by Tom Lloyd
Once again he wondered about the strange nature of his commission: to kill a person who had no identity, who bore no allegiance and took no sides. Isen and Orolay had both been incredulous when he’d told them. The younger man had been outraged, while Isen had been mostly mystified. The three of them had debated the matter for hours, but when they reached no conclusion, Corl had decided to do what he always did: take the money and try not to think too hard about the victim. After all, there was always a reason, good or otherwise, even if Corl himself did not understand it and that was not much different to serving in the army.
All the same, Corl could not help wondering: why a Harlequin? Who could possibly have a grudge against the blessed tellers of stories? What madman could imagine a Harlequin harming him, or posing a threat? It was foolish . . . but as he stood there, the swell of bodies pressing from all sides, Corl still found himself checking the weapons secreted around his body.
‘Coin all spends the same,’ he muttered, too quietly for Isen to hear properly. He waved Isen to silence as the song ended and the Harlequin started its last tale: one Corl had heard years back: the Goat and the God. They laughed as hard as anyone as the Harlequin acted out Vrest’s amorous mishaps as he took the form of a Billy-goat, booed with gusto at the theft of the prized doe and cheered at the hoofprints adorning the God’s buttocks afterwards . . . although Corl felt a vague sense of puzzlement as the story unfolded, the course of events differing to how he remembered them - but it was all too long ago to recall accurately, and Harlequins never forgot a single word, everyone knew that.
The swell of laughter and cheering swept him up and Corl tried to ignore his qualms. The Harlequin took its bows and as the drummers started striking the first bars of the salute to the night, the brisk, heavy thump of the drums reminded Corl of a heartbeat and his thoughts returned to the night’s task. At his gesture, Isen and Orolay began to make their way around the pit to where the Harlequin was gathering its meagre possessions.
As they crossed the open ground, a pair of fiddlers took up the mournful salute and the Harlequin was slipping away with only a few words of thanks and blessing from the grateful crowd, who were mostly listening, rapt, to the final song, an ancient tradition. It was Farlan custom for all who could afford it to offer a Harlequin food and lodging whenever it arrived in a town or city. Neighbours would bring gifts, to honour their presence; on Midsummer that was doubly important. Corl reckoned the Harlequin would have accepted an offer of bed and breakfast closer to the city gate, and as asking would be a bit obvious, he’d decided following the Harlequin was their best option. With luck the revelry would have died down before he reached his destination and they wouldn’t have to slaughter the whole household.
Corl slung his arm around Isen’s neck, raised the jug of wine to the man’s lips and poured some down his front, roaring with laughter. He lurched into the middle of the street, keeping one eye on the Harlequin’s back even as he hugged Isen to him.
‘Easy now,’ he said in Isen’s ear, ‘you’re wound tight as a ratter - chase this one too hard and he’ll turn on us.’
With that he lunged towards Orolay, shoving the jar into the young man’s hands, then falling to the ground and dragging Isen down on top of him. As the bigger man’s weight thumped down on him, Corl roared with drunken laughter and Orolay, catching on, quickly joined in.
‘You ain’t payin’ me ta play fool,’ Isen hissed, ‘use the boy fer that.’
‘Piss you on,’ Corl replied under his breath, theatrically struggling to his feet. ‘Pride’s easiest to lose, it’s everythin’ else as hurts.’
Isen scowled and grabbed the wine off Orolay. ‘Lose yer own then,’ he said, and headed off down the street.
Corl watched him go. Isen wasn’t giving up on the mission, he knew that, but the last thing he needed was the man trying to earn the fee alone. Whatever the reasons behind their commission, it wasn’t going to be easy - the biggest question was how they were going to get it done and remain alive. Corl was good with a knife, really good, but he wasn’t planning to tangle with a Harlequin unless he had a company of Ghosts at his side.
Shame you’re not this good an actor, Corl thought as he watched Isen stamp away after the Harlequin, who was heading down a fork in the road, this is better than the happy drunks routine.
