Imperial Assassin

by Mark Robson

  By the end of the short session, Reynik ached more than if he had been swinging a sword the entire time. Muscles he did not know he had were aching with a dull, persistent throb. It was hard to understand, as all he had done was to walk back and forth across the stage for less than an hour. Away from the playhouse, he quizzed Femke about what story she had fed the actor, who Dana was, and for more background on Devarusso. He did not like the idea of being considered a deserter, but then he didn’t like the idea of being considered an assassin either.

  Rikala was her usual businesslike self. She manhandled Reynik around whilst taking a plethora of measurements. Arms in front, arms to the side, standing and sitting – it made Reynik wonder what on earth she could possibly want with so many statistics. Surely making a few clothes could not be so complex?

  The seamstress was so quick with her measurements, that within a quarter of an hour they were being ushered out of her home so she could get on with her work. This left nearly two hours until Reynik’s next appointment with Serrius.

  ‘What now?’ he asked Femke.

  ‘Now you take the opportunity to eat, but not too much. You won’t want to be bloated for your session with Serrius. Whilst we walk to the market stalls, let’s discuss the skills of your adopted trade. Aside from the ability to kill without compunction, what abilities should a top assassin possess?’

  ‘Anonymity,’ Reynik answered quickly. ‘The ability to blend in and out of the background and strike when it’s least expected.’

  ‘Good. An excellent starting point; let’s discuss camouflage and concealment.’

  For the next hour and a half Femke led a detailed discussion on the art of camouflage and deception. Reynik had already seen Femke disguise herself as a young man during their recent trip to Thrandor, so he had some ideas about how to alter one’s appearance. He quickly discovered, however, that this was very superficial knowledge. Femke did not limit the discussion to disguise, for she pointed out that there were some places a simple visual disguise would not get you into. Instead, they talked about how one could move undetected through the city at all times of day and night. They discussed colour, contrasting backgrounds, differences in stealthy movement by day and night, and even talked about smells.

  Many of the things Femke talked about seemed so obvious when she pointed them out, but were not things he had consciously thought about. The fact that sounds are more noticeable during the hours of darkness, whereas sudden movements are more noticeable in the daytime; the fact that the human eye is attracted to movement and that quick or jerky movement will be detected faster than slow movement. They talked about the three basic principles of hiding, blending and deceiving and how they applied to movement within a city. Femke also raised the subject of camouflage in the countryside: when to use blotched and striped camouflage patterns and why they work better in different terrains.

  By the end of the discussion, Reynik’s estimation of Femke had raised several more notches. He had realised during their trip to Thrandor that Femke was good at what she did, but had not appreciated just how much knowledge one needed to be an effective spy. There were many areas of expertise that overlapped between spies and assassins. It was easy to see that Femke had plenty to teach him.

  Four hours with Serrius and Reynik was only too pleased to have an hour-long break. Femke took him to a street vendor and bought him some food before leading him to one of the poorer quarters of the city. Here she introduced him to Derryn for his knife-throwing lesson.

  To look at Derryn, one would never believe he was an entertainer. His face was serious and lined, with sad eyes that looked as if they had witnessed many tragedies. Where Reynik had expected to see someone with good poise and posture, he could see only an old man with rounded shoulders and a pronounced stoop. Derryn’s sad face twisted into a lopsided grin as he noted Reynik’s expression. It was as if the old man could read his mind: this was the person he would learn knife-throwing skills from?

  Derryn led them through his small terraced house into the courtyard behind. There, Reynik found a purpose-built, home-made throwing range. There were targets of all descriptions around the courtyard: static targets of various sizes, targets suspended on ropes that could be set to swing, targets that could be knocked down and even targets that would slide along taut ropes. Each target had a circular strike point marked with yellow dye. On a bench in the centre of the courtyard were three sets of gleaming knives. Each set of knives was of a different size, and each contained eight blades. Derryn gestured for Reynik to pick up a knife.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he said, his voice surprisingly clear and strong. ‘Take your pick. Let’s see what you know of knives to begin with.

