Brigands (Blackguards)

by “Melanie Meadors”

  Nonetheless… assassinating an Outlooker was foolhardy, not bold. The consequences could be costly and severe.

  Yet Najdan could tell from Kiloran’s expression that his master had already decided they would do it.

  Kiloran said to him, “Toren Varilon has a difficult problem to solve. Recognizing the enormity of the favor he asks, he has offered us a generous gift, along with his sincere and lasting friendship.”

  Naturally, there would be coin involved; not even this young fool would come empty-handed to Kandahar to ask Kiloran to kill an Outlooker. But influence mattered more in the mountains than money did. For Kiloran to grant such an audacious request, the friendship Varilon offered him in exchange must be extremely valuable. Najdan wondered why. What made this pompous toren’s loyalty worth taking such a risk?

  “In addition to the bountiful rains,” Kiloran continued, “we’ve had other misfortunes this year, have we not?”

  They exchanged a look of acknowledgment.

  “Yes, siran. We have.”

  The Honored Society was far more disciplined than the shallaheen, who were prone to constant clan wars and bloodfeuds, but the waterlords were allies rather than friends. And not always even allies, in fact.

  For reasons that Kiloran had never shared with Najdan, and about which Najdan knew better than to ask, Kiloran had been locked for some years in a bitter, distracting, and occasionally destructive feud with Baran, a half-mad and wholly unscrupulous waterlord who inhabited a notoriously damp, abandoned ruin surrounded by a deadly, ensorcelled moat. Although much younger than Kiloran and insanely reckless, Baran was very talented and his power was growing. He had recently succeeded in taking over some of Kiloran’s territory. This put Kiloran—and therefore Najdan—in a dangerous position, since it undoubtedly suggested to the other waterlords that Kiloran’s strength might be waning, and these were not men to ignore an opportunity. Najdan knew that Kiloran had devoted much thought and attention lately to the problem of reasserting his predominance—and crushing Baran.

  “Difficult times call for daring solutions,” said Kiloran. “I have given due thought to the toren’s situation, and I believe his desire to form a deep and lasting friendship with us represents an opportunity that makes his request one we should honor.”

  Najdan again wondered what qualities or advantages the silly young man possessed that were not apparent at this meeting.

  “An opportunity,” Kiloran repeated.

  And Najdan, who knew that he served a shrewd man, as well as the greatest waterlord in Sileria, said, “As always, siran, you know best, and I obey.”

  “I felt certain I could count on you.”

  “I am honored by your faith in me, siran.”

  “There is one thing…”

  “Yes?”

  “This business should be accomplished discreetly.”

  Najdan nodded. “I will find out where the Outlooker sleeps and do the work by night.”

  “Even more discreetly than that.” When Najdan just looked at him blankly, Kiloran said, “It should never be known that a Society assassin was involved.”

  “Ah.” Najdan nodded. “I am to disguise myself ?”

  The red and black colors of an assassin represented honor and ensured respect; but they also made him noticeable and clearly identified his allegiance to the Society. Kiloran hoped to escape consequences by obscuring the identity of the Outlooker’s slayer. Najdan did not relish masquerading as an ordinary shallah, but he could see the sense in it.

  “Yes. I’m sorry to say that you must also leave your shir here. If anyone were to see it in connection with this work…” Kiloran shook his head. “That would be bad for us.”

  “I understand, siran.” With some regret, Najdan removed his shir from his sash and gave it to Kiloran for safekeeping until his return.

  “Oh, I’ve never seen a shir before.” Varilon glanced at Kiloran for permission. “May I?”

  Kiloran gestured to Najdan, indicating that it belonged to him.

  The wavy-edged dagger was an enchanted weapon created for him by Kiloran, fashioned from water by the wizard’s cold magic. It was thing of beauty, as well as deadly. Even a minor cut from a shir took a long time to heal, and a wound inflicted by the unnaturally cold blade could seldom be staunched or healed. Yet, having been made for him by his master, the blade could not harm Najdan, and so it could be carried next to his skin, concealed and unsheathed, always ready for combat.

