by Mark Robson
Burn this letter as soon as you have read it. Don’t wait, Kalheen. Go now. I’m counting on you.
Yours in haste,
Femke
Femke! He had hardly seen so much as a glimpse of the Imperial spy since they had returned from Thrandor, and now this. He was to be an agent: an agent for an Imperial spy. Just the thought of it sent pictures and potential stories spinning through his mind in a kaleidoscope of images. It was all he could do to bring himself to his senses. He had no time to waste in idle dreaming. Femke needed his help now, and he, Kalheen, would not let her down.
‘Burn the letter first,’ he muttered, lifting it to the flame of the torch and setting light to the corner. The parchment caught and the flame spread rapidly across the sheet. He held it as long as he could before dropping it onto the stone floor. The flame consumed the letter, leaving only a few wafer-thin pieces of curled black ash.
Kalheen raced back into his room. There was no time to dress, but he could not run around the Palace with nothing on but his nightshirt. He slipped his boots onto his bare feet and grabbed his cloak from the peg on the back of the door. Wrapping it around his body, he set off through the Palace as fast as he could walk.
The bell tower was located in the main west wing of the central Palace structure. Kalheen did not encounter anyone during his brisk transit. The door to the ground floor of the tower was not locked, but neither was there any light inside. It took a moment of fumbling around in the darkness before he located a torch and pulled it from the wall bracket. He lit it from one of the torches in the corridor outside and re-entered the tower.
Once inside, he lit two further torches. There was plenty of material with which to barricade the door. The tower was not in regular use. Its function by design was that of announcing the passing of an Emperor. As this was such an irregular and infrequent occurrence, the Palace staff had utilised much of the ground floor space for many years as a storage area for excess furniture. Dressers, tables, chairs, a chaise longue, bookcases and a host of smaller items lined the walls of the lower tower lobby. Aside from the access to the central staircase, there was little floor space that was clear.
The staircase climbed a single floor to a square chamber with no doors. The chamber was undecorated save for a large, circular rug. The deep pile of finest wool was woven with the Imperial Seal of Shandar in rich gold and silver against a background of deepest royal purple.
A single rope with an intricate end knot hung through a small round hole in the ceiling. Many spans above, in the lofty heights of the belfry, the rope was attached to the swinging mechanism of the great Imperial Bell. Access to the belfry was through a trap door via a ladder fixed to the north wall of the tower, but Kalheen had no need to climb further.
After his initial swift scout around to make sure that he was alone, Kalheen placed his lit torch back in the wall bracket on the ground floor and set to work building the barricade. He was determined to help Femke to the best of his ability, but he was also aware of the time constraints. Using every ounce of his bulk, he heaved a large, heavy bookcase across to block the doorway first. Then, working swiftly and systematically, he piled more and more furniture behind it. After a few minutes he was sweating profusely. It was the most physically demanding exercise he had done in months.
‘That’ll have to do,’ he panted softly, surveying his handiwork with a self-satisfied eye. Taking the nearby torch from its bracket again, he headed up the stairs to where the bell pull beckoned. There was a bracket on the south wall for his torch. He jammed it into the bracket and he grabbed hold of the rope with both hands. ‘OK, Femke – here it comes.’
At the first toll of the bell, the two guards at the door to the Emperor’s study looked at one another in confusion and alarm. At the second resounding DONG, they began talking urgently in fierce whispers.
Shalidar drew a knife from his boot. His heart pounded as he crouched in the shadows. He was poised, ready to leap at the first sign of the Emperor. Would he come out? Would the bell prove sufficiently appealing bait? Or would the canny old General see through the trap and go to ground?
DONG, DONG, DONG . . .
The bell tolled loud and insistent. All over the Palace people began to move. Groups congregated in the hallways and corridors asking if it could be true. Was the Emperor dead? How had he died? Why was the bell tolling now? Would it not have been better to wait until morning?
