Assassin's Rise

by CJ Whrite

  “Darkness like you’ve never known awaits you in the sewers,” he said, his lips curling back.

  Roland only nodded. He did not think that there was a place darker than The Tomb, but there was no reason to share that with Mills. The smallest piece of information had the tendency to reveal much about a person, and Roland thought it wise not to share his past experiences with a man leading him to the Assassins Guild.

  Mills’s grin faltered at Roland’s lack of reaction and he stomped down the sewer, torch held high. The further they walked, the dirtier the canal water turned. Gaping tunnels at Roland’s side led further into Darma’s bowels, the darkness inside thick and heavy. Shadows danced over the sewer walls, and Roland saw several rats retreating from the light, swimming across the canal and scampering onto the opposite ledge, their eyes black and accusing. The smell also steadily thickened, suspect objects bobbing in the water. Roland pressed his hand over the scarf, trying to block the smells, but it did not help much. The smell did not seem to bother Mills. Water dripped from overhead, the sound sharp and distinct as the droplets hit stone and water.

  “You think it wise to lead me straight to the guild?” said Roland, his voice muffled. He had anticipated being blindfolded, but Mills had said nothing about it.

  “Unless you know the path you will never find the guild,” said Mills, his grin resurfacing. “How many turns you think I’ve led you down so far?”

  Roland looked back over his shoulder, but only a mass of darkness loomed behind him. He had been sure that their route was straight, but he realised that a network of tunnels branched and interlinked around him, and the meagre torchlight made it impossible to pick out landmarks.

  “I don’t know,” said Roland honestly.

  Mills seemed pleased. “If you spend enough time down here, you gain a sense of where these tunnels lead to, but not after just one time.”

  What felt to Roland like a day later, Mills suddenly halted and slipped the torch into an iron bracket on the sewer wall. The flames glinted off an iron rung, the metal caked with moss and rust. “We’re here,” he said and placed his foot on the rung, pushing upwards and disappearing up into the dark. It appeared to Roland as if Mills floated up into the air. Roland climbed up after him, gripping the slimy ladder tightly, the metal groaning alarmingly as he climbed.

  He heard thuds coming from above him, and he realised that Mills was banging against wood – probably a trapdoor, he thought.

  Light suddenly streamed down the ladder and he saw Mills’s feet disappearing from view.

  *

  Roland heaved himself through the hole. He was in a small room, the walls naked except for a wooden door at the opposite end of the room. Mills closed the trapdoor behind him, the edges of the door perfectly disguised inside the plank floor. Three more men were inside the room, glinting daggers hanging from their hips and padded leather armour covering their chests. One of them opened the door and held it open for Roland to step through.

  “One word of advice,” said Mills as Roland walked over to the door. “Honesty.”

  Roland nodded and stepped over the threshold, the door closing behind him. The next room was very similar to the previous one. The walls and floor were completely bare, and another wooden door stood at the opposite end. The only difference was a table in the middle of the room, a bald man with a thin moustache sitting behind the table. His clothes were of an expensive cut, his shirt maroon with golden lapels, and a small, silver ring hung from his one ear. The skin of his head and neck were bronzed from the sun, and his fingers carried an assortment of silver and golden rings. Visible underneath the table was a pair of pointed black boots, the toecaps gleaming with oil, and the cuffs of puffed, black trousers. Roland noted that there was no chair for him.

  He also thought it very strange that no one had searched him for weapons. Hidden beneath his cloak he was fully armed, carrying zhutou, crossbow and throwing knives. Either the guild was not what Roland had expected, or they did not deem it necessary to take his weapons. His eyes drifted across the room, searching for the unseen, and a small smile appeared underneath his black scarf. He now understood why they didn’t bother to search him.

  The man sitting behind the table stared at Roland unblinking, and then he said, “You wish to keep your face hidden?” His voice was soft and musical.

  “I do,” said Roland.

  “And why is that?”

  “I would first like to know if you are the person I am seeking.”

  “Of course,” said the man, his unblinking stare appraising Roland. “You wish to know my secrets, yet you hide behind a disguise? Do you not trust the guild?”

  “I do not,” said Roland, his voice even.

  “And you should not,” said the man, a thin smile stretching across his lips. “I am impressed. I do not like dealing with fools and it seems that you will not disappoint. Now, if you are seeking to do business with the Assassins Guild, you have found the right place. But pray tell me, why not use Mills? He is an excellent agent, I can assure you.”

  “Are you the head of the guild?” countered Roland.

  The man chuckled softly. “Heavens no. Do you truly expect our leader to reveal himself so easily? But have confidence that I will carefully considerer everything you have to say.” His voice carried just a touch of annoyance, sprinkled with winter snow, and Roland thought that despite his flamboyant dress sense, this was not a man to cross.

  “I wish to work for the guild,” said Roland.

  “Ah,” said the man, pressing his fingertips together and leaning forward slightly. “Now we get to the crux of the matter ...” He stared at Roland in silence. Only his fingers moved as he pressed the tips against each other, never at the same time, one after the other; it made Roland think of a snake swaying its head from side to side, trying to intimidate its prey. Roland ignored the rippling fingers and stared back evenly, not moving in the slightest, his eyes as unblinking as the man’s who was trying to cow him.