  Najdan shrugged, which Varilon interpreted as acquiescence, and the toren picked up the dagger—then instantly exclaimed in pain and dropped it.

  Having expected this, Najdan retrieved the weapon from the crystalline floor of Kiloran’s enchanted water palace and placed it on the small table at his master’s side. “Has no one ever told you that others cannot touch an assassin’s shir?”

  One of the reasons that every assassin of the Society valued his own deadly shir so highly was that no other could use it—or even touch it without pain.

  “Yes, but I forgot,” Varilon said stupidly. “Ow.” He studied his hand, which he held awkwardly in front of him. “That thing is so cold it burns.”

  “Your hand may pain you for several days,” Kiloran said, “but it will pass.”

  Evidently knowing better than to criticize the most powerful waterlord in Sileria, Varilon said petulantly to Najdan, “You might have warned me.”

  Najdan ignored the toren and kept his gaze on his shir. He could kill—and had killed—without it, of course. But he valued the weapon and used it well, so he would have preferred to take it with him. However, Kiloran was right. A shir was too easily recognized as the weapon of a Society assassin. And since each waterlord created shir in his own distinctive style, Najdan’s dagger could, in particular, expose Kiloran’s involvement in the slaying.

  “I’ll keep it safe for you,” Kiloran said.

  “I know.” Najdan nodded, then asked, “Where shall I find the Outlooker in question?”

  “I’ll take you to him,” said Varilon. “I know where he gambles and drinks.”

  “That should be sufficient,” Najdan said.

  Outlookers were hated in Sileria, but attacks on them were rare. So an off-duty one leaving a tavern in the dark, after an evening of gambling and drinking, should be vulnerable and unwary.

  Kiloran said to Najdan, “I place this task completely in your hands.”

  “I will complete it quickly and quietly,” Najdan vowed.

  “I am confident that you will.” Kiloran turned to regard their guest and said formally, “May our friendship endure all tests and never disappoint either of us, Toren Varilon.”

  It was both a promise and a warning, but Najdan didn’t think the young man realized that.

  AFTER SEVERAL DAYS of wet, muddy travel, they reached Britar, a town that lay between the mountains and the lowlands. The Valdani fortress there accommodated a large contingent of Outlookers, and Varilon announced that his family had a modest estate nearby. The toren stayed in the family villa there, while Najdan was given quarters in an empty tenant cottage.

  As agreed, that evening Najdan waited for Varilon outside the villa. When the toren emerged from his home, Najdan accompanied him on foot to the town, dressed in the humble clothes of a shallah and posing as a servant.

  “How are your accommodations?” Varilon asked as they made their way to the tavern where they expected to find their quarry.

  “Fine, thank you, toren.”

  In fact, the cottage was damp, drafty, infested with insects, and dirty, but Najdan was not prone to complaining, and he had come here to kill an Outlooker, not to enjoy his temporary quarters.

  Varilon snorted and said, “All of the cottages on the estate are in a sad condition, I’m afraid. The place is rather neglected.”

  Najdan had noticed this. The estate was not large, the villa clearly needed repairs, and the land was not well tended. It seemed surprising that Varilon’s friendship (and gold) had been enough to co
nvince Kiloran to get involved in killing an Outlooker.

  “But it’s such a minor estate,” Varilon continued, “my father says that it’s not worth the money or attention it would require for improvements. So he won’t help me.”

  “Ah, your family has other holdings.”

  “Oh, of course,” Varilon said. “And my father regards this place as more of a burden for me than a holding. I inherited it last year from a relative on my mother’s side. Having my own estate seemed appealing for a while, but now I don’t know… Maybe I’ll follow my father’s advice, much as it galls me to say so, and sell it to some fat Valdan who wants a country home.”

  “Your family does not live here,” Najdan surmised.

  The toren snorted again. “Dar, no!”

  That would certainly make it much easier, he realized, for Varilon to act without their blessing—which seemed likely, since what landed family would want their son mixed up in the slaying of an Outlooker?

