Assassin's Rise

by CJ Whrite

Roland slowly pushed the tavern door open. He stood like that for a moment; hand on door, basking in the warm atmosphere flowing from the Seek’n Find. As if time had stood still, nothing had changed in the pass two years. The tables were still the same dark, warm wood, coated with years of spilled ale, the hardwood floor still with a crack in one corner. The smells of drink, food, and good times flooded over him, and Roland could feel tension, fear and anger draining from him, leaving him with a small smile and lifted spirits. The only difference was the roaring fireplace, giving the tavern a warm glow, making Roland feel as if the Seek’n Find was located in a different world to the rest of Calvana.

  Alfeer was behind his counter, cloth draped over his shoulder, nursing a mug of ale. Oldon and Altmoor sat dressed in their old armour, playing the game Manoeuvres. From the look of it, Oldon was loosing, and he wore a scowl on his face. Then Oldon’s eyes flickered to the door, and he jumped upright, knocking his chair over. Altmoor turned in his seat, and then his mouth opened, frozen in place. Alfeer was in the process of wiping his counter, (probably for the thousandth time, thought Roland) but when he followed his father’s and Altmoor’s gaze, he dropped the cloth and knocked over his mug, ale rapidly spreading over the shining wood.

  Roland stepped inside, his dark cloak slightly billowing as he stepped over the threshold, and he said, “Sorry to come so late, but I’m looking for a room.”

  Jeklor entered behind him and dropped his enormous bundle to the floor. “Cosy place. Is it too late asking for a meal?” he asked hopefully. Then his eyes stopped at Oldon’s battle armour. “You’ll fit right in, Roland,” he said dryly.

  “Alfeer,” croaked Oldon. “Go wake the serving girls. Tell them to prepare a feast. I’ll pay them two days extra.”

  “No, you shouldn’t,” said Roland quickly.

  “This is my tavern and I’ll bloody well do what I want!”

  And with that, Oldon rushed over to Roland, his breastplate swinging alarmingly over his skinny chest. He grabbed Roland by the shoulders and said, “It is very good to see you, Roland,” his blue eyes misting over.

  “And you, Oldon. You have no idea,” said Roland, flinging his arm around Oldon’s neck.

  “Educator Altmoor,” Roland said affectionately as Altmoor pushed himself upright from his chair, his expression still unbelieving.

  “Roland. It’s really you, is it not?”

  “Indeed,” said Roland.

  “Since you ... left ... the old coot has been worse company than ever,” said Oldon gruffly, but he could not seem to wipe the look of joy from his face. “Hopefully you can talk some sense into him now you’re here.”

  “I’ve left Academia Amlor,” said Altmoor in answer to Roland’s inquiring look. “But take of your cloak first, you seem a floating head.”

  Roland untied his cloak and dropped it onto a nearby table. Both Oldon and Altmoor’s eyes widened as they took in Roland’s attire: the zhutou slipped through the black sash around his waist, the round, tapered shaft almost reaching his left knee, dancing flames reflecting in the two curved prongs; the broad leather band running from right shoulder to left hip filled with six, short, broad-bladed knifes; the black crossbow resting across the small of his back, a flat quiver filled with bolts on his left breast ... but it was the small silver brooch clasped onto the sash at Roland’s right side that their eyes kept coming back to – it seemed oddly out of place.

  Altmoor embraced Roland, and then stepped back, looking up into Roland’s face, his eyes tracing the scars, his heart heavy at the cold look on Roland’s face that not even the joyous occasion could completely soften, but then he smiled and said, “Welcome back, Roland. Unbelievable, but true. If you weren’t standing before me, I would not have believed it possible.” He sighed, a haunted look coming over his face. “The promise I made to you has been heavy and bitter to carry with. I never once believed that three years would see you back in Darma, and each day was a struggle; having to ignore the fact that an innocent man was in prison, not able to do anything about it – but how glad I am that I never went back on my word, and that I was wrong about your abilities.” He ran a hand across his face, and Roland realised with a shock that Altmoor had aged greatly. His sharp, piercing gaze was no more, and his face had acquired hundreds of folds and lines.

