by J. M. Martin
“She was easier to deceive than she would’ve been to kill,” Kerfallen said. “She’ll collect her fee before either she or the High Magister realize their mistake.”
“The High Magister will come after you again,” Nix said. “Won’t he?”
Kerfallen shrugged. “Perhaps, or perhaps not. Oorgan will soon have his magic back. Why bother with me then?”
“Huh,” Nix said, and looked at Egil. “Well, I’ve heard enough. You?”
“Indeed.”
Nix bowed. “Our thanks, Kerfallen the Grey.”
“You’ll pay my agent in the Bazaar for the healing elixirs, of course. The next time you purchase a…gewgaw.”
“Uh, of course,” Nix said, knowing better than to argue a debt with a wizard.
The rumble of a carriage sounded from outside.
“Here comes Oorgan now,” Kerfallen said. “And he and I must be about our business. Good evening.”
#
Egil and Nix trudged in silence through the rain and the dark. Nix broke the quiet halfway to the Tunnel.
“So we got played by the Night Blade.”
“And she got played by Kerfallen,” Egil said.
Nix shook his head. “True, but Kerfallen played us, too.”
“Aye,” Egil said. “We got it coming and going.” He cleared his throat. “Not our finest hour.”
“No,” Nix agreed. “But I bet you learned your lesson.”
“And what lesson is that?” the priest asked.
“That you can’t help every fakkin’ woman who walks through the door of the Tunnel and asks for help. Gods, man. That’s thrice now!”
“No,” Egil said softly. “I think I’ll keep doing just as I have.”
Nix sighed, nodded, expecting no different. “I suppose you will. Makes you a better man than me.”
“Drinks?” Egil asked.
“Several, aye. And remind me to buy some of those elixirs from Kerfallen next time I’m in the Low Bazaar.”
The First Kill
Django Wexler
“The First Kill” is a bit of backstory for the universe of The Shadow Campaigns. It’s always hard to give a proper spotlight to the villains in a novel where they don’t get a POV, so I wanted to take this chance to explore that a little. “The Shadow Throne” implies a connection between Andreas, Duke Orlanko’s brutally efficient go-to killer, and Sothe, the Gray Rose, his best agent turned bitter enemy. In this story, we get to see these two at an earlier point in their careers, and take a look at how that relationship got started.
~
It was an hour before dawn, and the heat was already stifling. Andreas stared at the water-stained plaster of the ceiling, gray and shadowed in the grimy light filtering through the curtains. His pillow was damp with sweat.
Damn the Deslandai, he thought, for building their God-damned city in a swamp.
He was suddenly eager to be moving, in spite of the early hour. The bedsheets were already in a tangled pile on the floor, the night too hot for even thin linen. Andreas rolled off the scratchy mattress, hit the floor in a noiseless crouch, and padded silently to the window. It was cheap glass, bubbly and yellow in an iron frame, and the latch squeaked as he tugged it open and pushed the panes wide.
The air outside wasn't much better. A trifle cooler, perhaps, but what it lacked in temperature it made up for in smell. The little room, on the fourth floor of a crumbling brick apartment block that catered to thieves, whores, and rivermen, overlooked one of the Free City of Desland's famous horse markets, and the stench of the by-products of thousands of nervous horses was omnipresent. Even Andreas, no stranger to foulness, found himself wrinkling his nose.
The only virtue of the place was that it was anonymous, somewhere no one would remark on two foreigners staying for a few days. If, as he'd been warned, the Komerzint really was on guard, they would be unlikely to peg the poorly-dressed travelers as Concordat assassins.
There was a murmur from the bed as Beth rolled over and sat up, woken either by the squeal of the window or the pervasive stink. She yawned, her dark hair puffed around her head like a frizzy halo.
"Sir?" she said. "Is something wrong?"
"Just the heat," Andreas muttered, turning away from the window.
"Is it time?"
"We've got another hour. Go back to sleep, if you like."
"Too hot to sleep." Beth flopped back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. "Are you nervous, sir?"
