The Taste of Waterfruit and Other Stories (Story Portals)

by Richard Lee Byers

  Like a number of her colleagues, this assassin had adopted her principle that he would never kill anyone he'd accepted a fee from. She hadn’t intended to start a trend, but the policy had gone a long way toward earning her business when she first came to town, and since then many others within the Guild had “borrowed” that idea from her. Yosaf must have thought himself safe. But Katya still kept all her magical defences up, and she didn't let her alertness drop either. She hadn't stayed alive this long by taking unnecessary risks.

  She wondered if her colleague would come after her for this. Probably not, she decided, if only because he would have a hard time knowing it was her who had done it—and and even harder time learning who she really was. Assassins his their identities for a reason, and the ones who survived as long as she had were very, very good at it.

  She looked down at the body on the floor. Another death, another man who would be missed—by his family, his friends, his fellow merchants. All except one. And even Zaida might miss him, in a way, as a foe worthy of her strength. Now she would be head of the council, and sit by the hand of the royals, and have everything her own way.

  Until someone tried to push her aside, as she had wanted to push Yosaf aside.

  Katya looked forward to that. Another kill, another fee. And yet more glory to Shi'in.

  She took off the glamoured bracelet she wore, tucked it away, and slipped on the discreet pin that carried the glamour she used to pass as Yosaf. She strode out of the door without a glance back, let it fall to behind her, walked on without breaking stride. Yosaf's bodyguards fell in behind her. Without exchanging a word, she led them out into the street and across the temple square, into the deep shadow under the arch. There she ripped off the pin, reached up and caught the low ledge that served for a handhold at need, and swung herself into the bowl of the carved stone roof, automatically drawing on a little power and using it to merge even more completely with the shadows. As the guards hurried on, she dropped silently behind them and made her escape, cutting back across the square and then taking the quick steps necessary to reach the narrow alley behind the tavern, and from there the high rooftops she knew as well as her own.

  She was done. All that remained was the slow easy amble home, with plenty of false trails and double turns just in case, and then a comfortable bed.

  And after that, a moment of communing with Shi'in. Katya never allowed herself to worship fully, for she knew only too well what fate might befall her if her true allegiance were ever discovered. She alone was left alive among all those who had once worshipped the goddess of love and death. But after a kill, it seemed appropriate. That was part of the reason why she kept a single secret ritual object locked away deep within the safety of her own well-warded home.

  Yes, she thought. Tomorrow she would touch it again, and remind herself of the true nature of the goddess—Shi'in, perfect and pure.

  And she would make an offering: a single lustrous pearl.

  * * *

  Zaida watched the ornate coffin be hoisted up onto the silk-decked cart. She had donated both, as a gesture of friendship, and Afif's crew leader had leapt on the offer. It was a significant expense. Zaida had guessed that Afif's own staff would have been reluctant to spend lavishly on his final journey home, where they must account for every coin to the family who survived him. The grateful alacrity with which her offer had been greeted told her she had guessed right.

  Not that the family would have grudged the spending. Zaida felt certain of that. Afif had been a good man.

  Now the crew had only the sorrowful duty of the journey back, with little enough to show for their trip to Jakarr. But they carried Zaida's good wishes, and her own generous funeral gift, and that was worth something.

  It might be worth more, if the family decided to continue trading on this route. Such friendship as Zaida had shown deserved a response in kind. They would, she judged, be as open to her overtures as Afif himself had been.

  A sad fate, to be so always divided between honest friendship and an eye for profit. But it was the way of merchants, rich and poor. She had chosen it, and she could not complain.

  "I am surprised Yosaf is not here," she told Nasir, who stood rather closer by her side than was customary. "He thought very highly of Afif, as we all did."

  "Haven't you heard?" If he knew the truth, he gave an excellent imitation of a man who did not. "Yosaf has been assassinated. Professional job. And get this: the man who did it used some kind of glamour to pose as his double. Walked out cool as you please, right in front of his bodyguards, and they followed him without question. Never suspected the truth until he vanished on them part way home, and even then it took an hour or more before they discovered the body—right back at the tavern he'd walked away with them from."

  "Astonishing." Zaida threw him a quizzical glance. "Is that why you take your duties so very seriously this morning?"

  "Let's just say I don't fancy discovering that I've been guarding the wrong lady."

  "Perhaps you already are."

  He stared at her, thunderstruck, and she smiled.

  "Just in case," she said, "let's agree on a new password between ourselves. But not spoken." She turned her palm towards him and tapped it with one finger. "Just that. And the name of a tavern you escorted me to on a recent occasion."

  An urchin dodged past her, and jostled her elbow as he did so. Nasir took one imperious stride forward and clipped the child's shoulder. The urchin swung around with a scowl.

  "About that tavern," the child said, quietly but distinctly. "Don't go there again for the next few months. It might be watched." Then he disappeared into the throng.

  "I didn't just hear that," Nasir said. "Did I?"

  "If so, we both did." Zaida tried to catch sight of the urchin once more, but he never showed again.

  "Good advice, though."

  "Especially now." A thought struck her. "It wasn't the same child that—"

  "Yes," Nasir said, still scanning the crowd. "It was."

