She felt a kick in her belly, as if in confirmation of her thoughts, her child was growing quickly. It was impatient to leave the shelter of her body and begin its rule.
The quickening had begun.
Chapter 11
Run into the Night
Grace moved through the late afternoon light.
She’d not expected to be sent out so soon after her first kill, but here she was again, this time treading the city slates, warm terracotta beneath her bare feet.
She stared at the tower and its spire, Bright Feather’s instructions rang in her ears; kill the hunchback. Why it mattered had not been explained, she was a weapon, someone else’s weapon, someone else’s blade. She would take another life and Bright Feather’s master plan would be one step nearer completion.
She reached the tower through the garden, she took no precautions beyond her usual. Who would want to scale this tower? Who would want to kill a hunchback? Grace reached up, pulling herself into the ivy on the tower’s walls and kept to the shadows. She looked over her shoulder, the world carried on its business below in the city streets, no one was looking at her. She started climbing towards the high window.
A bird cried out and burst from the foliage near her left hand, she did not hesitate but carried on, her mind calm and sure. She imagined others climbing as she was, killers and thieves, different goals on their minds. Hers was not to steal money or goods, hers was to steal life. She knew others were looking for her, other assassins, perhaps even from the Sisterhood. They would be scouring the city for her, rich people became nervous when a highborn was murdered. The news of The Duchess of Mordent’s demise would have spread.
It was a race against time, she mused. She stepped out of clock time and entered into killing time, framing the moment, listening to her heart and the wind in the ivy. She heard a low whistle from the window above. She stopped just below the window, she smelt tobacco and spice wine.
She heard a man’s voice, low and indistinct followed by a woman’s laughter, then silence. Grace brought her head up level with the window and peered into the semi dark room. A flicker came from the back, she made out a low couch and tables and a large shape to one side. Grace stared at it letting its outlines speak to her. After a moment she understood; this was an art studio, the shape, an easel… the hunchback was an artist. An artist who entertained ladies of the court in his rooms.
Grace whispered the prayer, her form blurred and vanished. Her vision sparkled as she climbed over the window ledge. A cage hung by the window, a large bird stirred within, squawking, flashing its colourful plumage, greens and blues shimmered within the cage.
“Shut up stupid bird, you’re disturbing a master at work,” the man’s voice echoed through the chamber.
“Ssssshhhh my Lord, come here, to me…” a woman’s voice followed.
Creaking followed from the low couch behind the tables, the room was warm, full of the musk of incense and sex. Grace moved towards the couch, the woman would have to die too, a pity but unavoidable. She crawled under the table smelling the heavy aroma of the paints laid out above. There must be a small fortune in this room in paints alone, oil paints were expensive, some were even imbued with magical hues and scents by those that knew how. She wondered what the painting in the easel was and imagined a highborn in a suitable heroic pose.
Grace found herself smiling at the thought as she plunged the first narrow blade through the hunchback’s neck severing the artery there. Her smile waned as her second blade stuck on the woman’s ribs, she twisted the blade free and thrust again. This time it ran true puncturing the woman’s lung and heart. She withdrew the dagger and was immediately drenched in a spray of blood spurting from the wound. A second strike to the hunchback’s neck sealed the deed.
The two victims slumped together, entwined on the couch, a lover’s knot of dying limbs. Grace breathed in the moment, their blood pooled at her feet. She reflected on the perfection, the poetry of the moment.
The bird squawked again, its cries of alarm louder, discordant. Grace backed away from the couch, her training saved her, she never left the killing circle the same way she entered it. She was under a different table when her stalker struck, a long blade swung through the air where she had been standing moments before. Her breathing never faltered, she threw herself from under the table. She emerged in the shadows behind her attacker, in a heartbeat her twin blades had severed the masked figure’s windpipe.
How had her attacker known where to strike? She was still invisible… it had to be a fellow assassin, the only ones that could sense another’s presence without sight.