Andreas glared at her. She was just past her twentieth year, a compact, graceful woman whose small size belied a surprising amount of muscle. She'd been assigned to him for her final training for the last six months, the latest in a string of apprentices the Last Duke had given to him when they were finally ready to get their hands dirty. He hadn't asked to her to climb into his bed as well, but she'd taken to it as eagerly as to her official duties.
"Nervous?" he said. "Why? We don't even know the job yet."
"About the meeting. The Gray Rose."
The Gray Rose. Andreas had been trying not to think about that. Am I nervous?
After a moment of self-examination, he decided he was, a little. It was an unfamiliar feeling, but not an entirely unpleasant one, a tingle of anticipation in the pit of his stomach, like the best moments just before a kill.
After all, there was no way around it. The Gray Rose was a legend. The greatest agent in the history of Duke Orlanko's Ministry of Information; a spy and assassin absolutely with equal. Some of the stories told about her in the canteens of the Cobweb veered into the absurd: she could walk through walls, kill men with the merest touch, disguise herself as anyone from a beggar-child to the King of Vordan.
Andreas had taken pains to find out the truth, or as much of it as was in the archives, and it was almost as impressive. Orlanko turned to the Gray Rose when a mission required daring, skill, and ruthlessness, and she had more kills to her credit than any other Concordat agent. Most of the techniques the Cobweb now taught to new recruits, the Gray Rose had invented. She'd been with Orlanko almost since the beginning, since he'd taken over the moribund Ministry of Information and converted it into the most feared secret police on the continent, and her hands were drenched in blood.
And I will meet her in an hour. No one he knew at the Ministry had been afforded that singular honor. Andreas stood staring a moment longer, staring through the horse market as though it were a curtain of fog.
He turned, abruptly, and went back to the bed. Beth raised her head.
"Sir?" she said. "I'm sorry if my question offended. I thought—"
His hand slid across her skin, up from her ankle and along the curve of her inner thigh.
"Oh.” Her small chin lifted in response to his touch. “Are you sure—?"
"We have," he said, kissing her breast and feeling her give a little shiver, "an hour."
Beth raised no further protests. As she gasped and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, Andreas closed his eyes and thought, the Gray Rose. At last.
#
The River Velt, lifeblood of the Free Cities, flowed broad and deep through Desland. Above the city, the river narrowed as it descended from higher ground, the rushing water providing power to the cities innumerable waterwheels. The wide, flat stretch just below the rapids was as far north as deep-bottom ships could come, and Desland had grown up as the gateway between ocean-going traffic and the ox-drawn barges that plied the waters upstream.
The east bank of the Velt was higher here, and so the business of loading and unloading cargo stayed on the west side. The opposite heights were lined with the houses of the wealthy, square three- or four-story stone mansions belonging to merchants and city burghers who'd grown rich off the river trade. They were lined up like soldiers on parade, facing the river with broad terraces and enormous windows to take in the view. At the base of the crumbling red stone cliff, private docks jutted out into the water, with the pleasure craft of the quality tied up beside them.
Andreas sat on
the west bank, across the river from these fortresses of privilege, studying them over the tin rim of a coffee cup. The coffeeshop was only a wooden stall surrounded by a few rusting cast-iron tables and chipped wooden chairs, the whole thing ready to be stacked on the back of a wagon and hauled away at a turn in the weather. The owner had set up on a stretch of muddy grass flanking a brick warehouse, only a few yards from the riverfront. All around was the business of the city, just getting into full swing now that the sun was well and truly risen, a chorus of shouts and rattling wheels and the sounds of horses.
A shadow fell across the table. Andreas didn't look up.
"Hello." A woman's voice. "Three-aye-five-one."
"One-dee-three-seven," Andreas said. Today's code, memorized from the table printed in tiny type on a scrap of foolscap sewn into his breeches.
"Hello, Andreas," the Gray Rose said. "Welcome to Desland."
"Thank you," Andreas said. "Please sit down, ah…"
"Call me Rose." There was a touch of humor in her voice. She pulled out the chair across from him, which creaked in protest, and sat.