  “I thank you for keeping your word ... and I am truly sorry that it was so hard,” said Roland, feeling a terrible guilt settling on him.

  “Don’t mind me, Roland,” said Altmoor, seeing the look on Roland’s face. “None of it was your fault. None. The fault lies with Darma’s ruling class. Come, let us eat and drink, but before that – who might your friend be?”

  “You do not remember me?” said Jeklor and gave a sweeping bow. “Our meeting was short, and I had not the luxury of offering you drink or food, but I do believe I fondly referred to you as ‘a bag of old bones’.”

  Oldon threw his head back and roared with laughter. “Good lad he is. If I had a daughter, she’d be yours!”

  Altmoor chuckled along, nodding as he did. “Of course, how could I forget? You were the young man who kept cradling his blanket, huddling in the corner. It happens to the best of men, of course – you should not feel shamed by it.”

  This time it was Roland’s turn to roar with laughter, and as he did, he realised that it had been a very long time since he had laughed out loud.

  *

  The long table was laden with food and drink, Roland and Jeklor steadily working through the meats, bread, vegetables and soup. Two serving girls kept bringing in new plates and taking empty ones away. Jeklor tried his best to catch their eyes, but so far, he was rather unsuccessful.

  Roland leaned back on his chair, a contented look on his face. Oldon and Altmoor did not eat, but were not shy with the ale, and both old men had rosy cheeks by the time Roland finished eating.

  “This was the best meal I have had in years,” said Jeklor, and gave a theatrical yawn. “I do believe I will retire for the night though. I thank you for your hospitality.”

  “Go get some rest, lad. Ask Alfeer to show you to your room,” said Oldon.

  Jeklor pushed himself away from the table and left, but he bypassed Alfeer and headed straight to the kitchen. There was a moment of silence, followed by a high-pitched giggle and then he reappeared with a broad smile. He winked at Roland and disappeared up the wooden stairs. After the two serving girls had cleared the table, one of them headed up the stairs, two pink spots appearing high on her cheekbones.

  Oldon chuckled. “He’ll be sleeping late, that one.”

  Roland smiled inside his ale mug, and then he looked at Altmoor and said, “Why did you leave the academia?”

  “After you left,” said Altmoor, sipping his ale, “I started noting many things at the academia that did not sit right with me. I talked to my peers about it, but they thought me quite mad –” he laughed as if it was the funniest thing he had ever heard, “– so now I heal the sick from my home. I’m no longer a rich man, but I’m far happier for it,” he finished with a bemused smile, as if he could not quite believe it himself. “But I believe it is time I update you on the situation in Darma?”

  “Please do,” said Roland.

  “As you predicted, there has been no word of the girl’s murder, and also no word of yourself. Feel free to walk outside while showing your face; neither citizen nor City Watch will recognise you, or be looking for you.

  “There has also been no news about you and your friend’s escape, or I would have heard about it –” he rubbed his hands together, “– you see, I’ve made it my business to regularly visit with the Captain of the Watch, under the pretence that I am quite concerned with my safety walking the streets of Darma, and that he should immediately inform me of any known criminals. If you were considered a wanted man, he would have told me about it,” said Altmoor proudly, his eyes showing a trace of their former, piercing, liveliness. Roland was impressed with Altmoor’s shrewdness, and glad for the shine in his eyes.r />
  “I have also made it my business to find out as much as I can about the Vandermans – don’t worry, I did nothing to give myself away. It is not considered strange for one noble to inquire about another – and I am sorry to say that the girl was not Sirol’s first victim. It seems that this has happened at least three times before, and that Sirol has acquired a taste for violating and killing commoner girls ...”

  On the surface, Roland was calmly listening as Altmoor spoke, but his insides were seething. So Carla was not the first victim? It was nothing more than a game for Vanderman? Roland had never felt so much hate rushing up in him and his hands shook lightly as he gripped the edge of the table.

  “... but I am happy to report that Carla was the last unfortunate girl,” said Altmoor. “Since you have written him that letter, Sirol has been seen less and less, and since about six months ago he had completely disappeared from public view. There are rumours that he has come down with illness, but you and I know the truth, of course.” Altmoor gave a small smile, and the beast lifting its head inside Roland calmed down ever so slightly.

