feuds that often turned bloody. She claimed it kept them vigilant and strong in their service to Mhor. Mara suspected the Matriarch simply enjoyed the spectacle.
“Do not lie to me, Cassius,” said the Matriarch. “You disobeyed my command, no doubt in hopes of seeing Mara fail and die. Disappointing. Only the strong and the clever prosper in the service of Mhor. I had expected better of you.”
“Matriarch,” said Cassius, more sweat appearing on his face, “I must…”
“Silence,” said the Matriarch, turning back to Mara. “This halfling Jager is no mere merchant. That is simply the cover identity he uses to mask the source of his great wealth. He is in fact the man known as the Master Thief of Cintarra.”
“Him?” said Mara. “The Master Thief is real?”
She had heard the tales, of course. The mysterious Master Thief of Cintarra, who had robbed the Prince’s Castra and the domi of a score of prominent comites and knights. The Master Thief who had broken into the High King’s citadel in Tarlion and made off with some of the treasury’s jewels.
“He is quite real,” said the Matriarch, “and the tales about him have only been slightly exaggerated. Quite an audacious little rodent. As you can imagine, such a bold thief gains powerful enemies, and those enemies made an offering to Mhor to have the Red Family exterminate him. It took a great deal of potent sorcery to uncover his identity, and once I had, I sent one of my most skillful assassins to kill him.” Her bottomless black eyes turned to Cassius. “Until another of my children managed to bungle the affair.”
“Forgive me, Matriarch,” said Cassius. “Let me kill the Master Thief. Let me prove myself worthy.”
“No,” said the Matriarch. “Mara had incomplete information. Therefore the task is hers. My daughter, you shall find Jager and you shall kill him. And if you fail…”
“My life is forfeit,” said Mara.
“Not at all,” said the Matriarch. “You do not believe the word of Mhor, but instead choose to believe in the Dominus Christus and the feeble superstitions of the church.” Cassius scowled at that, and even Rotherius’s mouth thinned. They believed in the word of Mhor as Mara did not, but the Matriarch kept Mara because she was useful. “Why bother to kill you? What a waste that would be.” She smiled her cruel smile. “Instead I shall simply reclaim your bracelet, and you can serve me for all eternity. Is that not fair?”
Mara felt a chill, her right hand straying to the jade bracelet around her left wrist.
The Matriarch did not need the threat of death to keep Mara under control. The Matriarch could do far worse things to Mara than kill her.
Mara’s dark elven blood granted her the ability to command the shadows, but it also carried a curse. Sooner or later it would overwhelm her, would spin out of her control. And after it consumed her, she would transform into one of the monsters of the dark elves, the war beasts they used against their foes. The lesser beasts, the urvaalgs and the ursaars and the others, were made from animals. But the more powerful creatures of dark magic, urshanes and urvuuls and worse things, were created when the dark elves mixed their blood with that of other kindreds. Mara’s father had intended that fate for her, had she not escaped with her mother.
And the Matriarch would do the same to Mara if she was no longer useful.
Mara closed her eyes. “It will be done, Matriarch. He will die.”
“Good,” said the Matriarch. “I expected no less of you, my child. I have always prized your service. For you will serve me, one way or another.”
###
Four days later, Mara stood outside of Jager’s domus.
It was rather more opulent than the Matriarch’s lair. A small garden encircled the domus proper, its walls of crisp red brick. Liveried footmen stood watch at the gate. Mara walked past the garden wall, noting the position of the windows and the doors. This time she wore the clothing of a common maid, a bundle of rolled washing under her arm, and the footmen paid her no notice. She kept walking, leaving the wealthier districts of Cintarra, and came to a tavern overlooking the river. Mara had rented a room there, to use as a base as she plotted Jager’s death.
It would not be much longer now. She had noted the position of his guards and doors, and with her skill at stealth and command over the shadows, she could enter his domus, kill him in his sleep, and escape before anyone noticed. The Matriarch wanted his death to look natural, and there were any number of ways to achieve that.
Mara still thought it a pity as she climbed the rickety wooden stairs to her room. She had rather liked Jager with his boldness and quick wit.
She unlocked the door, stepped into the room, and froze.
“Greetings again.”
Jager sat in the room’s chair, his boots propped on the narrow bed.
For a moment Mara stood motionless, her mind sorting through possible answers.
“It is inappropriate,” she said at last, “to enter a lady’s room without an invitation.”
Jager grinned. “You are no more a lady than I am a lord.”
“You do not know that,” said Mara. “Perhaps I am the exiled daughter of a nobleman, making her way in a cold and hostile world as best she can.” That wasn’t completely divorced from the truth. Of course, if Jager knew that her father was a dark elven nobleman, the dreaded Traveler of Nightmane Forest, then he would try to kill her on the spot.
Jager got to his feet, offered an elaborate bow, and again kissed the fingers of her right hand. “I can be utterly certain of that.”
“And just why is that, sir?” said Mara.
“Because,” said Jager, “you are far too polite to be a noblewoman of Andomhaim. You haven’t thrown a tantrum once yet.”
