by Mark Robson
Two days later and he was leaning against the wall in the street outside the Civil Court. He feigned a nonchalant disinterest as he picked through the bag of nuts he had purchased from a street vendor. Under his casual exterior, his heart was beating wildly. This was it. If all went well, then in a few minutes he would be a wanted man: wanted for the murder of Lord Kempten. Murder was such an ugly word. No wonder the Guild hid behind words like ‘contract’ and ‘hit’ and ‘assassination’, he thought grimly.
A cloud passed over the sun and he cursed softly under his breath. ‘Don’t hide your face now,’ he muttered, looking up to the sky to see how long the sun was likely to be obscured. Timing was everything. Even a few heartbeats late or early would make all the difference.
Reynik looked across at his marker. There was no discernible shadow line. ‘Come on, sun. Don’t let me down.’
Anxious moments passed with excruciating slowness. There could not be long left until he should be moving, but without the movement of the shadows over his pre-noted markers, all his preparation would be in vain. As suddenly as it had dived behind the passing cloud the sun burst forth again, sending shadows leaping across the square. Reynik checked his marker. The shadow of the building was almost upon it. A minute or two more and it would have been too late.
Painfully slow seconds passed as the shadow crept silently forward. Reynik’s heartbeat quickened further as he sensed another cloud approaching. Would the shadow touch his marker before the cloud concealed the sun’s progress? He knew it would be a close race. The cloud won, but only just. As the line of the shadow disappeared and the warmth died from the air, Reynik decided it was so close that if he left now, it would make no difference. By his reckoning, he had something close to the count of three hundred at a medium marching pace until the first afternoon call sounded. It would take him a count of two hundred and thirty to reach Kempten’s door.
He pushed away from the wall and walked across the square towards the Civil Court building. It felt good to be moving. The sick feeling that had been growing in his stomach receded as he began to stride out. With a flourish, he scattered the contents of his bag across the road. An instant flurry of wingbeats demonstrated the vigilance of dozens of pigeons, ever quick to descend from their roosts for easy pickings.
Up the steps, in through the main door and along the first corridor; his count reached one hundred and thirty. ‘Slow down,’ he remonstrated silently. ‘There’s no hurry.’
With his heart thumping like a galley drum, Reynik reached the turning into the final corridor. Three doors down on the left hand side was the entrance to Lord Kempten’s office. The corridor was empty. Under normal circumstances this would make it ideal for his hit, but he needed to be seen. He slowed further. His count passed two hundred and twenty. What should he do? If he made the hit without being seen by anyone, then it would defeat the main objective. The only alternative would be to make sure he was seen during his escape. If he made it too obvious, however, he could be considered sloppy and unworthy of the Guild’s attention. Two hundred and fifty: time was running out.
‘Damn it!’ he cursed, gritting his teeth in frustration.
He hesitated outside Lord Kempten’s door, torn with indecision as the seconds crawled slowly by. His mental count passed two hundred and eighty. It was now or never. He could wait no longer. Drawing his knife from inside his jacket, he flung open Lord Kempten’s door. As expected, the Lord was sitting behind his desk. The old man hardly had a chance to look up from his work before the poisoned blade drove home with deadly force. Kempten gave a loud cry and slumped forward over his desk, hands clutching at the handle of the knife protruding from his chest. A pool of dark blood was already spreading over the work surface as Reynik turned and ran down the corridor.
A sudden shout from some distance along the corridor behind him made his heart leap. He had been seen. This was excellent, as it simplified his plan. The only thing left to do was to escape cleanly. He looked over his shoulder to see who had shouted. There were two men at the far end of the corridor. They were not guards, but they were already running along the corridor towards him. They must have seen him throw the knife. Everything was working perfectly.
Outside the bugler sounded the second call. Reynik sprinted to the end of the corridor and turned left, deeper into the building. No sooner had he rounded the corner than he stopped and began dismantling his disguise. In one fluid movement he whipped off his jacket, reversing it in the process. Inside out, his previously dark-brown jacket became a rich blue with completely different styled lapels and epaulettes topped with silver buttons. A second or two later and he was wearing it again.
