Six massive hounds, black as night, hurled themselves past her, eyes wild with the hunt, saliva dripping. Grace tensed and stood rigid, unmoving, the nearest dog missed her by a hair’s breadth. They were not after her, it was someone else, she turned and watched them disappear to her left, deep into the garden’s eastern reaches. Mist was rising in the distance, something was wrong. She watched as the mist congealed into a thick cloud, drifting through the trees towards her.
Spirit gas!
It would dissolve her lungs, there was no cure, she had to get above it. It would be on her in seconds. She sheathed her blades and ran to the tower. Climbing became her world for the next ten minutes, she ascended steadily up the tower wall. She did not stop, did not look back, she knew the gas could rise up to thirty feet. Her battle was with time and she was not prepared to lose.
She stopped just below a high window, she estimated she had covered fifty feet, her breath was ragged, her heart hammering in her chest. She allowed herself a look, the spirit gas lay twenty feet below her, she had survived. There was no going back, she allowed her heart to settle and looked up. The wall extended far above, its golden sheen lost in the moonlight. She needed to gain entry to the tower, she pulled herself onto the window ledge and peered in. She saw steps… a stairwell.
Hearing nothing but the breeze she clambered into the tower, her feet finding the steps, she almost lost her footing. She held her arms out and found the walls, this would be the servants’ stairs, the king’s stairs would be grander, carpeted, well lit. Servants would use these back stairs day and night. She had found the perfect way to the king’s quarters.
She moved up, counting the steps as she went, her senses heightened, listening for any life above or below. Wind whistled through the windows as she climbed through the bones of the tower. She stopped counting the steps, her eyes had adjusted to the dark but her feet played tricks, slipping on the worn steps. She was unable to have her blades ready, she concentrated on keeping her footing.
Grace considered her mark. How would she kill the king? What method of death befitted the monarch? She favoured a blade through the heart, simple and effective. She thought of her own death. How would it would come? Who or what would take her? It was comforting that however rich and powerful a person was above ground, all were equal in the grave.
Grace froze. A flicker of light came from above, a draft touched her face. She heard a faint creak and pulled her blades out, holding them crossed in front of her.
Nothing, no further sound. Wait or move? She allowed a few more seconds, then advanced, her felt soled boots silent on the stone floor. Ten steps, twenty, she came to an open door, faint candlelight flickered ahead. She stood on one side of the door and peered in. A large curtained bed stood in the centre of the room, embers lay glowing in the fireplace.
She smelt death.
The coppery aroma of blood filled the air, the room was still, frozen in death’s embrace. She had to know, she entered the room, blades held out. Her eyes searched the room, the ceiling, the shadows but found no threat. She approached the bed and reached out and pulled the drapes aside. A young nobleman and his mistress lay there, throats cut, fresh blood on the sheets.
Grace recognised the handiwork of a fellow assassin. Her mind flooded with questions. Someone was a step ahead of her, the sound she had heard could have been them. She had to act quickly, she had to ensure she killed the king, if the other assassin was caught her only chance to complete her mission would be gone. She left the room and hurried up the steps, more flickering light came from above.
She stepped from the stairs into a corridor lit by chandeliers. The corridor was deserted, a rich red carpet extended into the distance. Various doors lay interspersed along its length. Grace thought it odd, there were no guards. Conscious of time she darted along the corridor, extinguishing candles as she went. She stopped halfway, two bodies lay crumpled on the floor, guards… dead.
She had seconds, she raced along the final stretch of corridor and flung herself into the room beyond. A large space greeted her, a grand bedchamber, silk, gilt, incense. Two figures were grappling in the centre of the room, the larger figure a man, dressed in silk night attire had the upper hand, the smaller hooded figure, an assassin, was in a stranglehold.
She had found the king.
She was witnessing a fight to the death. The king was no weakling, his muscled frame hard and strong from years of military training was standing over the masked assassin. Grace heard choking, the king was crushing his attacker’s windpipe.
Grace sprang into action, she launched herself across the room, her blades a blur in the dim light. The king heard her, but too late, he started to turn but she was on him, there was no time for an honourable death. Grace opted for overwhelming force, her twin blades sliced through the air. A gush of royal blood splashed her face, she felt the resistance of bone and its surrender to the keenness of her steel. The king’s head fell to the floor with a dull thud, his torso stood momentarily then fell.
His body dropped on top of the unconscious assassin. Grace stood, blades at the ready, scanning the rest of the room. She knew what had to be done, the king was known to have doubles, she had to verify this was him. Verify the jousting scar on his left shoulder, the Seeker had insisted on this. She bent down and cut the bloodstained gown from his shoulder.
There it was, an ugly scar beneath the collar bone, it was him. The king was dead. She felt nothing but the familiar numbness, this was not so different after all. She heard shouts from the floor below. The bodies of the nobleman and his mistress had been discovered.
Grace hesitated, it should be simple, she should leave now, melt into the shadows, escape. She looked at the masked assassin, she reached down and pulled the mask off. She gasped, stunned. Syrah’s familiar face lay below her, Syrah who had trained with her, who had killed with her, who had protected her from the snakestones on Suween Hill.