‘I’m sorry!’ he bawled after the other man with mock anguish. ‘Forgive me!’
Corl ran a few steps forward, enough to make Isen flinch, before turning away and beckoning Orolay closer. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the Harlequin looking around, and seeing nothing but a drunken argument between friends. Corl splashed the remains of the jar of wine over the two of them so they were as stained and stinking as Isen.
‘Know any songs?’ he asked Orolay with a chuckle, but when the young man looked blank, Corl thumped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Hah, never mind, we’ll keep to the “drunken friends making up” routine.’ He cupped his mouth and shouted, ‘Balar, wait up! Don’t walk away!’ his voice echoing down the near-empty street. When they caught up with Isen, he pointed wordlessly after the Harlequin as it disappeared through a crumbling memorial arch heading towards the Golden Tower district. The street was empty other than them, and Corl felt the essence of Kassalain stir in his blood.
‘Perfect,’ Corl said, struggling to cast off the desert robes. ‘I’ll cut through the alleys and catch it on t’other side. You two keep following, ’case it turns away.’
He didn’t wait for them to reply but set off at a sprint, slipping a longknife from its sheath as he moved alongside a building. There was an alley there that he knew well, kept in near-total darkness by the tall buildings, which was a good cut-through to the Wood Gate crossroads - as long as you were willing to risk the chance of a footpad lurking in wait. This was his chance.
He kept his knife low and ran as fast as he dared, keeping to the centre of the alley. Twenty yards in he heard a woman’s voice whisper in his ear - Kassalain, smelling murder in the air - and he dropped, tucking his head down into a roll, and slashed at the shadow moving to his right. The footpad yelped and fell back as Corl, already back on his feet, made up the ground in one step and lashed out, this time slicing open his ambusher’s hand. The blow drove the man back the way Corl had come and he saw him clearly for the first time, silhouetted against the mouth of the alley.
No second blade, flashed through Corl’s mind as he grabbed the footpad’s injured arm, yanked him sideways and kicked the man’s legs out from under him.
‘Wait!’ the man gasped as he thumped to the ground, ‘please — !’ He broke off as he felt the edge of a blade at his throat.
‘Sorry, friend,’ Corl whispered, ‘but you tryin’ to kill me’s a promise to Kassalain, and I do her collecting.’ He drew the knife across the man’s throat, cutting as deep as he could in one movement. The man spasmed as the lifeblood flowed out of him, but in a matter of moments his heart stopped and he went limp.
Just another sacrifice to my mistress, Corl though grimly. Better him than me.
The body wouldn’t be discovered tonight, so he didn’t need to waste any more time. When he reached the other end of the alley he dropped to one knee and caught his breath. In a few moments he felt the veil of silence descend over the alley again. He chanced a look round the corner - and froze.
There it was, apparently still unaware of its pursuer, its patchwork clothes and white porcelain mask stark and ghostly in the pale moonlight.
Corl drew slowly back and reached for the blowpipe sheathed on his thigh. He allowed himself a quick flush of relief as he ran his fingers down its length and discovered no damage, then removed his darts pouch and selected one. The range wasn’t great compared to a bow, but he preferred a lack of moving parts in his weapons. He loaded and raised the pipe, and set himself to wait patiently for his target to appear at the alley entrance.
Half a dozen heartbeats later he felt a prickle of fear - he couldn’t hear the Harlequin’s foot
steps on the cobbles - then it appeared straight ahead of him, its head turned slightly away. There was no wind; it was as easy a shot as it could be. Corl filled his lungs, aimed the blowpipe and blew —
— and the Harlequin flinched. One sword was halfway out of its scabbard before the Harlequin even saw what had happened. Corl slowly lowered the blowpipe, feeling secure in the shadows, and watched the Harlequin twist around to look at the finger-long dart in its buttock. With a flick of the wrist it slapped the dart away, then whipped a dagger from its belt and slashed down at the cut.
Corl’s eyes widened, he’d never seen that before. The toxin on the dart was insect venom, fast-acting, but not instant. As he watched blood run down the Harlequin’s leg Corl found himself wondering how much had entered its bloodstream. Not much, I guess . . .