Her stalker grunted and fell gurgling to the floor. Grace was tempted to pull the mask back but she stayed her hand. That knowledge was not meant for her and would serve no useful purpose. She retreated to the window ledge and stood there feeling the breeze on her skin. The sound of a door opening came from behind. She crouched down making herself small, she was still invisible to normal eyes. She became one with the ivy and descended the tower using the thick foliage.
The alarm was raised in the room above, shouts filled the air. She looked up and saw movement from the ledge, the caged bird squawked. An explosion of feathers burst from the window, someone had released the bird. Daylight showed it to be an exotic raptor, the kind the king hunted with on his estates.
Grace froze, these birds were worse than dogs, one of her kind had been hunted down by these creatures. A name, Avi, and a face flickered in her memory. Avi had been careless, unlucky. Avi was no more.
“If it’s Falinor’s will, this too will pass,” she thought.
Instead of the bird attacking it flew high and sang. Its song found Grace, she could feel its power, she sensed magic and knew she had been marked. She reached the bottom of the ivy, her feet found the roof tiles, her hands were shaking, her invisibility was still intact. People in the streets could not see her but she was not so sure about the bird.
She ran.
Across the roof, down to the gardens and out into the backstreets. She would not return to Blackmount Friary in daylight, she would leave a winding trail, double back and make sure she was not followed. Her route would defeat anyone on foot, even eyes in the air would not find her. The raptor’s mark would wear off in an hour or so, she could already feel its effect waning.
For she was Grace of the Light, she was a Stolen, this was what she lived for.
Night arrived. Grace waited for the final hour before dawn then made her way to the friary and Aelisa’s chamber.
“You’re late,” Aelisa said.
“The job’s done, that’s what she wanted, wasn’t it?” Grace replied.
“You’re behind time and time is everything. There are four targets left, you now have a day less to finish the task.”
“They’re onto me, that’s why I’m late. I’m being careful, covering my tracks not leading them back here. Tell that to Bright Feather.”
Aelisa frowned. “You need to go out again, you need to kill the next two marks in twelve hours.”
Grace looked at Aelisa’s eyes and saw she was serious.
“What’s the rush?” Grace asked.
Aelisa frowned and turned to the fire, she held her hands out warming them. Grace noticed for the first time, Aelisa’s fingers were twisted and gnarled with the curse of age.
After some minutes Aelisa spoke. “You’re not supposed to ask, you’re not supposed to know, you’re an assassin, nothing more. You’re a blunt instrument, used to achieve political change, you’re a cleanser of parasites, nothing more, you do not think outside your remit.”
“Is that what people are? Parasites?” Grace interjected, she had never felt like this, she had changed. She wanted to know, she needed to know and question. She felt tension rising in her chest and took a breath to steady herself.
Aelisa’s watched the fire as she thought. “You deserve to know, you’re the one doing the work, putting your life at risk. This is about the king, he’s weak, he’
ll never form an alliance with the Simulacrum. He’d rather see the Imperial Cities wither and die first.”
“Well the Simulacrum are liars and cheats, they are the sworn enemy of the realm after all. They proved themselves many times over to be nothing but murderers…” Grace stopped, she was not used to voicing her opinion.
Aelisa watched Grace with interest, she was reaching a decision. Grace felt uncomfortable and regretted asking her question. She started forming a sentence in her mind, a retreat. Aelisa spoke first.
“What I’m about to tell you must not be repeated? You must take this to your grave, do you understand?”
Grace was hooked, she wanted to know and knowledge was power. This was a door and she was going to go through it. She nodded, “I understand; to the grave.”
Aelisa nodded. “So be it. The king has to die, the service you are performing, the sequence and timing is designed to bring the king into conflict with the Earl of Thracken. He is loyal to the king but he’s loyal to the realm first and foremost. The king will turn on him once you have finished your work, the finger of suspicion will fall on Thracken and the king will call for his head. In the end the power struggle will be between these two men, we will facilitate Thracken… we need to form an alliance with the Simulacrum,” Aelisa’s words tailed off.
