Will (Book 2)

by S. F. Burgess

  “Kill him,” Davlin ordered. The soft voice, uttering such ruthless words, was chilling. Ignoring the tiny, insignificant voice in his head that gasped its horror, Harper nodded.

  “Here?” he asked, the question a serious one.

  “If you wish,” Davlin replied. “Manner and method are your choice. Dead before sunrise, and only him dead, with no suspicion falling on either of us. These are the only parameters of this final test.”

  Harper nodded. Dropping his eyes back to the ghastly ale in front of him, which he had no intention of drinking, he considered his options. He had a small, sharp knife on him and a bottle of his strong sedative that he had removed from Davlin’s possession several weeks ago upon discovering that he had it. These items might be useful, but killing was the easier bit of the mission. The ‘no suspicion’ part was the harder. Under Davlin’s terms, this meant not a single person connecting them to the death. Given that they had already been seen in a tavern drinking with the soon-to-be corpse, this was going to be tricky. Simply following the Protector when he left and slitting his throat was not an option. No—the death would have to appear to all as an accident. Harper knew that ‘accidents’ were far harder to arrange. They took time and research; you needed to know your target’s patterns and habits.

  Standing slowly, not drawing attention, and timing it with his target’s demand for more ale, Harper nodded goodnight to Davlin and turned to leave, bumping into the serving girl as he did. She held the three mugs of ale his target had ordered, and as Harper knocked into her right side, he caused her to spill some of the contents of two of the mugs she carried in that hand. As he steadied her, he distracted her with a smile, while ensuring that nothing slopped from the mug in her left hand. The girl seemed more worried about where the drinks were going and did not pay him much attention. She flicked a glance at Harper’s target, and Harper took the moment to add a small amount of sedative to the two mugs that now had less ale in them. The whole thing, from bump to dosing, took only seconds.

  Moving around him, the girl walked over to the table, placed the three mugs down, and retreated quickly. Harper passed the group on his way to the door, and noted that his target reached for the mug that now had the most ale in it—the untainted mug—as Harper knew he would. There was not enough alcohol in the ale to affect the sedative, but he had put different quantities in each mug. The sedative would take longer to kick in for one of his target’s two drinking buddies than it would for the other.

  Outside, the night air was cooler and refreshing. Summer had arrived, but the days were not yet scorching enough to leave the night balmy with the residual warmth the sun would bake into the cobbles and buildings. Walking with calm assurance, Harper headed down the street. Once he was out of sight of any prying eyes, he turned down the first alley he came across and, using the rough building work, clambered silently up the wall onto the roof. The height afforded him a better view of the town and offered a pleasant breeze, blowing the last of the lethargic heat of the tavern from his mind. The adrenaline was beginning to kick in now, and his heartbeat picked up; his synapses fired and a powerful sense of being in control flooded his mind.

  Given that the target and his friends had just started a new round of drinks, Harper had some time to scope the area. Moving on fast, light, soundless feet, he ran across the rooftops. The target had made several references to living in the Protectors’ office when inviting the girl he was harassing to come and join him, and Harper was fairly certain that this was where he would be heading when he left the tavern. If the man reached the Protectors’ offices, it would add a whole new level of complexity, as killing him there while making it look like an accident would be next to impossible. No, the window of opportunity was while the man was walking from the tavern to the Protectors’ building. And since Harper knew next to nothing about his target, he was forced to plan based on the routes that seemed most probable. He surveyed the surrounding streets; there were three possible direct routes he could take, but only one offered a quiet corner where an inebriated man could relieve himself. Harper felt a cold pleasure at the thought of dispatching the man with his pants down.

  ‘Dispatching’, ha! said a small, acrimonious voice in his head. Call it what it is—murder!

  Harper ignored the voice. He would follow his orders.

