Imperial Assassin

by Mark Robson

  ‘What exactly do you think you’re playing at, Reynik?’ Sidis asked, his voice filled with outrage and fury. ‘This is a training ground. We do not deliberately attempt to inflict injuries on our training partners here. You are a Legionnaire, not a back street brawler. You deliberately struck Nelek in the face. Blows to the head are strictly forbidden for good reason, Reynik. If you think you are above the rules because of your recent mission, then think again. You are hereby placed on restrictions for seven days. Additionally, you are designated to jacks duty for the same period. Maybe a week of digging toilet trenches will grind some sense of reality into you. If I see you do anything like that again, I’ll not hesitate to have you transferred out of the Legion. We harbour no snakes here.’

  Reynik said nothing. He looked the File Leader in the eye and saluted him, but he did so in the most perfunctory manner. Sidis turned and stalked off.

  Inside, Reynik was seething, but there was nothing he could do. He knew Sidis well enough to know that the man already disliked him. Protesting would only make matters worse. The fact that Nelek had struck at his head with a training sword mere seconds before was irrelevant. All he could do was to accept the punishment and try to avoid further altercations.

  ‘Amazing!’ he thought, sick to the stomach. ‘I’ve been back little more than an hour and already I’m in a whole mess of trouble!’

  ‘Ready for another bout, boy?’ Nelek sneered.

  For a moment, anger erupted inside Reynik as if someone had lit a heavily oiled torch in his belly. He clamped down on the feeling with an iron discipline, replacing the heat of anger with a cold, calculating fury. He turned to face Nelek with an icy stare that looked strange on the face of one so young. For a moment the veteran’s snide grin froze on his face, but he was quick to cover up the discomfort. The trickle of blood from his nose was Reynik’s one consolation. ‘It was a shame I didn’t hit Nelek a fraction higher,’ he thought. ‘A finger’s width higher and he would probably have sported double black eyes.’

  With a mocking salute, Nelek initiated a new fight and Reynik knew that there was to be no mercy from his opponent now.

  The trumpet call to signal the change of discipline could not come fast enough. By the end of the session, Reynik had taken so many blows to his arms and body that he fully expected to be black and blue by the evening. The following drill session was agony. Trying to maintain a stiff, smart stance after having been battered with a wooden training sword for half an hour was no small challenge. He could feel the File Leader’s eyes following him during the session. The sour old soldier was watching for him to put a foot wrong, ready to pounce on him like a cat on a rodent that had been a trifle too brave.

  Reynik did not oblige him. Somehow he survived to the end of the session without fault, though it took every ounce of concentration he possessed. Even during the march back to tent city, he knew he could not relax. The sensation of being watched was relentless. It had never been this bad before. Neither during training, nor when he had first joined the unit, had he been forced to endure such scrutiny.

  If he had been able to focus on anything other than keeping in step and swinging his arms to the regulation height, whilst maintaining the perfect distance from the man in front of him, Reynik might have noticed the first signs of spring around him as they marched back to the tents. The air was crisp, but had lost much of the bite of winter. The hedgerows were beginning to show the first buds of green whilst the sun rode a shade higher in the sky. But the only elements of the change in season that made any impact were the negative ones. The sticky mud, churned by thousands of boots on their daily march to and from the training grounds, was no longer stiffened by the frost. Instead, it sucked and squelched underfoot like a live thing, clutching and dragging at him, draining his energy still further with every step.

  Far from the fresh-looking, positive young man who had returned from his travels to join his colleagues a mere two hours beforehand, it was a battered, weary and mud-stained one who stumbled back into his tent after the morning’s training. He was sure it had not been this hard before he left, but maybe something of what Nelek had been intimating was right. He was out of shape. He knew it. Despite trying to maintain his fitness levels whilst he had been away, he had not done so with the same iron discipline inflicted by the Legion’s training staff.

  ‘Well, if I ever need a reason to keep in shape in future, today will give me one,’ he mumbled as he collapsed into his bed space in the tent.

