Kingshold

by D P Woolliscroft

  The killer bent to retrieve the knife, wiped it on the victim’s shirt, and then stood. After admiring his work for a moment, the assassin looked directly toward the erstwhile thieves peering through the crack in the door and blew them a kiss.

  Chapter 13

  Assassin

  Motega stood in shock as the slim figure, unsure if it was a man or woman, turned and moved quickly into the adjoining office.

  “Fuck!” He shout-whispered, remembering seeing the office door open when they’d been racing back upstairs. “I knew we had closed the door. Bastard used our break-in. Move! Now!”

  Motega threw open the changing room door and ran full tilt to where the assassin had disappeared into the darkness, leaping over the bed with all semblance of stealth now discarded. Motega reached the window as the killer came to the end of the tightrope and the safety of the building across the street. He had his knife in hand and was about to cut the line, royally screwing them, when his head became the target for the outstretched talons of Per.

  Waving his arms in the air, he beat at the bird, giving Motega enough time to bridge half the distance across the tightrope. The assassin landed a good blow on the falcon, knocking it to the rooftop with a screech, and looking up, saw the figure of Motega bearing down, his eyes blazing and lip turned up in a snarl. The killer turned tail and ran across the rooftops.

  Once the solid slate was beneath his feet, Motega glanced to make sure Per was fine and picked up his bow and quiver. Florian reached the rooftop as Motega sprinted up and over the pitched roof in pursuit of the assassin.

  Two figures in black, running at close to full speed at the crown of the pitched roof, chased the other dark figure who’d managed to build a thirty-yard lead while Motega had paused. Motega pumped his arms and tried not to think about the slipperiness of the slate roof, hearing Florian coming up behind him. They were gaining on the assassin, but the masked figure continued to run even though the elevated highway was about to end.

  The impending street didn’t stop the fleeing figure. Without a pause, the assassin leaped from the edge of the building out across the twenty-foot gap, landing on a lower, long, flat roof, rolling to manage the momentum from the drop.

  Florian was almost alongside Motega now. “Are we jumping, too?” he called over their pounding feet and rapid breaths.

  “Yes…” Motega leaped into the air, arms spinning for momentum, landing in a roll to come up sprinting, Florian doing the same a second behind him. He would love to have been able to stop and get a clear shot with his bow, but at this pace, in the dark, and without Per’s eyes to help, it would never work. They were gaining on the assassin, though, as they leaped from one building to the next in pursuit: twenty yards between them.

  The reason for the assassin’s slowdown became abundantly clear as a sharp pain went first into one heel, and then into the ball of his other foot. Motega fell to his knees, unable to run or even walk. Bloody caltrops. The soft leather boots they were wearing for stealth work were perfect to muffle their steps, not so good to stop an inch of sharpened steel. Motega pulled the spikes from his feet as Florian, noticing what had befallen his friend, jumped over the trap and continued pursuit.

  Motega had been down for a matter of seconds, but was now trying to catch up. Pain from his feet made him grimace and grunt as he tried to get back up to the same speed as before, but not quite managing it, effectively double-limping. He considered it fortunate that, at least, it seemed the caltrops weren’t poisoned. But then again, it could also take a minute or two for any substance to reach his brain or heart when entering through his feet. Probably best not to think about it.

  Now, he could hear the clash of steel on steel as he trusted his ears in his pursuit and jumped between two buildings over a narrow alleyway. The assassin had run out of runway.

  Ahead of Motega, the buildings ended and were now surrounded by wide streets on three sides, as they had run all the way to the Inner Wall.

  Florian had both of his swords drawn and was engaged with the assassin who had a long, thin knife held in each hand. Motega didn’t know a better swordsman than Florian. He was stronger than most, faster than anyone would expect for a man his size, and, wielding a long sword in each hand, he was truly ambidextrous, able to adjust his stance and attack with either sword equally well, not just for showing off. And in the dark of the night, the thin sliver of moon shining down on the combatants, Florian’s blades were a blur as he pressed the attack, and Motega was struck by the beauty in his friend’s movement.

