Realms of infamy a-2

by Ed Greenwood

  The arrows and darts the master uses must fly true every time, without reliance on magic. The poisons he uses must be mixed to exact proportions in order to inflict death slowly or quickly, as the circumstances warrant. И they didn’t, what reputation would he have? As it is, people come from the farthest reaches to find Renek here in this gods-forsaken fleck on the Sembian plains. You’d think he might move to Waterdeep or Suzail, or at least Tantras. Imagine how much business he might do then. People would call day and night seeking his services. Already, they pay the highest prices.

  His last job fetched three perfect one-carat rubies and a gold medallion nearly as big as the palm of my hand. His mark, Han, was a top-ranking member of the thieves’ guild — highly visible-and that, of course, drove up the cost. Still, the pay seemed outrageous to me. After all, using one of my darts, the master could hit a victim from a long way off with a movement almost as subtle as stifling a cough. In Han’s case, the means of death was even less obvious.

  I question whether, considering all the help I provided, Han’s murder or any of my master’s assassinations have been worth the price people paid. For that matter, when you think about it, should anyone be paid for another man’s misfortune, another human being’s demise?

  When I think of Renek and his profession, I wonder how he became-how anyone becomes an expert… a noted expert… at killing? Is it something you decide to do? I mean, did Renek wake up one morning and say to himself, “From this day forward, I’m going to devote my energies to murder. I will become a first-rate assassin.”? I can understand wanting thugs and murderers-Renek’s typical victims-dead. But I find the idea of wanting to kill someone difficult to comprehend. I suppose some people might question my own involvement in Renek’s deeds. But my work has never required me to kill anyone. Really, I’m a craftsman-a researcher and a craftsman.

  At least that is how I had always thought of myself.

  The first time I saw Ashana, I was working in my apothecary. That’s what I call it. It’s really just a glorified shed in which I keep the various components I use for my work.’ hang branches and leaves to dry in the room, and I have grinding stones and shelving there. I bottle various components and catalog them carefully-everything from octopus ink to zinc powder and a few gemstones.

  I was dicing the tender branches of a sweet brandyroot plant into fine slivers for drying when I saw her through the open door. Her hair was dark auburn, and it glistened in the spring sun. She was tall like me, but with none of my ungain-liness. Neither did she crouch as some tall women do. She walked quickly and surely toward me.

  “Tine?” she inquired.

  I nodded. I should have been more polite, said something more, invited her in, but I stood mute, staring, admiring. She stepped toward me. I backed up against a long work table, taking in the elegance of her movement as she stepped past and then turned to speak to me.

  “Bokun, a cleric in the village, suggested I come,” she said.

  I nodded again. I remember thinking I should smile or say something, but I’m not sure if I did.

  “My father is ill. It’s a growth the healers can’t stop. I’ve talked with several of them. And I’ve read everything I can find in the library-” Her words spilled out with a sense of urgency. “I’ve tried everything… He has this, this mucous-” She put her fingers to her neck and moved them lightly up and down. “It builds up in his throat, so thick he has trouble swallowing.” She gulped hard, moving her chin down and up again with the effort, imitating his struggle.

  I was immediately taken with her intensity. She gazed at me, unblinking, and then spoke again. “Bokun said you have many herbs, rare ones. He thought you might have this…” She paused to unfold a paper that had been clutched in her left hand. She moved very close to me and smoothed the note flat on the table alongside us.

  As I turned to look at the paper, I found myself so near to her that I was overwhelmed by her fragrance-a whispering cleanness that made me want to close my eyes and inhale deeply. I forced myself to look at the note. The cleric’s prescription was penned in large, fluid letters: Hsin-feng ku gen.

  “I have it,” I said. “A small piece.”

  She stood still, watching as I scanned through my catalog and then the shelves of my apothecary, searching for the datelike root. She talked to me all the while-in the gentle, friendly tones of a neighbor or a close companion. That’s when she told me her name and where she lived.