Off-duty guards scrambled to dress. On-duty guards milled in confusion, asking directions of their superiors where they could. Senior guards and guard commanders did their utmost to display a calm front as they were bombarded with questions from all quarters.
‘Come on! Come on!’ Shalidar urged through gritted teeth. ‘You can’t resist this, you old meddler.’
If the Emperor did not show within the next few seconds, Shalidar knew he would have to abandon the hit and move into a better position in order to escape the Palace unnoticed. The guard commanders would not take long to collect their thoughts and come running.
. . . DONG, DONG, DONG . . .
‘Damn you, Surabar!’ he swore under his breath. Time had run out.
Keeping to the shadows, Shalidar began edging away from the study. He moved slowly to avoid drawing the attention of the guards. As he did so, he could hear the sound of running footsteps approaching along an intersecting passageway. They were still some distance away, but they were closing fast. Just then, the door to the Emperor’s study opened. The two guards turned to face the Emperor.
It had worked, but the window of opportunity was very small if he was to strike and still make a clean getaway. Shalidar had never been one to play safe. He leaped into motion the moment the door began to move. His target was in sight. The focus of the guards was away from the corridor. He was committed.
The sound of the bell brought Emperor Surabar to his feet as if he were propelled from his seat. His chair tipped backwards, but he spun and caught it before it fell.
‘What in Shand’s name . . .’ he began, his voice trailing off as the bell tolled a second time.
The bell tolled again and again, the sorrowful tones reverberating through the Palace. Instinct carried him around the desk and towards the door, but he paused before his hand touched the handle. Was this a trap? Did someone want him to move from his study? On the other hand someone could be trying to draw the guards away in order to trap him inside. ‘Damned if I move and damned if I don’t,’ he thought grimly. ‘Whatever I do is likely to be wrong.’ Maybe someone was playing a prank. It seemed unlikely. This had the feel of an assassination attempt.
He raised his hand towards the door handle again. Once more he stopped. Should he open the door or barricade it? His desk was heavy. It would slow down any potential assailant. There were weapons on the wall that he could wield if it came to it. ‘If I open the door, I would be a fool to do so unprepared,’ he thought. He went to the nearest wall and drew a sword from its ornamental scabbard. He hefted it to test the weight and balance of the blade. It was a little heavier than he preferred, but it was a good weapon. ‘It will do,’ he decided.
The guards turned inwards towards him as he opened the door. They looked confused and worried. A movement to his left caught his eye. He recognised Shalidar instantly. The assassin was almost upon the left-hand guard. Surabar opened his mouth to give warning, but the assassin struck before he had a chance to speak. A crossbow bolt flashed past him from left to right, missing his chest by no more than a hand span. Before he had a chance to raise his sword more than halfway to the horizontal, pain erupted in his right side. His breath froze in his throat and he lost his grip on the sword. The passageway tilted alarmingly as his legs collapsed from under him. His mind could not fathom what had happened. His perspective of the corridor was wrong. It made no sense. Shalidar had been attacking from his left. What had hit him from the right?
Then Shalidar was standing over him. The assassin’s cold smile was more than he could bear. Fury burned within him,
a white-hot hatred that spewed a string of curses to his lips. The strange thing was he could not articulate them. His body was not responding. Nothing made sense. The world was spinning out of control. He was choking, drowning in a sea of fiery red anger.
Shalidar speared down the corridor with barely a whisper of sound to mark his passing. The Emperor saw him before either of the guards, but by then it was too late. The assassin rammed his knife at the thin metal backplate of the nearest guard with his left hand. The ceremonial armour was not designed to withstand a strike of such force. The knife sliced right through the metal. The man stiffened with shock and pain. At the same time Shalidar grabbed the guard’s right hand, which was holding the mini crossbow. In the blink of an eye, he had angled the weapon up at the second guard and triggered the firing mechanism. There was a thunk, thud, followed by a short pause and then another thunk, thud.
