by J. M. Martin
Dara settled back, embarrassed at her outburst. Had she spoiled the secret? Was the story how her line came to reign in Aramis?
“We were discussing love, Princess Dara. The perfect assassin, the one who can reach anyone, anywhere, needs to know his target intimately, and such knowledge breeds love. So there lies a dilemma. The perfect assassin needs to be able to kill the thing he loves. Or, rather, to understand the emotion, but not let it stay his hand.”
#
Sim never stayed his hand. Always seized his moment. When some alarm within the castle turned the guards from the battlements he advanced to the base of the wall, swift but smooth. He threw his padded grapple and the thin rope snaked out behind it. Within heartbeats he was climbing, drawing himself up along a line chosen after long inspection toward a spot where he stood least chance of being observed.
Arms burning he reached the battlement and crossed the parapet on all fours, quick as an eel, kicking free the grapple behind him and dropping into the tree he knew stood close to the wall at that spot. Below him the gardens seethed in the new risen wind. The castle walls enclosed several acres of garden, set to trees, shrub and bush, in chaotic profusion, capturing a manicured hint of the wild woods in which the nobility of Aramis so loved to hunt.
Sim waited, high in the arms of the elm, waited for whatever commotion had drawn the guardsmen’s attention within the walls to die away. The wound on the heel of his palm had started to bleed again. He’d killed seasoned veterans without taking a scratch and somehow let a church librarian slice him with a letter opener. A half-inch lower and it would have opened the veins in his wrist, cut tendons perhaps. He touched his fingers to the wound and while he waited, cradled in the treetop, he let the recollection of the incident unfold behind his eyes.
The librarian, Honas, had proved useful in the end—providing maps from the days of the castle’s construction and reading out the legends in a tremulous voice. A fair exchange all told. And when his store of information ran dry they sat looking at each other, the young man and the old.
“Brother Jorg said he might teach me to read,” Sim told the churchman, folding the ancient map and slipping it into an inner pocket. “But he says a lot of things.” Sim withdrew his hand and turned it over to reveal the short throwing knife on his palm, below it the cut Honas had scored him with still bled—an instinctive thing, a lashing out in fear as he turned from the table bearing his correspondence only to be surprised by Sim standing at his shoulder.
“It’s a beautiful piece isn’t it?” Sim turned his hand to let the candlelight slide along the blade. The weapon felt good in his hand, familiar. Strange to take comfort in the sharp edge of a little cross-knife, an instrument of pain and death…but he supposed the crosses that the faithful took their own comfort in were symbols of an instrument far crueller than his knife.
Sim slipped the blade between his middle fingers so an inch protruded like a gleaming claw, and with a swift motion cut Honas’ throat. He caught the older man’s head then, and held it, despite the thrashing, whispering into his ear, loud enough to be heard above the gurgles, but quiet enough that only they two would share the words.
#
“What did he say?” Dara slid from the couch to sit at Guise’s feet, his suede boots streaked with mud from his journey through the gardens.
“That’s the secret, princess.”
“You will tell me though?” She looked up at him, arching her brows.
Guise met her gaze. “Of course. Before the end. Nobody’s story should end with the secret untold.” He returned his eyes to the scroll before him. The low rumble of thunder reached them, vibrating in Dara’s chest.
#
Sim waited in the tree, ripe with a purpose that was not his own. Many years before, his mother had tied all his purpose to a single coin, a lifetime ago, back when he’d been too young to know he was being sold. The brothel had taken him and held him until the brotherhood came with blood and fire and, seeing in him a different value, took the boy into their number. He’d been fourteen when they gave him a new life, and in the years since he’d come to accept a leader’s direction to replace his own spinning compass; though, for each death, he took a coin, perhaps hoping in some deep and unspeaking recess of his mind that the coin his mother accepted would find its way to his hand, and give him back to himself.