  I marveled at how easy it was for her to keep up a conversation. I groped for words to say in response. “This is the herb. It’s used by the Wa people. My notes say the name means “bitter root of the fresh wind.”

  Ashana was impressed and said so. I could see from her eyes that her interest was genuine. I am no healer, but many of the tools of my work can be used to positive effect if applied differently, and I am not ignorant of their other functions. I scraped shavings from the wrinkled root and then mixed the herb in a paste with an inert powder and water. I explained to Ashana as I gave her a vial of the sticky mixture that her father must coat the back of his tongue and throat with the paste and leave it there for several minutes before washing it down with water. “It’s exceedingly bitter. He’ll think he’s being poisoned,” I explained, “but mixed at this proportion, it should be harmful only to what ails him.”

  Ashana gripped my hands in hers as she thanked me. My first reaction was to pull away, but I felt a warmth unlike anything in my experience. I have always felt dreadfully awkward around women, and few have shown any interest in me. I didn’t take her touch as a sign of interest, but from that day on, I took every opportunity to ride to the neighboring town she lived in. I watched for her and tried to think of things I could offer to help her father… to make her notice me. And she did notice me.

  I know I said I think of myself as a researcher, as well as a craftsman. Part of my “research” is observing my master carefully-in order to serve him better. I’ve always made a point of watching Renek closely-knowing his physical strengths and weaknesses-the fluidity and power of his movements, the slight trembling of hand that overtakes bin1 occasionally during “the hunt.” He calls it that. I suppose it makes it seem less like murder to think of a victim as prey, but it’s also part of his belief that he is somehow superior, specially talented, somehow uniquely deserving of the rewards of his trade.

  He never seemed to realize the disadvantage, the complete unlikelihood of success, he would face without me. The thief he most recently killed was a snake. That was Han. And because of Han’s own vile nature, he knew about the wiles of others. If Renek had tried to use ordinary means to kill Han, he probably would have wound up with his own entrails publicly displayed from the tower of the nearest thieves’ guild hall.

  But I had watched Han for Renek. I knew that he had few regular habits and fewer weaknesses. After several tendays of watching, I alerted my master to his opening. The thief, for all his stature in the thieves’ guild, paid tithes to the order of Tymora. I saw no logic in a thief worshiping at the shrine of the goddess of good fortune. Maybe he’d made a habit of gambling. Or more likely he was trying to appease the goddess on behalf of someone for whom he grieved. I could only guess his motive, but my master’s good fortune rested in the fact that on the sixth day of nearly every ten-day, Han could be found casting the crescent moons of fate and drawing lots before paying his tithe to the cleric at the shrine.

  I pondered long over the method of death, and I chided myself for not seeing the possibility sooner. Like so many others seeking luck or blessing, Han would rub the wooden moons in his hands, then blow on them and kiss them before casting them to see which way they would land.

  Dressed as a traveling cleric in the faith, my master had easy access to the crescents. A part of Renek’s smoothness, his talent, resulted from his ability to blend unnoticed into even small groups of people. He is of ordinary human height and weight. His hair is a medium brown of medium length. His eyes are dark but not unusually so. Even his
nose, a telling feature for many, is unobtrusive and indistinctive. Truly, he hasn’t a single physical characteristic that would draw attention or set him apart from anyone in a crowd.

  I wish I could say the same for myself. I’m tall, awkwardly so, and gaunt. My skin is pale enough that in my youth it was the subject of jokes and cruel comparisons to fish bellies and other pallid things. No amount of exposure to the sun has ever improved my pallor. In fact, when I was young and more concerned about such things, I would stay out on bright days, scalding myself to the color and crepe-like texture of red poppies. But within days my parched skin would peel off in gummy layers to reveal more of the same milky hue I started with.

  I also used to gorge myself repeatedly over many days in hopes of filling out my tall frame. Always, I would grow a rounded, ball-shaped paunch but experience no satisfying increase in overall bulk or brawn, and so I would return to my former eating habits.