  There was not much time. He knew he would have to clean his boots and make his uniform more presentable before lunch. He allowed his body a moment or two of respite before getting cleaned up. It was a mistake. His muscles, stiff from the discipline of the intense drill and the long march to and from the training area, protested by flooding his limbs and torso with cramping pains. The bruising from his battering at the hands of Nelek served to intensify the discomfort.

  ‘Shand’s teeth!’ he swore, groaning as he rose.

  Tymm laughed from where he was sitting nearby. ‘You sound like a man three times your age! What’s wrong with you? A little light exercise and you fall apart. I thought you were made of sterner stuff.’

  ‘Yes, well you thought wrong,’ Reynik replied grinning. ‘I feel greener and more sore than I did after my first week as a recruit. Nelek made sure of that. I guess it’s going to take a few days to get back into the training rhythm. It’ll come back to me soon enough, and when it does . . .’

  Reynik left the phrase hanging and Tymm laughed again. ‘I hear you landed a week of restrictions within minutes. Good going, Reynik! I think that must be a new record.’

  ‘You know how it goes,’ Reynik said with a shrug. ‘These things happen. File Leader Sidis has never liked me. Our trip to Thrandor together did little to improve our relationship. I must have annoyed him somehow, though I’m not sure what I did to earn his dislike. I think today was his way of reminding me that we’re back in Shandrim where the rank gradient between us is more applicable. Sort of a welcome home present really.’

  ‘Nice present! What are you going to give him in return? You remember what we gave Sevarian when he was out of order?’ Tymm asked, his face sly.

  ‘Oh, no! I’m not going down that road. It would be too obvious. Who else would have a reason to set him up with something unpleasant? It would make matters worse, Tymm. I need to keep my head down and my nose clean.’

  ‘What if it were to happen to Sidis whilst you were being monitored on your restriction duties? He couldn’t blame you then. I’m game for a good stunt, but it would have to be spectacular.’

  ‘No! Definitely not! It wouldn’t matter if the Emperor himself were my alibi right now. Sidis would find a way to nail it on me regardless. Please don’t do anything stupid, Tymm. I appreciate the sentiment, but it wouldn’t be a good idea.’

  Tymm sighed. ‘You’re right, of course, but it would have been fun.’

  ‘For you, maybe. You wouldn’t have to endure the repercussions. Thanks for the idea, but I think that this time it would be better if I just ride out the storm and look to re-establish my place as quietly as possible.’

  By evening, Reynik was ready to change his mind. He had endured the afternoon training sessions through gritted teeth. Now he was spattered in excrement and stinking to high heaven from having filled in the old jacks trenches. But that had only been the beginning. He, and the other unfortunates designated to this duty, were still struggling to dig the new trenches. Regulations stated that the trenches had to be five spades long, a spade wide and a spade deep and Shand help any duty group who tried to skimp on the regulations. History had proved time and again that poor sanitation had killed more soldiers than any battle, which was why jacks duties, and all other matters of personal hygiene, were taken extremely seriously.

  After the physical activities of the training sessions, the task of digging in the heavy, muddy ground was torturously hard work. Reynik’s arms, back and shoulders all protested with
every stab and heave of the spade. Every time his spade struck a large stone, the jarring impact reverberated through his body, amplifying his aches and pains. Time dragged, every minute stretching into an eternity. He felt as if it would never end. It was almost full dark before he finished.

  ‘Good enough,’ the supervising File Second admitted grudgingly, as Reynik demonstrated the dimensions of the trench with his spade. ‘Go and get cleaned up. I’ll see you again at first call after training tomorrow. Dismissed.’

  Reynik was so tired he could barely scramble out of the trench. He staggered over to place his spade with the others, being careful not to upset the neat stack. Then, with as much dignity as he could muster, he marched wearily back to his tent.

  It was not far. By the time he arrived his sole desire was to fall into his bed space and sleep. But, much as his body craved the rest, Reynik knew he had to push on just a little longer.