Despite herself, Mara laughed. God knew that most of the noblewomen she had met had hardly been paragons of virtue and sobriety. Some of them had hired the Red Family to dispose of their husbands. “Perhaps I simply locked myself in a closet and carried out my tantrum there.”
“Unlikely,” said Jager, “giving that you have been watching my domus for the last few days.”
That displeased her. Had she been that obvious? “And it is peculiar for you to call me polite, given that I tried to kill you.”
“All the more proof that you are not a noblewoman of Andomhaim,” said Jager, “given that killing is honest work. Well.” He thought for a moment. “At least closer to honest work than a noblewoman would ever venture.”
“As opposed to thieving?” said Mara. “Bold words from the Master Thief of Cintarra.”
Jager grinned. “I steal from the nobles and their pet merchants. God knows they deserve it.” He tilted his head to the side, thinking. “You…didn’t know, did you? The Red Family didn’t tell you? Oh, dear. You should find a different line of work, my lady Mara. Sooner or later they shall fail to give you information about a target far more formidable than me, and that will get you killed.”
“Everyone dies,” said Mara. Certainly worse potential fates awaited her than death. “Which I suspect I may find out sooner or later. Are you here to kill me, Master Thief?”
“Not at all,” said Jager.
“Then to turn me over to the P
rince’s magistrates, then?” said Mara.
“Actually, I wish to invite you to dinner,” said Jager. “It is growing late, and believe me, I know firsthand how all that sneaking about can fire the appetite.”
Mara blinked in astonishment. “You…are asking me to dinner?”
“I believe I just said that, yes,” said Jager.
“You are aware that I have been hired to kill you,” said Mara. “That is an important fact, and I hope it has not slipped your mind.”
“It is hard to forget,” said Jager. “But if you are trying to kill me, I suppose we can do it in comfort, no?”
“Why?” said Mara, baffled.
He offered a shrug. “Because you intrigue me. Because I dislike boredom. Because I don’t turn my back on risks. Because in chaos lies opportunity.” He flashed his grin. “And because I would enjoy the expression on the faces of the fat fools at the Sheathed Sword…and unless I miss my guess, I think you would too.”
“Very well,” said Mara. She could always kill him at dinner, and the more she knew about him, the better the chance of accomplishing her mission. “Let me change and I shall join you.”
“Of course,” said Jager, leaning against the wall and folding his arms.
She gave him an arch look. “You may wait in the hall.”
Jager grinned and swaggered out the door.
###
A short time later, they sat at a table in the Sheathed Sword. As Jager predicted, the surrounding merchants seemed surprised, which did amuse her. Still, if too many people realized that she was a member of the Red Family, her effectiveness would be limited, and she might even get killed.
“Tell me,” said Jager, sipping at his wine. For all the fine food offered at the Sheathed Sword, he ate only sparingly. Likely he needed to remain fit for running across rooftops and climbing through windows. “Who has hired my death?”
“I don’t know,” said Mara. “The information was not given to me.”
“How very typical,” said Jager. “You do all the work and receive none of the credit, I assume?” He took another sip of his wine. “Let me guess. I can think of perhaps three or four dozen men who might wish to purchase my death. Or perhaps they pooled their funds. I cannot imagine you come cheap.”
“I do not know,” said Mara. “I have never hired an assassin of the Red Family.”
Jager laughed. “Why haven’t you just stabbed me? As enjoyable as this little game is, simply stabbing me or slicing my throat in my sleep seems like less work.”
“Your death is to look like an accident,” said Mara. “And I would have slain you at our first meeting, had I know you were in fact the Master Thief of Cintarra. I would not have used so simple a stratagem.”
“Why, thank you,” said Jager. “It’s always nice to be called clever. And your masters did not tell you that I was the Master Thief? It is good to know that incompetence extends even to the ranks of the fabled Red Family.”
Mara frowned. She hadn’t expected him to deduce that. She would have to be even more careful around him. “What a peculiar man you are.”
“Thank you,” said Jager. “But do elaborate.”
“A halfling merchant is rare enough,” said Mara, “but a halfling thief?”
His smile took a sour edge. “And what did you expect? That I would be the servant of some corrupt noble? That I would wait on him hand and foot and accept his insults with good cheer, all while prattling about our long and honorable tradition of service?”
“Have I touched upon a sore point?” said Mara.
Jager grunted. “So it would seem. But I suspect you have your own sore points as well.”
“Oh?” said Mara. “Do elaborate.”
“You needn’t be an assassin,” said Jager.
Mara laughed. “And will you try to talk me out of it, then? Convince me to repent and leave behind my life of iniquity? You know nothing of me.”
“No,” said Jager, “but I do know that you must have a very compelling reason to be an assassin.”
“Enlighten me, sir,” said Mara.
“You are beautiful woman,” said Jager. He smiled. “A bit short, true, but I know firsthand that height is an overrated quality.”
“Until one needs to fetch a jar from the top shelf,” said Mara.
He laughed. “You could easily charm someone to get the jar for you. Which is precisely my point. If you wanted, you could command large sums as a prostitute.”