  Renek would not understand such measures. He’s not handsome or even striking, but he’d never be the subject of stares or surreptitious snickers. That’s why he could move unnoticed through the temple, as he did through every other assassination site.

  But anonymity alone would not have put Renek in a position to kill Han. He had another important advantage going into this job: I had given him the perfect poison. Han felt, I’m sure, a faint tingling in his hands within seconds of rubbing the two crescent moons between his palms. And no doubt his lips had begun to tingle a moment after he’d kissed their smooth wooden surface. As Renek told it to me later, Han had, as a matter of curiosity, sniffed his hands and the crescents themselves, inhaling the odorless poison. He shrugged and cast the crescents. My master told me they landed with their points at odds. “A bad omen,” Renek had noted, chuckling. As Han walked to draw a lot from the bin indicated by the opposing crescents, he no doubt felt the tingling intensify to a mild burning, extending from his hands to his wrists, from his lips to his tongue and throat, and from his throat into his lungs.

  By then, of course, Renek had exchanged the tainted moons for two harmless objects of worship. He told me how he feigned concern as Han staggered to the priest to have his lot read. And when Han began ranting in poison-induced lunacy, Renek asked a brother of the order if he could help. But two other clerics waved him off as they carried Han to a trough and began splashing him with water-a kind but pointless act. Not long after, as Renek disappeared into the shadows, they would have noticed grotesque and darkening blisters forming on Han’s lips and hands. He probably started to heave then-blackened spittle and blood. Renek told me he heard the screams of “Plague!” as he left the site.

  I accompanied Renek when he collected his fee. I remember that I was staring at my hands on the saddle horn as he spoke giddily of how smoothly the task had gone. I was thinking about what the Red Wizard had said when I became conscious of Renek’s words.

  “You should have seen him, Tine,” he said to me. “He came in meek as a bug, the way he always does-” I’d told him that. Yet Renek acted as though it was firsthand knowledge “-and walked to the offering table. I’ve never seen him look so humble-pious almost. Can you imagine?”

  He went on like that, providing each detail as if he had observed it first, and describing the action of the poison as if he understood it. At one point I asked him, “Do you suppose you should have used an even slower-acting solution?”

  “No. No,” he answered. “I had just the right combination. And plenty of time to make the exchange, get out of there, and know I’d accomplished what I set out to.”

  His words and his pompous, thankless attitude jarred me more than the rough gait of the horse I rode. He had just the right combination-not “you provided” or “because of you.” He actually credited himself with the success.

  When he took his pay for the task, I felt sure he would offer me a share. In my two years of service for Renek, he’d never been overwhelmingly generous, but he had occasionally rewarded me when, as in this case, the craftsmanship was of exceptional caliber. When my master mounted his horse and reined it around to where I sat, waiting astride the old bay, he handed me my wage and a paltry amount extra-hardly more than a barmaid might expect to earn in tips for half a night’s work.

  I tried to take some consolation simply in the fact that Han was dead. Unlike most thieves, who take great pride in doing their work with stealth and cunning, Han based his pride on and earned his status from the sheer volume of his plunder. I’m sure he had far more murders to his credit than my master, but he had none of Renek’s reputation for finesse. He’d left a trail of gore and mutilation that buzzards and monsters of the twilight appreciated. Strangely, though, proof of his crimes was elusive. Gnomes in the Arch Wood had tried him for killing one of their princesses in conjunction with the amazing robbery of an entire royal treasury. Even in places where lynching is the common form of justice, Han had escaped punishment.

  Most recently, Han had publicly threatened the entire town council of Gendelarm. Rumor had it that he had dragged a councilwoman’s son behind a wagon till he was maimed beyond recovery. The woman said that, with his last breath, her son repeated a death threat from Han.

  Ironically, Han’s assassination was not commissioned by the councilwoman, her family, or anyone on the council. Instead, a fellow thief seeking to elevate his own position in the guild had contracted for Renek’s services. I suppose I shouldn’t concern myself with the reasoning behind my master’s work-Renek doesn’t-but it always feels better when justification can be found in higher principles.

