by Travis Peck
The peace of the countryside was replaced by the noises of civilization: The yelling of drovers, the greetings shouted between friends, the insults slung toward people hurrying through the throng too quickly; the shrill laughter of children at play, and the murmur of conversation between citizens seeking to gain entry. All this harsh clamor reverberated around the two travelers and made it difficult to hear much else. Ifo and Arin dismounted and led their horses through the line, slowly creeping closer to the gate and their destination.
They hardly spoke, and when they did, they could barely hear each other over all the commotion going on around them. Despite the tumult, and in an effort to pass the time, Arin managed to relay to him that while he was here for business, he also had to participate in the timber synod. Ifo was impressed that his travel companion was the representative of the lumber trade. While growing up in the capital, Ifo had always heard about these groups—these synods—that advised the empire’s policymakers. Trevan explained that the synods were used by the empire as councils that were made up of representatives from various industries and professions that were important to the smooth operation of Styr.
There was a synod for the treasury, the military, the diplomacy corps, and one for each of the trades, of which Arin was a member. These synods would advise the twelve legates, and the governor from each of the empire’s member kingdoms, about their areas of expertise. Every year, at the winter solstice, the synods would gather along with the legates, governors, and even the queen herself. This confluence of the most influential citizens was called the Quorum, and it culminated in a city-wide solstice festival that lasted for a full week once the Quorum session concluded.
Ifo was glad his mission would not occur during the impending Quorum that would take place in a few months. The added security in the city would make his task much more difficult. He had known for weeks who his target was, but now that he was here, he could finally begin to focus on his plan. His contract had specified a time and place where the body had to be disposed—a certain window in the evening that was open for possible completion over the course of three consecutive evenings. If the body was there on time on one of those nights, he would receive a bonus double that of his initial contract agreement.
That bonus would allow him to retire, or at the least, would let him be much more selective about which contracts he accepted. Ifo desperately wanted to earn that bonus. He had seven days until his target had to be dumped into the sewers in the northern section of the third district, the section of city between the second and third rings of the city walls.
Although the taking of life had grown more disturbing and odious to him as he had completed more contracts, he had to admit to himself that he reveled in the challenge of it. He enjoyed the preparation and planning the most. He would be up late tonight scouting the area of the sewer and the possible routes that would be the best to take to and from the drop point.
He still had to study the guard patrols and also follow his target for several days to get used to his movement pattern. His employer would provide him with some of that information, which should be waiting for him in a packet dropped off at a hidden pick-up point that he often used when in Styr. He did not want his employer to know where he lived in the capital. For as much as he relied on the man to find contracts for him, collect his payments, and to provide the necessary intelligence needed to carry out his contracts, Ifo could not bring himself to completely trust the man. His mind churned through the details of his mission as he and Arin passed under the gate and into the beating heart of the empire.
After a candle spent traversing the throng of humanity that streamed along the main road from the gate, they finally arrived at a large square, with the northernmost boundary being the fourth wall. Ifo saw the statue of the Giver with His palms up and reaching out in their direction, as if offering them something. Wisdom, peace, or love; it was up to the beholder to decide what the Giver was offering, and up to them alone to accept.
This was the Plaza of the Overture. Ifo remembered many times when he had stood in front of the Giver and offered up his silent prayers. His young mind had often puzzled over what exactly the overture of the Giver meant for him. Most of the free days that his mentor grudgingly allowed him would often begin at the Overture, and even now, he found some measure of peace just being in front of the statue after his long absence.
Arin stood quietly beside him. Perhaps the man was giving his own thanks to the Giver, or perhaps he was just politely waiting for Ifo to finish. They both knew that this was where they would part ways. An unexpected camaraderie had formed between the two dissimilar men, and Ifo was glad of the new friendship. The silence grew heavy until they said their farewells.
“Are you in Styr long?” Ifo asked.
“I think so. With the Quorum only a few months away, I think I might as well stay here for it, rather than have to leave and return. And it will be nice to spend time with my family before I have to leave again.”
Ifo knew that Arin was looking forward to seeing his family. He appreciated the lumberman’s kindness that he had mentioned it as an afterthought. Arin was aware that Ifo had no family in Styr, or on the continent for that matter, and must have realized that it might be a touchy subject for the man, though he was not privy to the full details. Ifo was grateful for the gesture, but he had long since grown accustomed to the tragic and untimely departure of his loved ones.
“I live in the First, on Trevan Way,” Arin said. “The Trevans have been here for a while,” he added as Ifo raised an eyebrow at the prestigious address. “Feel free to stop by if—business—allows.”
Ifo knew that Arin still did not know exactly what his profession was, but he was an intelligent man and probably had a guess or two that would be close to the truth.
“I might just do that,” he said genuinely as he stripped off his traveling bag from his packhorse. The two men briefly clasped hands and, after much back slapping and well wishing, the two friends parted ways. Ifo stayed in front of the statue for a little while longer, and then shouldered his bag and made his way off to the east. He felt a twinge of sadness as the memorable journey drew to a close. Depending on how his contract went, he really did intend to take Arin up on his offer of hospitality.