  “Duke Ralpston has also gotten wind of Sirol’s deeds, and the Vanderman name is not as influential as it once was. Nothing has been done about his crimes, of course,” he added bitterly, “but falling out of favour means that his father Soul will have lost his claim as next in line as the Duke of Darma. That, at least, is a small comfort. Unfortunately, that is all I have to report.”

  “Do you know if Sirol is at the mansion, or the estate?” asked Roland.

  “Ah, I see you have done some investigating yourself! Well, Sirol is at the Vanderman mansion, which, unfortunately, is under heavy guard. Soul has been hiring mercenaries to keep his mansion – or should I say his son – safe.”

  “Interesting,” said Roland, tapping a finger on the table. “Oldon, you have once said – the first time I came here if I remember correctly – that the secret to the Assassins Guild is in entering from the sewers ...”

  “What now?” said Oldon, startled. “Don’t tell me you want to take out a contract with them?”

  Roland smiled. Rage had also jumped to the same conclusion. “Not at all. I only want to know the location.”

  “Well,” said Oldon, settling back. “I once had a customer who told me that he had taken out a contract with the guild, and he said that you will find them in the sewers, but I don’t rightly know if it was a true story or if he was making sport. But, if you really want information I will start in Beggars’ Hope if I was you. All kinds of people there, not that you will find much hope though.”

  “Beggars’ Hope?”

  “The centre of Darma is where you will find most businesses, an’ folk like me. The east is for the wealthy and nobles who do not have overly much influence. Altmoor here used to live in the east, but now he’s a middle-folk like me –” Altmoor beamed as Oldon said it, “– and the north, of course, is where you find the palace, the academia, and nobles of high stature and more coin than brains – that’s also where the Vanderman mansion is.

  “The west quarter of Darma is the largest, and also has the most poor folk. The centre of the west quarter is known as Beggars’ Hope, and there you will find the poorest of the bunch, but you will also find folk with the ‘know-how’ there. The City Watch rarely patrols the west quarter, and never Beggars’ Hope, so you get all kinds of folk hiding there, away from prying eyes. Finding information about the guild, I think you should start at Beggars’ Hope.”

  Roland, Altmoor and Oldon spoke until the early morning, and when they finally called it a night, Roland fell asleep the moment he lay his head down. He had no dreams, but he slept with a small, knowing smile.

  Chapter 21

  Oldon’s prediction came true and Jeklor slept until late morning. Roland woke after only a few hours sleep though, and he sat bolt upright in bed, a resolute and anticipating glint in his eyes.

  He washed his face in a bronze bowl filled with icy water, watching his warped reflection as the surface smoothed out. His dark hair hung past his shoulders, almost to the middle of his back, and he tied it behind his head using a rawhide string. His hair pulled back, he covered his left eye with one hand, intently staring at his face in the clear water. He was clean-shaven and he tried remembering what he looked like with a beard. Seemingly lost in thought, he covered different parts of his face with his hands, and then he muttered to himself, his lip curling in a half-smile, half-sneer.

  He pulled on a pair of soft doeskin trousers and a green woollen tunic (courtesy of Dragon East Apparel) that hung past his knees. He tied a brown, hooded cloak to his shoulders and lifted the hood over his head. It covered most of his face and it would be difficult to recognise him. He left the leather harness and crossbow hidden beneath the straw mattress, and slipped a throwing knife into the sides of each brown-leather boot. He slipped the zhutou underneath the tunic along the small of his back, but it felt uncomfortable, and he would not be able to pull it free at speed, so he decided to leave it behind also. He did not want to draw attention to himself searching Beggars’ Hope; Li Ho’s outfit was perfect for hiding weapons and blending into the dark, but during the day, it stuck out like a sore thumb.

  Throughout the morning, Roland spent much time with the serving girls, and Oldon and Altmoor watched him with amused looks. They could not hear what Roland was saying, but the girls blushed prettily ever so often, and the two old men sat with heads together, discussing the new development good-naturedly.

  Jeklor came down soon after, a new spring in his step, and he and Roland had a quick breakfast. Jeklor had selected the best of Dragon’s wares and the bundle he lifted to his back was much smaller. He waved goodbye and set off in search of merchants willing to place orders with Dragon East Apparel.