Syrah had saved her life that day.
Why? Why does Falinor put these decisions in my path? Why is this thrust upon me?
Grace knew she had to protect Syrah, or die trying. She grabbed Syrah’s limp form from under the king’s body and dragged her across the room. Syrah’s leathers left a trail of the king’s blood on the floor. Grace went to the nearest window and looked out, the room was at least three hundred feet above ground. Shouting came from the corridor outside, the clanking of armour and mail signalling the arrival of the king’s guards.
It was over.
She had often wondered how it would end. She had completed her mission, she would be tortured then killed. She looked at the window, perhaps she should jump, take control of her death. No, she would not leave Syrah. She stooped to wipe the blood away from Syrah’s face.
Something caught her eye. She saw a flicker of light in a recess to the left of the king’s bed. Without knowing why, she lifted Syrah and staggered to the recess. Her heart leapt, it was a concealed entrance, a passageway. The king had intended escaping using this passage before Syrah had overcome him.
Maybe, just maybe.
Grace threw herself and Syrah over the secret threshold and closed the panel door behind her. Its lock made a soft click, she put Syrah down and reached out to extinguish the lone candle. She held her breath and heard men storming into the king’s bedchamber.
Shouts filled the king’s room.
“The king is dead! The king is dead!”
“Find the bastards who did this!”
“Here, a blood trail, to the window.”
“How could they escape this far up?”
“Send men to search the grounds, they’ve used the window, they must be wounded, they can’t have got far, look, blood on the curtains. Find them, find them!”
Grace cradled Syrah in the darkness. She would wait, breathe, see what would unfold.
It seemed Falinor had a plan for her after all.
Chapter 20
The Black Middens
“This is a revolution,
” Ramin declared. She had hardly spoken all day. Tuath had given her space, they were both pensive about what lay ahead.
He looked at Ramin, her eyes were fixed on the fire, strain lined her face.
“What do you mean?”
“We’re facing an enemy more powerful than us, who knows? Maybe more powerful than our combined forces.”
Tuath spat in the fire, his spittle sizzled briefly on the wood. “Is this what it takes to trigger change? The threat of annihilation? Says a lot of our leaders. Still, it gives them purpose. We all need something to do, even if it’s kill or be killed.”
Ramin gazed up at him through her fringe. Tuath felt a connection, they were no longer enemies, simply a man and a woman sharing ideas and the warmth of a fire. She held his eyes, finally he looked away, uncomfortable. Now that they were alone coldness had been replaced by something new. He could not work it out.
“Yes, revolution’s in the air, I can feel it,” she said softly. She turned to her sleeping roll and lay down pulling her cloak around her.
They had established a routine, he would take first watch, then she would take over. He looked at her, asleep already. His thoughts turned to his dead love, Serena and his dead children, Kala and Conall. He tried to remember, he carried their spirits in his heart, but he was finding it hard to recall their faces. He had lost the small wooden carvings he had of them long ago. Their memory was now more of a feeling rather than an image.
A different kind of revolution.
He turned his mind to the task ahead, he had decided he would enter the Imperial City, Dej by the Black Middens. Best to keep his head down, especially with a member of the Simulacrum in tow. The Black Middens were dangerous but he had been through them before and knew a way. His face would be known, a help and a hindrance. Luck would play its part; they would see if Loki would be generous or brutal with his favour.
Once through the middens they’d be in the city’s underbelly. He’d be able to contact Bright Feather and relay the Simulacrum’s message about meeting at the Parly Fields. He wondered at the bigger picture, conscious he was but a small part of an intricate plan. If any part failed everything could collapse. He did not even know if Bright Feather was still alive.
It was all a game. Better to be in the game than out, at least he was living and had a purpose. He felt more alive now than he had for five years, since his family’s murder. He shook his head. Why did death’s proximity make him feel alive?
He put more wood on the fire and stood up, tightening his cloak against the wind. The moonlight gave the landscape a ghostly glow, he looked down on the plains and saw the city lights twinkling in the distance. This time tomorrow they’d be in Dej, they would stable their horses on the outskirts of town and proceed on foot.
A lot could happen in a day.
~
Bright Feather counted the Jentian gold; she was down to the last chest. She had already used three times more gold than planned, her reward would come if the plan worked. If not, she would forfeit her life and the lives of many others.
She looked out the window at the distant hills and wondered where her people were. Out of the five she had sent, who, if any, would make it? The easterner, Morath? Or the ring fighter, Tuath, perhaps? They were both survivors, Tuath was a thinker too, that could be a strength or a weakness.
At least one of the five should get through. She knew the gods were angry with her, Loki in particular. Falinor had abandoned her family years ago. She was godless, cast out from their light, she had found this terrifying at first but in recent years the thought had become strangely comforting. She was beholden to no god, her spirit would be damned when she died, but until then she was free to act outside of the gods’ influence.
With freedom came pain and sorrow. And loneliness.