As soon as he left the statue, his old ways, all the training and habits, reasserted themselves after a brief but pleasant period where they had lain dormant. Like an old coat he shrugged on after the first snow of the season, he returned to his ingrained way of life; his old profession. Ifo circled back around side streets and cut through alleys to elude anyone that might be following him, though he thought that prospect was improbable. His feet carried him almost of their own accord to the Third, and then along the path of several sewer hatches used by the unfortunate souls who had to keep the waste of the most populous city in the world flowing steadily.
Ifo’s instructions did not specify a certain hatch he was to dump the body in. He assumed that this section of sewer all flowed to the same point. Despite his best efforts to avoid thinking about why such instructions were required, his mind already had several possibilities. He figured that the body was going to be retrieved, anonymously, and the retrievers did not want to be seen by the assassin they had just paid to supply the body. A wise decision. In this business, it was best to be secretive and to tend toward paranoia.
He spent another three candles exploring the area, re-familiarizing himself with possible hiding spots, routes, and backup routes—and backup routes to those backup routes. Though he could no longer tolerate his profession, Ifo couldn’t deny that it was a part of him, and it returned to him now as naturally as breathing.
Night had fallen by the time Ifo made his way back to his lair. He rented out the second floor above a tailor’s shop whose owner was quite old and becoming increasingly more blind and hard of hearing. The perfect landlord for an assassin.
Ifo had picked up some simple fare for dinner from a food stand he used to frequent years ago
, and he had been surprised—and quite pleased—that it was still operating. He brought home several spicy turella, some bread, and he could not resist stopping by a local watering hole for a large brown jug of Merovian lager. He was anxious to get settled back into his quarters and begin to study the additional information that he had retrieved from his pick-up point that was near the food stand.
His flat was as he had left it: austere and uncluttered but functional and comfortably simple. He slung his travel bag onto the bench near the door and set to work sweeping out the year of dust that had accumulated over every surface. The apartment was inexpensive, and most important, unremarkable in every way. His flat was modest; nothing more than a bedroom, a small living area, and a kitchen.
The kitchen consisted of a small stove, that also heated the flat during the winter, a butcher’s block, and a few cabinets. The one luxury was a small privy off his bedroom; city life did have its benefits, and that was one that Ifo had been quite pleased with.
Everything about the apartment was ordinary except for the hidden room in between the kitchen and the entrance to the bedroom. A wardrobe in the bedroom had a false back that opened up with unobtrusive latches and revealed a room two arm’s lengths deep and one wide. Not a large room, but it accommodated all the tools of Ifo’s trade. From weapons, to lock-picking kits, to thin, but strong, black ropes, his special cache of assassin’s tools had every item he could ever need. A dozen uniforms from as many establishments and professions also hung on the far wall that he used for disguises when necessary. In short, the room held anything and everything that an experienced assassin might have a use for, and it was perfectly hidden within his unassuming domicile.
Once the straightening up was done, the contents of his travel bag stowed away, oiled, and cleaned once more, Ifo poured himself a glass of Merovian and began to rifle through the documents that he had been provided with. He found a list of patrol schedules and a roster of local guardsmen that had been known to find the bottom of a bottle of spirits more enticing than their work. Another roster held the names of guardsmen who were known to be amenable to bribery. There was also a roster of capable guardsmen and names of their family members in case threats were needed. Ifo found that method distasteful, especially with what had happened to his own family. Though he had certainly used the tactic before, he had never had to follow through on it, thank the Giver.
He continued poring over documents that had anything to do with his target, or the area, or numerous other details that might prove to save his life if trouble arose. Ifo had heard many stories in alehouses and common rooms during his life that had been held in low, conspiratorial voices about how someone had met their end at the hands of an assassin. Most of those men seemed to think it was all killing and fighting, and some even sounded envious of that excitement. In reality, at least in his experience, it was quite the opposite. Most of his time leading up to a contract was spent like this. Studying, memorizing, and planning. Candles and candles of preparation went into the simplest of kills. All that work for a half-breath, and then a quick, precise strike, followed by a death.
Ifo studied the information late into the night. A lingering thread of excitement wove itself through his body, both at the challenge of completing the contract, and the prospect that this might be his last one.
Chapter Twenty-One
THE CLOUDS BROKE ONCE the sun burned through the last vestiges of the rainstorm they had suffered through for several days. Lerius felt that he would never be dry again, but the sun’s rays began to warm his face, and he had never been so pleased to see it blazing in the sky. The group had ridden throughout the night in what Hossen maintained was in the direction of Lord Geryn’s estate and the welcome sanctuary it would hopefully provide.
The two mounted men had reached an overlook that provided a wide view of the valley floor to the south where their destination lay. With the break in the clouds, and the cessation of the downpour, they were able to assess where they had ended up. Hossen, though an innkeeper by trade, had not led them astray, despite the poor navigating conditions they had found themselves in. Maybe it was luck. No matter how they had made it this far, Hossen was pointing out the sprawling manor of Lord Geryn and the surrounding outbuildings in the distance.