  A small smile curled the man’s lips and he said, “First, tell me why I did not have you searched for weapons?”

  Roland motioned toward the ceiling with his head. “There is a room above us; I assume that we are in a basement. There is no light in the room above, hiding the fact that there are several holes in the ceiling – small enough to go unnoticed, but big enough to allow the flight of a bolt or arrow. The door behind you is the same. Where the frame meets the wall, there are several gaps hidden in the shadows. I did not notice it in the room behind me, but if I turn around, it would not surprise me to see an arrow aimed at my head. When you give the sign, I’ll be dead before I know it. And the sewer conveniently runs below us. By tomorrow, my body will be drifting into the harbour.” Roland left out the part that he was quick enough to kill the man seated behind the table before the men waiting upstairs or behind the doors could move, but there was no need to frighten the man – not yet.

  The man rubbed his hands together, rings clinking as they touched. “Impressive observation,” he said. “You may call me The Ambassador. Now, will you kindly show me what weapons you carry?”

  Roland did not like it, but he would have to give the man something before he could gain his trust. He pushed his hands from under his cloak and flung the heavy material backwards, the cloak flaring wide and then settling behind his shoulders, revealing the front of his body.

  “An unusual weapon,” said The Ambassador, his eyes flicking from the knives to the zhutou. “I see a quiver with bolts, but no crossbow?”

  Roland pulled the cloak away, revealing the butt of his crossbow. “Excellent,” said The Ambassador and then he held his hands out, motioning toward the zhutou. “May I?”

  Roland stepped toward the table and slowly pulled the zhutou from his sash, reversing it and handing it over hilt first. The Ambassador weighed it in his hand, running his fingers along the two prongs, following the curves, and then down the tapered shaft, testing the sharp point with his thumb. A drop of blood imme
diately squeezed from under his skin. “I see,” he said, staring at the drop of blood. “Heavy. Unyielding. You will have no difficulty driving this straight through a man’s skull. He will never have a chance to make even a sound. Interesting ....” He reversed the weapon and handed it back. Roland slipped the zhutou between sash and waist, once more pulling the cloak around him, arms and weapons disappearing from view.

  “We know each other a little better now, wont you say?” said The Ambassador and leaned back in his chair, his fingertips resuming their snakelike rippling. “Will you divulge me your name?”

  Roland had feared that this would happen, but no matter what, he did not want to reveal his identity. Instead, he said, “My name is a matter that goes beyond trust. Accepting me into the guild, would benefit the guild, no matter what I am called. By night I will complete contracts, but the day is my own.”

  “Let’s put that aside for the moment then, and I’ll tell you a little about how the guild operates,” said The Ambassador, his fingers now lightly drumming on the table. “A prospective client approaches one of our many Agents with the wish to have someone killed. The agent then relays the wish to the guild, which will first investigate both client and target ... you see, even in death there are rules.

  “Rule number one: You are not allowed to place a contract on a business rival’s head. If we accepted such requests, the whole of Calvana would be left with only a single merchant.

  “Rule number two: You are not allowed to place a contract on your cheating spouse, or the one pleasuring your spouse in ways that you can not. Once again, if we accepted such requests, Calvana is in danger of being devoid of population.

  “Rule number three: You are not allowed to place a contract on the King or his immediate family ... for obvious reasons, of course.

  “Rule number four: The previous rules are not set in iron – enough gold carries the weight to bend the most stubborn of rules. The standard price for a head is three thousand gold pieces, of which the King taxes takes four tenths, and the guild and the assassin who made the kill shares the remainder ... Yes, we pay taxes, and the King is fully aware of how the guild operates – how else do you think we can exist? The price of a head can more than triple depending on whom you want killed. It is not unknown for the price to reach up to twenty thousand gold pieces – and if you happened to make the kill, your share would be a glorious six thousand gold coins.

  “Once contracts are accepted by the guild, assassins then have the freedom to chose which ones they want to partake in, and the method of killing is entirely up to them – but, innocents are not to be involved. Setting a target’s house on fire is not an acceptable assassination, and the penalty for each unnecessary death is five hundred gold pieces per head ... or death, if the guild so feels.

  “Now, any questions?” He looked at Roland expectantly.

  “Just one,” said Roland. “Is there a contract on Sirol Vanderman’s head?”

  “The Vanderman family? But of course ... Sirol is the son of Soul Vanderman, if I remember correctly, so the bounty will be around eight thousand gold pieces. Most influential nobles have contracts on their heads, but they are rarely assassinated and the contracts are left to gather dust. Most assassins choose not to get involved with noble politics – and I can’t say I blame them. Gold is precious, but life even more so.

  “And that brings us to the end,” The Ambassador said, his voice suddenly turning cold, and he lifted his hand above his head, his thumb and middle finger pressed tightly together. “I will now ask for your name one last time, stranger, and if you do not give me a satisfying answer ...” His eyes flicked to his raised hand, and Roland understood that once he snapped his fingers, bolts would come raining down.

