by Unknown
I blinked at him, uncomprehending. The scent of flowers had lulled me toward an afternoon nap. I reached for my wine, but the clumsy butler must have repositioned it after refilling the glass. I bumped it from its table onto the stone path, where the crystal shattered into a thousand glittering fragments. They sparkled in the afternoon sun, briefly mesmerizing.
“Do you hear me?” said Radovan. “It’s a hit on you.”
“Ridiculous,” I said. Granted, I was perhaps a trifle drowsy, but I could not at that moment think of anyone who would be so rash as to threaten a scion of House Jeggare. I did, of course, have one prominent rival. However, his ethics, if not his demeanor, were beyond reproach. The day he chose to end my life, I would see it coming. “Who would be so reckless?”
“I didn’t get names,” he said. “But I have a description of the assassin and a location. You’ll want to skip the opera tonight. There’s a tiefling you want me to find before he finds you.”
“Out of the question,” I said. What I did not explain, what Radovan could hardly understand, was that a performance of The Water Nymph promised my only solace in a day that had brought nothing but miserable tidings. Besides, the Opera House was the perfect location for me to avoid hellspawn, since none were allowed within. I waved Radovan away, but he failed to grasp my meaning. I tried to rise from my reclining chair and said, “You may go.”
My hand slipped off the chair, and I began to fall. Radovan caught my arm, his grip exceedingly tight. “Boss,” he said, “you need to take this seriously. A lot of families got hurt in the Henderthane business. I’m just surprised we haven’t taken more heat before now.”
I removed myself from his presumptuous grasp and stepped back, slightly unsteady. All of this unwelcome news was exacerbating my headache. I felt dizzy and confused, but most of all I felt angry.
“It is not for you to tell me how to receive this or any other information,” I said. “You’ve delivered your news, and you are dismissed.”
He stood in perfect stillness for a moment, his expression caught halfway between wonder and anger. Never before had he released his fury on me, although I had seen him cow thieves and informants with one of his notorious smiles. If he retained even a fraction of the good sense he had demonstrated in past service, he would not test me now.
He did not speak for many seconds. At last he rubbed the back of his neck and said, “Right.”
Radovan never addressed me properly, and I had been permissive, perhaps excessively so, in allowing him such informalities as “boss.” He turned and walked away, brushing past the butler, who scurried toward the broken wine glass with a brush and pan. Before he bent to tidy the mess, he set another crystal goblet on the table and filled it from the bottle.
I lifted the new glass to observe the color of the wine. Instead, I noticed a difference in the glass itself.
“Why is this not the same as the previous?” I asked the butler.
“Forgive me, Your Excellency,” he said with a low bow. “I am afraid that was the last of the old set. Recently there has been some… attrition.”
I squeezed the bridge of my nose, hoping to dull the rising pain. How could I have been so careless, so forgetful? I felt a sudden urge to call Radovan back, but I could think of nothing to say.
Chapter Three: The Grand Opera
Thanks to the longevity granted by my mingled elven and human blood, I have held a box at the opera longer than any other member of the Jeggare family. Even before my mother bequeathed it to me, her parents had held it throughout their long lives, and so had their venerable parents before them. It is in fact one of the four longest-held boxes in the Opera House of Egorian, and upon her ascent to the throne, the first Queen Abrogail condescended to spare it when she claimed the first and third boxes for herself.
It is, however, one of the smaller boxes, accommodating only two in comfort. Such limited space was no hardship while my mother lived, for we happily entertained each other. Since her death, however, the limited seating has on occasion presented me with mild social quandaries, as any invitation I might extend to an eligible lady posed her chaperone the uncomfortable choice between standing and abandoning her charge for the duration of the performance. Often I preferred to avoid the dilemma by offering the lady and her chaperone the box with the understanding that we would meet afterward to discuss the opera.