  Such was not the case with Renek’s next kill. His prey was not a criminal like Han or an undesirable like others he had killed. Always before, I had understood my own role and seen some good in assisting Renek.

  Until recently, I also thought I understood how others viewed my role. But I learned otherwise from Ashana. After the assassination of Han, I continued to pass near her home in hopes of seeing her As her father’s illness progressed, she spent more and more time at his bedside, but occasionally when she did come out, she would visit with me.

  I could see how the burden of caring for her father weighed on her. Weariness had taken its toll on her posture. Likewise her hair. The first few times I had seen her, it was carefully brushed and restrained with combs, but as she spent more time caring for her father, she spent less time attending to her looks. Wild cascades of loose curls covered her shoulders and back and occasionally fell into her eyes. When we visited-always standing in the street-I would find myself wanting desperately to reach out and touch her hair, gently brush it out of her eyes. But always I hesitated. What if she were to shrink from the touch of my hands?

  I couldn’t risk it. I enjoyed our conversations far too much. Ashana spoke easily to me of many things-the weather, her father, her childhood, her love of stargazing. Her voice was warm, with a clear, rich timbre. I loved to listen to her talk. More than that, though, I found her outlook on life fascinating. She was more than optimistic; she truly saw some good in everything around her. As much pain as she felt watching her father suffer, for instance, she pointed out how much worse his condition would be if she hadn’t gotten the Wa herb from me. Perhaps this was just a polite observance on her part, but I certainly enjoyed hearing it.

  She told me her father was a merchant, a successful man who, in better times, had traveled far and returned home with outrageous tales of hunts for griffon scales and dragon eggs Apparently, though, the family was now of more modest means. Ashana’s brother, Menge, had squandered much of the family’s wealth. I should point out that this is my interpretation, not Ashana’s. In my curiosity about her, I had tried to learn more about her and her family. I found that Menge was best known at local taverns and brothels. By all accounts, he was his sister’s opposite-a despicable parasite, incapable of work or accomplishment of any sort.

  Yet in the confidences Ashana shared with me, she never spoke bitterly of him. Sometimes I thought I saw a flash of sadness or a hint of resentment cros
s her face, but she never said anything negative. In fact, she didn’t call Menge of the things others did. Privately, I wondered if she and her brother had been born of the same mother. I’d learned that her father was a widower, but I didn’t know how many times, and I certainly would never ask.

  I was starting an assignment for Renek-preparing to research his next kill-when Ashana came to my apothecary a second time. It had been at least a tenday since I’d seen her last She was visibly weary, her eyes sunken from time without sleep. I waited for her to speak.

  She locked eyes with me for several long, silent seconds. Finally, she licked her lips and began: “Sometimes he… sometimes Daddy hallucinates,” she said. “And he’s in pain. The cleric has given me a prayer balm, and a healer gave me something to help him with the pain, but if it gets much worse, he’ll need something… something stronger.”

  I was startled by her words. At every other encounter she had seemed so positive-as if she would never give up hope.

  And then I wondered if I had understood her intent. How could she know of my poisons? It’s not something I talk about, and I always assumed Bokun thought of me merely as an amateur herbalist. Certainly, even if anyone knew Renek’s occupation, they would not think me his accomplice, but rather his personal valet.

  I hesitated, hoping she would clarify her meaning.

  She pressed again. “Daddy and I… we still have some good moments, but I’m not sure how much longer that will last. I want to be sure that when the time comes, when there are no spaces between the pain, that I can help him cope… one last time.” She grabbed my hands again. “Please.”

  She meant it. I couldn’t envision what pain her father must be in that she would come to me with such a request.

  “Can he still swallow?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  I found it difficult to imagine Ashana killing her father, even as a matter of mercy. I actually felt queasy thinking about it, but I tried to offer a solution. “There is a poison you can mix with tea,” I suggested. “He’ll feel nothing-”