  “I will pay five thousand gold coins to withhold my name,” said Roland calmly, but underneath his cloak, both his hands held unseen throwing knives.

  “Oh,” said The Ambassador, looking interested, but still not relaxing his fingers. “Do you have such a fortune in your name?”

  “Four tenths for the King’s taxes,” said Roland. “That leaves you with five thousand gold pieces from eight ...” The Ambassador’s eyes widened slightly.

  “... I will kill Sirol Vanderman within five days, and I will do it for free.”

  Chapter 24

  Sirol clutched the crumpled parchment in his hands. The yellowish paper was stained and torn, the texture like wrinkled skin from years of handling. He had wanted to destroy it many times over, to burn it, but Sirol could never quite bring himself to do so.

  He read it again, and again, his sunken eyes flickering across his spacious and handsome room between every word, peering into each shadow. He flinched, uttering a low moan, and then he realised he was staring into a broad silver mirror, his reflection staring back at him. His usual shining hair appeared lifeless, his skin pale and waxy. His manservant still shaved and bathed him everyday, but where the thin beard on his chin used to look dapper and bold, it now seemed wholly out of place on his palled and jumpy face.

  He had ridiculed the letter when he had first received it, reading it out in a loud, mocking tone, acting it out as if he was performing a play on stage. But the first night after reading the letter he had dreamed: an unknown man leaned over his bed, his face without features, like a black moon, and then Sirol had felt a blade slipping into his eye – slowly, unstoppable – and since then, each night was filled with nightmares, ebbing away at his usual arrogance. The letter said within three years ... but how much time was left? No, he was safe. He must be! He was in the Vanderman mansion, his father had hired guards for him ... nobody and nothing could find him here!

  The door to his room opened and Sirol jumped. “My brave and noble son,” drawled the voice of his father and Soul walked into the room.

  “Father!” cried Sirol and hid the letter behind his back. Soul thought it a stain on his name that his son could not even bring himself to destroy a letter. But his father did not understood his fear. He never had anyone warn him of death, vowing to kill him!

  “Your idiocy has done more damage to our name than any enemy ever did. Can you not at least act the part of my son,” said Soul as Sirol hid his hands behind his back.

  “Any word of the mercenaries? Has anyone tried to attack in the night?” said Sirol and pulled himself upright, but he could not disguise the fear in his voice. It was a pitiful attempt at appearing bold.

  “You fool,” snapped Soul. “All my plans have been ruined because you lap after peasant girls like a dog smelling a heated bitch.”

  Sirol recoiled as if Soul had slapped him. Plans? He was worried about his foolish plans while his son was at deaths door!

  “I don’t think this is –“

  “No, you don’t think,” Soul shouted over him. “You have cost me fifty thousand gold pieces, boy. Do you have any concept of what that means?”

  “Fifty ... I don’t understand?”

  Soul clenched his fists, pacing the room. “I have taken out a contract on Ralpston’s head. After his death, you were supposed to be the new Duke! But no, you prefer playing games at night ...”

  The new Duke! If that happened, he would never have to worry about persecution again. He would be free! “We can still do it, Father,” said Sirol eagerly.

  “Word of your foolish adventures has reached Ralpston’s ears. If he died now, all fingers will point to me! They will believe I killed him to clear your name, you idiot boy!”

  Why did the heavens curse me with such a foolish son, wondered Soul as he paced the room. If Sirol had become Duke, then his own claim to the throne would have been so much stronger.

  “The next time you feel like rutting with a peasant, you do it outside city walls, do you understand me?” said Soul.

  “Of course, Father,” said Sirol quickly. He knew his father well. Talking about next time meant that his father’s anger was starting to wane. “But what of your plans?” he asked in a most concerned voice.

  Soul waved
his hand. “It has been a setback, but in ten years time everyone will have forgotten what you did. Just make sure you don’t remind them!”

  There was a soft knock on the door and Sirol said, “E- enter.”

  “My Lord?” A stooped man entered the room, his hair short cropped and silver grey. “There is another mercenary looking for work. We already have twenty five working for us ... what should I do?”

  “Hire him immediately!” yelled Sirol excitedly. Each new mercenary meant a life to sacrifice for his own.

  The old man looked up at Soul for confirmation and he nodded curtly. “But this is the last one, Corin. Twenty-six mercenaries are more than enough. They don’t work for free, after all.”

  “Yes, Lord,” said Corin and backed from the room, bowing as he did.

  *

  Why all the mercenaries, wondered Corin as he descended the winding staircase. In all his thirty years serving the Vanderman family, the House Guard were always deemed sufficient. Master Soul had only informed him that the mercenaries were for added protection, but Corin did not buy it. Why then did Sirol seclude himself in his room at all times? And why did the boy seem to live in such fear?

  Corin thought he knew why; someone was after the young Lord’s life. Probably envious of him, thought Corin. He had heard the rumours surrounding the boy, but he did not believe it for a second. He had been with Lord Sirol since he was but a small boy, and there was no malice in him. Mischievous and sometimes misunderstood, but so were all boys. Sirol would never harm innocent girls!