  "Glamour," Zaida said. "How useful. I must bear it in mind."

  And she wondered about the young man she hired on occasion, the one who shaved. He was the best, so rumour said. Second only to—

  "What was the name of that other person you recommended to me recently?" Zaida asked. "Someone you thought would be just right for a little task I had in mind."

  "Lady Kat," Nasir replied without a glance aside. "Best in Jakarr. So I've heard."

  "Hmm." Zaida pondered as she watched the cart with Afif's coffin roll away. "How very interesting. What does she look like?"

  "Couldn't tell you. Doubt anyone could."

  "What do you look like?"

  He turned then, and gave her an odd, appreciative grin.

  "Exactly as you think," he said. "I'm a mercenary, not an assassin. Recognition is one of my weapons. People see me, they stay back."

  "Because they know you're good."

  He nodded. "Just so."

  "How reassuring." And it was, in a way. She had no objection to glamour for occasional use, but it must be very tiresome to be around it all the time. Except for the little touches of vanity that she allowed herself, to be sure. Those didn't count.

  * * *

  Katya stared into the mirror.

  She didn't often. What mattered wasn't how she looked to herself, but how she looked to others. Clients never saw her as she really was. But sometimes—and especially after a kill—she felt the need to do so. Just for herself.

  And for Shi'in.

  Years ago, in the temple, she'd had one mentor she admired more than all the rest. An old, agile, brilliant woman, who had once—according to whispers—murdered a king right in front of his bodyguards, with such stealth that he was still talking cheerfully to her when he died.

  It wasn't the woman's skills that Katya most remembered, or even the many pearls of advice harvested from decades of experience that she passed on so freely to those she trained.

  It was a single phra
se spoken only once, in passing, and remembered many years later as the greatest truth of all.

  "Always know exactly who you are. If you don't, neither will Shi'in."

  Katya laid the mirror face down on the table. From a secret compartment, she lifted out the golden goblet of Shi'in and set it beside the mirror. Then she drew from her pocket the pearl in its silk wrap, and rested it within the shining bowl.

  "I do," she said.

  Lady’s Choice

  By Irene Radford

  The blue faience bead braided into Katya’s dark hair at her temple began vibrating. She touched each of the seven beads entwined with that braid. Only the blue one sent magical tingles through her fingertips.

  Pleased that the spell worked, it had certainly cost her enough for the magically charged decoration and the secret cantrip to activate it, she casually paused to examine some camel’s hair blankets at the market stall to her left. As she fingered the coarse weave she kept her body half turned toward the flow of people crowding the bazaar on this fine autumnal morning. The usual assortment of householders and small shop keepers searching for their daily foodstuffs, a few wealthy ladies accompanied by their servants. She identified three important men, surrounded by a bevy of underlings, who passed her by.

  None of them drew her attention more than any other.

  The bead continued to pulse, faster with more urgency. Whoever followed her was still close enough to do her harm.

  Katya abandoned the main thoroughfare of the bazaar at the next right-hand alley, away from her destination.

  Left, right, then another quick right. She withdrew into the shadow of a towering dwelling, five apartments piled on top of each other in a teetering and mismatched puzzlebox of sagging wood. Only a fool, or the desperately poor, came to this sector.

  And there she waited. Then waited some more. All of the denizens of this district seemed to be away from home today. All the shoppers and shopkeepers were in the bazaar. Not a single person, suspicious or otherwise, passed her hiding place.

  After about ten minutes, the blue bead quieted. Had it burned through its charge, or had she eluded danger?

  Only one way to find out. She loosened the sharpened hair sticks that held part of the abundant waves atop her head. Then with one hand on the dagger grip hidden within the folds of her striped robe, and the other hand fingering a throwing star, Katya eased away from the dimness of the alley. Full noon sunshine beat down upon her veiled head. She moved slowly, letting her eyes adapt to the increasing brightness with each step.

  Knowing a confident demeanor deterred more violence than a brazen show of weapons—which really only challenged bullies—Katya strode down the alley as if she owned it, head high and shoulders back, arms swinging free. With each pass of her hands she brushed the folds of her robe, touching each of her weapons. The leather grip of her dagger reassured her. Her sensitive fingertips met the wooden handle of the tiny knife up her sleeve, the sharp edge of the throwing star, the silken knots of the garrote, and the smooth glass containing a magical poison that penetrated the skin within seconds and killed within moments.

  Ten minutes later Katya pushed aside a curtain made of bead strands. She murmured the three words of a quiet spell. The wooded and pottery beads touched each other without noise. She entered the store room behind the Unicorn’s Horn.

  Galt, the bartender and owner of the inn, called a greeting to her from the heart of the building. He always knew when Katya came to call. She didn’t know how he knew. He was a warrior trained. He sensed things, like the presence of strangers, the movement of an unseen weapon, the smell of nervousness on the skin of an enemy, without any magic. Or maybe he had a blue faience bead hidden on his person.

