by Mark Robson
‘I agree. The only way to deal safely with the magic in this icon is to destroy the master power source. Logic dictates that the bonding stone provides the main power for the network of force that links all the icons to their bearers. Break the bonds between the icons and the mother stone and all the subsidiary links between the icons and the assassins will fail as well. That’s the theory anyway.’
‘And if you’re wrong?’ Lord Kempten asked.
Jabal frowned. ‘Well,’ he said carefully, ‘I do not normally err when it comes to such things. However, if the bonds were more complex than I believe them to be, then your objective would still be achieved. The Guild of Assassins would be destroyed. Unfortunately, the likely outcome in that case would be that anyone wearing an icon would die with the destruction of the stone.’
A cold silence enveloped the room as the magician’s words sunk in. Reynik felt sick. It was hard to know how much of his nausea was a result of the magic Jabal had just performed and how much due to his ominous words. Nothing had gone right since Reynik had infiltrated the Guild. It was little short of miraculous that he was still alive, given all his encounters with the Guild assassins. The thought that, even if he were to take no further part in the conflict, by destroying the Guild his life may still be forfeit did not seem fair. Where was the justice in it?
He drew in a deep breath through his nose and exhaled slowly through pursed lips. He knew it was not his decision, but he was determined to have a say.
‘We should do it,’ he stated. Every eye in the room settled on him, but he ignored them all. He stared into space, reflecting on all the grievances he now held with the Guild. ‘We should go ahead and do it,’ he repeated firmly. ‘We have come this far. We cannot back down now.’
‘But the risk—’ Lord Kempten began.
‘Is no more than I have faced already. However, we need to be prepared for the more likely outcome. If the destruction of the stone merely breaks the link between the assassins and their icons, we will not destroy the Guild – merely break up its primary form of transport around the city and cause them to relocate their headquarters. We’ll need to be prepared to round them all up and bring them to justice. It won’t be easy.’
‘There’s another element to your situation, Reynik, of which you might not yet be aware,’ Jabal said thoughtfully.
‘More trouble, Jabal? Can it get much worse? What have we missed now?’ Kempten asked, his voice heavy with dread.
To Kempten’s surprise his friend did not reply to him, but instead looked Reynik squarely in the eyes. ‘From what I read of the icons, I understand that Derrigan added a little safety device to ensure the assassins remained loyal to the Guild. How long have you had your icon, Reynik?’
‘A week . . . ten days . . . I’ve not been counting.’
‘Then I suggest you begin. If you do not return to the bonding stone within a certain time period, the icon will return on its own.’
‘But that would mean . . .’ Reynik did not finish his sentence.
‘Yes, you’ll die anyway,’ Jabal confirmed.
‘Very clever,’ Lord Kempten said, nodding. ‘I can see why the Guild had Derrigan instil the icons with that property. Do you know how long Reynik has, Jabal?’
‘No. The text was not that specific. It could be anything from a matter of weeks to a period measured in years.’
Reynik was astonished by this development. ‘Why didn’t they tell me?’ he asked. ‘Do you think they knew who I was all along?’
‘I doubt it,’ Jabal replied. ‘It’s more likely that they don’t tell new members about this until a probationary period has been completed.’
‘So, the sand is trickling through the hourglass,’ Lord Kempten observed thoughtfully. ‘Does anyone have any suggestions?’
‘Yes,’ Reynik replied immediately. ‘First, let me rescue Femke. I feel sure she’s still alive. With Femke’s resourcefulness, we would stand a much better chance of completing the rest of our objectives.’
‘We’ve been through this, Reynik,’ Kempten replied, a note of anger in his tone. ‘It’s too dangerous. Femke is lost to us. We must manage without her.’
‘Femke?’ asked Calvyn. ‘That wouldn’t be the same Femke who visited the King’s Court in Mantor a few months ago, would it?’
Reynik looked at him with surprise. ‘Yes. How did you know that?’