In recent decades, I have enjoyed the comforts of the box unaccompanied. The whispers of my peers returned like flotsam on the tides of gossip, so I knew the prevailing speculation was that I had simply accepted the fact that I had grown too old for marriage. Some hypothesized my sexual interests lay beyond the field of Egorian’s noble maidens and widows. The most offensive rumors were those that hinted at perversions that could be satisfied only in the utmost secrecy. The latter had the unfortunate effect of stimulating the curiosity of women for whom traditional assignations had grown stale.
Thus it was that I had become accustomed to appearing alone within my box on opening nights of a new opera, to a general stir among the audience. As the ushers parted the drape, I tugged my gloves snug at the wrist. My opera cloak lay folded over my right shoulder, revealing its plum-colored silk lining. I stepped through and rested a hand upon the back of one chair, adopting a casual posture as I observed the house.
The velvet curtain hung in sensuous crimson folds from a height of twenty feet. The fabric displayed the first hints of wear and would soon be replaced, a transition I had witnessed with some mourning six or seven times over the past ninety years. Each time, in support of future performances, I had purchased a scrap of the fabric as a memento, which I kept in frames on the walls of my library at Greensteeples. The edge of the stage was aglow with limelight that warmed the first few rows, rendering them the least desirable of the floor seats. Ushers led nobles to their seats on the floor and the three general balconies, while those of us privileged to enjoy private boxes were attended by servants employed by the opera house. Above us all, the lighted chandeliers cast a golden aura about the vast, multi-tiered auditorium.
I searched for a friendly face among those taking their seats below. Soon I spied a plump matron of House Elliendo, but she missed my smile or pretended so. That was not too strange, since her cousin and I were rivals. I was more disappointed when a toothsome widow of House Leroung obviously ignored my bow in her direction. Her gaze was not entirely averted, so I raised a hand in greeting.
She turned her back to me. She had clearly seen my gesture, yet she rebuffed it.
Shocked at the blunt offense, I turned away. My gaze fell upon a young woman who had only six months earlier hung on every word of my account of an investigation into a lost idol of Sarenrae. A smile flickered upon her lips until her mother bent to whisper in her ear. Then both showed me their backs.
As a few stones accumulate into an avalanche, so too did the several snubs spread throughout the auditorium until everyone who had turned to notice my presence turned away to face no particular direction, which is to say any direction other than the one in which I stood.
They had no other object to attend. There could be no mistaking their intention. One and all, my Egorian peers shunned me.
∗ ∗ ∗
The carriage driver was a slip named Miro. He’d been working for the boss for a few years, but I’d only recently learned his name after he did me a good turn. That opened my eyes to the fact that slips didn’t have it much better than my sort did. In Cheliax, both halflings and hellspawn were more often slaves than free men. I’d looked down on the little fellows all my life, just like the humans turned their noses up at both of us. Problem was, slips were little, and lifetimes of abuse had turned a lot of them crafty or mean. Hell, when I thought about it, I had to admit the same was probably true of me. I couldn’t decide whether I was getting enlightened or just starting to realize what an ass I’d been to the slips.
Anyway, Miro was a good fellow. I stood him a few pints after the Henderthane affair, and I’d sor
t of apologized for putting him in a bad spot and sort of thanked him for helping me out of it. He liked this restricted tobacco from Nirmathas, and I’d found him a pouch on the black market. The stuff smelled good, but smoking it made me slow and goofy, so I declined when he offered me some. We’d been chatty ever since, which was good. Like my old colleague Maccabus, sometimes I wanted a favor, and now there was another place I could find one.
Miro’s sons also served at Greensteeples, Lom assisting the gardener, Vono working in the stables. Miro made sure both of them came along on the ride to the opera house. That was good because it gave us two footmen to wear the house livery, which I hate. While they were grown halflings, Lom and Vono were small enough to share one of the carriage’s steps while I balanced them by standing on the other, after the boss was inside. The way he’d treated me earlier, I figured it was simpler if he didn’t know I was along for the ride, especially out of uniform. When he got this way, it was best to leave him gazing into Elfland while the rest of us took care of business.