Shalidar shoved the dying guard forward and drew another knife, but his work was done. The first thunk, thud, sounds had marked the release of the crossbow bolt and the projectile striking the second guard high in the chest. This second guard, thrown back by the force of the bolt, had then inadvertently squeezed the trigger on his own crossbow resulting in the second rapid sequence of sounds. To the assassin’s delight, the stray bolt fired by the dying guard had struck the Emperor in the side of his ribcage. Fired at point-blank range, the arrow had penetrated deep into his chest.
Both guards and the Emperor fell almost simultaneously, the Emperor’s sword clattering on the floor. The two guards were as good as dead before they fell. The Emperor’s wound was also mortal. Blood flowed freely from the wound in his side, and frothed at his mouth and nose. The bolt had clearly punctured his right lung. Without a miracle, the Emperor would be dead inside the next few minutes, most likely by drowning in his own blood. It was tempting to finish him, but Shalidar thought better of it. Chance had played in his favour. He would no longer have to worry about the Guild subjecting him to truth serum. He had not directly killed the Emperor and he could say so in all truth.
Under the influence of truth serum no man could lie. There was a way to beat the power of the potion. He had done it once before. The method was not pleasant, but the stakes were so high, he would have been willing to endure the discomfort, the feelings of violation and the risk of betrayal involved in allowing a sorcerer to meddle with his memories. Old Memison had already delved through Shalidar’s memories once. He knew enough of the assassin’s past to see him executed a hundred times over. Whatever else the sorcerer might be, he had proved himself to be no tattler.
Emperor Surabar was slumped in the doorway, neither sitting nor lying. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound made it past his lips. He coughed. More blood bubbled and dribbled from his mouth. His eyes burned with hatred more intense than any Shalidar had ever seen. For the slightest moment he felt a cold shiver run down his spine, then a shout sounded behind him. A group of guards were rounding the corner from a side corridor. The guard who had shouted was loading a crossbow. Shalidar did not hesitate. He hurdled the bodies of the guards and sprinted off down the corridor.
The assassin darted into the first side passage to his left. As he did so a crossbow bolt ricocheted off the wall behind him, missing him by no more than a finger’s width. High on adrenalin he raced down the passageway and turned again, this time through an unmarked door that led to a service stairwell. It was well that he knew the Palace intimately, for without such knowledge, escape would be unlikely.
The bell would have put the guards on full alert at all the outer gates. They did not normally check people exiting the Palace, but under the circumstances it was unlikely that he would get past them without being stopped. That left two options. He could hide within the Palace, or he could exit the Palace by a route that the guards would not be watching. The latter option was preferable. Once the guards got organised, they would search the Palace thoroughly. Shalidar was sure that some of the hiding places he knew would fool the guards, but there was always the chance that one of them might get lucky.
Foregoing the obvious exits, he turned left and climbed up the stairs. With feather-light footsteps he raced up a floor, taking the steps two at a time. The stairwell was square with the steps turning at each corner. He reached the landing area and opened the door into the top-floor corridor system. A smile touched his lips briefly as he paused in the doorway, for he could hear his pursuers clattering downwards and away from him. ‘So far, so good,’ he thought.
There were folk gathering in the corridor and there was a buzz of speculation. The bell was still tolling its mournful message. Kalheen must have done a good job of barricading the door, Shalidar realised. The guards would certainly be trying to get into the tower by now.
Twice people tried to question the assassin as he passed, but he brushed them aside by frowning and claiming important Imperial business. His purposeful stride and officious manner were enough to prevent bystanders impeding his progress.
When he reached the end of the corridor, he turned right and then immediately left into the drawing room there. Nobody was inside. Shalidar closed the door behind him. There was enough light from the windows that he did not need to light a torch. He crossed the room to the window nearest the left corner. It opened easily. He looked out across the Palace grounds and over the outer wall to the cluttered hotchpotch of buildings that crowded around the Imperial stronghold. It looked almost as if the city buildings were bustling around the Palace, pushing and shoving one another to try to get as close as possible.