  Derryn watched intently as Reynik made his choice. He opted for the heaviest of the blades, weighing it in his hand and nodding appreciatively as he felt its balance. It was obvious that these knives had been well made.

  ‘So you have been taught to fight with a knife,’ Derryn observed. ‘You hold it as a fighter would. Now let’s see you throw it at that target over there,’ he said, pointing at the largest of the straw bale targets.

  Reynik raised the blade to throw but did not even get halfway through the motion.

  ‘Stop!’ Derryn ordered sharply. ‘Hmm, you may know how to fight with a blade, young man, but you’ve certainly never been shown how to throw one. Come here. Look, unless you have hands the size of shovels and muscles coming out of your ears, you can’t throw a knife of this size effectively with a pinch grip. You should always throw bigger knives with a hammer grip, like this.’

  The old man picked another knife from the same set of blades, demonstrated the hammer grip and hurled it at the target. It struck the very centre, the blade driving in almost to the hilt. Reynik was impressed. Derryn had made the throw look effortless.

  ‘Now you try it.’

  Reynik adjusted his grip to match the one that Derryn had shown him and he threw the blade hard, determined to show the old man he was not without some ability. The knife hit the target, hilt first, about half a metre above and to the right of centre and dropped to the floor. Derryn’s eyebrows raised slightly and he pursed his lips.

  ‘Not bad,’ he said with another of his little nods. ‘If you wanted to club your target to death, you’d be off to a good start.’

  Femke coughed and placed a hand over her mouth to hide her amusement. She failed. Reynik frowned at her, annoyed at the old man’s sarcasm, but more so that he had been made to look a fool in front of Femke.

  ‘How would you change your throw next time to hit it with the point?’ Derryn asked.

  Reynik thought for a moment. ‘I’d move back about a metre,’ he said. ‘Or forward,’ he added quickly.

  ‘That would work,’ the old man admitted. ‘But let’s say you don’t have that option. You must throw from the same point. What else could you do?’

  ‘Change my grip?’ Reynik offered tentatively.

  ‘Good. How?’

  ‘Well, the blade turned over one and a half times, so I could either try to slow the rotation, or speed it up. I don’t know for certain, but if I were to guess, then I’d say gripping nearer the end of the handle will speed up the rotation and gripping it nearer to the centre of the blade will slow it down.’

  ‘Which would you choose?’

  Reynik considered the choice carefully. ‘I’d slow the rotation down, as the point would be towards the target for longer. It would have more chance of sticking.’

  ‘Excellent! You may leave us, Femke. You might have brought me a total novice, but at least he’s intelligent. I’ll make something out of him. How good he will be remains to be seen, but I’m happy to work with him.’

  Femke smiled openly this time, and bowed to Derryn before turning and leaving. An hour later she returned to find Reynik was already hitting static targets with some considerable accuracy. After thanking Derryn, and paying him, Femke led Reynik away. She began his next lesson even as they walked to one of her safe house
s not far from where Serrius lived.

  Poisons were the topic for the afternoon. Types, names, sources, effects and antidotes made for a mind-bending two hours of difficult names. Reynik knew he would not remember half of what she taught him by the following day, and he said as much.

  ‘We’ll repeat the lesson each day until you know the information by heart. I can’t give you notes. It is hardly the sort of information you would want to be found about your person. Come, we have a short time left before your next session with Serrius. Let’s see what you learned yesterday about picking locks.’

  By the time Reynik had completed another exhausting session with the gladiator, he was fit to drop. The walk from the city out to the military encampment had never felt so long. He was of half a mind to ask Femke to arrange for him to be detached from the Legion so that he could avoid the hour of walking each morning and evening. It was a hard choice. He knew if he did it, his chances of ever being accepted as a full member of his Legion by his peers would be further impaired. Tiring as it was, he elected for the harder option. He would bear the walking as long as he was physically able. He was not ready to give up his position for the sake of a few miles a day.