  Having made a loose decision on the most likely route the target would take, he did a quick check of the other possible routes just in case. One offered a steep staircase that might be useful; the other passed a large, stone horse trough. With backup plans in place, and knowing that at the rate the target drank he had very little time left, Harper scouted once more up and down the route he felt would most likely be taken. There would be plenty of opportunities for an ‘accident’. Hoping that the two Protectors his target was drinking with would now be unconscious, Harper headed back to the tavern.

  It was late. Lying flat on the roof of the building opposite, knowing his dark clothes would hide him well, Harper watched his target, who still sat inside the tavern. The view was partially obscured by the grimy window. Harper was tired, with a weary ache deep in his body. Moving slowly, he reached into the pouch that hung from his belt and withdrew a small jar. He opened it, stuck his finger inside, scooped up some of the contents and pushed them into his mouth. The concoction was one of his own making, created by mixing honey with several herb infusions, one of which Murray had introduced him to, a herb called brindfler. During Harper’s training, this herb had proven itself to provide a powerful stamina boost. Harper felt the effects almost immediately; he shook off his fatigue and was instantly more alert. Although it did not seem to be addictive, Harper was taking no chances and used the paste only when he was in dire need.

  Looking back at the tavern, Harper wondered when his target was going to give up and go home. One of his drinking companions had already been sleeping, his head on the table, for a while. His other companion was swaying and did not look like he was going to be awake much longer. There were no other patrons that Harper could see, and Davlin was nowhere in sight.

  The glowing half-moon was high in the sky when the target at last stood, kicking the chair of his sleeping companion and slapping the long-suffering serving girl on the rump as he passed her on his way out of the tavern. His gait identified him as drunk, nearly as drunk as Harper had hoped. His conscious companion stood to follow, then dropped heavily back into his chair, his head falling to the table as he passed out.

  As the target left the tavern and staggered down the dark streets, Harper pulled himself up quietly and ghosted over the rooftops, moving parallel with him. It was soon apparent that his assumptions about the route the Protector would take had been wrong. The man was heading along the route that would take him down the steep flight of steps; steps that now represented the single best opportunity to kill him.

  The steps were flanked by a building on one side and a metal railing on the other, protecting pedestrians against a drop to the flagstones of a small courtyard below. The whole area was enveloped in shadows, pools of black hiding the Protector from view as he stumbled along.

  You’re killing a man you know nothing about! The voice in his head started up again, and it was beginning to sound frantic. What are you doing? Stop! Conlan would not approve, the voice added, desperately trying every argument it could think of. But Conlan was not there. Davlin was there, and Finn, with their fists. Coward! You’re taking a life because you’re afraid of a little pain? Who are you? It was not the pain that caused his fear, not really; it was the feeling of being a failure in their eyes. You’re murdering a man, taking all he has, all he’ll ever have, so as not to appear pathetic to Davlin? You idiot!

  With difficulty Harper shoved the voice deep down inside. The last part of his plan was not tricky, but it needed to be carefully timed. Running ahead of the Protector, he found a dark doorway not far from the top of the steps. With a continuous, smooth and swift movement, Harper made his way down, over the surrounding roofs an
d walls, until he could jump, landing soundlessly, to street level. Then he ducked into the darkness as the shuffling steps of his target grew closer.

  The Protector staggered past him, oblivious to the death that waited in the shadows. When he reached the stairs, Harper padded up behind him, close enough now for the fateful shove. The man would fall down the steps, and at the bottom—one way or another—he would have a broken neck.

  ‘But you are not bad. Amelia said you are brave.’ May’s black, adoring eyes filled Harper’s mind, and his resolve liquefied and leached away. I can’t do this. The trust of one little boy was more important. This is wrong. Davlin had once described himself as ‘the monster in the shadows’. Harper, for all his training, did not want to be that.

  His hesitation cost him. Some sixth sense, blunted by alcohol, had finally alerted the Protector to the unseen danger. He turned, reflex allowing him to pull his nightstick from his belt as he did. Frozen in his moment of indecision, Harper was too late to react, and his step back was not fast enough; the foot-long, thick cylindrical length of varnished wood struck him a glancing blow across his left eyebrow and cheek with a crack. Fortunately, being drunk, the Protector had not been able to put his full force into the move, and although Harper was knocked to the ground, he was able to remain conscious.