‘I was there when she was introduced to the King. She did seem a sharp young woman. An ambassador, I believe.’
Lord Kempten gave an embarrassed cough and Lady Kempten smiled knowingly. Jabal raised an eyebrow at their response.
‘I take it she’s a little more than just an ambassador,’ the magician observed with a straight face. ‘As she’s clearly not one of the Guild, then I assume she must be part of the Imperial spy network.’
‘One of their best,’ Kempten confirmed.
‘I sensed something of her nature in the King’s Court. She has a quick mind,’ Calvyn said thoughtfully. ‘As her mind harboured no hint of a threat to the King’s immediate safety, I didn’t interfere with her visit. The Guild is holding her prisoner, you say? Do you have a plan to get her out?’
‘I have a rough plan,’ Reynik replied. ‘But it would be very risky.’
Calvyn turned to Jabal.
‘Master, I should be able to reduce the risks involved. If I were to accompany Reynik into the Guild headquarters, I could shield us both long enough to see us safely in and out. If Femke is still alive, there are unlikely to be any in the Guild with the power to stop me from taking her.’
Jabal scratched at his right eyebrow as he considered Calvyn’s proposal. He did not look happy about the idea, but he did not appear to be dismissing it out of hand.
‘I’ll think on it,’ he said eventually. ‘In the meantime, there are other details that will require attention. One in particular bothers me. I find it incomprehensible that the Guild would build their headquarters under the Imperial Palace without having some sort of conventional way in and out. If there were no conventional exit and I were to destroy the magical transportation system they use, they would be trapped in the Guild complex. This would be madness on the part of the Guild. I refuse to accept that any sane man would design such a place. There has to be another entrance, and we need to find it.’
‘I was reading books on the construction of the Palace when the two assassins attacked me in the city library,’ Reynik offered. ‘There are two books there with tags that have clearly been put in place by the Guild. I suspect there may be information there that might lead us to a secret entrance. If so, it would likely be in the cellars of the Palace. It’s a shame I can’t ask the librarian. Unfortunately she had to leave Shandrim for her own safety. I’d be a fool to go back to the library now. The Guild will know that I haven’t yet got what I was looking for. They’ll more than likely have watchers looking for me to return. However, that doesn’t preclude someone else from going.’
‘I can do that,’ Jabal volunteered. ‘I can protect myself against any attack the Guild might try. I like libraries. They’re places of calm and order.’
‘If you’d seen Shandrim Library yesterday, you might have reservations about that statement,’ Reynik laughed. ‘It was anything but calm and orderly. As long as you’re discreet about your research, I doubt you’ll have problems. I can describe the books and the library tags you’ll be looking for.’
Lord Kempten nodded and his lips tightened into a thin line. ‘It sounds as if we have a plan,’ he observed.
How Ferdand could ever believe Femke would join the Guild of Assassins in order to preserve her life was beyond her. He had listed it as an option, but he was making a big assumption: that she would consider joining those whom she had cast as her enemy. It had taken every ounce of self-control she possessed not to spit in his face at the mention of such an idea. She had been most grateful when he had been called away to a meeting shortly after telling her his perceived alternatives. His departure had given
her a chance to re-establish a firmer control of her emotions.
She had searched the room thoroughly for anything that could be of use in an attempt to escape, but whoever had placed her here had done a good job of removing all potential weapons. There was little of use. The chair she had been tied to was sturdy enough. She could use it as a weapon if pushed, but it would not be manoeuvrable enough to be effective. It would be better used as a shield than a weapon in its current state. She could break it up and make something sharp from the pieces, but to do so would make noise. She could ill afford to draw attention to herself as potential trouble.
All major pieces of furniture had been removed. The only decoration she noted was a wooden plaque above the door with an elaborate sea snake carved into the face of it. There was a cloth mattress, poorly stuffed, on the floor. There was a flagon of water in one corner of the room, but aside from that, there was nothing that could be easily broken or robbed for potential materials. One thing she had noticed when Ferdand had left was that there was no bolt on the outside of the door. The only bolt was on the inside. It was clear that the Guild did not make a habit of holding prisoners.