When the boss disembarked, I stayed on the other side of the red carriage. The boys escorted him to the opera house entrance and bowed as he went in. With very few exceptions, the guards didn’t welcome nonhumans inside, especially hellspawn. When the boys came back to the carriage, I told them the plan.
“Pick a side,” I said. “See anyone with horns or a tail, hustle it back here to finger him. I’ll take it from there.”
They nodded and strolled up and down the line of carriages parked along Carthagnion Drive, where drivers and footmen would smoke, share hip flasks, and throw cards while their betters enjoyed the show. Only tonight, one of them was a hellspawn assassin looking for a shot at my boss. If I spotted him first, he’d have a bad night. If not, I’d be out of a job.
I was confident Vincenzo’s information was good. Caught between me and the giant bunyip, he’d spilled all he knew. If nothing else, his sense of self-preservation was strong enough to know a lie would mean I’d find him again, and this time I wouldn’t just leave him to dream off his last dose of shiver.
Impatience was making me fidget. I climbed the back of the carriage to stand on the roof. A gull-faced driver from House Sarini tilted his head back to look down his nose at me. I shot him the tines, and he flustered up like a nanny who’d just been pinched on the bottom. Ignoring him, I checked out the line of carriages in either direction. I saw a lot of familiar faces, and those I didn’t recognize were human or, occasionally, halfling.
I spotted Vono pumping his little arms as he ran back toward the red carriage. I jumped down to meet him halfway, but he was already pointing to the side entrance. A couple of guards stood beside the service door. One of them was reading a card he’d taken from a broad-shouldered man holding a long box under one arm. Even from this distance, I recognized the guard dipping his hand into his pocket to secure the bribe he’d been passed with the card. I couldn’t identify the house crest on the visitor’s livery, but his face had a fiendish silhouette.
By the time I reached the door, the hellspawn was already inside. The guards stepped forward to intercept me. Each was a good six inches taller than me, and a stone or two heavier.
“I’m with him,” I said.
“Nice try,” said one of them. His partner slipped his baton out of its belt loop.
I showed my palms to the sky and smiled a weak apology. There hadn’t been time to come up with a better bluff, so I gave them each a knuckle-shot to the throat. The friendly one dropped to his knees, while his buddy dropped his weapon. I snagged the baton and gave the stunned guards a rap on the head to buy a few minutes. There hadn’t been time to be gentle, either.
Inside was a hall connecting the lobby to a couple of doors. From the side entrance we were below stage level, so I figured the doors led to the orchestra pit and backstage. An usher of considerably less physical menace than the door guards had just closed the second door. He looked at me suspiciously, and I ran toward him while beckoning him close for a whisper. The gullible fool leaned in, and I gave him a nice clean rap on the sleepy button. I caught his body before he could hit the floor, dragged him in through the door, and closed it behind us.
Past the second door was an irregular little room with two exits: another door and a short flight of steps leading up to a heavy black curtain. The fabric still swayed as though someone had recently pushed past it.
Beyond the curtain was just what I’d guessed, a high room filled with a confusion of scaffolds, curtains, wheeled scenery, ropes, hoists, ladders, and a dozen objects and tools I couldn’t begin to name. Ahead of me was the main stage, barely illuminated by offstage lamps as the chorus took their places.
From nights I’d accompanied the boss home after the opera, listening to his detailed accounts of the evening’s entertainment, I knew enough to realize that meant there were only moments left before the curtain rose. As if mocking my thought, a sharp report from a timpani marked the beginning of a rising drum roll, and music overflowed the orchestra pit beyond the curtain. Before I looked away, I saw the famous soprano taking her position on the opposite wing. One look at her beefy arms, and I knew I wouldn’t want that woman coming after me with a switch.
I looked around for any clue as to the assassin’s trail. The ladder to the scaffolding nearest the front curtain shuddered, and I looked up to see someone stepping onto the catwalk twenty feet above. It could have been one of the stagehands, but it also looked like the best spot for a sniper. Maybe that had been some sort of disassembled crossbow in the box he’d carried inside.