Andreas had carefully schooled himself to have no expectations regarding her appearance. Rumor had it, of course, that she was a great beauty, but he'd known better than to believe that. The woman facing him was plain, unremarkable. She had dark hair, tied back and coiled behind her head, and a thin face with a hatchet of a nose. He guessed her age at thirty, or a little past. Like him, she had looks that would not draw attention in a crowd and would be easily forgotten. She wore a dark brown dress with brass buttons, and could have passed for a local, a dockworker's wife or a fisherwoman.
"It's an honor to meet you," Andreas said. He had to concentrate on keeping his tone casual.
"Still telling stories about me in the canteen, are they?"
"They are. I didn't know what to believe, so I went looking in the archives."
Her eyebrow went up. "And what did you find?"
"A lot of missing files. But enough to know how good you are."
Rose chuckled. "And I, in turn, have read the files on you. The Duke thinks very highly of you, you know."
"I'm honored by his grace's trust." He couldn't help a slight smile. "And what did you find?"
"I found a man who seems to enjoy his work." Her tone didn't make it clear whether she approved of this or not. "The girl in the blue dress. Your partner?"
"My…assistant. I'm training her." Beth was acting as lookout at another table, behind the coffee stall.
"Well, tell her there's not much point to standing sentry if she makes it obvious by staring at everybody."
"I'm sure she'll appreciate the feedback."
"Are you two ready to move?"
"Everything is in place." He'd spent the last week accumulating the tools he might need and securing an escape route for a quick getaway; standard procedure for a mission in unfriendly territory. "We can go on your word."
"Good." She scraped her chair halfway around the table, until she was sitting beside him and they could both look out at the river. "See the house with the blue marble, second from the left?"
"I see it." Andreas sipped his coffee. It was a three-story manor house, much like the others. A huge semi-circular balcony jutted out from the second floor, supported by stone buttresses sunk into the cliff face.
"It belongs to the Baronet di Ninevah, and he has a special guest tonight. The Secretary-Treasurer Sepulveda of the Knights of the Far Shore."
Andreas nodded slowly, taking in every detail of the building.
"The Knights have considerable business interests in the far east," Rose went on. "They are expanding their concern westward, and negotiations have been ongoing with several potential partners. One of them is the House of Nachten, out of Hamvelt."
While not an expert on commercial dealings, Andreas recognized the name. The Nachten were one of the High Families of Hamvelt, the elite who supplied the commercial and political rulership of the mountain city. He cleared his throat.
"I take it that the Duke would not approve of this partnership."
"Emphatically," Rose said. "His grace has several times suggested more suitable arrangements to the Knights, and they seemed amenable. Nevertheless, we discovered the Secretary-Treasurer had come here, in what he believes to be all secrecy, to meet with Hamveltai representatives. His Grace is not pleased. You are to visit Secretary-Treasurer Sepulveda and make this absolutely clear."
"Exactly how displeased is His Grace?"
"Extremely displeased. His instructions to me were, 'tell Andreas the leash is slipped.'"
Andreas fought back a grin. "I see. Very well. Tonight?"
"Tonight."
"Will you be joining us?"
"Only if something goes wrong. Otherwise, I will be…watching."
So this is a test. He'd guessed it was something of the sort. The mission was no doubt real—it wouldn't be much of a test if it wasn't—but there was more at stake than an order of puffed-up old windbags and their ambitions. Orlanko and the Gray Rose wanted to see what he could do. He felt his pulse quicken. I'll show her what I can do.
"Understood," he said.
Under the table, he felt the touch of her fingers against his hand, and she passed him a folded sheaf of paper.
"That's what we know about the layout and the guards," she said. "The Knights have brought a few people with them, but nothing serious. If there's real opposition, it will come from the Komerzint. There have been some hints that they're keeping an eye on this."
The Komerzint—Commercial Intelligence—had once been a private firm supplying information to highly placed Hamveltai concerns. In the last few decades, it had grown into the de facto clandestine service of the Hamveltai state; only natural, in a city where business and political interests were so intertwined.