  The others in the tent ignored him when he entered. Not even Tymm looked at him when he ducked through the canvas doorway. ‘So this is how it’s going to be,’ he thought glumly. ‘Well, so be it. It won’t be for long. I know the drill.’

  Stripping off his filthy clothes, he folded them into a pile and put them by the doorway. Then he pulled on a spare pair of briefs and, gathering his dirty clothes together with a small square of drying cloth under his arm, he forced himself to duck out of the tent again into the chill evening air. He knew it was not wise to go out so scantily dressed, but he did not want to make any more clothes dirty. He desperately needed to wash before touching any of his spare uniform. The File Leader was out to make life difficult, looking for any little excuse to pick on him. Reynik was determined not to make it easy for him.

  Washing in the cold water was uncomfortable. Scrubbing his filthy clothes whilst still not fully dry was even more so. However, it did wake him up and stimulate his body enough that he found the energy to hang up his wet uniform in the appropriate drying area before retiring back inside the tent.

  Still he could not rest. Experience told him that unless he got something hot to eat and some fluid into his body, he would pay the price in the morning. He had to get to the field kitchen. So, ignoring the deliberate snubbing of his fellow Legionnaires, he dressed and went out in search of food.

  The walk was not a long one, but he felt every step like a bee sting. Not for the first time since he had joined the military as a recruit, he questioned his reason for being a member of the Legions. Did he really want this life, or was he just stubbornly following his father’s footsteps because it was expected? Would he have been better off trying his hand at becoming a merchant, or at learning a respectable trade? After a moment or two of negative thoughts, he laughed aloud and dispersed his melancholy mood.

  ‘Of course I want this,’ he muttered determinedly under his breath. ‘I was born for this. I couldn’t be more suited to the military life. I will not allow the pettiness of a few individuals to stop me living my dream. Bring on the pain. Bring on the tiredness. I will not let Sidis break me. It won’t take the others long to see that I’m above his little vendetta.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Dead? Danar is dead? How?’

  Lord Tremarle sat down with a thump onto his chair, his complexion draining of colour until he was ashen grey. The lines on his face deepened as the weight of the grim news settled on his features. Lord Lacedian wondered for a moment if the tidings would be too much for his old friend.

  ‘I’m not exactly sure, Tremarle. My source wasn’t flush with details. Rumour has it Danar was poisoned, but I stress this is only a rumour.’

  ‘First Espen, now Danar. My sons are spent. My line has failed.’

  Tremarle fell silent. His shoulders slumped and his eyes became distant. Lacedian looked on in helpless pity. What consolation could be offered at a time of such loss? Danar had been Tremarle’s firstborn son. It had been but a matter of weeks since his younger son had been killed in a hunting accident. Tradition was that upon the death of a Lord the eldest living son would adopt the name of his father’s House. Lord Tremarle had daughters, but a daughter was not allowed to inherit the leadership of a House. He was too old to father more children. Without sons his death would see the end of the House of Tremarle. The House, together with the family estates, would be taken over by the family of his eldest daughter’s husband, thus ending a four hundred year history. It was a bitter blow.

  The silence dragged into minutes. Lacedian’s eyes started to rove restlessly around his friend’s expansive study and he wondered if he should take his leave. Should he go and allow his friend to deal with his pain in solitude, or stay to offer him comfort in his time of mourning?

  ‘Was there a woman involved?’ Tremarle asked woodenly, causing Lacedian to jump at the unexpected question. Tremarle had never displayed an active disapproval of Danar’s dalliances with the young Ladies of the Court, but he had long felt that if anything, a woman would prove to be his son’s undoing.

  Lacedian shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, old friend,’ he said soothingly. ‘As I said, information is sparse, but I wanted to save you hearing the news from the Emperor’s lips. I didn’t want you to say anything that we might all regret.’

  ‘Of course, Lacedian. I understand. Thank you.’

  Lord Tremarle did understand. Everyone who had been involved in the movement against the new Emperor, Surabar, was on edge at the moment. Several of the Lords had been hung for treason in recent weeks by order of the Emperor’s Regent, a man they had thought to be one of their own. The Emperor had returned from his trip to Thrandor. There was every reason for caution.

