Assassin's Rise

by CJ Whrite

  A smirk crossed the barkeepers face but he said nothing and returned to his post, wiping an empty mug with a dirty rag.

  Roland was uncomfortably aware that he only had two small knives with him, and he vowed that it would be the last time. He had only needed to pull the long tunic over Li Ho’s outfit, but in his haste to start his search, he had overlooked such a simple solution.

  Morning turned to afternoon, and afternoon to twilight, yet the barkeeper did not approach Roland with more wine. As the last light faded from the crooked windows, the barkeeper rekindled the fireplace and lit the two lanterns that hung on either side of the tavern walls. There was just enough light to break the gloom, but Roland did not mind. He preferred being hidden in the shadows; he might not be able to see clearly, but neither could anyone else.

  As the sun disappeared, the tavern slowly filled up, the patrons looking grim-faced and unwashed. Yet, even with many of the tables filled, the only noise was a low murmur as men spoke with heads together.

  The barkeeper leaned over his counter and spoke a few words into the ear of a man, jerking his head in Roland’s direction. The man nodded and walked towards Roland. He moved easily, his hand never straying far from the hilt of a long knife at his hip. As he walked, Roland had the feeling that this man had the ‘right’ look to him. His eyes never kept still, continuously taking in his surroundings, and he moved economically; there were no exaggerated gestures, a sure sign that he was ready to strike with eye-blinking quickness should the need arise. As he reached Roland’s table, Roland pointed at the empty chair across from him. The man sat down, his hands lightly resting on the table.

  Roland sat relaxed, calmly studying the man. He was dressed in loose fitting clothes, dark in colour, his brown hair cropped short and his eyes as dark as Roland’s own. Roland was sure that there were many hidden weapons on his body – the knife on his hip was only for show.

  “So, the barkeeper did not like my little warning?” said Roland softly, one of the throwing knifes already pulled from his boot and hidden in his sleeve. His voice carried just enough edge to warn the man not to move too suddenly.

  “Not much,” said the man, studying Roland in turn, keeping perfectly still. “Personally, I couldn’t care less of you kill the sack of dung. I am more interested in why you have been sitting here throughout the day. There are many better taverns for you to visit.”

  “And what business is it of yours where I chose to spend my time?”

  “No man in his right mind would spend so much time in this hole. My business is finding such people and hearing their reasons ...”

  “Drink?” enquired Roland, ignoring the question for now.

  “In this place? Not if you paid me,” grinned the man.

  Roland slowly lifted the untouched mug of wine and emptied it on the floor. “I agree,” he said. He could see the barkeeper’s jowls quivering as he spilled the wine, and he took a childish pleasure in the unpleasant man’s anger.

  The man across from him chuckled and then he said, “Now that we understand one another, why are you here?”

  “I’m looking for a certain guild,” said Roland, keeping as still as the man across from him. The man carried the same warning in his eyes as Roland did, and Roland was pleased; he was easy to understand, and thus they could avoid unnecessary bloodshed.

  “What kind of guild?”

  “The kind that make folks disappear.”

  “Ah,” said the man. “And why do you seek such a dangerous guild?”

  “My business is my own, but I’ll say that such a dangerous guild would benefit from my meeting them.”

  “Taking out a contract means that you will work through one of the agents employed by the guild ... you do not meet with the guild in person.”

  “And are you such an agent?” said Roland, already knowing the answer.

  “Depending on your business, I might be,” he countered.

  “Watching you move I thought you might be one of them, but I never guessed the name used will be ‘Agent’,” said Roland, slipping the small knife from his sleeve and placing it on the table.

  “I can say the same about you,” said the man, slipping a short, feathered dart from a leather sheath hidden inside his sleeve onto the table, taking care not to touch the glittering end.

  Poison, thought Roland, not surprised.

  “You can call me Mills, and an agent is not what you think, although we could be if we wanted to.”

  “And I am not looking to take out a contract,” said Roland. “I am looking for a meeting with the guild.”