All her hopes were on Grace of the Light. Who would have thought the future of the Imperium would rest on the shoulders of a fifteen year old assassin? The fact she was still alive and had killed all her marks made her special. Bright Feather felt vulnerable, out of touch, time was growing short, already Morrigan’s army was on the march and would engage the southern cities within days. If one city fell the others would follow, once the Mage Schools were in enemy hands they’d be as weak as children.
Her plan must not fail, the king had to die. The Imperium had to join with the Simulacrum. The Simulacrum’s wildfire magic together with the Imperium’s military might and Erthe magic would be their only chance.
Bright Feather looked out at the night, feeling at once trapped and excited. She could almost hear time breathing down her neck. She was in the belly of the beast.
She dropped the gold coins back in the chest.
~
For the third time that day Tuath looked over his shoulder. He thought he saw movement, nothing stirred.
Ramin had noticed his agitation but had said nothing, this man she had tied her fate to was strange. They all had demons, everyone she knew had demons, including herself. This Tuath, he was complicated, he was dangerous, he was filling her thoughts. They were enemies, she should be thinking of killing him, instead she was allowing him into her thoughts, she was imagining spending time with him, in a different life. She shrugged, pushing the thought away and focused, they were almost at the Imperial City.
Tuath knew his feelings were real. The demon, Drath was making its presence felt, it was impatient, it wanted an end to the waiting, it wanted his life, his time. Tuath wondered if Drath could read his thoughts, he did not think so. Was there any way out of the deal? Could he renegotiate his debt? Could a demon be double crossed? He had never heard of anyone getting away with it… pacts made with demons always ended badly.
There was nothing he could do, the deal had been forced on him, it was that or death. What choice had he been given? Life itself was a double cross; give a child the gift of life, then rob the man of that life just as age gifted enlightenment and understanding. What kind of joke was that? He looked up, Ramin had stopped her horse and was looking at the imposing city walls ahead.
“What now fearless fighter?” she asked.
He spat on the ground and dismounted. “Follow me, there’s an inn near here, we can stable our horses there, we’ll enter Dej on foot.”
“Lead on mighty Tuath, the destiny of two peoples lies in your hands.”
He looked at Ramin feeling her sarcasm bite, he wanted to strike her, to hit the barbed words out of her mouth, but as he looked he realised that was what she wanted him to do, it was the language she understood. He opened his eyes seeing her in a different light, she was hitting out at him because she was afraid, she was in enemy territory, with him. His heart softened, he smiled.
“Yes, let’s you and I save the world together.” His words caught Ramin off guard, he turned, ending the conversation.
Tuath paid the stable boy for the horses’ stay. Ramin pulled her hood up to conceal her face. They trudged through rain and river mist. Tuath was silent as he threaded his way through the rocky outcrops, they arrived at the city walls, the Black Midden sewers lay before them.
Tuath entered the nearest sewer, the smell was overwhelming, he knew what to expect having hidden there before. Ramin coughed once behind him, he did not turn, he pressed on. She would have to keep up.
He waded through the foul effluent and reached out onto a high ledge, local gangs kept a stash of torches and matches along these walls. A few minutes searching revealed a pile of torches, he took two and lit them. He turned and saw Ramin standing behind, her hood still up, she seemed unaffected by the sewer. She nodded and took one of the torches.
Tuath grunted. Stop thinking about her so much, focus on the job, on the way, all else will follow. His intuition returned, it would lead him through the following days, it had always kept him safe, helping him make the right choices. He turned back to the main channel and began to walk.
An hour later they emerged from the sewer into an open stream. They were in the Black Midden district, his pulse q
uickened, this was becoming real, he felt the dream recede and danger drawing in. He allowed the stream time to wash the effluent from his breeks, then climbed out onto its bank. Ramin followed and stood beside him, his shadow.
There were no street lamps in the Black Middens, only cracks of light from shuttered windows and doors. Their eyes had adjusted to the dark, Tuath knew where he was, he beckoned for Ramin to follow and headed off along the nearest alley. Dogs howled in the distance, feral cats and dogs were troublesome in the city, a few children had been taken by them. The city guard killed dogs on sight, cats were more difficult to find.
If the dogs became a problem they might take to the rooftops, slower but safer, unless they crossed paths with the dusk thieves. The city was alive, never sleeping. Tuath felt something jump up on his leg, he hit out with his right hand and felt the rat, it clung on, he cursed and struck it a second time, it fell, squealing in the darkness.
Thirty minutes later they arrived at a door, he tried the handle, it was locked. He knew it was watched, it was a long time since he had used the refuge. He dug deep into his memory and knocked softly, three short taps, a scrape then two louder taps. A heartbeat, two, a sound, the hatch opened and a man’s voice broke the silence.
“Aye? State your business.”
Tuath leant forwards and spoke. “It’s me, Tuath. Is that Gorn or … Dyar? Let me and my friend in. We’re on business.”
“Tuath you say? Thought you was dead, after the big fight, there was talk of murder, missing money… If you’re Tuath, tell me the last thing we did together...”
Tuath expected as much. “Gorn you old bastard, last time I was with you, you fleeced me at cowbones, you took a fortune from me, stop pulling my rope and let us in.”
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