  It was well that he had made this decision before he reached his tent, for trouble awaited him that may have weakened his resolve. His kit was strewn around his bed space and the File Second was standing nearby with a look of stern disapproval. The File Second, a stocky, hard-faced veteran called Dikaris, was a stickler for discipline. His particular bugbear was personal hygiene and pride in one’s presentation. As soon as Reynik saw the situation, he braced himself for the inevitable onslaught.

  Dikaris locked eyes with Reynik, clearly watching for clues in his body language as to how the young soldier was going to react. After a moment of staring each other out, the File Second spoke.

  ‘Outside. Now!’ he ordered, his voice projecting with the staccato punch of a spear striking a shield.

  Reynik obeyed without question, his heart sinking as he realised there was to be no let up in his troubles. With Sidis already set against him, having Dikaris also after his blood would make his life in the Legion unbearable. They moved away from the tent until they were out of earshot of the other men.

  ‘Are you going to tell me who did it?’ Dikaris asked, his voice flat and emotionless. ‘I’m no fool, Reynik. You would not have been selected to join this Legion if you showed so much as a hint of such low personal standards with regard to property and presentation during your training. The selectors are not blind. They choose only the best. Therefore, someone in the file must be out to make trouble for you. Do you know who it is?’

  ‘No, File Second,’ he answered. A warm flood of relief swept through his body as he realised someone was finally displaying signs of an unbiased attitude. ‘It could have been any one of several people. I’m not flavour of the moment amongst the other men right now. Some of them have taken exception to my being selected for two special assignments in quick succession. If they could only know the nature of this assignment, then they might be more understanding. However, I’m under orders from the Emperor to tell no one: not even Commander Sateris.’

  The File Second nodded and looked thoughtful for a moment.

  ‘How long are you likely to be on this assignment, Reynik?’

  ‘I don’t know, File Second. It might be a few weeks; it might be months. I really can’t say.’

  ‘Is there any reason you should remain living in tent city during your assignment?’

  ‘I . . . I’m not really sure. I had thought it would be better to remain living here to maintain my identity as part of the unit, but I’m not sure it’s going to work.’

  Dikaris nodded again and looked at Reynik with a calculating expression.

  ‘You’re adding more pressure to your assignment by trying to remain living here, Reynik. I’m not blind, and I’m not stupid. Sidis has it in for you. I’ve been aware of his prejudice ever since you returned from Thrandor. In my book, that means you can’t be all bad. The man is an ass. How he ever got promoted to File Leader is beyond my comprehension. However, if I ever hear you have quoted me as saying that, I’ll split you up the middle and feed your carcass to the birds. Understand?’

  ‘Of course, File Second,’ Reynik said quickly, smiling in spite of himself.

  ‘Good. Now, if I were you, I’d try to get lodging in the city for the duration of your assignment. The Palace will pay. They always do. Get it over with and then start with us again. I think you’ll do fine in this Legion, Reynik, but you need a clear run at establishing yourself as a part of the team. You can’t do that while you’re running back and forth to wherever the Emperor is sending you. Clear up your bed space tonight. I don’t tolerate mess, as you know. Then clear out tomorrow. There’ll be a place for you in the Legion when you return. Don’t worry about Sidis. Commander Sateris is sharp enough to figure him out before long. I doubt he’ll last. Good luck with your mission, whatever it is.’

  ‘Thank you, File Second.’

  ‘Oh, and Reynik . . .’

  ‘Yes, File Second?’

  ‘Do me a favour and act as if I chewed you out to the others, would you? I’ll keep an eye on them over the next few days to see if any of them show signs of looking smug. It’s always nice to know who the snakes are.’