  Mills hesitated, closely watching Roland but apparently not able to make up his mind; the face hidden inside the shadow filled hood unnerved him. Roland gave him a few moments time and then he said, “If my meeting displeases them, or if I have hidden motives, killing me would be quite simple. I will be at the guilds mercy, after all. One against what I assume are many.”

  “I will have to inform my superiors,” Mills finally said. “Meet me in two days time at the harbour when the moon is at its highest.”

  “I shall be there,” said Roland calmly, his insides cheering. Things had finally been set in motion.

  Chapter 22

  Roland slept little during the night. Scenario after scenario kept spinning through his mind. He rejected ideas, formulated new ones, and by the time the sun rose, he felt bleary-eyed and thick-headed. His meeting with Mills was scheduled for the following night, but that did not mean he could sleep during the coming night – he would use that time to scout the Vanderman mansion

  Roland tried ignoring the rising sun, hoping against hope he would fall asleep, but after a while spent tossing and turning he gave up and washed his face. Next to the bronze bowl were several stinking vials and powders that Ailith had left for him the previous night. She had explained how to use it, and he had a newfound respect for the lengths women went to, but for now he could ignore the vials – it would still be a while before he needed it.

  Jeklor was already eating breakfast when Roland came down. “Morning,” he called as Roland took a seat next to him, a piece of bacon clamped between his teeth. “Any luck yesterday?”

  Roland nodded. “It seems so, and you?”

  “Oho, glad you asked, old horse,” said Jeklor, clearly having waited for the moment. “I had to haggle the prices a bit, but I completely sold out yesterday. Today I’m going to take even more stock with,” he said, patting a bundle twice the size of the day before.

  “Are you setting up stall?” asked Roland, massaging his eyes.

  “No, I’m selling to merchants. Want to establish the name Dragon East first, you see. If Dragon’s wares sell – and they will – the merchants will place orders, and then we can take the business to new levels.”

  “And Dragon? Will he happily keep making more clothes?”

  “I’ve wondered about that myself,” said Jeklor, pushing a piece of bread around his plate. “I’ll need to find more people so Dragon can teach them ... but I don’t think he’s the teaching type ... Maybe I should get Li Ho to teach folks?”

  Roland snorted. “He’ll stab you before you finish asking.”

  “I thought so, too. Maybe I should just get one, or two more persons. I’m sure Dragon and I will manage somehow ...” Jeklor finished his bacon and leaned back, giving a hearty belch. “So, what’s happening with you and Ailith?” he asked innocently as the girl brought Roland a plate heaped with bacon, bread and fried eggs. She curtsied and disappeared back into the kitchen.

  “What do you mean?” said Roland, attacking his food. Once the smell hit him he realised he was starving.

  “Eda told me that Ailith spent some time in your room last night – a disappointingly short time, though, she told me,” said Jeklor mischievously.

  “She only explained how to use something to me,” said Roland, ignoring the look on Jeklor’s face and swallowing an egg whole.

  “Now that is disappointing,” said Jeklor and pushed his c
hair back. “Well, I’m off.”

  “Good luck,” said Roland as Jeklor left the tavern, and then he gave his food his full attention. When Ailith came to fetch the empty plate, Roland gave her his best smile, which did not seem to impress her much. He sighed, pushed thoughts of women from his mind, and started running through possible scenarios again.

  Altmoor had left the day before, saying that there were patients waiting for him at home. Roland thought that Altmoor’s new way of life suited him much better; he was quicker to laugh and he spoke easier, more carefree. Roland spent the morning playing Manoeuvres with Oldon, loosing on purpose twice when the old man’s face withered after he had suffered a spectacular defeat, after which Roland retreated to his room for the afternoon, hoping to get some sleep before the night’s activities.