This room was likely the bedroom of one of the assassins’ suites. If the design of the suites were similar, then the door opened into the living area, which was consistent with the brief glimpse she had gained of the room beyond the door. Her cloak was on the mattress. The clasp had been removed, but the material had been left, presumably as a blanket. She picked it up and wrapped it around her left arm several times.
Placing her right hand on the door handle, she turned it as slowly as she could. Despite her best effort at silence, she was still turning it with infinite care when the handle was wrenched from her grasp and the point of a blade lunged towards her chest. It stopped just short of making contact, but was close enough to make her heart leap in fear. The bitter taste of bile rose to the back of her mouth.
‘What d’you want?’ the servant demanded. He was holding the sword as if he knew how to use it, which made what she had in mind far more dangerous. At least he was alone, she noted. If there had been more than one guarding the door, she would have given up there and then. The man’s brown robe looked to be made of quite heavy material: another factor that did not help her cause.
‘A d . . . drink, please, and some f . . . food if you have any,’ she replied, her shaking voice only half feigned.
‘There’s water in the corner over there,’ he said, pointing with his sword briefly before returning the tip to her chest. ‘You’ll have to wait for food like the rest of us. What’s wrong with your arm?’
‘Pins and needles: the pressure helps take away the discomfort and stops me scratching.’
Femke allowed her shoulders to slump and she began to turn to her right, back towards her prison. Out of the corner of her eye she noted the servant relaxing as she turned. He started to lower his guard with the sword just a fraction and reach for the door handle. Femke did not hesitate. She spun back to the left, brushing the sword blade aside with her wrapped left arm and driving the ball of her right foot up in a vicious kick at the man’s groin. Her foot drove home with satisfying force. The man doubled over and lost his grip on the sword, which fell with a ringing clatter to the floor. Femke followed up her kick with a double-fisted strike to the back of the man’s neck that sent him to the floor.
The pain she was left with in the sides of her hands bore testimony to how hard she had hit him. It was not surprising, therefore, that when he hit the floor the servant did not so much as groan. He was completely out cold.
Femke’s breath hissed out through clenched teeth as she shook her hands in an effort to dispel the pain. She unwrapped her left arm and picked up the sword. Carrying such a weapon would be dangerous. She had no pretences of being a master swordswoman. If she were to face an assassin with a blade in her hand, it would guarantee her death.
She looked around for somewhere to put it out of the way. The best place she could think of was under her mattress. It had the advantage of being inside her prison, though it was a painfully obvious hiding place. All she could hope was that her captors would expect her to conceal acquired weapons with care. There was a slight chance that they would not check the obvious. She was under no illusions of her chances of escaping the Guild complex, but escape was not the only reason to break out from her single room. As every spy knew, information was often the key to controlling situations. Any intelligence she could gather by scouting the complex might prove crucial in the long run.
Having stowed the sword, Femke checked the servant for signs of consciousness. When she lifted his right eyelid, the iris did not contract at all. She pinched hard on one of his earlobes but he did not flinch. Given the lack of response she guessed he would remain unconscious for some time. His pulse was strong, so she had no worries about having inadvertently killed him.
She grabbed his arms and dragged him through into the room in which she had been held. As a finishing touch, she rolled him onto the mattress. Would they think to look under the mattress if he were found lying on it? Hopefully not.
Creeping out and across the living room, Femke paused by the outer door to listen. If there had been a further guard, surely he would have come running immediately at the sound of the falling sword, she thought. She opened the door. The corridor was empty: so far, so good.