  “My father has never been here, and even if he visited, he’d flee the place after just one night!” Varilon added, “Not that he could come here, anyhow. He’s old and ill. Can’t travel anymore. And he’s used to luxury and everything being just so. He’d despise this place if he actually saw it.” He sighed. “If I’m honest, I really should sell it.”

  “Then sell it,” Najdan said, closing the subject. Or so he thought.

  “But one gets attached and has reasons for staying…” Varilon was pensive for a moment, then his mood changed and he said angrily, “What a fool I was!”

  Najdan resisted the urge to agree; regardless of what Varilon was thinking about now, he was a fool without question.

  “By Dar, I will sell,” the young man vowed. “When this is done, I’ll put all this behind me, and—and—and I’ll laugh about it!”

  “May it be so,” Najdan said politely. “And there are worse things than returning to a life of luxury, after all.”

  “Hmmm. Living with my family again,” Varilon said without enthusiasm. “Back at Shevrar.”

  “Where?” he asked alertly.

  “Shevrar. My family home. It’s an estate in—”

  “I know where it is,” Najdan said. “It belongs to your family?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah.” After a moment he asked, “You are the eldest son?”

  “The only son. My parents had seven girls before they got me.”

  “Hmm.”

  And now Najdan understood why this young fool’s friendship was worth so much to Kiloran. Shevrar, an old estate so large that even a shallah assassin knew its name, was in territory controlled by Baran.

  It seemed unlikely that the father knew what the son was involved in, and perhaps he would never know. But, according to his son, he was old and ill. And Kiloran was patient. So rather than dismissing the youngster, he was cultivating the heir. When Varilon inherited Shevrar, he would be in debt to Kiloran. And the waterlord would use that friendship with the biggest landowner in Baran’s territory to his advantage.

  An opportunity, the siran had said. Now Najdan understood. Killing the Outlooker was worth a lot to his master.

  So it was reassuring to find the man so easily that evening.

  He and Varilon reached town, and as they approached the tavern Najdan could see it was frequented by Outlookers from the nearby fortress. He and the toren went inside, chose a table, and surveyed the crowd. Before long, exactly as Varilon had predicted, their man arrived, accompanied by several comrades, all of them wearing the gray uniform of the Outlookers. Their quarry ordered a large mug of ale and settled down to some enthusiastic and noisy gambling.

  He was a handsome young man, about Varilon’s age, and obviously popular among his companions. He laughed a good deal, both at himself and at others, and seemed good-natured about losing his money to better players.

  Unfortunately, as a popular and sociable fellow, he was unlikely to leave the tavern alone when he returned to the Valdani fortress. And Najdan would much rather not kill several Outlookers; that would make discretion very difficult and the consequences of tonight’s work more complicated.

  On the other hand, this Outlooker was a thirsty lad and drinking a great deal of ale. Perhaps that would suffice. Before long, he’d go outside to relieve himself in the dark. With any luck, he’d do that alone.

  Najdan turned to Varilon, intending to suggest they leave quietly and wait outside, but the expression on the young toren’s face silenced him. It held such intensity of feeling that he was startled. It had not occurred to him to wonder before now why Varilon wanted this Outlooker killed. Najdan’s duty was to perform the work for Kiloran, not to pry into the motives of others. But now, seeing that uncharacteristically powerful expression on this vapid youngster’s face, he was curious.

  It was not his concern, though, so he dismissed this thought and quietly instructed Varilon to leave the tavern with him. The toren flinched slightly when he spoke, as if having forgotten Najdan’s presence. As if having forgotten everything but the young man he was staring at so fiercely.

  “What?”

  “Let’s wait outside,” Najdan repeated.

  “Huh? Oh… yes.” Varilon nodded. “Yes, of course.” But instead of rising, he looked again at the Outlooker.

  “Quietly. And lower your eyes,” Najdan said tersely.

  Varilon ignored this and continued staring as they stood. As Najdan feared, the Outlooker felt that intense gaze, looked around to see what was intruding on his senses, and locked eyes with Varilon. The smile fled from his face, and he stared back at the toren.