  But the assassin was clearly skilled. Dangerously so. He danced away from each blow, a thrust sidestepped or a cut deflected with a knife to fall inches away from his body. Motega had his bow in hand, and an arrow notched and drawn, but the combatants were too close to each other and moved too quickly to be able to get a clean shot even at this short distance.

  Florian feinted to lead with his right, but switched his weight and went low with his left. The assassin jumped the blade and Florian was waiting to hit him in the head with the hilt of his right blade. It wasn’t a clean shot. The masked figure managed to sway back while in midair and then convert the deflected momentum into a tumble.

  Now, he came at Florian. Thrusts and slashes parried on twin swords, a transparent feint to the right shoulder followed by a stab toward Florian’s thigh. That Florian parried, but he had opened himself up on the inside, and the assassin moved into the space, driving his forehead into his chin from below. Then the right knife came in to punch into the bigger man’s belly.

  Motega dropped his bow, pulled his war axes and charged, a war cry from his lips drawing the attention of the assassin. In that split second, a long sword flashed, nearly cleaving the killer’s skull in two, but again he dodged in time, though the blade caught his mask and ripped it in half. Shoulder-length red hair, suddenly free, blew in the night breeze.

  Florian was alright. The chainmail he wore under his jerkin stopped the strike, and now he advanced on the assassin with Motega spreading out to his left to attack her flank.

  She, and it was clearly a woman with her face partially revealed, stepped back to the edge of the wall, a three-story drop behind her. With a flourish, she pulled off the remains of her mask, revealing a thin, lightly freckled face with grey eyes and a broad, thin-lipped smile.

  “Thank you, sirs, for the welcome mat you laid out for me this evening. And for the workout, of course.” Then she stepped backward and fell from the roof, feet first.

  Motega and Florian rushed to the edge and looked over, seeing the lady assassin push off a ledge two floors below, no more than three inches wide, and somersault backward to land on her feet. She turned and ran off down the street.

  Florian looked at his friend. “Can you do that?” he asked.

  “No,” said Motega. “Can you?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Florian, shaking his head. “I jumped off three floors once into a hay cart. That was fun, but there ain’t no hay cart here.”

  “Nope. I guess we lost her.” Motega shrugged. They stood there for a moment, both gazing off in the direction where the assassin had run.

  “She was good,” said Motega, breaking the silence. He looked at his friend. “I thought she had you there for a minute.”

  “It was close. How are your feet?”

  “They hurt like hell. Hey, where’s Trypp? Wasn’t he behind you?”

  “Shit. I thought he was,” said Florian, looking around. “You want to go back and look?”

  “Hey, you up there!” A voice called from below. “Stay where you are, you’re under arrest!”

  Four city guard had arrived at the foot of the building where they stood. They must have seen the acrobatics, and then it had taken them a moment to notice Motega and Florian standing on the roof with weapons in hand.

  Obviously, their luck was well and truly spent.

  Motega secured his axes while Florian sheathed his swords. Grasping his hand and looking his friend in the eye,
he nodded and spoke one word.

  “Split.”

  The sun was up, and it had been for some hours. Motega and Florian lay on their beds on opposite sides of the small room at the Royal Oak Inn, staring up at the ceiling.

  “He must have been captured,” Motega sat upright to fidget with the bandages on his feet, “How long have we been back?”

  “Six hours since you hobbled in,” said his friend, eyes still intent on a small patch of damp plaster.

  “Right! Six bloody hours,” said Motega. “So, has he been captured by the city guard? And are they going to pin the murder on him?”