“Why?” Grace rasped.
Aelisa cleared her throat, her gnarled hands reaching to Grace’s head. Aelisa whispered into her ear, “Ashtoreth and her sister Morrigan have woken, they are hell bent on revenge on the race of men. They’ll release their demons on the Erthe, they are out there, working on their plan. We need to act now.”
Grace felt an icy grip on her heart. Ashtoreth, Morrigan, legendary names, burned into every child’s mind across the land. Names to fear, names to bring nightmares. She took a step back looking into Aelisa’s eyes and saw the truth there.
She carried the knowledge now, she felt its weight in her body, a burden she would never put down or share with anyone. She was playing her part in this story, forever secret, in the shadows. To the outside world her name would never be known.
“So I have a day less to dispatch the next two marks?”
Aelisa nodded.
“They’re on my trail, others like me. Assassins. My training protected me this time, but these others are trained too. All it takes is luck on their part or bad luck on mine, it’s up to Loki, he decides these things. Why don’t you give me all the remaining names? I won’t return until the job’s done, it’ll mean less risk for you and Bright Feather.”
Aelisa paused, thinking. “Your logic is undeniable, Grace of the Light. We were giving you the marks one by one to limit the risk. If you were captured, tortured… they have ways, you would have talked.”
Grace nodded. The Sisterhood had trained her for that eventuality, they thought of everything. She blinked, keeping quiet, she wanted to see where this would lead.
Aelisa looked uncomfortable, she leant forwards and lowered her voice. “Your reasoning is sound assassin, I’ll give you the four remaining marks and the sequence of their deaths. Then you’ll not need to return until the killing is done, but you will take this.”
Aelisa took a locket and chain from round her neck and handed it to Grace. Grace understood, she had seen similar lockets on some of her victims.
“Poison,” she breathed softly.
Aelisa nodded, “Green beetle sting. Painless, quick. Your insurance against pain and torture. You swear to take it if you are compromised? You know what the Imperial torturers can do?”
Grace shuddered, she knew. She took the locket and put it around her neck.
“Yes, I know.”
“Then we have an understanding. I’ll tell you the four names and you’ll kill them in the next twenty four hours. Then you’ll return, we’ll lie low and watch history unfold.”
Four killings in twenty four hours. Grace looked inwards, she felt the little girl within, a small voice, questioning. Then she felt the detachment take over, her armour won, it always did.
She listened as Aelisa gave her details of the next four marks and the sequence they had to die in.
It was going to be a bloody day.
Chapter 12
The In
Tuath was in.
Like the lode beetle that had burrowed into his body. He was the parasite now, he would worm his way to the Simulacrum’s rotten core. He would drain them, feed them lies, mislead them to their deaths.
He didn’t care if he lived or died, this was his strength. He was ready to kill.
His body sent pain to his skull as the journey on horseback continued. He’d been thrown across the back of a large charger. He ignored the pain, it was difficult to breathe, the horse’s hide was damp, pungent, his eyes filled with tears, his nose ran. He blacked out after the second hour.
He woke with cramp in his leg, it was night, he lay beside a fire with his hands tied behind his back. His mouth was bone dry and a raging thirst filled him. He groaned and lifted his head.
“Damn, you’re still alive. I had money on you dying before morning. Bastard.” A man’s voice came from the other side of the fire.
Tuath groaned again. He could not speak, his tongue was swollen, stuck to the roof of his mouth.
“Throat dry? Maybe you will die,” the man said hopefully. “Here, have a drink.” The man stood over Tuath and opened his breeks, he emptied his bladder in a long steaming stream over Tuath’s prone form.
“Better die bastard, I want my winnings.” Blinding pain exploded in Tuath’s side as the man kicked him in the ribs. The pain took him away.
Cold water splashed on his face. He came to, daylight stung his eyes, he looked at the woman standing over him, a bucket of water in her hands.