A door opened further along the corridor and Femke emerged wearing a dark brown jacket in the same style as the one he had just been wearing. Reynik did not spare her more than a momentary glance as he pulled off his brown wig and ripped off his false moustache, stuffing both in an inside pocket before securing the top button of his jacket. His own hair he had, with Femke’s help, dyed blonde the night before.
The pounding footsteps of his pursuers were approaching the corner as Reynik ruffled his hair with his fingers and dropped silently to the floor to assume a sprawled position. The two men rounded the corner to see him writhing on the floor, apparently winded, and a figure in a brown jacket disappearing around a corner some distance ahead.
‘Are you hurt?’ one of the men asked, pausing briefly to kneel next to Reynik.
‘Just winded,’ he wheezed, chest heaving in apparent protest. ‘That way,’ he added, pointing down the corridor in the direction Femke had gone. The men needed no further encouragement. They left at a run.
It took them more than a minute to catch up with Femke, who was jogging along the corridors in the general direction of the main exit. She deliberately ignored their calls to stop until they were all but upon her. When she did stop and turn to face them, Femke regarded them with an expression of frustration and anger.
‘Look, I’m in a hurry. What is it? Spit it out and make it fast. I’m already late for my next appointment.’
‘Next appointment! I don’t think so, lady. The only place you’re going is to the gallows if Lord Kempten is dead.’
‘Lord Kempten? What are you talking about? I’ve just come from an interview with the Chief Clerk for a job here. I have another interview at the Palace for a different position very shortly. Please don’t delay me. I need to get a job or my landlady is going to throw me out on the streets. I don’t think my interview went well with the Chief Clerk, so I really need to get to my next one on time.’
Femke argued with them for a couple of minutes before leading them back to the Chief Clerk’s office who confirmed her story, and that she had left in a hurry at the sound of the second afternoon call. At the mention of the second call, the two men looked at one another as it dawned on them that they had been fooled. Not surprisingly, there was no sign of the blonde man they had seen sprawled in the corridor. Reynik was long gone.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Guildmaster looked around the chamber from his podium. The dying echoes of the traditional recitation of the Assassins’ creed were still ringing around the chamber as he checked who was present. A second meeting of this magnitude in as many months was highly unusual, but these were unusual times. Nearly every alcove was full. The notable exceptions were those of Brothers Falcon and Wolf Spider, both of whom had lost their lives recently. Even Brother Dragon was back in his alcove. It was as complete a meeting of the Guild as had been held during his tenure as Guildmaster. He took a deep breath.
‘My first point of order is to find out which of you accepted the contract on Lord Kempten. Can the Brother please explain why they took on the hit without informing me?’ he asked, keeping his voice mellifluous and devoid of condemnation.
A pregnant silence formed in the gloomy half-light of the chamber. The Guildmaster turned slowly full circle, his eyes seeking out each of the shadowy figures, only to see them shaking
their heads in denial. When he had completed a full sweep, he gave a thoughtful ‘Hmm’ and raised a forefinger to stroke his lips.
‘If none of you claim responsibility, then who carried out the strike? Does anyone know anything about the killing of Lord Kempten this afternoon?’
There was another pause, but this time a voice spoke into the stillness. It was the soft voice of the woman known as the Fox.
‘I heard that it was a young man who made the hit, though he may have had a young woman accomplice. Rumour has it they staged a clever switch to fool their pursuers. Whoever did this was professional and well organised. It was a slick operation.’
‘Yes, I heard something similar. It was the involvement of the woman that intrigued me. It is possible, of course, that she really was an innocent bystander who happened to get swept into the assassin’s escape by chance, but it does sound unlikely, more so because no one can now locate her. I confess that initially I thought the woman was you, Brother Fox. I see now, however, that I was wrong.’