"Any particular instructions as regards the Secretary-Treasurer himself?" Andreas said.
"Nothing elaborate necessary. The message will be received in the right places." Rose pushed her chair back and got to her feet. "Good hunting. His Grace looks forward to your report."
Andreas grinned. "His Grace will not be disappointed."
#
A lesser man might have been disappointed at not being given the opportunity to work side by side with the Gray Rose, but Andreas decided it was better this way. She'll be watching me. That was enough to make his heart beat faster, and it meant that he could work without risk of being overshadowed.
What was disappointing was that the first step in the proceedings was up to Beth. He didn't like trusting his apprentice with crucial matters, but she was smaller and lighter than he was, and a better climber. And there's always a backup plan.
After looking over the plan of the house Rose had supplied, he'd decided to approach from the river side. It was perhaps a trifle obvious as an opening move, but the front door of the house was on a well-lit, fashionable street which would have carriage traffic and patrols of watchmen all through the night. The di Ninevah docks boasted only a solitary watchman and his lantern, keeping an eye on the baronet's finely appointed pleasure galley.
Andreas had taken care of him with a single shot from a soot-blackened crossbow while their little boat was still fifty yards out. Not a bad shot, if he said so himself, from a rocking boat and against a target silhouetted only occasionally against his lamp. The guard had taken the bolt in the temple and pitched off the pier with a soft splash, inaudible amid the gentle creaking of the tied-up boats. No one raised the alarm when Andreas rowed their own boat in and settled it between the pleasure galley and a cargo barge, well-concealed from casual eyes.
Di Ninevah wasn't such a fool that he'd completely ignored the possibility of intruders getting in this way, of course. The stairway that led from the docks to the house was cut deeply into the rock, well-lit by oil lanterns, and blocked by a pair of wrought-iron gates with solid locks. It was also overlooked by a second-floor window, and any movement would be obvious to a watcher within.
&
nbsp; To Andreas' trained eye, however, the twenty feet of cliff was not the obstacle that it might have appeared. The red stone was soft and crumbling—treacherous to be sure, but offering plenty of hand- and foot-holds. Beth was halfway up, moving slowly and carefully, a dark, spidery shadow in her soft gray working outfit. Andreas stood on the dock below, keeping watch, as she tested each new position with one hand before trusting it with her weight. A soft rain of pebbles below her testified to the necessity of these precautions.
In another twenty minutes, she'd reached the top. The baronet's enormous balcony, while no doubt ideal for dinner parties in the warm summer evenings, provided a perfect place to make the ascent shielded from any possible view from the house windows. Beth disappeared over the lip of the cliff in a final spray of pebbles, and a moment later Andreas could hear a metallic clink as she hammered a piton into the rock. A coil of rope fell toward him, unrolling as it went, and he caught it before it hit the dock.
With the knotted cord in his hand, the climb was quick and easy work, though his boots scraped more dirt and small rocks from the cliff. Beth was waiting for him at the top, crouched beside the anchored line, her face a pale oval in the light from the quarter-moon.
"Well done," Andreas said. Praise had to be given when it was due, that was a vital part of training. Beth smiled.
"Thank you, sir."
He nodded and moved deeper beneath the balcony, and she fell into step behind him. Around the sides of the house, there were gardens, but nothing would grow in the shadow of that overhang, so the space had been covered in flagstones and given over to the more mundane task of airing out old bedding and linens. Sheets hung from hooked stands, still as specters, and Andreas crept around them with utmost care. Stumbling into one and bringing the whole thing crashing down would lend the enterprise a comic-opera touch that he would not appreciate.
The door leading from the under-balcony space into the house was plain but strong, secured with a stout iron lock. Rose hadn't provided any information on its construction, so Andreas had decided not to rely on fiddling around with picks, which in any case had never been his strong suit. Instead, he took a small flask from his belt, uncorked the stopper, and tilted it gently into the keyhole.