  “Thinnck you juss snick up on me?” The Protector’s tone was incredulous and he asked his question with a violent kick to Harper’s stomach. Harper curled into himself, unable to draw air into his lungs, the pain like acid spreading out through his body.

  “Wht har you doin’?” the Protector slurred. Harper tried to get his brain and body to work together. There was blood trickling down his face, and the cobblestones smelt of horse manure beneath his nose. The tight ache in his stomach and the pounding across his forehead were distracting. The Protector drew his foot back, unsteadily, for another kick, and Harper held his hand out, silently begging for restraint as he tried to speak.

  “I just wanted to move around you…” he gasped, fighting the urge to throw up. “… To go down the steps.”

  The Protector looked down at him. His expression was hidden in the shadows but Harper doubted it held compassion. “Up ta no good in the night… get out a here,” the Protector ordered with a huff. When Harper was too slow to pull himself to his feet, he felt the back of his collar grabbed and he was yanked up. Jabbing him hard in the stomach with the end of his nightstick, the Protector shoved him on his way.

  Harper’s legs tried to dump him back on the ground, but he managed to stay upright. Struggling for breath and taking lurching, uncoordinated steps, he headed back the way he had come. He rounded a corner and looked back, checked to be sure the Protector was not following him. The street was empty. With a whimper, his arm clutching his stomach, Harper slid down the wall until he was sat against it, then took slow, deep breaths, using the cuff of his shirt to stem the flow of blood from the split skin across an eyebrow that was rapidly bruising. The pain was sapping his strength, his body was trembling, and ice-cold sweat bathed him. Well, that was slick! Taking a few more deep breaths, Harper tried to get used to the pain. Staring up at the clouds that were coalescing above him, he took a moment to take stock of the situation. I failed to carry out my orders. I’m bleeding and in pain, the sun is going to rise very soon, and I still have to face Davlin.

  “At least nothing else can go wrong,” he muttered, sighing as the rain began to fall and the temperature dropped dramatically. Harper felt his energy stirring and, with effort, forced it back down. Gritting his teeth and forcing himself back to his feet, he headed back to the others.

  The rain drummed down, quickly drenching him. There was so much rain that he needed to use all of his strength just to keep the Avatar energy under control. Stopping in the relative shelter of the front porch of a large, silent house, Harper consumed the rest of his stamina paste, hoping it would stop him from passing out until he was able to reach the inn near the town wall, where yet more pain awaited him.

  “Harper!” Elroy gasped, shocked by his appearance as he shuffled into the room, dripping rainwater. Davlin and Finn both sat in chairs in front of the fire as the wind howled through the dawn. Neither of them moved.

  “Mission accomplished?” Davlin asked, staring into the flames.

  “No,” Harper replied, struggling to stand up straight, fighting his natural inclination to curl his body around the ache in his stomach. Davlin got up from his chair and moved to stand in front of him with the fluid grace of a predator. His cunning black eyes spoke of the horrors he could inflict, and Harper shuddered.

  “You failed,” Finn taunted, coming to stand next to Davlin.

  “No,” Harper answered. “I chose not to kill the man.”

  “It was not your choice to make,” Davlin snapped.

  Harper held Davlin’s gaze. “Yes,” he said, with slow, heavy words. “It was.”

  Watchful eyes did not leave Harper’s face, but Davlin held out his open hand to Finn. With a calm curiosity, Harper wondered what weapon he was requesting, what instrument he planned to beat him with for his inability to follow orders. He did not care overly much; given the state he was in, the path to insensibility—and the peace it offered—would be a short one.

  Giving a snort of annoyance, Finn took his money purse from his belt and dropped it into Davlin’s waiting palm, then again took his seat by the fire. Confused, Harper tried to understand what had just happened.

