“Very well. It is a shame.” Gunther stood and scooped up the bag, dropping it into the leather satchel slung across his chest. “As I said, you were the favored choice. But no matter.” He bowed. “A pleasure, madam.”
Katya watched him go—it was part of her system that she arrive first and leave last for any meet. Safer that way. And she definitely didn’t trust Gunther, even more than most of her clients.
Of course, he wasn’t a client anymore. It was no longer her problem.
She frowned. But that didn’t mean she could just let it go.
The job had been tricky enough from the start—take out a single target, name unknown, appearance unknown other than the fact that he would be from Rhocann, location unknown, arrival some time three days hence. Then plant a particular scrap of cloth on the body and disappear. Not the way she normally preferred to do things. She liked to plan her kills meticulously, mapping out routes well beforehand, memorizing the target’s defenses and arraying her own weapons accordingly. Here she wouldn’t know exactly whom she was after until he arrived, and she couldn’t know exactly where he would go, either. It meant that the actual attack would have to be improvised, and Kat hated to improvise.
And having to work with other professionals going for the same target made matters a thousand times worse. Assassins were competitive by nature, and disputes between them tended to be lethal. She didn’t need to be fending off attacks from a rival while trying to take out a target she had only just identified and couldn’t entirely predict.
Which was why she’d canceled the job. But several things about it still bugged her. Not least of them the client himself. She had felt uneasy during the first meeting with Gunther, but had chalked some of that up to the usual nerves that began at the start of every job, the excitement of a new challenge, and the thrill of fear that such danger always brought. This time, however, she had been angry but otherwise clearheaded, and had noticed several things about him that didn’t fit. Who was he really, and what was he up to?
She pulled a small scrap of fabric from her belt pouch and studied it. It was thick, heavy cotton or perhaps wool, with a tuft of what looked like fine hair affixed to one side. Gunther had provided it, along with the gold, when she had accepted the job before, and he had not asked for it back now.
Katya smiled. The scrap might well give her some answers, and she knew exactly who to ask.
*
“It’s from an Imicarian travel cloak,” Traynor declared, handing the scrap back. “That’s seal fur on the outside, keeps out the cold and the wet.”
Of course! Katya nodded. She’d seen the cloaks before, worn by the rugged men and women from that small northern kingdom. But with only this tiny piece, she had assumed the fur went on the inside, not the outer. She should have known better.
“Thanks.” She reached to her pouch for money, but Traynor waved it off.
“Pay me for my work,” the stoop-shouldered old man told her. “This, this was just looking at something.” A smile touched his eyes. “A small favor for one of my favorite customers.”
“You’re a dear,” she told him, smiling back, and took her leave. He was one of her favorite craftsmen as well, and the only tailor she ever used for her custom-made work clothes. Traynor had an incredible talent for making garments that could conceal potions, weapons, any manner of thing. It was uncanny, really.
Well, now she knew where the fabric was from, and clearly planting it would incriminate Imicar in the Rhocannian’s death. But why? What purpose would that serve? And how would that help a supposed merchant from Calesh? Katya sighed. One answer, but still many questions. She’d have to do some more digging. And soon—she only had three days before the target arrived. The target she was no longer after, but who knew how many others were?
That was probably her next step. She needed to find out how many others Gunther had hired. And since he hadn’t answered when she’d asked, she’d have to figure it out for herself.
*
That evening, Kat prowled the area by the Fourth Gate. The road from Rhocann led directly to it, making it the obvious choice for the target. That’s why she had been studying it this morning, and why the Grass Hand had as well. For all his youth, he showed promise.
Promise, but still a ways to go, she thought as she watched him creep over a roof two buildings away. He was quieter than any normal, law-abiding citizen would have been at the task, but Kat saw the way his foot slipped on one loose tile, and heard the muted clatter of his belt dagger brushing against the roof’s peak as he slid across. By any normal standards, he was quiet as a ghost. But by an assassin’s yardstick, he was far too noticeable.
She considered approaching him directly, but decided against it. He would know her by reputation, of course, and would have no reason to question her identity. Anyone foolish enough to borrow an assassin’s name wouldn’t live long enough to use it. But the Grass Hand was known to still be young and rash, and he might see her as competition and decide to eliminate her. She was sure she could take him, but she’d rather not have to.
Instead Katya just watched as he crept his way around, studying the gate and the wide street it spilled onto from every angle. Then she crept away.
But instead of returning home, she headed outward. Jakarr had high walls all the way around, pierced only by its six gates, and those gates were heavily guarded. Traffic was rarely impeded, except for occasional searches for contraband, but travel through the gates was well monitored. Fortunately, Katya didn’t need a gate. She used a knotted silk rope to lower herself from the wall’s ramparts, and dropped soundlessly onto a small wooden shack erected against the far side. Shanties were always springing up in the city’s shadow, and they provided an excellent place to break her fall.
Swinging down to the ground, Katya dusted herself off and glanced around. This shanty was good-sized, a sprawling collection of tents and lean-tos and crude shacks, home to people who could not afford to enter the city proper but who hoped to profit from its citizens and trade nonetheless. Anyone approaching the Fourth Gate would have to ride through here.