  *

  Roland pulled on a pair of coal-black leather trousers and settled his feet into soft leather boots. He lifted the fine chain-mesh over his head, the mesh covering him from neck to groin, his arms bare. He slipped his arms through a sleeveless black shirt, wrapping the thick cloth around his body and securing it at the waist with a black sash. Next, Roland hooked the leather harness over his shoulders, tightening the belt along the buckle on his stomach until the harness fitted snug and would not shift as he moved around. A short, diamond-shaped throwing knife went into a sheath on the broad leather band running diagonally across his front. He tested the edge of each blade with his thumb before slipping it into one of the six sheathes. After inspecting the crossbow bolts he hooked the flat quiver over his left breast, where he could easily reach a fresh bolt with his right hand. He hooked the small crossbow onto the sheath across his lower back, and slipped the zhutou through the sash on his left side. Carla’s brooch went on the sash at his right. He pulled on black leather gloves that covered his hands and forearms up to the elbows – a purchase he had made after the zhutou had slipped in his sweating hand while training. Then Roland slipped the long cloak Li Ho had given him over his head and tied it to his shoulders; the cloak completely covering him from front to back and neck to feet. A black hood and a black silk scarf was laid on the bed – the final gifts Li Ho had given him before he had left Drifters’ Hell. Roland pulled the hood over his head, the hood covering his head, sides of face and his neck. Next, he placed the silk scarf over his mouth and nose, pulled it tight and tied it at the back of his head. The only part of Roland now visible was his eyes, which burned as bright as stars on a moonless night.

  Sticking to the shadows Roland headed north, darting from building to building, avoiding those that had burning torches at the corners. Two patrolling guards headed in Roland’s direction, the sound of their iron boots clanging on the cobbled street announcing their arrival long before they came into sight, and Roland moved down a side street, smiling underneath the scarf. He walked quickly, and before long, the Duke’s palace came into sight. He gave it a wide birth; he thought that patrolling guards would be concentrated around the palace and he was right. He could hear occasional grunts and the sound of spear butts dragging across stone as guards shifted spears from hand to hand, but he had no trouble passing; none of the guards expected trouble and their vigilance was lax. That was until Roland had passed the palace and almost crashed into the back of a guard that was hidden in the shadows where he leaned against a tree. Roland froze in mid-step, waiting for the guard to turn around or shout alarm. But the moment passed and nothing happened. The guard was sleeping.

  Roland stifled a ridiculous urge to burst out laughing and he retreated silently, moving around the guard in a wide arch, keeping pressed against the side of a building.

  The Vandermans’ mansion stood against the backdrop of the ocean. It was an immense building, the size of a small castle. Torches flared brightly around the mansion and, beyond the surrounding wall, Roland could see moving shadows as men patrolled the grounds. Slowly Roland circled the building, staying well clear from torch glare, the wall surrounding the mansion keeping him well hidden. All the guards (mercenaries, Roland reminded himself) were concentrated inside the grounds, and none patrolled the outside of the wall. The rear of the mansion stood on a cliffs edge, and an almost vertical drop fell to the churning ocean below. There were several trees and bushes at the rear (Vanderman only kept up appearances in the front, thought Roland) and he climbed a tree that towered high over the mansion wall. He swung his legs over a thick branch near the top, and settled his back against the trunk, looking over the grounds and one side of the mansion. The mansion was of similar design to Academia Amlor, but was twice as long and again twice as high. It seemed much older, though. The walls were made of large, rough looking stones, shadows dancing between the stones as torchlight flickered. The rear wall overlooked the ocean, and red clay-tiles covered the arching roof. Two doors with broad brass handles led from the side of the building to the grounds. There were very few trees, but several flowerbeds, fountains and stone benches were visible to Roland. From where he sat, the entrance of the mansion was out off view, hidden past the corner of the mansion’s front.

  For a long time Roland stared at the mansion windows, wondering behind which one Sirol was hidden, rage steadily welling up in him. The rage was an almost welcome feeling by now, like an old friend visiting him.

  He had stopped counting the mercenaries patrolling the grounds. He could not distinguish between their features from where he sat, and if they were changing watches, he would never get an accurate count. He assumed that there were about twenty men, and he saw several dogs being led around the grounds. This was not the security of a man protecting his home; this was of a man living in fear.

  Roland felt a savage satisfaction at the thought ... and then Sirol spoke next to him and Roland’s heart lurched in shock.