Lerius wasn’t interested in architecture, but he was surprised to find the style to be less Khariskian in nature; no blade-towers or angled walls and buttresses made up these buildings. Perhaps this Lord Geryn didn’t follow the tastes of what the elite of Kharisk preferred. Lerius shook his head at the sight. The manor itself was the size of the whole village of Deepbrooke. And it was certainly larger if you took into account all the outbuildings: the workers’ quarters, assorted storehouses, barracks, and of course, the famed Geryn stables.
Lerius was relieved that the end of this leg of their journey was in sight. The unlooked for—and unwanted—situation at Deepbrooke had proven to be a truly harrowing adventure, and salvation lay nestled in the valley below.
“I’m going to eat enough for three men, take a steaming hot bath, and then sleep for a week,” Lerius said, prophesying.
“Me too,” Hossen agreed, “but we still have a long day ahead of us to get down there.”
“Ha, I thought innkeepers were supposed to be optimistic?”
“All that rain must have washed it right away!”
The laughter, the proximity to their destination, and the desperately needed change in weather had revitalized the men. Their sudden mood change was infectious and the exhausted and bedraggled horses perked up and set off with new energy. Perhaps they had heard of the Geryn stables too.
Lerius had to suppress his giddiness at seeing their destination so close at hand lest he burst. The day was pleasant, extraordinarily so, but seemed to drag on despite its beauty. Unfortunately, the large estate failed to appear noticeably closer each time he glanced ahead.
Hossen recognized his companion’s impatience. “We’ll be there in due time. The weather is perfect right now, and there are no ravinors in sight. Let’s just dry out and enjoy the sun, Lerius.”
It was a nice day, and what was another day of riding in weather like this compared to what they had gone through? Lerius agreed with Hossen’s assessment and did his best to temper his excitement. He felt like a child on Giving morning, waiting for the special gift that he had been looking forward to since the Giving morning the previous year. Giving was not for another season yet, but he wouldn’t mind receiving his present early this year.
“So how are we going to get help here? Do you know Lord Geryn?” Lerius asked.
“No, no,” Hossen said. “I know his steward. We grew up in Aerilyn in the same neighborhood. He comes through Deepbrooke a few times a year about his lord’s business and he always stays at…my inn.”
Lerius saw his companion overcome with grief as he thought of the destruction of his village and the inn that he had been the proprietor of for many years. It had been hard enough on Lerius with what they had been through, but he had to remember the innkeeper had lost everything he had owned, as well as the village that he had lived in. All of his old neighbors and acquaintances were either dead or turned. It was amazing the man had kept so calm about everything.
“How long had you been there?” Lerius asked, his tone respectful of the unpleasant topic.
“Twenty-five years…and all gone…” Hossen wiped his eyes and Lerius did his best to give the man some privacy. The two now rode quietly, each man dwelling on the horrors of what they had seen and their proximity to safety at long last.
Thinking of Hossen’s losses, Lerius gave thanks to the Giver that his sister had not been in the area when the ravinor outbreak took place. He was curious how widespread the ravinor infection had become, what with their paths crossing with that of the strange carriage, the giant, and encountering even more ravinors during their escape. It made him question if there really was safety to be found anywhere. But the empire covered the entire continent, and surely ravin
ors were not running rampant everywhere; the largest cities should certainly be safe along with the well-guarded estates like that of Lord Geryn. Or so he hoped.
The group continued for a few candles, a little subdued after their depressing thoughts. They stopped at a stream where the horses and men all took their turns taking their fill of water. They drank as much as they could hold. It would relieve their empty stomachs for a short time. And luckily a short time was all they had to put up with now that the estate was near.
As they made it to the entrance to the valley, they started to ride through cultivated fields but had not yet encountered anyone. No doubt the people were about their work and only came back to the bunkhouses and workers’ quarters when the day’s work was through.
A short time later, Lerius could see figures in the distance. He knew that they would encounter someone eventually, but it seemed they might have to wait for their arrival at the actual manor house before being received. Farmhands and other workers greeted them with friendly waves but none did more than that. The two men must have looked run-down and haggard, but still the workers were polite and did not call on the guards to haul them off the property. Lerius supposed that was a promising sign.
The valley was well maintained; every plot of land was cared for and had been laid out with the same exacting eye for detail. Orchard trees were lined up in precise rows, and every growing thing was flourishing. Vibrant greens abounded in the valley and bright reds and purples marked the various fruits in the trees; the lush fruit stood out even more clearly to Lerius’s hunger-tinged gaze. If the quality of the fruit still ripening up in the trees was any indication, they would be breaking their involuntary fast soon enough—and breaking it with style.
Healthy pink and fat pigs rooted merrily within their pens, the only place in the valley that was not green it seemed. Even the mud seemed a deeper and richer brown here than he was accustomed to. Lerius could see why Lord Geryn had chosen this valley to make his home. The land was fertile; the mountains surrounding the valley kept the wind and storms at bay that swept the grasslands and forests around the protected vale. A more idyllic location Lerius had not seen in all his life. He said as much to Hossen.