by L J Chappell
As well as talking with Magda about her past, Lanvik found time to chat with Garran and Ubrik between combat lessons. They came from a small town somewhere in the east of the Empire, in the shadow of the White Mountains, and they were Dog clan – the traditional clan of soldiers and fighters. Perhaps because they were brothers and it was something they practiced together, they had become more skilful than their contemporaries both in their little town and in the wider province.
‘You can criticise the Empire for dozens of reasons,’ Ubrik lamented, ‘but it’s a peaceful place and has been for centuries.’
‘When you travel around some of these other little kingdoms, the towns have got thick stone walls all the way round,’ Garran agreed, ‘but you never find that in the Empire. Even where there are walls, they’re usually ruined and half the town lies outside them. It’s not a dangerous place to live.’
‘Which is great for most of the people who live there, but not so good if your destined profession relies on the anticipation of violence. So we were stuck with whatever scraps of work came up locally …’
‘… which usually meant working for fat merchants – intimidation, or debt collection. Or sometimes guarding cattle and other livestock against predators,’ Garran laughed.
‘Or we could have signed up in the Imperial Army, which doesn’t pay very well and is either dull and ceremonial if you look smart, or else fighting rebels in Ruthin and beyond, which is too dangerous. So we waited until Garran was old enough and left home together to become proper mercenaries.’
‘It’s much better if there are two of you,’ Garran explained: ‘there’s always someone you can trust to watch your back.’
‘Kiergard Slorn’s offer was the best that came along,’ Ubrik concluded.
‘So he’s paying you to be here, as mercenaries?’
‘Not any more, no, but that’s how it worked for the first few months. But we saw how much money the Company can make when things work out, so we signed up with the rest of them.’
‘And?’
‘We like it. There’s less fighting than there would be with real mercenary work, so it’s much safer. And now we’re involved for the whole job, not just the dangerous parts, so we effectively get paid for travelling, sleeping, spying on people, carrying things – all sorts. Kiergard Slorn prefers to avoid actual violence when he can, and that’s suits us fine.’
As the days progressed, Lanvik noticed the members of the Company gradually becoming more irritable during their enforced inactivity.
On one occasion, he saw Vorrigan standing with Tremano and Lisamel, Vander, Kiergard Slorn and Bane: they almost looked as if they were arguing.
‘What’s up?’
‘Vorrigan’s getting annoyed,’ Tremano explained. ‘He has lots of jewellery to sell.’
‘And you can’t find buyers?’ Lanvik asked.
‘Oh, there are buyers, but they’re sharp here,’ Vorrigan complained. ‘If we were running a reputable business and had to buy these pieces as stock, then we wouldn’t be making much profit.’
‘You’re getting a bad price?’
‘No, I’m getting a fair price, but not a good price.’
‘So he doesn’t want to sell …,’ Tremano said.
‘… and we think he should …,’ Lisamel added.
‘… even if he doesn’t meet his own expectations about ripping people off,’ Bane concluded.
‘It’s not ripping them off if the price is agreed,’ Vorrigan said. ‘It’s what they think it’s worth.’
‘But they’re not agreeing to your price, are they?’ Lisamel smiled. She changed the subject by asking Lanvik: ‘What about you? What are you doing between weapons and instrument practice, and games of Fugitive?’
‘Just walking around, thinking, trying to find things to prompt my memories.’
‘Any success?’
‘It’s difficult to tell. I have thoughts and ideas which might be fragments of my life, or might be invented, or might be things I’ve heard other people say,’ he said. ‘At the moment, I’m obsessed with a place called Uvellia. Has one of you mentioned it?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Vorrigan shook his head. ‘It’s not familiar. Why?’
‘I think I must have heard it somewhere, and now I can’t get the name out of my head.’
‘Maybe you overheard somebody talking in the street,’ Vander suggested. ‘Uvellia is a town on Little Tirassa, two or three days to the east of here.’
‘Do you recognise the name at all?’ Slorn asked.
‘No, it’s not familiar. But despite that, I feel it’s important somehow.’
‘So it might be something from your past?’
‘Perhaps. I don’t know,’ Lanvik admitted. ‘If I could remember where I heard it, that would help.’
Later, he went to the room he was sharing with Ethryk and pulled out Kiergard Slorn’s map: perhaps he’d seen the name there and it had simply stuck in his mind, but “Uvellia” was not on the map – he assumed it was too small. He found Little Tirassa: it was almost the easternmost island in the Inner Sea. If anyone was sailing from the Land of Mists, then Little Tirassa would be one of the first islands where they could stop.
The following morning, during his wander through Perastia searching for triggers, Lanvik found several of the others sitting by the harbour. They were watching a party of Confederacy traders and soldiers swarming around a boat that had only recently docked. A couple of arguments seemed to have broken out between the local dockworkers and the crew and, as a result, there was some delay unloading her cargo.
‘I just don’t like them,’ Vorrigan scowled. ‘Something about the way they swagger, and they’re so self-centred.’
‘They don’t really notice anyone else,’ Thawn agreed: ‘not as people.’