  No, not next to him, but so close that it sounded like it. At the rear of the mansion, overlooking the ocean and cliff, a window had opened and Sirol leaned from it, shouting into the night. Roland’s heart thumped loudly in his chest, and he breathed quickly, sweat rolling down his face and dampening the scarf. He squinted his eyes as he tried to pierce the darkness, but he could not see Sirol’s face in the gloom. He did not need to though; he would never forget that hateful voice.

  “Is there anyone there? I can feel him coming closer! WHO IS OUT THERE!” Sirol yelled over the ocean, his voice sounding thin and fearful. Light flared up behind Sirol and he was pulled back into the room. The window closed with a thud.

  Roland could hear the men below chuckling and heard phrases like ‘madder than a sewer rat’ and ‘courage can’t be bought’ drifting up to him. It seemed that they were used to Sirol’s outbursts.

  Roland slowly opened his hands, his fingers cramping. He had not realised how tightly he had clenched his hands shut, and he sat still for several moments with eyes shut, regulating his breathing and calming himself.

  It was about fifty paces from the wall to the mansion, and as Roland tried calculating the distance he needed to travel over the grounds to reach the building, he realised that he would never be able to cross it without alerting the dogs. From the cliff’s edge to Sirol’s window was about fifty feet – it would be a long climb, but not impossible, thought Roland, especially since the climb would be hidden from view. He would be able to choose his holds with care, taking his time – but if he slipped, he could look forward to a hundred foot plunge into the churning ocean below. For a moment, he contemplated doing it tonight. If he started at the bottom of the cliff, climbing from there to Sirol’s window, neither guard nor dog would be alerted to his presence ... but he quickly discarded the idea. Starting at the bottom, he would first have to swim to reach a foot or handhold, and cold and wet from the ocean, he would not have the strength to make the long climb. No, he had already anticipated this; he must not get impatient and change his plans.

  There was a balcony around window Sirol had shouted from, and Roland made it his goal. Once he reached the balcony, no matter what happened after, Sirol would finally be at his mercy. />
  Roland’s dark eyes glittered and he softly said, “Found you.”

  Chapter 23

  Roland stood in the shadows, his breath hot against the silk scarf. He looked up into the night sky, gauging the moon that was a thin, almost invisible curve. Stars filled the heavens, shining brighter than the moon did.

  From where he waited, he had a good view over the harbour. He had hoped to see the Swallow, but she was not there. The sea was calm, small waves sloshing against the stone pier, and then Roland saw a figure at the edge of the harbour, standing where several large rocks separated the pier from the ocean. Silently, he walked towards the figure, keeping to the shadows. As he neared, he saw that it was Mills, and he said softly, “I am here.”

  Mills swung around, blade in hand, eyes squinted.

  “Calm down,” said Roland. “It’s me.”

  Mills lowered the blade slowly, a scowl on his face. “Not wise to sneak up on me, and why are you hidden like that?” he said, looking Roland up and down.

  “I prefer keeping unseen,” said Roland, his dark cloak silently rustling as he moved closer to Mills. “Am I to meet your heads?”

  Mills nodded curtly. “Can’t say they’ll be happy with you covered up like that, but it’s not for me to decide. Come,” he said, and disappeared between the rocks, Roland following him.

  Behind the rocks, a set of stone steps led down to the water, the steps black and cleverly hidden between large rocks. They descended and walked onto a narrow ledge. A perfectly round hole, wide and tall enough for Roland and Mills to walk side by side and upright, disappeared inside the stone pier.

  “One of the many entrances to the sewers,” said Mills and stepped inside. A broad canal ran down the centre of the sewer, and on either side were narrow ledges. Mills led Roland into the sewer, keeping to a ledge. The water running down the canal was murky, and discarded objects floated towards the ocean. A few paces into the sewer it turned pitch black, and Roland could not see his hands in front of his eyes. He halted, straining his ears to locate Mills. There was a flash of sparks, and Mills lifted a burning torch above his head, the flames revealing a grin on his face.