  Reynik saluted and marched back to the tent feeling much better about life. Getting lodgings in the city would not be difficult. He would ask Femke to arrange something in the morning. When he got there, he tidied up his things in silence. He was so tired that it was not hard to keep his face long and his body language depressed. He did not even acknowledge the presence of the others as he worked, though he sensed eyes watching him. Finally, with his legs quivering with exhaustion, he climbed into his canvas bed and fell asleep.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The plaudits of Reynik’s instructors still rang in his ears: ‘Surprising progress . . .’ ‘A natural throwing arm . . .’ ‘Would make a worthy opponent in the arena . . .’. It had been great to have people pat him on the back for doing well – something he had seldom seen in military training – but the question was, could he remember enough in a dynamic situation to be effective? Femke had been very positive too, and the thought brought a flush to his cheeks. Of all his teachers, he had wanted to impress her more than any other. Today was his chance.

  ‘Come on, Reynik. Don’t get distracted. Focus. Remember what Devarusso taught you. You are aristocracy. You have a right to be here. You have enough money to buy the ground you tread on.’

  Reynik’s mind was full to bursting with all the information and advice he had tried to assimilate over the previous three weeks. He was determined not to fail. Dressed in the finery of a Nobleman, with a wig that hid his tightly-cropped, light brown hair under a mass of styled black curls, he was sure that even his fellow soldiers would not recognise him. All that remained was to prove his newfound knowledge.

  He was approaching the gates to the Imperial Palace. Back straight as a pillar, and strutting forward with an air of importance, Reynik walked up to the gates and through them with a confidence he did not feel. He sauntered past the guards as if he walked into the Palace every day. When none of the guards moved to stop him his confidence was instantly boosted. ‘Now that’s irritating!’ he thought as he walked across the Palace forecourt to the main entrance. ‘Two gold pieces for decently forged papers and they didn’t even ask to see them. I’ll make sure the Emperor hears about this when I see him.’

  Getting floor plans of the Imperial Palace had not been so easy, but he had managed to get two of the Palace servants to draw a diagram for him over a few drinks in one of the city taverns. Reynik had made it a drinking challenge memory game. He had named a room in the Palace and one servant had drawn a route to it from the main entrance. If the fellow servant verified the route as correct, then the artist won a drink. If the corroborating servant knew a quicker way, then he got one too. There were naturally some argument
s over whose route was better, but Reynik didn’t mind. He bought the drinks anyway and tactfully diverted them on to a new challenge. Over the space of an hour, he had gained a good idea of the layout of most of the Palace. He could not be sure of the accuracy of the information, but it was better than wandering around opening doors at random.

  Careful to maintain his posture, Reynik entered the doorway and turned left along the first branch corridor. He nodded politely to anyone who was obviously not a servant, but pointedly ignored those bearing the Imperial livery. It wouldn’t do to be seen acknowledging the staff. Second turning on the right, up the staircase on the left, another left at the top of the stairs, follow the corridor to the end.

  ‘There it is,’ he thought, his heart leaping with excitement. ‘Just as the servants described: two steps up to a set of double doors with pictures on either side of the doorframe. This has to be the Emperor’s private library.’

  The corridor behind him was empty. He approached the doors. There was no noise from within. Reynik carefully tried the handle, but as expected, the door was locked. A glance at the keyhole told him all he needed to know. Restraining his urge to look around again, he drew two tools from his inside pocket. One was like a tiny chisel, whilst the other was a thinner piece of metal bent at ninety degrees at the end. Taking care not to make a sound, he slid the thin metal blade into the lock and twisted, putting tension on the lock. Then he probed it with his pick, searching for the pins he knew were there somewhere.

  The click was not loud as the lock opened, but it was loud enough to make Reynik wince at the sudden sound. He was in.

  With the window shutters closed, as they were now, the library was a great place for stealthy movement. The entire room was in semi-darkness. There was just enough light seeping through the gaps in the shutters for Reynik to see the general layout. Bookcases lined every wall from floor to ceiling with the exception of the window areas. There were also three tall bookcases that protruded out from both sidewalls at regular intervals for the first ten paces, creating three deep alcoves on either side. The central area of the vast room was open with a huge table in the middle, and a single chair. Beyond the table, Reynik could just make out through the gloom that there was a mirror set of protruding bookcases at the far end, forming more alcoves.