#
When Sim’s moment came he dropped, cloak fluttering behind him, two feet striking the back of a guardsman’s neck. The man fell nerveless into a bush while Sim launched himself onto the second guard, punch knife in hand. In a heartbeat only Sim remained upright. He dragged the second man into the bush that received the first and, while all around him the leaves seethed beneath the wind, Sim whispered the secret to the men as their last moments came and went.
Beneath the shelter of the tree Brother Sim changed into his disguise. By the time he’d done up the last button a cold rain had begun to fall and the dark gardens bent and dripped. He advanced on the tall towers, the royal apartments, pausing only to set in place his equipment within the tall shrubs that marked the gardens’ perimeter.
#
“You didn’t just come here to tell stories did you, Guise?” Dara moved her hand upon the young man’s knee, feeling the firmness of his thigh. A flicker of lightning lit the room, mocking the lamps’ illumination for a second, and burning in the storyteller’s eyes. Three times in the past week she’d seen him in the houses of nobility, declaiming from the petty-stage to entertain the diners. Something about him had drawn her gaze, an almost delicate beauty, and he’d returned her frank attentions with something ambiguous, something more tempting than lust or admiration.
At Lord Garzan’s presentation of suitors Dara had paid more mind to the storyteller than to the lordlings and minor princes her father had invited to seek her hand. Her father might have grand politics at the front of his thinking, alliances waiting to be sealed; Dara, however, had more immediate desires to satisfy and felt if she were to be sacrificed into some arranged marriage she may as well have a little fun first.
She’d thrown Guise her favor when his story ended and sent her maid Clara to arrange their current assignation. The maid had returned looking as flushed as Dara felt, and confirmed that Guise would dare the walls for a chance to meet the princess if she would provide sufficient distraction to give him the opportunity to reach her without being filled with spears.
And here he was, in the flesh. Firm beneath her hand and far more real than stories. Far more interesting. Thunder rolled outside, deep voiced and raw. She leant closer still. “You didn’t just come here to tell stories did you?”
“I didn’t, princess, not just to tell stories, no.” Guise took her hand in his and stood from his chair. “It was on a night like this, in the gardens of this very castle, that Brother Sim murdered his way toward the high towers of Aramis.” He led her to the window where he’d clambered into her chamber not an hour before. “Bloody handed Sim came, leaving the bodies of half a dozen men in his wake.”
Guise slid an arm about her shoulder and she shivered beneath his touch as he guided her to stand beside him and watch the rain fall through the darkness. He held out his other hand to catch the drops, steering her gaze.
“Is that…is there?” Something caught her eye, still adjusting to the dark, something among the vegetation flailing beneath a storm wind…something darker…almost…man shaped. A lone guardsman?
“I—” Lightning flashed again and amid the shocking green Dara saw a black figure, ragged and tall, half-emerging from the bushes that stood between the inner court and the gardens. The crash of thunder drowned her scream. “Oh God! It’s him!”
“What?” Guise stepped back, staring at her. “What did you see?”
“Someone…someone’s out there.” She clung to his shoulder, heart thumping.
Pounding on the door, scarcely louder than the thunder in her chest. “Your highness?” The handle rattled but she’d bolted it earlier,
before Guise climbed the rope.
“Tell him,” Guise whispered. “If you saw someone.”
“I’m fine.” She called out. “I…I saw a man in the grounds, not a guardsman or one of the staff. I got scared.” She sat in the chair Guise offered, trembling in her limbs and unsteady.
“I’ll order a search, princess.” The guardsman’s voice through the door—Captain Exus. “I’ll leave Howard to guard your chamber. Please set the main bolts.”
“I’ll do it,” Guise whispered, and he hurried to push the two heavy bolts home into their housings. From beyond the door the sound of boots on stairs as her guardsmen hurried down to initiate the hunt. Dara felt safe now. The door would keep an army at bay and Howard would take some getting past too.
“I think the story’s over.” Guise returned to her, easing the tension in her shoulders with an expert touch.
“But you never got to the lie or told me the secret,” Dara said, craning her neck to look back at him, behind the chair.