  Roland called one of the serving girls over and they whispered together for a moment before he slipped her a few silver coins.

  “You don’t need to pay Ailith, lad,” said Oldon as the girl left.

  “Of course I do,” said Roland, nonplussed.

  Oldon and Altmoor shared a mutual understanding look and then Oldon said, “She’s been making doe eyes at you since last night. You have learned much of fighting, but of woman –” he shook his head kindly, “– you have no experience. Passing her coin will only serve to anger her, and the next thing you know, she will spurn your every advance ... and you will be left wondering what in the blazes happened.”

  Altmoor nodded sagely as Oldon spoke, and they looked at Roland with something akin to pity. Roland stared at them in puzzlement, and then he grasped what the two old coots were thinking. “Ailith is going to find me certain items that won’t draw attention when purchased by the fairer sex,” he said, grinning, and stood up, heading for the tavern door. “I’ll leave you two to your boyhood fantasies then.”

  Roland chuckled as he left the tavern, while Altmoor and Oldon quickly started discussing the best strategy for playing Manoeuvres.

  *

  Beggars’ Hope had no clear borders defining it in the western quarter, but Roland could feel the atmosphere changing as he walked the dirty streets. Tough looking men leaned in doorways, hands absentmindedly brushing dagger hilts, and beggars sat in the shadows with hard glints in their eyes; Roland had the feeling that few of them were truly begging. The city urchins kept clear of the area and the few folk that Roland saw, kept throwing furtive glances around them, as if they expected something to jump them at any moment. Buildings were clustered close together, derelict looking and in dire need of repair, and the smell drifting through the narrow streets assaulted Roland’s senses. The area was home to the Tanners, and their stink mixed with slop buckets thrown from windows had his eyes watering.

  Roland wandered aimlessly, thinking of the best way to start his search for the guild, when he saw a large wooden building with a tarred roof, the area around it clear of other constructs. A wooden board on a frayed string hung above the warped door. It read ‘DARK REST’, the crudely hand-drawn moti
f a dagger punched through a dirt-stained pillow. Upon closer inspection, Roland realised that the stain was supposed to be blood, and he thought that clientele must be on the slow side, but so far, it was the most promising place he had found.

  Roland pushed the door open and stepped inside. The tavern was gloomy and smoke filled, a dying fireplace smouldering in one corner. He walked to the counter where a potbellied man wearing a sleeveless shirt eyed him darkly.

  “Wine,” said Roland.

  The barkeeper grunted and filled a dusty mug with red wine, slamming it on the counter, the thin wooden planks shuddering as he did. “Three coppers,” he said, his small eyes scanning Roland’s face, as if trying to memorise Roland’s every feature, but Roland’s hood hid much.

  Roland took a sip of the sour wine and nodded appreciatively, as if it was the best drink he had ever had, and selected a seat toward the rear of the tavern that was close to a window, where he sat facing the door. The potbellied man soon lost interest in Roland as he served patrons as they came and went. Roland studied each patron closely, but none so far had the ‘right’ look, and he nursed his mug throughout the morning. Many of the men seemed to be regulars, the barkeeper handing drinks without orders being placed, but not once did a smile or word of greeting crossed his lips.

  Beggars’ Hope did indeed not hold much ‘hope’, thought Roland. A particularly dishevelled man stumbled into the tavern, his bare feet caked with mud and his eyes red rimmed. He swayed from side to side as he walked, his steps unsure. Then he stumbled on empty air and fell against a chair, a confused look on his face. He pushed himself upright, his eyes looking empty as his gaze swept across Roland without seeing him.

  In a surprising show of agility, the potbellied man jumped over his counter, grabbed the confused man by the scuff of his neck and heaved him out the door. He dusted his hands and gave Roland a look that said, “You’ll be next.”

  He filled a mug with wine and walked over to Roland, slamming it before him. “Can’t sit here for free,” he grunted, his small eyes challenging Roland to complain. Roland returned the stare evenly and handed the barkeeper his coin, whispering, loud enough for just the potbellied man to hear, “Do that again and I’ll kill you.”