Shalidar’s eyes swept downwards to the area below the window. It was a long way to the ground, but he had made the climb safely before on several occasions. The descent was not difficult for a talented climber, but there was always a risk of falling, no matter how slight.
Shalidar switched his focus back inside for a moment. He reached up and twisted the right-hand end stop from the curtain pole. The curtain was easy to remove. The heavy material had hung from as high as he could reach to the floor – a useful length. He rolled it into a bundle and leaned out of the window to see if he could see anyone moving about in the Palace grounds below. There did not appear to be anyone around. This was not a surprise. The guards were most likely concentrated around the gates. He dropped the bundle and watched as it descended to the ground. The thud as it landed was clearly audible despite the tolling of the bell. He waited for a moment to see if the noise aroused any interest. No one came running.
With one last look around, he climbed out of the window and eased along the ledge to the nearest corner of the building. The fancy stonework that decorated the corners of the Palace buildings offered plenty of handholds. The only disadvantage was that descending a corner made him more visible against the night sky. His silhouette would stand out far more readily than if he descended a flat wall.
He descended quickly, making the fancy cornerstones and gargoyles appear much like a ladder as his hands and feet found purchase with ease. No more than two minutes later he was back on solid ground. There was plenty of deep shadow in the Palace gardens. His black cloak, leggings and boots made him feel all but invisible. He scouted the ground under the window and retrieved the curtain bundle.
‘Hey, you! Stop where you are!’
Instinctive reaction made Shalidar glance up. It was a mistake. His face reflected the moonlight, giving a clearer target for the guards to aim at.
‘How in Shand’s name did he get down there?’ a voice exclaimed from a second window. The assassin’s face split into a wide grin at the comment. ‘Let them wonder,’ he thought. It was unlikely that the guards would follow his path down the side of the building. He exploded into a sprint across the gardens.
His muscles automatically tensed at the thunk, thunk sound of two crossbow bolts being released, but the shots were wild. He did not even hear the bolts land. The crossbows used by the guards were not renowned for their accuracy. There was always the chance of a lucky shot, but they were more for short ra
nge and deterrence than for use as a precision long-range weapon. As soon as he had run a reasonable distance from the main building, he knew he was in little danger from those in the upper-floor windows.
He reached the outer wall of the Palace gardens. The wall was high, more than twice as tall as he was, and topped with iron spikes. The creamy-coloured stone had been rendered smooth. There was no way of climbing it without a rope . . . or a curtain, Shalidar thought with a grin. He unrolled the material with a flick and then whipped it up towards the spikes on the top of the wall. His first attempt failed to snag anything, but his second tangled on two of the iron spikes. Working quickly he twisted the material until it became like a thick rope and then, with one final tug to ensure it was secure enough to take his weight, he began to climb.
A crossbow bolt clattered against the wall about three paces to his right. To get an arrow that close was a good shot considering the range, but close was not good enough. He walked up the wall, pulling hand over hand as he climbed the makeshift rope. The cloth began to rip as he reached the crown of the wall, but the hem acted as a stop point for the tear. The ascent took seconds. Pausing a moment to fasten the curtain material more securely, he stepped carefully over the spikes and flipped the trailing end over to the other side of the wall.
With a last glance back at the Palace, he took a double handful of cloth in preparation to begin his descent. As he did so there was a sickening thud combined with an explosion of pain in his right thigh. The shock and pain took him by surprise. In what seemed like slow motion, Shalidar lost his balance and toppled off the wall.
CHAPTER TWO
‘Is this it?’ Reynik asked, keeping his voice low.
‘Yes, this is the place,’ Femke replied. ‘He’s many things, but pretentious is not one of them.’
Reynik nodded. If Femke said this plain-looking country house was where they were going, he would follow her with the utmost confidence. The young woman spy was not much older than he was, but she had a wealth of experience.