Mara raised an eyebrow. “If that is flattery, you are doing it wrong.”
“You already kill strangers for money,” said Jager. “Is that much worse than sleeping with strangers for money?”
She could think of no good rebuttal to that, so she gestured for him to continue.
“And since you obviously find that idea distasteful,” said Jager, “you could simply disguise yourself as some minor noblewoman and find a wealthy husband that way.”
“Perhaps I enjoy killing,” said Mara. “I’m good at it.” She didn’t know if it was a legacy of her dark elven blood, or if she was simply good at it the way some people were good at knitting or drawing. “Everyone needs something they are good at. Such as stealing.”
“Religious motivation, then,” said Jager. “You are a devoted follower of Mhor…though rather more polite about it. I’ve met a few Mhorite orcs, and they are quite unpleasant.”
“No, I do not follow Mhor,” said Mara.
“Then I would hazard a guess,” said Jager, “that someone in the Red Family has a hold over you. Blackmail, maybe, or some sort of coercion. One sees it all the time in criminal enterprises.”
Mara said nothing. He could not know the truth, could not know about her dark elven blood and the enchanted jade bracelet upon her wrist. Yet his guess had come closer to the mark than he knew.
“And will you rescue me, sir?” said Mara, putting a bit of mockery in her voice. “Carry off the fair maiden from the lair of the dragon?”
Jager snorted. “If you are a maiden, then I am the Prince of Cintarra. And you don’t need me to rescue you. I am trying to rescue myself. If I talk you out of killing me, the Red Family will send someone less competent after me.”
“And what about you?” said Mara. “Why steal?”
Jager shrugged. “Why not? Perhaps I’m bored.”
“Or you could be a halfling servant,” said Mara.
His smile didn’t change, but a bit of hardness came into his amber eyes. “And give up all of this?”
“You’re going to die, probably in a lot of pain,” said Mara. “Boast all you want, but sooner or later I will find a way to kill you, and even if I fail, someday you’ll make a mistake and get killed. If you’re a servant, you won’t have all this adventure and wealth. You might have to wait on some fat fool of a knight. But you’ll have security and peace. You could find a wife and have a crop of children, instead of a long drop at the end of a short rope.”
His smile did not waver, but his eyes got colder. Angrier. And…sad, perhaps?
“All that could be true,” said Jager. “But perhaps I tried that life, and found it wanting.”
“You were betrayed, I think,” said Mara.
“And how do you know that? Were you there?”
“Because,” said Mara, “only betrayal can create that kind of rage.”
“Well.” Jager sighed and took a longer drink of his wine. “You think I was betrayed, and I think you were coerced. Let us make a bargain. Tell me if I am right, and I shall tell you if you are right.”
They sat in silence for a moment.
“You are,” said Mara.
“And you are, too,” said Jager. “The honorable life of humble service and devoted duty. I believed in that once. I believed it with all my heart…and then my eyes were opened.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mara.
“An odd thing to apologize for,” said Jager, “considering you are going to kill me.”
“I know what it is to lose something,” said
Mara.
“We all do, in the end,” said Jager. “So you have been coerced into joining the Red Family. Was it money? They bought up your debt? Or a threat over a…parent, perhaps, or a child, or a lover?”
“My parents are long dead,” said Mara, since her mother was dead and he would not believe that her father was the dark elven lord of Nightmane Forest. “I have no children, and no lovers.”
“Then what is their hold over you?” said Jager.
“You would not believe me,” said Mara, “if I told you.”
“Well,” said Jager. “Aren’t we a pair? The rogue and the coerced assassin.”
“You are wearing a mask, are you not?” said Mara.
“Really?” said Jager. “An appalling thing to say about my face.” He rubbed his cheek. “I shave every day, you know.”
“All the jokes and the smiles and the audacity,” said Mara. “You’re a very sad man beneath it all.”
He shrugged. “One can weep or laugh.” He lifted his goblet. “A toast, then. To all we have lost.”
Mara lifted her goblet, and they drank to it.
###
“Well, my daughter,” said the Matriarch later that night. “How goes the hunt?”
They stood alone in her solar, the Matriarch gazing into the darkened garden. The Matriarch often invited Mara into the solar at night. She held the rest of her servants in contempt, and she seemed to consider Mara the closest thing she had to an equal, even if Mara was a half-breed bastard. So the Matriarch often talked to her, or at least at her, for hours.
“It is a dangerous game, Matriarch,” said Mara. “He knows I am of the Red Family, and he knows that even if I fail, others will come.”
“But he speaks to you nonetheless,” said the Matriarch in her unearthly voice.
“Yes.”
“Why?” said the Matriarch.
“I think,” said Mara, “that he is lonely. That he rarely has the opportunity to speak honestly with someone.”
And if she were honest with herself, she knew that both things were true about her as well.
“Enemies can often be candid with each other,” said the Matriarch. “A deadly game you play, my daughter. Do not fail me. For if you do,” her empty black eyes strayed to Mara’s left wrist, “the consequences shall be most dire.”
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