‘And why do they have soldiers everywhere?’ Garran added. ‘When was that ever a good idea?’
‘Magda thinks there’s a war coming,’ Lanvik said: ‘because of all the soldiers.’
‘I think she’s probably right,’ Thawn commented. ‘It’s probably what they think too, and they don’t even see it as a bad thing. Just something that will have to happen eventually if they’re to replace the Empire as the dominant power in Mehan’Gir.’
The Confederacy’s a long, long way from challenging the Empire anywhere in the Three Lands,’ Karuin said. ‘And anyway, it’s not our concern, not unless it actually becomes a real war.’
‘Everyone who’s not Madarinn should be worried about the Confederacy,’ Ubrik shook his head. ‘They’re getting larger and larger, absorbing territory. A little bit here, a little bit there. And eventually, wherever they go, Terevarna end up leaving and life becomes unbearable for those who stay.’
‘All of Karithia has been theirs for forty years now, and at least a quarter of the population has left,’ Thawn agreed. ‘Everyone knows they’re not finished.’
‘Where do you think they’ll go next?’
‘I don’t know,’ Thawn said: ‘Maybe Avellador or Perina, or both. They’ll wait for some crisis, or create one. Then there’ll be some agreement, maybe an alliance to help run the country or help against rebels; then permanent advisors and bases. The real problems start as they start enforcing their values – restrictions, deportations, purges, killings: Confederacy Law. After ten or twenty years of that, annexation will just be a formality: no-one living there will notice the difference.’
‘That’s certainly the way they used to operate, and Perina would give them a presence in the Steppes, but I think Ruthin’s made them stop and think. It puts the Empire and its armies right opposite them, instead of on the other side of the White Mountains. And that gives smaller states another option and a potential champion. For a different price.’
‘I think that’s just made them shift their focus south,’ Vander disagreed. ‘They already have one base in the Inner Sea, in Shabilaq. Twenty years ago there was nothing there, but now it’s a city of a hundred thousand, with mass
ive dock works and some of the largest fortifications ever seen on these shores. It’s only a presence, but it’s a pretty solid presence and it certainly gives the impression that they think they’re going to be here for a long time. The Empire’s acting as if they think so, too – they have their own naval yards and a program of shipbuilding. Warships, not traders.’
‘Really?’ Kiergard Slorn asked, surprised. ‘I hadn’t heard about that.’
‘I think it’s supposed to be secret.’
‘Shabilaq?’ Lanvik asked. ‘Where is that?’
‘On the Qassiq shore of the Dragon Sea. From there, they could make things very awkward for anyone entering or leaving the Inner Sea.’
‘Do you think they have an agreement with the Dragon Lords?’
‘I think it’s in Halea, so they probably have an arrangement with the desert tribesmen.’
‘Would you like a game of Fugitive?’ Karuin asked, during the brief pause.
‘Yes. yes, I would.’ Lanvik enjoyed their games.
‘I’ll come back with you,’ Vrosko Din said.
As they walked back, Karuin admitted: ‘Gods, I’m so bored with that conversation, but some of the others have been stuck on it for three days now. I wish this contract would finish and we could get out of here, and stop concentrating on a war that doesn’t exist.’
‘You don’t think war’s coming?’
‘Maybe it is, but not any time soon. For now, both sides are doing a lot of posturing and that’s all. The only thing we should be concerned with is whether more patrols and more armed soldiers might interfere with what we’re doing.’
‘Don’t you think we should be worried if there are extra Imperial troops around?’ Lanvik asked. ‘They might be looking for Vander.’
‘Even if they’ve heard about his rescue and have instructions to detain him, it’s not likely that any local garrison or patrol in a foreign port would recognise him,’ Karuin shook her head. ‘He doesn’t have any distinct or unusual features, so any descriptions or drawings that have been issued aren’t going to be very specific.’
‘You think he’ll be pretty safe, then? Even after we’ve delivered him?’
‘Well, unless he does something stupid – like return to his family on Arrento, or carry on calling himself “Vander of Arrento” – then yes, I think he should be safe.’
‘Well, that girl of his sounds particularly stupid,’ Vrosko Din said. ‘So who knows what she might be planning.’
‘He told you about her as well?’ Lanvik was surprised. ‘He told me, but I thought it was in confidence, though. Sort of secret.’
‘I think it’s the sort of secret that he can’t resist sharing with people,’ Vrosko Din chuckled. ‘I suppose that’s young love.’
‘Did he tell you about that damned bird?’ Karuin asked.
‘Yes,’ Vrosko Din and Lanvik said together, and all three of them laughed.
2
The assassin sometimes called Foxblade and sometimes called Atterlie was lying on her bed, spinning a stiletto knife above her head, when there was a rap on her door. She caught the knife by the handle, stood and opened the door. It was Eddeline, one of the older Sisters.
‘The Guildmaster has asked for you.’
‘Thank you, Sister.’
Before leaving the room, Atterlie pulled on a pair of simple slippers and checked herself in the tiny mirror by the window. She kept the knife – assassins were encouraged to carry a weapon, even inside the Guildhouse: it was not unknown for Guildhouses to be attacked.