The woman assassin bowed low in her alcove and the Guildmaster bowed in return. He looked around the chamber and asked if anyone else knew anything about the killing. There were no further speakers.
‘Very well,’ the Guildmaster said decisively. ‘Please bend all your efforts over the next few days towards finding this mystery hit duo. It does not do to have unaffiliated assassins on the streets of Shandrim. It has always been accepted that the Emperor’s spy network occasionally kills at his bidding, but this did not have the look of their work. For a start, Surabar is well-known for his dislike of assassinations and those who perform them. The Emperor is unlikely to have ordered a hit while in the process of trying to purge us from the city. If such hypocrisy were ever discovered, he would be ruined for life. Also, Kempten was Surabar’s biggest advocate. Why would the Emperor order him killed? No. This was someone operating on the outside – on our side of the Palace walls. Therefore, it is down to us to do something about it. The Emperor is sure to cast the blame for Kempten’s death in our direction. We must be ready. We must find the culprits. If they are as good as they appear to be, then we could offer them a chance to join us. If they refuse, we will kill them and send their bodies to the Emperor as a demonstration that we were not responsible. Either way the Guild wins. What do you say?’
There was a chorus of ‘ayes’. The Guildmaster smiled under his hood. He hoped they would join. It was never good to be down on numbers in a time of crisis, and he was keenly aware of the losses of Falcon and Wolf Spider. If it did transpire that this was a hit team rather than a solo killer, what should he do? It was policy to keep junior members from learning each other’s identities in order to ensure the safety of the Guild. The only person who knew all of the true identities of the assassins was the Guildmaster. Would it hurt for two of the junior members to know one another well? Or would it spark secret meetings between others in the Guild looking to team up? Being an assassin was a lonely life in many ways. The possibility of working in a team of two or more might be an attractive proposition for some.
The Guildmaster instinctively glanced across at the booth where Shalidar sat cloaked in shadow. What had Brother Dragon done with Brother Falcon in Thrandor? How had they linked up? Had they known one another’s true identities for long? He felt it unlikely that he would ever find out the whole truth. That Brother Falcon was dead was not in question, for his icon had returned. The silver cufflink in the shape of a soaring falcon was one of the more subtle icons, but the central chamber’s magical alarm had rung every bit as loud at its ownerless return as it had for the wolf spider pendant.
Shalidar had not killed Kempten. The Guildmaster was certain of this, for Shalidar had not left the Guild complex in days. The city was a dangerous place for him at the moment. There were too many people looking for him in Shandrim just itching to claim the handsome reward that the Emperor had placed on the assassin’s head. The Guildmaster was also having him watched. For once, he knew for certain that Shalidar was telling the truth. It was hard to see how the man could have any involvement in this latest development, but the Guildmaster found himself reflecting that, given Shalidar’s recent history, he could not be ruled out of involvement immediately. Brother Dragon had managed to stir up so many hornets’ nests over the last couple of years that it was hard to ignore his ability to create trouble.
‘Good. That is settled. Commence the search immediately after the meeting please. Next on my agenda is to congratulate Brothers Viper and Firedrake for their recent successful hits . . .’
‘Excellent, Femke! I’m glad the Kempten operation went without a hitch. I will miss having him around. He was a useful person to have in Court, but he is more useful to me where he is now. The bait is laid, but now we have to decide on another target so the Guild can intercept Reynik. Have you any thoughts?’
Femke felt queasy. Taking responsibility for the deaths of others had always made her feel this way. It was without doubt the most unpleasant part of her job.
‘Plenty, your Majesty, but I don’t think you’ll like any of them.’
‘Probably not,’ the Emperor admitted with a grimace. ‘I abhor this entire business, but I accept it’s necessary if we’re to locate and destroy the Guild. It helps a little for me to regard it as a tactic of war, but no matter how I dress it up, I cannot make the taking of lives in this fashion feel any less wrong. Make up a shortlist of five for me and then bring Reynik into the Palace tonight. I’ll meet you in my library. We’ll finalise his next assignment then.’