  “You had a bet with Finn that I would fail?” he asked, feeling the stab of betrayal.

  Davlin smiled, a rare, warm friendly expression. “No,” he said. “I had a bet with Finn that you would pass your final test.”

  “You did not want me to kill the Protector…” Harper said.

  “His Majesty did not want you to kill the Protector.”

  Struggling with the pain and exhaustion, Harper could not see the logic. “Meaning?”

  “Make no mistake, Harper: as well as a spy, we have turned you into an assassin in all but experience. You have an assassin’s skills,” Davlin said, pausing a moment to let the words sink in. “The king knew this was how we intended to train you, and he was concerned that we might make following orders more important to you than following your conscience. He considered this very dangerous for someone with your talents, bearing in mind that you are about to become a Protector. He asked for this final test to ensure that you were still able to question your orders, and would be willing to rebel against them if they went against your morals.”

  A test within a test. Conlan, you’re smarter than I ever imagined.

  “What would you have done if I had killed the Protector?” Harper asked.

  “I would have sent you back to the Box Swamp with Elroy, and Finn would have taken your place.”

  An insight that had been bouncing round Harper’s head for a while popped up, and he spoke it.

  “Finn is a Night Paw.”

  Finn snorted. “Took you long enough…”

  “Finn was a Night Paw. Now he is a King’s Man,” Davlin corrected, as he ran a critical eye over Harper’s trembling body. “Would you like to sit? That blow to the stomach must be hurting.”

  “You saw?” Harper asked as he allowed Davlin to help him to one of the chairs in front of the fire. With one look from Davlin, Finn moved out of the other chair so that Davlin could sit.

  Davlin reached forward and slapped Harper lightly on the uninjured side of the head. “A wounded spy is a sloppy spy. Of course I was watching. Changing your mind is one thing; changing your mind and then getting caught is just stupidity.”

  Harper gritted his teeth against the pain as he eased off his wet jerkin, relaxing back into the chair. “The man would be dead if I had chosen to kill him,” he muttered.

  “Perhaps, but talk of success is rather redundant,” Davlin snapped. “Any plan that gets you that close to your target without a weapon in your hand needs more work. What if he had grabbed at you as he had fallen down the steps
?”

  “How would you have done it?” Harper asked.

  Cold, hard eyes bored into Harper. “I would not have done it. Assassination is an art. It is not something you can do in a rush, unless you are willing to accept getting hurt or being caught. In which case you are not an assassin—you are nothing but a common brute.”

  “Point taken, but within the boundaries of the test you set me, how could I have done it better?” Harper asked, genuinely interested in what Davlin would have done.

  “I would have slipped a little of this into his ale,” Davlin said, pulling a small black bottle out of the pouch on his belt. “Lady Eleanor tells me you have met a very weak form of this poison before. The People of the Horse use it to hunt.”

  “Oppimum,” Harper said with a shudder, remembering how ill the dart had made him feel.

  Davlin nodded. “You experienced a diluted form. A single drop of pure oppimum will work through the body, slurring speech, making movement uncoordinated and vision blurry. Then finally it will stop your victim’s heart.”

  “Looking to everyone around them as if they simply drank themselves to death,” Harper said, appreciating the elegance of it. The assassin, in the tavern, with the poison, he thought with black humour.

  “I suspect there would have been some doubt, given the watered-down nature of the tavern’s ale, but most likely not enough to make it anything other than a natural death in most people’s eyes,” Davlin continued.

  “Would asking you for poison not have broken the rules?” Harper asked, wincing as he yawned.

  “I gave you the parameters before you started; I did not mention asking for help,” Davlin said. “But this is your biggest weakness: your inability to ask for help when you need it. You were sat across the table from a man who you know has killed many times before, yet it never occurred to you to question him or ask for his help. You assumed, as you do in all things, that you must bear the responsibility and the burden alone. One day, Harper, this will get you killed.”