Guise shook his head, a sad smile on his lips. When he passed the cord beneath her chin she thought for a moment that it was a necklace, a gift.
“I’m the lie.” A moment later the cord tightened choking the question off her lips. Her hands went to her neck and all thought narrowed to a single aim, a single goal, to draw another breath. And into that moment of silent, terminal, panic Sim whispered the secret.
Sim crouched behind the chair, safe from any clawing hands, hauling on the curtain cord until Dara’s struggles ceased. Even then he kept the pressure, rising with the cord knotted between his straining hands. He knew how long it takes to kill someone in such a manner. The garrotte would have been quicker, but bloody, and his escape would be safer if he kept clean. In any case a wire seemed wrong for so royal a throat. Silk seemed…apt…for nobility.
Eventually Sim let go the cord, allowing the princess’ corpse to flop forward, hiding her purple face, blood-filled eyes, protruding tongue. He took from his bag a copy of the royal servants’ tunics and hose, changing into it without haste. He removed Dara’s favor and hid the wound on his wrist beneath the cuff of his new uniform. A long blonde wig and a touch of rouge delicately applied with the help of a hand mirror to achieve the desired effect, and Sim looked every bit the serving girl. Disguise had always come easy to him. His childhood had served him well; when your sense of self is taken, it grows easier to become someone else. When you sell affection, it becomes easier to both understand love and be unmoved by it. The brothers had seen the killer in him at fourteen. He wondered how people less used to murder managed not to see it until it was far too late.
Sim straightened and went to the door. A device of one water bladder dripping into another acting as a counterweight had raised the rag figure amid the bushes, it would not take long to find, and the guardsmen would be back soon enough.
A drop of oil applied to the heavy bolts allowed each to be drawn back without alerting the guard outside. A couple more oil drops for the hinges and Sim set his four-inch punch spike in hand. He pulled the door open in a smooth motion and drove the steel into the back of Howard’s neck, bringing him down in a clatter of useless armor.
Once Howard had been hauled into the room Sim collected the dining tray from Dara’s chamber and closed the door behind him. With the tower guard thinned by Dara’s alert, and suitably attired for one wishing to pass unremarked along the corridors of power, Sim took his leave.
He had served his purpose, the coin’s purpose, Brother Jorg’s purpose. Brother Jorg who he both hated and loved. Brother Jorg who found direction everywhere he looked, as if it bled between each word he spoke. And, with his task complete, once more Sim had a free choice of path. As free a choice as ever he’d been given in his eighteen years.
Half an hour later, on a dark and rain-swept highway with a good horse beneath him, Sim made his decision, pulling the reins once more toward the Roma Road that would bear him east and south toward the Appan Way, toward his brothers, toward another coin, another duty, toward the clarity of purpose in a world so lacking in direction.
In his wake, torn and flapping in the mud, the story scroll, its incomprehensible symbols smeared by rain, words and meaning running together, soaking away.
The story is done. Be glad that it wasn’t yours and that, for you, the lie is still untold, the secret still unspoken.
Friendship
Laura Resnick
"Friendship" is set in the world of my Silerian Trilogy, In Legend Born, The White Dragon, and The Destroyer Goddess. It takes place a few years before the trilogy begins and focuses on two important secondary characters from the novels. This story foreshadows a treacherous power struggle between two sorcerers, portrays a relationship of mutual trust that will be tested by fate, and gives you a taste of the ruthlessness that characterizes life in Sileria.
~
The watery walls of Kiloran's palace undulated smoothly around Najdan as he entered his master's lair. Hidden deep beneath the surface of Lake Kandahar, the waterlord's dwelling was imposing, luxurious, and maintained by sorcery. If Kiloran chose, he could loosen his control on any of the airy underwater rooms, allowing the icy lake to swallow them up—and drown whoever happened to be there. Entering Kiloran's home was a matter of trust if you were one of the assassins sworn to his service—and a matter of desperation if you were a supplicant seeking his help.