Despite stretching, her muscles still felt stiff from her extended period of being tied in the chair, but Femke was so practised at moving silently that her body automatically compensated for any inflexibility. At first, she thought the noise she could hear was the faint guttering of the flames from the wall-mounted torches. She paused for a moment to listen. It was not the torches, she realised. The faint muttering was the distant sound of voices in discussion. Eagerly, but with even more caution, she moved forward to see if she could get close enough to hear what was being said.
As she approached the door at the end of the short corridor, it became clear that the voices were originating from the chamber beyond the door. It seemed likely that the door would open into a cubicle in the central chamber of the Guild. With painstaking care, Femke turned the handle and pushed the door open just a crack.
‘So that leaves us with Marnillus, Borchman, Tremarle and Reavis.’ It was Ferdand’s voice. Femke leaned closer to the door. She smiled as she listened, silently thanking the designer of the central chamber. The acoustics in there made eavesdropping easy.
‘Marnillus is an arrogant, self-centred fool who should have been drowned at birth,’ offered an unknown voice.
‘Self-centred and arrogant I would agree with,’ the Guildmaster replied. ‘But a fool? I’m not so sure he’s a fool. He currently holds the support of the majority of the Court. He would not hesitate to call on our services if he felt he needed them. Two of the other candidates have offered contracts on him. One has offered a significant sum.’
‘Take the contract.’
‘He would make a terrible Emperor.’
They did not know about Kempten. Excitement welled within Femke. The Guild sought to control the succession in their favour, but they had no idea that the race for the Mantle was an irrelevance.
‘Very well,’ she heard Ferdand say. ‘Those who believe the Guild should accept the contract on Marnillus say “aye”.’
A resounding chorus of ‘aye’ echoed in the chamber.
‘Noted. What of Lord Reavis? It would be his contract that we would be fulfilling.’
‘Reavis is a buffoon,’ answered a different voice. ‘Assassination would be his answer to every difficult question. He would bring plenty of trade for us, but would run the Empire to ruin in no time.’
‘There’s a contract on him, too. Should we take it?’ asked Ferdand.
‘No. By killing him as well, we would be too obviously controlling the outcome of the succession.’ The voice was that of the woman who had been in Femke’s chamber earlier. ‘He’s not likely to win enough votes from the Court. Leave him
be.’
‘I tend to agree.’ Ferdand replied. ‘Although the fees offered on some of these contracts are attractive, by showing restraint, we stand to gain in the longer term. What of the rest of you? Who thinks we should take the contract on Reavis?’
Femke judged that only two voices answered in the affirmative. It appeared that Lord Reavis had just won a reprieve.
‘What of the last two? Brother Dragon, you have had dealings with Lord Tremarle. What do you make of him?’
‘I have to confess a bias, Guildmaster.’ Femke’s blood ran cold as she identified the voice of Shalidar. ‘As you well know, Lord Tremarle has used me as his assassin of choice for over a decade. My support for him as a candidate of choice should be taken with little weight, as his gaining the Mantle would place me in the enviable position of being the preferred assassin of the Emperor. Tremarle has not placed many contracts over the years, but those he has placed have been carefully considered. He is intelligent, conservative and he had no love for Surabar, which will win him much support amongst the “old school”.’
‘I’ll bet you wouldn’t remain his “assassin of choice” for long if he knew you killed his son,’ Femke thought with a grimace. Mentally she noted it as an item for her agenda if she managed to get out of here.
‘Thank you for your honesty, Brother Dragon. From what I’ve seen, much the same description could be said to apply to Lord Borchman.’
‘Except that he never uses assassins,’ another voice pointed out.
‘What’s that, Brother Viper?’ Ferdand asked.
‘It’s true that Borchman had no love of Surabar,’ Viper confirmed. ‘But he also has no love of assassins. He has always dealt with his problems personally. To my knowledge he has killed three people in duels and severely scarred several others. I don’t believe he would maintain the anaethus drax order, but I doubt you’d see many contracts coming from the Palace if Borchman wore the Mantle.’
‘Interesting! That’s something I’d not noticed about him. I’d assumed as he was “old school” that he would—’