Femke bowed and turned to leave. As she exited the Emperor’s study, a servant was about to knock on the door outside. A trolley, loaded with the Emperor’s lunch, blocked her way. She squeezed past, nodding and smiling at the servant. He returned the nod, but not the smile. He looked nervous, she thought as she strode away down the corridor. One would think that the Palace servants got used to seeing the Emperor, but some never did.
As she reached the turn at the end of the corridor, she paused. Something was wrong. The servant had looked familiar, but then she knew most of the Palace staff, so that in itself was not unusual. It was the combination of his nervousness and his familiarity. Something here was not right. Then it struck her. Yes, he was familiar, but not in the guise of a servant. The last time she had seen the man, he had been involved in spying. He was not one of the Imperial spies, though. The last time she had seen him, he was working for one of the Shandese Lords. Which one, she could not remember, but recalling the memory was not a priority.
The man emerged from the Emperor’s study without the trolley and closed the door behind him. As he looked around and saw her watching him, she distinctly noted a flash of panic cross his face. It was enough.
‘Stop right there!’ she yelled, pointing at him with an accusing finger.
He did not hesitate. He turned and ran off down the corridor in a flat-out sprint away from her. Femke leaped forward and raced after him. It took a few seconds for her to cover the ground to the Emperor’s study door. She burst through it to find Surabar lifting a forkful of food towards his mouth. He paused at the unexpected and explosive entrance, looking at Femke with genuine surprise.
‘It’s poisoned! Don’t eat it!’ Femke gasped. She paused just long enough to see that Emperor Surabar put the fork down before she was off again, running for all she was worth in the direction that the infiltrator had taken.
Her ribs already burned and she had not run much more than a few dozen paces. She was clearly in no condition for a long chase. If she were to catch him, she would have to do so quickly, and without too much of a fight. Her best chance was to intercept him, rather than chase him, but that required her to anticipate where he was going.
So where would he be going? Out of the Palace, that much was sure. If he had planned thoroughly, then he would have a pre-prepared route to follow. How well would he know the Palace, though?
Femke knew the Palace intimately. She had made it her business to know ever
y nook and cranny. There were no secret passages or hiding places that she had not explored, and she had long ago worked out all the most efficient routes to the exits. Her quarry was most likely to be heading for the servant’s gate exit, particularly given his dress, but would he continue in that direction if he realised Femke was no longer directly chasing him? It was a gamble she had to take.
The shortest way to the servants’ exit was to make for the central corridor to the great staircase down into the main entrance hall. From there she would cut through the servants’ corridor system, through the kitchens and out to the back exit. Gritting her teeth against the pain ballooning in her side, she zigzagged through the Palace until she reached the main first floor corridor. There was a steady flow of people moving to and fro along the corridor, but it was wide enough that Femke could continue to run unhindered. When she reached the top of the great staircase, she did not hesitate. Ever since she had first come to the Palace, she had always wanted to slide down the great polished banisters and this was the perfect excuse.
With a yell of ‘Look out! Coming through!’ she leaped onto the left hand rail and started to accelerate. It was well that she had a cat-like sense of balance. If she had overbalanced and fallen from the rail, the impact with the marble floor below would not have been pretty.
‘Shand alive!’ she exclaimed, as her velocity down the long, straight banister reached a peak well beyond anything she could control. The banister rail flattened out at the bottom, but she did not wait that long to disembark. She pushed clear from her breakneck ride a few stairs up from the ground floor, her momentum carrying her beyond the last of the stairs and onto the thick walkway of carpet that led from the main doors up to the staircase.
Despite the thick pile of the carpet, Femke landed hard, but she absorbed much of the momentum by tucking into a roll that spun her fully halfway across the great entrance hall. People watched in amazement as she regained her feet with the agility of an acrobat, but she did not wait for a round of applause. She ran swiftly across to one of the side exits, barging the door open with her shoulder and clutching at her side as she went.