I put a foot on the first iron rung of the ladder. Something cracked me hard on the back of the skull, and my vision wavered. I reached for the grip of my dagger, but a hand slapped my arm away, and I was too weak to send it back before I teetered and fell in a clumsy spiral to the floor. My last vision was of a face looking down at me. It wasn’t a man but a masculine-faced woman, hellspawn like me, but a lot less pretty. She shook her head slightly as if disappointed as she held a leather sap above her head.
Then she brought it down between my eyes.
Chapter Four: Behind The Curtain
A good crack on the skull is worse than you might think. Assuming it doesn’t kill you, there’s a good chance it’ll soften your brain, cross your eyes, destroy your sense of smell, or leave any of a dozen other unpleasant reminders of that time you were stupid enough to walk past the hiding spot of the hellspawn assassin you were meant to be sneaking up on.
But I’m not whining, and it’s not like I hadn’t been knocked cold once or twice before. This time I went down hard, my head bouncing off the bare backstage floor. Chances are I would have stayed down if hot, stinking vomit hadn’t filled my mouth and nose.
The pungent stench was better than a slap for dimming the sparks that danced in my head. I rolled over and let the rest of the curried fish stew I’d had for dinner gush out. If Malla had served something less aromatic, maybe I would have choked to death before coming to. I shuddered at the thought and made a mental note to steal something nice for the plump cook.
Above me, quick footsteps rang out on the scaffold ladder, evoking a flurry of admonishing shushes from the performers who wanted silence before the curtain went up. That was my deadline, too, since the woman who’d coshed me on the noggin was here to murder my boss.
Still dizzy, I wobbled up to my feet and grabbed the iron ladder for support. I felt my adversary’s weight on the framework, and looked up to see her silhouette looking down at me. She hesitated for a second, but when I put a foot on the ladder, she ran. Her steps were a thunder above the singers, whose hushing added the sound of a rain shower to the clamor.
I reached the catwalk just as the curtain began to rise. Limelight flooded the stage twenty feet below us, but I barely noticed the dazzling colors of the set and costumes. To either side of the scaffolding hung flat walls, tree boughs, and latticework arbors crawling with painted vines, all awaiting their turn in the next scene change.
&n
bsp; Between the twin iron rails, the assassin stood in the center of the catwalk, the phony flower box lying at her feet. She cradled an elegant stock in one arm and fixed the crossbow in place. Three bolts were clamped to the stock, and she’d set one against the string. In the reflected light from below, I saw the dark gunk that covered the sharp head of the bolts.
It had to be black lotus paste. One shot of that, and even the priests of Asmodeus wouldn’t be healing the boss. Of course, if this were a serious hit, they’d have already been paid to find fault in any contracts he’d made with them.
This was definitely a serious hit.
I was halfway to the assassin when she cocked the lever. Realizing I wouldn’t make it before she set the bolt in place, I snatched one of the little knives out of my jacket sleeve and flicked it toward her. It was a good throw, but she avoided it with the merest bend of her knees and a tilt of her head. The second one, aimed to strike her when she dodged the first, flew harmlessly past her shoulder. There must have been some snake mingled with her human and diabolic blood. I could come to like this woman if she weren’t messing with my livelihood.
She glanced out toward the boxes and hesitated. Shoot at me or shoot her target is what she had to be deciding. The question was whether success or survival was more important to her. She raised her crossbow and pointed it out into the audience. I shouted my filthiest curse.
Say what you like about a country that’s held onto its remaining imperial might by bargaining with the legions of Hell, but queen-ruled Cheliax is still the most powerful nation in all of Avistan. Even so, there’s a word or two that’ll strike any woman sharp enough that the first thing she wants is to put you down. I figured halflings still bristled at “slip,” and, no matter how much I like to keep my cool in any situation, “boy” and “hellspawn” still raised my hackles. Manly as the assassin was, I was betting that was doubly true of her. I needed her to hate me for a second.