“He’s alive Sorath, I want my money, Falinor favours me this day.” The woman laughed, she crouched reaching behind Tuath’s back and cut his bonds. “Here, eat, drink, stay alive one more day, until we get you to the scribes to deliver your message, then you can die. I thought Sorath had you last night, guess he didn’t try hard enough, eh Sorath?” She put the bucket down beside him and spat on the remains of the fire.
Tuath looked at his arms, all feeling was gone, his wrists were bloody from the rope, his fingers refused to move. He stank of horse, sweat and urine. He leant forwards and plunged his face into the bucket drinking greedily. He retched, his stomach rejecting the cold water. He lay gasping on the ground and stared at the sky. Falinor had a plan, he always did, Falinor or Loki. He would prefer to be in Falinor’s favour, not to have Loki’s attention. Loki was an unforgiving god, Falinor at least had a sense of justice, redemption.
The sky was powder blue, his breath misted the air. His muscles were stiff and bruised, the feeling was returning to his arms. He drank more water then turned to the bread and cured meat the woman had left for him. He devoured the food and felt his stomach cramp. He struggled, a wave of sickness passed over him, he retched twice but managed to keep the food down, the spasms subsided.
He looked around, taking in the camp and its surroundings, they were in a sheltered clearing surrounded by low bushes with a stream nearby. There were six of them, the woman and five men, all heavily armed, a Simulacrum patrol. They were comfortable with each other, seasoned veterans. Tuath wondered if any of these warriors had spilled the blood of his family and kin.
He looked within himself, searching for any clue of the demon who had joined with him, he felt nothing, only emptiness. He was alone, maybe it had been a dream? Maybe he’d imagined it all? Didn’t he need to know the name of the demon to summon him… it? Doubt filled him. It didn’t matter, nothing did. He was here, he was alive.
The woman approached. “Get up, we’re leaving soon. Have a wash in the stream, you stink. You get to ride your horse today. You try anything and you’re dead. We’ll be in the inner reaches by the afternoon, you’ll get to meet the scribes, you can deliver your message and we’ll be rid of you.”
Tuath stared at her
and noticed a fine scar running from her left ear to the corner of her mouth, he wondered at its story. The men seemed to respect her, she was obviously their commander. He did as he was told and washed, his mind numb. He would deal with the scribes when the time arrived, he had to survive another day and penetrate another layer of Simulacrum defences, just like the lode beetle.
The day passed in a blur, the land steepened. They joined a trail and three hours later arrived at the the gates of Siriso, the seat of the Simulacrum Lords. Tuath stared at its walls, its gate and towers, the defences were impressive, but yet here he was breeching them in one fell swoop. The gods were with him.
“Hell’s breath! It’s Ramin, back from the borderlands,” the cry went up from the walls. The gates opened granting them entry to the city.
“Ramin, what news from the border?”
The woman who had captured Tuath looked to the walls smiling. “All in good time Issen. I need to report to the Lords and get this one to the scribes,” she indicated Tuath.
Their party passed through the gates. Tuath noted the inhabitants were poor, malnourished, their clothes torn, threadbare. He did not understand, the Simulacrum were all powerful in this region, their city should be prospering, their people well fed.
He saw fear and hunger in the faces that watched him. A woman holding a baby stared at him, smiling, he felt the coldness of her smile, it was not welcoming. Her eyes were empty, dead. She was starving, her baby was silent, unmoving. Tuath shuddered and looked away.
“What news does the stranger bring? Has trade opened again? Can we get food from the other cities?” Tuath scanned the crowd to see who had spoken. He was not aware of any blockade between the imperial cities and the Simulacrum. He knew an uneasy peace existed between the two nations and that trade had finally resumed after the Karsch summit a few years earlier. Gold and salt from the Simulacrum mines had flowed once more through the lowlands in exchange for the grain and livestock produced by the imperial farms.
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