He shook his head. Really not the time, he chided himself, stowing the pipe and drawing his longknives. The Harlequin detected his movement, even in the darkness, and peered forward, fully drawing one of its slim swords. It took a few steps forward and Corl felt a chill breath of wind on his neck, as though Lord Death had arrived to claim him.
Larat’s Teeth, it knows it can’t wait for the venom to kick in.
Corl took a step back. The Harlequin continued forward, still straining to make out any shapes in the black alley. Corl sheathed one of his longknives and drew a shorter blade, moving slowly and bringing it back behind his head, so the Harlequin wouldn’t see. As he readied himself, footsteps came from the street beyond - footsteps and voices.
He hesitated, and so did his prey. Then a forced laugh rang out, echoing off the stone walls of the street and Corl realised it was Orolay, obviously as poor an actor as Isen.
The Harlequin, a trained performer, recognised the same and it turned to face the new threat just as Alterr, the Greater Moon, broke from behind a cloud. Her light spilled over the street, illuminating the scene as though they had fallen into some myth and it was Kasi Farlan himself they hunted.
Oh, another poor omen, Corl thought, his stomach clenched.
The Harlequin drew its other longsword, the slender blades as luminous as its mask, and, thanking Kassalain for that moment’s distraction, Corl threw the dagger, straight and true —
— and the Harlequin moved with blinding speed, arching backwards even as it swung up a sword up to deflect the missile. Corl’s mouth dropped open. What mortal could do that?
He didn’t get a chance to find out. He heard Isen snarl and break into a run, and, inexplicably, the Harlequin broke and sprinted as gracefully as a gazelle for the side-street it had originally been headed for.
Corl blinked in surprise as the Harlequin disappeared from view. It didn’t look as if the venom or the cut on its buttock had hampered it in the least.
A few moments later Isen and Orolay barrelled past, chasing after it, and the sight of them started him into action again.
‘Wait,’ he croaked, and stumbled after them, rounding the corner into the street in time to see them clatter to a halt. They stood looking around the empty street in bewilderment.
‘Where the fuck’s it gone?’ Isen growled.
The answer appeared like the wrath of Nartis from the heavens as a blur of bone-white and glittering steel dropped between the pair of them. One sword plunged deep into Isen’s chest, throwing him off his feet while Orolay reacted with the speed of youth and Kassalain’s milk, slashing wildly and - through sheer luck - managing to deflect the blow.
The Harlequin spun around, raising its sword and slashing at his ribs, and Orolay tried to deflect the blow, only to find it was a ruse: the Harlequin pulled back and withdrew, then gently rocked forward and stabbed at Orolay’s shoulder while the young man was still moving to parry the first blow to his ribs. The thrust sent him reeling, and the Harlequin pressed forward its advantage, twisting one sword to disarm Orolay, then lifting the other and slicing deep into his neck, the gleaming steel cutting through flesh as easily as butter.
Corl faltered. He’d barely had a chance to move while his comrades died. As he raised his longknives, he felt his hands waver under the sudden weight. He had no hope at all of matching a Harlequin’s skill; his attack had relied entirely on stealth.
Do I have time to run? he wondered, knowing the answer.
‘What venom?’ the Harlequin demanded in a voice so calm and controlled it could have been reclining in a chair rather than engaged in combat. ‘Tell me, and you can live.’
‘Ah, venom?’ Corl’s mind went blank for a moment, then as the Harlequin advanced his survival instinct kicked in again. ‘Wait! It’s ghost centipede — ’
From nowhere an arrow struck the Harlequin in the side, the force of the blow driving it backwards a few steps, and Corl heard it gasp as it grasped the shaft and realised it was a crossbow bolt. The Harlequin sank to one knee, dropping one sword to press a hand to its side.
Corl didn’t get any closer; he had just had ample demonstration of the Harlequin’s ambidextrous skill.