  She pushed aside another beaded curtain and bowed low in respect to the former warrior. A big man, he hadn’t let his muscle mass go to fat. His bald head gleamed in the dim light from the open front of the tavern. Today he shaved his head, other times he let his hair grow to shoulder length. He returned her bow of respect, one warrior to another, though she fought her enemies in more secret ways than he. His smile lit his entire face with joy, stopping short only at the black patch over his right eye and the paralyzing scar that reached from beneath the patch to his temple.

  “I come seeking news,” she said, as she did every time her shadow crossed his doorway.

  “No news today,” he replied.

  Slightly disappointed, Katya slid into a tiny room to her right, the doorway one more shadow within the darkened space. She sought a sealed basket just inside the opening. The elaborate knots and counted twists securing the top to the base seemed undisturbed. When she shook the cube the size of three fists on each side, nothing rattled within.

  “You don’t trust me anymore?” Galt asked with a bit of a chuckle behind his words.

  She returned to the main room. “I have learned to trust you, my friend. I’m just bored and in need of a job to divert me. I have not worked in over a month.” They never discussed the true nature of her work. Just as they never discussed how he lost an eye, or for which royal family he had captained the guard. “Maybe you missed...”

  Galt burst out laughing. The sound built and rolled around the interior of the inn. If anyone slept in the rooms above, they did so no longer. “Me miss a client leaving a message for Lady Kat?”

  “Forgive me, old friend.” Katya bowed again and prepared to leave.

  “Before you go...”

  Katya froze in her tracks.

  “An honest client did not leave a message, but a patron asked for you by name.”

  Katya sucked in her breath. “By name?”

  “He asked for Lady Kat, but he made it sound like he sought a stray tabby.”

  “An illiterate client perhaps?” she asked hopefully. Whoever sought her in the market place was likely not a member of the Assassin’s Guild. Members rarely took assignments against each other.

  “Describe this man,” she said flatly, even though she knew a description would be useless. She used magical glamours herself to change her own appearance when needful.

  “An ordinary man. Neither overly tall nor underly short. Neither fat nor thin. Older than you, younger than me. He wore dust covered robes he could have bought in any bazaar in the land.”

  “Dust? What color dust? Did he smell of camel or horse, or did he walk?”

  Galt shrugged. “Dust is dust. From the market perhaps, as it was redder than the desert, but not black like the mountains. And he smelled of man, garlic, sweat, and dog. No camel or horse.”

  “In other words he looked like any one of a hundred men I passed in the market.”

  Galt nodded.

  Just then, a noisy group of five young men staggered in from the market. They demanded food and Uldreth wine. Katya faded out of the inn the way she had come, silent and almost invisible.

  Meles, purveyor of magical spells and talismans—she had sold Katya the now-quiet blue bead—Traynor, her tailor, and eight other associates related the same story of the ordinary man in search of Lady Kat.

  Katya began to worry. Her instincts told her to avoid this man. Her pride and her faith in the goddess Shi’in told her to embrace death as she would love. They are two sides of the same coin. Both offerings of dedication to Shi’in.

  Her final stop of the day, at the House of Jasmine Flower Delight, managed by Sera Fillia, forced Katya to make a choice.

  “When will you forsake your quiet life tending your garden and come to work for me?” the highest paid courtesan in all of Jakarr asked Katya as they reclined on divans and sipped glasses of chilled tea sweetened with gavora nectar, the sap of a rare desert succulent.

  Katya would have described Sera Fillia as handsome with her high cheekbones, high bridged nose, and serene countenance. Her beauty came from maturity, experience, and wisdom.

  Katya wore a glamour of a beautiful courtesan with flawless pale skin and sleek dark curls, a tasteful jewel in the center of her forehead dangling from a simp
le golden chain. Her diaphanous gown hinted at luscious curves, alternately revealing and hiding shapes and shadows with each movement.

  Katya swallowed her distress at the question. Long ago she had been trained in such ways, schooled to escort kings and princes to state dinners or to while away long hours in more pleasurable pursuits, but she kept that training secret. An assassin with the skills of a courtesan was the sign of Shi’in, and ever since the attack being known as a follower of the goddess of love and death was generally fatal.

  “A woman like you would make us both a fortune,” Sera Fillia suggested.

  “I have no need of your money,” Katya said quietly. She sipped her tea, wondering how to broach the subject of her quest, but her hostess saved her the trouble.

  “A man visited just an hour before your arrival,” Sera Fillia said. “He requested a private interview with Lady Kat.”

  Katya blinked. It was not often that she was caught off guard, but who in Shi’in’s name would know to ask after her here of all places? “You employ the most beautiful and exotic women from all over the world. What would a casual customer want with me?”

  “He did not say. Nor did he give the correct password to indicate he needed your other services, whatever they are.” Sera Fillia sipped her own tea, keenly observing Katya over the rim of her glass.

  “I have heard of this man. He seeks me throughout Jakarr.” And he knows far too much about me. “I do not wish to meet him.” Not until I know at least as much about him as he does about me... Katya set down her glass on the tray at her elbow and rose to take her leave.

  “Then perhaps you will allow me to become your client?” Sera Fillia’s artfully drawn eyebrows rose and her eyes opened wide; an expression designed to project innocence.