  ‘Shall I leave you in peace, Tremarle?’

  ‘No, Lacedian. Stay. There are things that we need to discuss, questions I would like to ask.’ Tremarle looked at his friend and noted the discomfort in his face. He smiled encouragingly. ‘Don’t worry, old friend, I don’t expect you to have answers to the questions, but it will do me good to ask them anyway. Thank you for taking the responsibility for bringing me these tidings. It was bravely done.’

  The old Lord gestured for Lacedian to take a seat in one of the large armchairs. Tremarle leaned forward and pushed up out of his own chair. He walked across to the drinks cabinet.

  ‘Drink, Lacedian?’ he asked, opening the front of the cabinet and taking out two glasses.

  ‘It’s a bit early for me, Tremarle, but under the circumstances a drop of something would be welcome. Thanks.’

  Tremarle took out a crystal decanter of dark red wine. With care, he filled the two glasses with generous measures. When he had finished pouring, he wiped the neck of the decanter clean with a pristine white cloth before replacing the stopper and putting it back in the cabinet. The old Lord handed one of the glasses to his friend and returned to his armchair. For a moment they sat in silence again, gently sipping at the wine.

  ‘Have you any idea what Danar was actually doing in Thrandor?’ Tremarle asked quietly. ‘He came to me with some foolish story about him being sent as an Ambassador. There wasn’t an ambassadorial bone in my son’s body. He was a playboy with little sense of responsibility. I know he was concealing something, but I don’t know what.’

  Lacedian shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said slowly. ‘But he gave you that warning just before he left, didn’t he? Surabar had found out about your involvement in plotting against him and displayed that awareness through Danar.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, my guess is that Surabar was probably blackmailing him into doing something dangerous. If I were to theorise, I would say he was sent as a spy into the Thrandorian capital. There have been several message riders from Thrandor over the past few months. Surabar gave no reason to the Court for his sudden visit to Mantor. There are those who are saying he’s in league with the southerners. A General he may have been, but it looks like he’s lost his taste for military action. He’s made it plain that he intends no strikes against Thrandor despite their slaughtering of ou
r people.’

  Tremarle considered Lacedian’s words for a moment. He suspected that his friend was not far from the truth with the blackmail theory. Emperor Surabar had no noble blood in his veins. It was only natural that he would utilise gutter tactics to secure his followers. It was hard to imagine Surabar conspiring to ally with the Thrandorians, especially given that thousands of Legionnaires had recently died at their hands in a bloody battle, but there was a perverse sort of logic about it. Maybe Lacedian was right about it all. Surabar did not have the unanimous support of the nobility here in Shandar. Indeed, he had few friends among them. If he was to make his position as Emperor secure, he needed powerful allies. As he didn’t have them here, he could be looking to the neighbouring countries to help him tighten his grip on the Mantle. Anger growled within Tremarle as he considered this. If Surabar was seeking powerful aid from outside Shandar, then it made the need to get rid of him even more urgent.

  ‘It’s a good theory, Lacedian. It has a ring of truth about it. But how can we prove such things? It will not be easy.’

  ‘Do we need to? Dispose of Surabar and we gain both vengeance for Danar and an Emperor that the nobility can respect.’

  ‘Have the others united behind a single candidate then?’ Tremarle asked, his anger turning momentarily to surprise.

  ‘No, not yet, but the number of players is whittling down gradually. Pereth dropped out of the running yesterday. He finally realised that he didn’t have the backing enjoyed by the others.’

  ‘So, there are what – four left? Five?’

  ‘Four. Nobody takes Miranthel seriously.’

  ‘Well, they’d better hurry up and decide,’ Tremarle rumbled, his tone ominous as his anger returned. ‘They haven’t much time. Find me an assassin, Lacedian. I want to place a contract on Surabar. The Guild of Assassins will not touch a contract on the Emperor. Their creed will not allow it. But someone will take up the mark. There’s always someone willing to kill if the reward is great enough.’