‘Never send a man to do a woman’s job,’ announced a dismissive voice on Corl’s left.
He turned, and nearly dropped his knives in shock as he recognised the diamond patchwork cloak and black mask pushed up on top of a shorn head: his Wanton Woman. Of course, the last time he’d seen her she hadn’t had a large black crossbow held carelessly in her hands, or a cigar jammed into the corner of her mouth.
The woman dropped the crossbow, reached behind her back and produced a cocked pistol-bow and dropped a quarrel into it. The end of the cigar glowed orange for a moment, then she pulled it from her mouth.
‘Why?’ wheezed the Harlequin, looking up at her while blood, pitch-black in the moonlight, seeped between its fingers.
‘For what you might do,’ the woman replied simply.
Corl looked at her. She barely looked Farlan, with her cold eyes, cropped hair and scarred cheeks, but he’d seen this before. This one was a Hand of Fate - or had been, until the Goddess had died. It looked like Kassalain still had competition in Tirah; the woman’s profession hadn’t been removed with her copper-dyed hair, just her allegiance.
Without warning the Harlequin launched forward, lunging for the woman, who calmly hopped backwards, away from its sword’s tip, even as she fired the pistol-bow. The quarrel hit it just below the shoulder, its sword clattered onto the cobbles and it dropped to its knees again. It bowed its head, as though in prayer, but all Corl could hear was shallow breathing as the Harlequin panted its last.
The woman used her foot to nudge the sword out of the Harlequin’s reach before bending to pick it up. She hefted the weapon with an admiring look. ‘A thing of beauty,’ she whispered. ‘Perhaps I’ll keep it.’
She swept the sword down and the Harlequin’s head tumbled away. Its torso flopped flat at her feet as the Wanton Woman stepped delicately out of the way.
‘Double pay for me, it appears,’ she said - not callously, to Corl’s surprise, more wearily.
He bobbed his head and looked back at the corpses of his comrades. Double pay? She’s already killed one tonight? Gods, are they being wiped out?
‘Leave them,’ she ordered, ‘I’ll dispose of this one. The guard can find them and think what they like.’
‘I wasn’t told to hide the body,’ he said, returning to his senses.
She gave him a fierce grin and raised the sword. ‘If I’m taking a memento, best they don’t find the body straight away.’
With that she unclasped her cloak and wrapped the sword before fetching her crossbow. When she’d picked that up she carried on walking away, looking for a suitable hiding place, and Corl realised she was right. There wasn’t anything more to say; it was time to leave.
Anyways, the night’s not over for me, he reminded himself as he paused over the bodies of his former colleagues. Someone with a grudge against Harlequins; that makes my next job look obvious by comparison.
He sighed and sheathed his weapons. It would be foolish to linger. He summoned a map of the city
in his mind and set off at a brisk walk.
The Temple of Karkarn it is, then, and all by myself now . . . think I’d better pick up a crossbow on my way.
CHAPTER 27
Kastan Styrax waited, the dying sun on his face. A faint breath of wind danced across his cheek like a ghost’s lament, as unnoticed as the discordant song of cicadas all around. He watched the orange smears of cloud as though searching for meaning in their patterns, but they answered no questions. The beauty of the sunset was similarly lost on him. Styrax had always been a man of the dawn, as the mysteries of the darkness were slowly unveiled. Any fool could enjoy dusk, thinking it heralded the reward of another day survived. Great men preferred dawn.
‘You found me at dawn, Fate,’ he said to the sunset. ‘You sought me out when I was barely a man and told me I had a future like no other.’ He raised a wineskin and drank, but when he lowered the skin, he realised his thirst had not been assuaged, and tossed it carelessly behind him, prompting a snort from the wyvern crouched nearby. The beast sat low on its hind legs, dusty-blue wings half-outstretched as though ready to catch the dusk wind. A voice in the back of his mind told Styrax he too should shake out his muscles, loosen the knots in his body with a few repeated forms with his sword. He did nothing. He felt like the weariness of his soul was a well of ice deep inside him.