  “If they’ve got him,” began Florian, as he rolled into a sitting position and looked at Motega. Florian was shirtless, bandages wrapped around his stomach, a small spot of blood seeping through, which he kept checking to see if it had stopped bleeding. “And I do mean if. Then yeah, he’s going to take the blame. The lord treasurer killed in his own home, and Trypp either stuck in there for some reason or running across the rooftops away from the scene of the murder dressed all in black. And the syndicate won’t own Trypp if asked, won’t even admit to the existence of a contract. If they got him, then I hope they just decide to turn it into something public.”

  “What do you mean something public?”

  “You know. Do it by the book,” explained Florian. “Put him before the justices. Hang him in public.”

  Motega regarded his friend, confused. “Florian, why do you want to see your friend hang?”

  “Not so he can hang. So we can rescue him,” said Florian in a way that made Motega think he’d been the one to say something stupid. “I read this book once about outlaws who saved some of their own on the gallows by shooting the nooses with an arrow, and when they fell, they escaped. Could you do that, Mot?”

  “Depends on how thick it is. I can hit the rope easy enough. But if the rope is too thick, then it’s not going to be cut with one of my arrows, and it will be up to Trypp’s weight to see if it’ll snap. The arrow head is too small and pointy. I guess I could use two, but the element of surprise might be lost.”

  “So, what’s your idea then?”

  “I think we’d have to break into the jail, use a disguise to get us in, like washerwomen or guard uniforms. Then we could slip him some tools to get out or we could try to escort him out if it’s dark enough.”

  The door to the bedroom started to open. “Remind me never to get caught because your two escape plans have to be the worst I’ve ever heard.”

  “Trypp!” Both the injured friends got up from their beds to grasp him by the hand and squeeze him in a bear hug. They noticed he was unharmed and looked unruffled and, actually, he seemed to have a big smile plastered across his face.

  “Hey, where have you been?” asked Motega. “We were worried sick.”

  Trypp went over to the third bed they’d asked the landlady to squeeze into the one room—funds being a little tight since their meeting with the Twilight Exiles—and sat down. “You both went so fast after the assassin. And I was so close to jumping right behind you, honest I was. And then I thought about Sharavin, and we wouldn’t be able to give her money, which would mean it’d be rough for you Mot, and me, of course.”

  “Why me?” asked Motega. “You were the one she wanted to kill.”

  “Because you’re the one who negotiated it. As far as she was concerned, it was your debt.”

  “Was?”

  “Let me finish the story. So, there I was, one foot on the window sill waiting for that dainty little fellow,” Trypp gestured to Florian, “to get across the tightrope before I set foot on it. And then I thought, well, Hoxteth is dead now. So all hope of secrecy around our job was gone. And, of course, our employers’ plan to discredit Hoxteth wasn’t going to be necessary anymore. So, I went back to the desk, and took the chest of gems.” Trypp held up both hands in mock surrender. “Look, before you say anything, I’m not proud of it. Burglary. Not our usual style. I know. But desperate times and all that.”

  Florian walked over to Trypp, hand outstretched. “So, where are they? Let me see?” Trypp dug around in his pocket and dropped a purse of clinking coins into his hands. “These aren’t gems. Feels like gold to me.”

  “You’d be right about that, my fine friend. By the time I had the little chest out of the desk and got across the tightrope, you both had gone, and I wasn’t sure where. So, I went straight to Mother to give her the present. Here’s the good news: your debt is lifted, Motega. The bad news is she already knew about what had happened in the Inner Circle last night.

  “She believed me when I said we didn’t do the killing, but she knew I wasn’t going to be able to fence these gems for months, as no one would want to touch them. So, she gave me a terrible price on them. Debt cleared and fifty crowns for all those gems. It’s not a win, but I’ll take it right now.”

  “And so, how long did all that take, Trypp?” asked Motega. “It’s been hours.”

  “All taken care of before the sun came up, Mot,” said Trypp, the big grin appearing again. “Sharavin wasn’t too happy about me waking her up in the middle of the night. But there was one more bit of good news, at least for me. All those gems, the sunrise, being back to my usual charming self. Well she could hardly resist, could she?”