  Najdan had only a moment to wonder what had led to deadly animosity between these two fresh-faced young men—a gambling debt? a woman? a blood insult?—before the Outlooker, to his surprise, lowered his gaze and turned his back.

  That was good. A confrontation or verbal exchange would have called too much attention to the business at hand. Najdan doubted Varilon could be relied on to say nothing about Kiloran if questioned about the Outlooker’s death. Fortunately, though, as long as the toren didn’t attract attention tonight, such a problem was unlikely to arise. The Valdani imposed heavy taxes on Silerian aristocrats, but they wouldn’t actively seek trouble with an important old family by questioning their son in this matter, unless he gave them a very good reason for doing so.

  Najdan took Varilon by the elbow and guided him to the door. “Outside.”

  They stepped out into the cool, damp night, well away from prying eyes or curious ears, and Najdan said, “I will wait for him to come out to relieve himself, lure him into the dark, and finish this. It will be best if the Outlookers think someone wanted his purse enough to kill him for it, so I will take that—though it may be empty by the time he comes outside.”

  “He shouldn’t gamble. He’s terrible at it.” Varilon’s voice was breathless and tight. “I keep telling… Never mind.” A pause, then: “How will you do it?”

  “I have a yahr with me.” Valdani law prohibited Silerians from bearing arms, but many shallaheen carried the yahr, a flailing weapon. It looked like a couple of short, thick sticks connected by some rope.

  Varilon drew in a sharp breath. “You’re going to beat him to death?”

  “Keep your voice down,” Najdan instructed. “Now that I have seen him, you need not remain, toren. I will deal with this business while you return home.”

  “You want me to go? But I… I…”

  “Tomorrow morning, before I leave to return to my master, I will come to the villa to inform you that your request has been fulfilled.”

  “My req—Wait. I need to—to think.”

  “Think on the way home, toren. You should leave now.” Najdan put a hand on his shoulder to turn him in the right direction for the journey home.

  “No, wait. This is happening so fast.”

  Fast? As far as Najdan was concerned, this was the culmination of a long, wet journey in tedious company, and it couldn’t be over soon enough. “Believe me when I s
ay these things are best done quickly.”

  “I suppose you know what you’re talk—”

  “Shh.” Najdan slid into the shadows, dragging the toren with him, when a man came out of the tavern, chuckling cheerfully, and walked a little unsteadily in their direction.

  “It’s him,” Varilon breathed.

  It was so dark, Najdan didn’t take this identification seriously.

  Varilon took a step forward, as if intending to approach the other man. Najdan grabbed his arm and yanked him sharply back into place, which made the toren grunt in surprise.

  The stranger approaching them heard this. Speaking Valdan, he said, “Who’s that?”

  Also speaking Valdan, which he knew well enough for this at least, Najdan replied, “It’s me.”

  “Damn, it’s dark out tonight. I can’t even see the path!” The man stumbled, then laughed again. “Oops!” He sounded relaxed and a little drunk. He obviously thought he was approaching a fellow Outlooker, perhaps even a friend. “Where are you?”

  Squinting through the dark, Najdan still couldn’t tell if this was the man he wanted. He could feel Varilon’s tension, but that was probably fear rather than recognition.

  Trying to get a better look, Najdan shifted his weight slightly—and Varilon said, “Stop!”

  “Huh?” said the man.

  Varilon tore himself from Najdan’s grasp and stumbled forward in the dark. Najdan heard the two men collide. Then he heard a gasp, some scuffling, and the Valdan said, “Varilon? What are you doing out—never mind. I’m going back inside.”

  “No!”

  This was the man, all right. And now the toren was directly involved. Oh, well. Nothing to be done about it.

  Finish it quickly.

  “Varilon, stop. It’s over.”

  “But I love you!”

  Najdan withdrew his yahr.

  “Quiet!” snapped the Outlooker. “What if someone hears you?”

  “I don’t care!”

  “Let go of me.”

  Najdan leaped forward, his yahr making a soft whooshing sound as he swung it at the Outlooker’s head.

  “No!” Varilon cried as the man grunted and fell to his knees. “Stop!”