She had gone only a few dozen feet when she spotted the body.
It had been dragged into the narrow alley between two rough huts, its pale robes barely visible in the shadows and the dim moonlight. Moving closer, Katya saw that the dead man had been old enough to have silver in his hair and beard and was average in height, build, and looks, but with darker skin than normal for Jakarr or for Ankora as a whole.
And he wore the loose desert robes and flowing headdress of Rhocann.
Inspecting him quickly, Katya found the cause of death without a problem—a slice across the throat with a sharp blade. The man’s robes and shirt were soaked with blood and blood still pumped weakly from the wound. She shook her head. It was a sloppy kill, the work of an amateur. But she doubted it was a mere brawl, or even a robbery though there was no pouch and no adornments in evidence. No, the fact that this was a Rhocannian could only mean that someone had thought he was the target—
—or had decided to kill every Rhocannian that passed through here, just to be safe.
The scrap of fur-lined cloth she discovered tucked into his pouch only confirmed that.
Katya pocketed the bit of fabric, sighed, and rose to her feet, brushing her hands against the nearer hut’s wall to remove any blood. The Grass Hand hadn’t done this—it wasn’t his style and he wasn’t this clumsy. Which meant she was looking at a fledgling assassin and a thug or group of thugs. At the minimum.
This was getting better and better.
*
The man’s body had still been warm, so the attack had been within the past few minutes. Quickening her pace, she soon heard voices, loud against the subdued background of the shanties and sharp with the distinct accent of Jakarr natives.
“Old fool didn’t have much on him,” a woman complained. “A half-finger of copper and two of bronze? Barely worth taking!”
“But it’s not the poi
nt, is it?” A man told her, his tone placating. “Gravy, that’s all. The real money’s on the kill, and that’s gold, love. Nothing but gold.”
“I get to kill the next one!” That voice was also male, but thicker, more aggressive. She guessed a big man from the depth, and pictured someone large and brutish. “There’s gonna be a next one, right?”
“’Course there is.” This one was sharper, softer, more sly. “Till we find the one we want, right, Glay?”
“Exactly right,” the first man answered. “We know he’s from Rhocann, and he’s coming this way. We just kill off any Rhocannians we see, and we can’t fail.”
“We’d better not,” the woman commented. “I aim to buy me new boots and a new cloak with my cut, and I don’t want to be disappointed.” There was a hint of threat in that statement, and Katya suspected the woman’s three companions were worried about her being disappointed as well. The speed with which they reassured her confirmed that.
“No, of course not, Donia,” Glay assured her. “This is all in the bag, right, boys?” The other two agreed quickly. “Now let’s make sure there aren’t any more of those desert freaks around. Then we’ll slip back to that tavern we saw by the gate—two fingers of bronze should be enough to buy a few rounds of ale, I’d say.”
Katya waited silently in the shadows as the voices receded. She half-considered killing them right here and now, but she needed more information. There were four of them, but what if they had other friends nearby? What if they were connected somehow? What if they had magic? She’d prepared for reconnaissance tonight, not combat—she had her throwing knives and fighting daggers on her as usual, and the latter were still charged, but she hadn’t prepped any spells and didn’t like going up against multiple opponents uninformed and unprotected. Much as she hated the idea of their continuing to prey upon innocent people—her patron, Shi’in, though goddess of both love and death, frowned upon needless killing or murder as an act of cruelty—Katya decided she was better off leaving them alone for the night.
At least she knew where they would be for the next two days.
She turned and headed back toward the wall, and a section she knew had crumbled enough in places to make it only a moderately challenging climb. There were still some places she needed to check out, and some things she needed to explore, but they were back in Jakarr proper. And some of them could wait until morn.
*
I’ve studied the route he’ll have to take to enter the city, Katya told herself as she breakfasted at a small artisans’ inn the next morning. And the area around the gate he’ll pass through. But what about beyond that? Where will he go next?
She thought about that, sipping her tea. The only thing she knew about the target was that he was from Rhocann and he was apparently important enough for Gunther to want dead. The latter didn’t mean much in and of itself—most people would be astonished by the number of jobs she’d been offered where the target hadn’t done anything worse than steal someone else’s spot in the bazaar, or get offered a business deal someone else had wanted, or a promotion someone else thought they deserved. There had even been one old woman who’d wanted one of her neighbors dead because the neighbor’s dog kept her up at night.
But none of those had offered to pay her an entire bag full of gold.
Even if Gunther was wealthy enough to afford that, it meant his target was no mere annoyance. And with so many puzzles about the client himself—ex-client, Katya reminded herself firmly—and particularly the bit of Imicarian cloak being placed on the body, this was more than a business rival. Her gut said it was much more.
So the target was someone important. An important Rhocannian. Where would he go?