  “You bastard.” Motega punched his friend playfully on the arm. “Florian and I take a beating, almost get caught, and then we sit here waiting up for you like your old mum, and that’s what you’ve been up to for hours?”

  “I see you two have been in the wars,” Trypp said, looking over the injuries they were both carrying. “So, did you catch her?”

  “Her?” asked Florian. “I thought it was a man until we got her mask off. How did you know when you only saw her for a couple of seconds?”

  “I put it together. There’s only one person I know of in the Hollow Syndicate who could get away from you both and still give you a hiding. That, my friends, was Lady Chalice.”

  Chapter 14

  The Diminishing Privy Council

  Hoskin entered the privy council chamber and took his seat at the head of the table. Hoxteth’s place was empty, but around the table sat Lords Beneval, Uthridge, and Ridgton, Aebur the spymaster, and Sir Penshead. And at the other end of the table was Jyuth, the first council meeting he had decided to join since the king’s death.

  “Lords, gentlemen. Thank you for coming today,” said Hoskin, opening the meeting. “Our first order of business will be what you’ve all already heard, the untimely death of our friend Lord Hoxteth. Sir Penshead, please provide a report of what is known.”

  The knight rose from his seat, dressed in ceremonial tabard with a long sword belted at his waist. He coughed to clear his throat and began to pace around the table, hands clasped behind his back.

  “I spoke with Lady Grey, Hoxteth’s widow, and she informed me they had been out that evening at a party held at the merchants’ guild house, where they were courting potential demon-holders from ten o’clock.

  “Around midnight, Lord Hoxteth grew tired of the company and wished to return home, and so, they traveled to their house in the upper district by carriage. They noticed a commotion in the courtyard as they arrived, a fire in the carriage house they assumed was caused by one of the men who lived there. The household staff and guards put out the fire while the lord treasurer went to his room to change.

  “Lady Grey remained to see to the fire until she heard a woman’s scream from inside, and then a call for her to come quickly. A maid, who was described as being hysterical, found the lady and brought her to the bedchamber, where she discovered her husband, dead on the floor with a single stab wound through the eye and into the brain.”

  There was much muttering and tuttering around the table, a shaking of heads as Penshead continued his circle and his tale.

  “There was no sign of a struggle, so he was apparently taken by surprise. An open window was discovered in a room adjoining the bedchamber with indications of a break-in. T
he manner of the killing and the lack of witnesses, theft, or collateral damage make me confident it was an assassination.

  “One patrol near the Inner Wall reported seeing two figures dressed in black on the rooftops after a third person was seen fleeing the scene, but, unfortunately, no one was apprehended. I have a captain waiting at the Hollow House now in the hopes of talking to Lady Chalice to receive confirmation it was one of their contracts. If so, then the case is closed. If not, then as usual, Lady Chalice will ensure the unlicensed perpetrator is hunted down and dealt with.”

  “Another assassination, Hoskin!” said Lord Beneval, looking nervous. He was commander of the palace guard, but it was more of a ceremonial title for the old man. Once he had been a talented knight, but one battle too many had destroyed his nerve. “Last week, it was Lord Garret, who had not even announced his standing for lord protector. Now, it’s Hoxteth. It could be any of us next. I’ll be increasing our protection.”

  “Lord Beneval, I think you’re safe, and most of us around the table, too,” reassured Hoskin, thinking it was time for Beneval to be put out to pasture. “You’re not a candidate, and it seems likely all of this is a winnowing of the field by one of the others. At least assuming there is no outside involvement?”

  “There won’t be any interference from outside of Edland.” Hoskin’s question had been directed at the spymaster, but it was Jyuth who answered. “I made it clear to Chalice I will get involved if I discover her house taking any contracts paid for by foreign money. And she knows she doesn’t want me involved. Look, anyone who becomes lord protector is going to face assassination attempts. Best to think of this as part of the selection process.” The wizard smiled and looked at the men who sat around the table, daring them to disagree.