Upon finding Kiloran comfortably seated in conversation with a well-dressed young stranger, the assassin crossed his fists in front of his chest and bowed his head in formal greeting.
"Siran," said Najdan. Master. "I came as soon as I received your message."
"Najdan." The old waterlord, who was stout, coldly intelligent, and formidable, smiled and gestured for the assassin to join him and his young guest. "Allow me to introduce you to Toren Varilon."
The title didn't surprise Najdan. The young man's expensive attire combined with the arrogance of his attitude, apparent even at first glance, had led Najdan to guess he was one of the toreni—the landed aristocrats of Sileria.
"I am honored by the introduction, toren," Najdan said politely.
The young man looked him over as if he were a Kintish courtesan, then said to Kiloran, sounding pleased, "Oh, this is excellent! He looks exactly the way I imagined an assassin would."
Najdan raised one brow and looked at Kiloran, whose face remained impassive as Varilon rose from his seat to walk in a circle around Najdan.
"The black tunic and leggings, the red woven sash…The unkempt hair of a shallah—he is a shallah, isn't he?"
"Yes," said Kiloran. He caught Najdan's eye, and the assassin could see that the old waterlord was amused.
"Of course," Varilon said with a nod. "He would have to be a shallah. Just look at the scars on his palms—from swearing bloodvows, yes? And that brutish face!" When Najdan gave him a cold glance, the toren fell back a step—then clapped his hands. "Marvelous!"
The shallaheen, Sileria's mountain peasants, were the poorest and most numerous of the island nation's disparate people. Although the assassins of the Honored Society came from all walks of Silerian life, the grinding poverty of the mountains drove many shallaheen, in particular, into this dangerous but lucrative vocation.
From the day he swore his loyalty in blood to a waterlord, an assassin's life belonged to his master and to the Honored Society. But since family ties were strong in the mountains, a wise waterlord nonetheless respected those bonds. When ordering Najdan to exact tribute, ensure obedience to the Society's will, or kill men, all of which the assassin did efficiently and ruthlessly, Kiloran had never required him to do so with his own clan. Then again, Najdan's clan was small, poor, meek, and submitted readily to the Society's will in exchange for Kiloran's favor.
"You are a magnificent specimen," the toren said to him. "I couldn't be more pleased."
"I am delighted to please your guest, siran," Najdan said to his master. "Have you summoned me merely to be admired? Or is there work for m
e to do?"
Kiloran's lips twitched. "Now that you mention it, there is some work."
"I need someone killed," Varilon said baldly.
"Anyone in particular?" Najdan asked.
"An Outlooker," the toren said, clearly intending to make an impression.
He made one. Najdan looked sharply at Kiloran—and was surprised to see that this was not news to the waterlord. "Siran?"
Kiloran nodded, his expression serious. "You heard correctly. An Outlooker."
"I don't understand."
"You don't need to understand," the toren said dismissively. "You just need to kill him."
Najdan said nothing, awaiting an explanation. Because there must surely be one.
The Outlookers were the occupying force of Valdania, the conquering mainland empire which had ruled Sileria for two centuries. The Valdani were powerful and greedy, the Outlookers were callous and brutal, and their emperor had outlawed the Honored Society and Silerian water magic. But Dar, the destroyer goddess who dwelled inside the snow-capped volcano of Mount Darshon, had ensured that Her home was not an easy one for foreign conquerors to control. Outlawing something was one thing, but enforcing the law in Sileria's mountainous terrain was quite another. And so the Honored Society, though heavily inconvenienced by the Valdani, continued to function much as it had for centuries, through successive waves of conquest and foreign rule.
But it was a delicate balance, one that relied on exercising good judgment and maintaining traditional boundaries. And one of those boundaries was that the Honored Society did not assassinate Valdani.
The slaying of an Outlooker would motivate the Valdani to work much harder at enforcing their will in the mountains and pursuing their emperor's goal of destroying the Society.