She passed through the Common Room. Eddeline was duty Sister, and there were eight or ten other Sisters there. Most of them looked up and greeted her as she crossed the room. Almost three weeks had passed since she had returned from her first failed contract in distant Urthgard: she had spent a lot of that time in the Common Room.
Wherever a Chapter maintained permanent rooms, less active members organised social activities and training courses. Atterlie had thrown herself into a number of these, playing games of strategy, speed and strength; learning how to use unusual and unfamiliar weapons; increasing her knowledge of the Three Lands in general; and simply getting to know the other Sisters better.
The old Sisters might be slow, but many of them had useful skills: knowledge, tricks and tips that weren’t taught in regular classes but came with experience. It had taken her some time to realise that their stories and anecdotes normally concerned contracts where they felt they had excelled: those were the unusual contracts, the difficult contracts and the contracts where their normal training had proved in some way deficient. There were lessons to be learned from every such story and she started making notes that summarised the important points, notes that she could refer to later. Learning, together with training and practice, could always make you better.
These three weeks had been a quiet time. At first, Atterlie had worried that she was being passed over for work, but in fact there seemed to be very few contracts coming in. The board was all but empty of opportunities, and the Guildhouse was full of restless people. Very few were out working.
She tried to keep as busy as possible.
Within the wider Guildhouse, she played in the competitions and leagues that constantly ran: knifeplay, swordplay, speed, agility – dangerous games. There was practice, of course: alone or with partners. She was fast and she was accurate, but it was always possible to become faster and more accurate; strength and endurance were also things that could be improved.
She ran a couple of classes for Novices – a few tips and tricks that she had picked up that weren’t obvious from the regular training. Her classes were always fully booked and the Novices were always interested in both her and her previous kills. They all knew her, or rather they all knew her name – she had a reputation. It was a way to make a little extra money.
She also tried to spend a few hours each day walking around Arafel. She listened to accents and studied the clothes that people wore, their mannerisms and attitudes, how they interacted when they were in different types of relationships with each other. She gauged the prices of things. She tried to learn anything that might give her an edge, anything that might improve her and make her better at what she did.
She needed to become the best that she possibly could be, in order to do what she needed to do. She probably already had the physical skills, but she still lacked the necessary funds and therefore the necessary opportunities to pursue her revenge. So she needed more contracts: more successful contracts.
She crossed the courtyard that lay at the centre of the Guildhouse – part training ground and part gardens – to the Guildmaster’s office. She waited outside for a few minutes before being summoned.
Behind the heavy wooden door, it was Guildmaster Sharpfire at the desk. Given his advanced years, his guild name now seemed bizarrely incongruous, but he was still widely respected in the Guildhouse for surviving to such an age, and for an astonishing record of over a thousand successful kills. He was also one of the Masters whom she felt closest to.
There was a contract in front of him, which he folded shut as she walked in. If it was a new contract, then it hadn’t been posted outside. The details of available contracts were normally made public on the board, soliciting applications. Depending on the value of the contract, one or more Guildmasters would decide which of the interested Adepts should be awarded the work. Often, there was an interview as well.
For senior jobs and some political jobs, the Guildmasters sometimes directly selected an Assassin instead. It was never wise to turn down such an appointment: not if you valued your career.
Was that what this was?
Had she been chosen for a new contract?
Or perhaps he was looking at her previous contract. Had someone gone through her report from Urthgard and discovered something in it?
He indicated that she should sit.
‘I have a new contract here, Adept Foxblade,’ he told her. ‘When I checked our records, I discovered th
at you had requested an opportunity to fulfil any work offered by this client. After some reflection, I decided to offer it to you.’
‘This is the client whose last job was in Lanvik, in Urthgard?’
‘You know it is. Don’t waste my time.’
‘Sorry, Master. What are the terms of the contract?’
‘The same as last time.’
‘Urthgard again?’
‘No. The Inner Sea: an island called Little Tirassa.’
Atterlie didn’t know it except as a mark on the map. The Guildhouse would have a file, and there were detailed maps in the library, constantly updated with routes, contacts, costs and other useful information by returning guild members.
‘Are you interested?’
‘I am, Master.’
He passed her the file and she looked through it.
There was an exact address in a town called Uvellia, together with a name and a description of the target.
‘A Human this time,’ Guildmaster Sharpfire remarked.
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve never killed a Human.’
‘No, Master, but my training has prepared me. Except by doing, how else am I to learn?’
‘That tongue will be your downfall someday,’ he told her.
She allowed herself a little smile: ‘Yes, Master.’
‘You have two hours to look over the details and let me know if you want the job. If not, I’ll put it on the board.’
It was a rare thing to be directly offered a contract. That would have been reason enough not to check the details, not to take the file away, not to consider. But it wasn’t the only reason.
‘I will take the contract, Master Sharpfire,’ she said at once.
‘Be careful of your motives,’ he warned. ‘Don’t let emotion unbalance your judgement.’
‘I do not need to prove myself to you or to the client or to myself. I already know that I am capable.’