Of course. She bit her lip and cursed herself for being so shortsighted. She’d clearly gotten too used to having routes and other details handed to her! Rhocann didn’t have an embassy in Jakarr—that would be in Calesh, Ankora’s capital. The city Gunther claimed to be from.
What Rhocann did have here, however, was a trade house. Every civilized nation on Melanesia did—Jakarr was at a crossroads, making it a major trade hub, and a lot of business passed through its gates.
If this man was as important as she guessed, he’d stop by the Rhocannian trade house to check in.
Which meant Katya knew where he was going. And so would any other assassin who thought things through.
She finished her tea and stood. Time to look into a little trade.
*
The Rhocannian trade house was along the major street through the merchant district, in the northern quadrant. The Fourth Gate was to the west, so Katya followed the straightest route up and over, figuring the man would most likely do the same. She had a feeling whoever he was, he wouldn’t see a need for stealth. She kept her eyes open along the way, glancing about as if admiring the architecture and the clear day but really looking for any sign of trouble.
She didn’t see any.
Well, there were two alleys where cutpurses lurked, and a gang of roughs lounging by a tavern eyeing passersby. She was moving fast enough to keep out of the formers’ reach, and let a glint of steel show at her forearms to dissuade the latter. Town guards lolled about here and there, strolling along as if they owned the place, which in a way they did, but she knew they wouldn’t cause any trouble—they only interfered when necessary, or when it was something they were sure they could handle. The guard didn’t meddle with assassinations unless ordered to do so by their superiors, and those superiors knew better than to trouble the Guild unless the target was someone important. The arrangement kept violence to a minimum, which suited everyone, including Katya.
Though right now she couldn’t help wishing the guards’ mandate extended to the hovels beyond the walls. That would settle the thugs she’d overheard last night, at least.
Still, wishes were like fireflies, Shi’in had taught—pretty and diverting, but insubstantial and often disappointing when you finally caught them. She didn’t need the distraction right now.
Especially since she was here.
The trade house looked like all the others along its row, a large, sturdy stone building with handsome windows and small balconies on the upper floors. The Rhocannian badge, scimitars crossed under a palm tree against a deep blue background, hung over the heavy double doors. The place was half office and half fortress, and it looked like the upper floors might contain a mix of living quarters as well.
It was exactly the place a visiting dignitary from Rhocann would go. Why stay in an inn when you could guest at your country’s own trading house instead? It would be far safer, and far less expensive, and possibly just as well appointed.
Katya stepped off to the side and purchased a small sack of dates from a street vendor, then leaned against a nearby wall to munch them. That gave her an excuse to loiter and study the place and its surroundings. The kill would have to be up close, since the cloth would have be planted immediately afterward. That meant hitting him either out here on the street or inside the trade house itself. The trade house was a bad idea—it would be hard to find out details of its interior beforehand, and there was no way to be sure what protections it might have, both in terms of guards and in the way of magic. Far better to attack on the street when the man arrived, before he’d made contact and entered the trade house’s ring of protection. If it were her she would hit just after the building came into view, because that was when he was likely to lower his guard but it was still far enough away that a call for help wouldn’t reach any guards stationed there.
She pushed off from the wall and sauntered back the way she’d come. This time she wasn’t looking for danger, however. She was searching for the place to set up an ambush.
There. A narrow alley lay between a counting house and a silk shop. She could just make out the Rhocannian arms from here, and it was the only crawlspace for a few buildings on either side. That was where she’d attack from, if she were still on the job.
Which meant it was where any of her
fellow pros would set up, as well.
Katya glanced around, but no one was paying her any attention—she was clad in everyday clothing, her hair loosely braided and tucked up in her hood, and looked like any other young woman out for a stroll and possibly some light shopping. She ducked into the alleyway.
It was just wide enough for a big man to squeeze through, and as long as the shops on either side, their brick walls looming up two to three stories. Sacks and crates littered the ground, and from the smell she knew they were refuse of various sorts. It was otherwise empty.
But the walls were rough and close, and easy to climb. And the counting house had a steeply sloped roof, but the silk shop was topped by a flat expanse, no doubt used for drying the silk on sunny days.
Perfect for a vantage point, and easy to slip down into the alley when the target approached.
Katya picked her way to the end of the alley. Then she turned so she was facing outward, put a hand and a foot against the walls to either side, and began to climb.
She was two-thirds of the way up when she felt a brick shift slightly under her hand, and heard a faint click.
There was no time to think. Katya flung herself forward, pulling arms and legs in tight as she fell. A silvered shape dropped behind her, a wide, flat plane that sent reflections in front of her as it fell and raised scraping sounds as it scored the bricks to either side.
Katya concentrated, judging its descent by sound and light even as she herself plummeted. She would only get one chance at this.
When she judged that the object was below her, she kicked backward, thrusting her body back by sheer leg strength alone. Her back slammed into the wall, driving the breath from her lungs, and brick scraped both forearms through her sleeves, but she was able to check her descent long enough to tug her legs back in and plant her feet again.
It was only after she’d stopped falling that she dared to look down.
The Taste of Waterfruit and Other Stories (Story Portals) Page 16