by Mark Robson
The side corridor that she entered led straight to the Palace kitchens, which had saloon style swing doors. In agony, she crashed through them and careered through the kitchen, causing one chef to drop a great tray of food and another to burn his hand on the top of his stove. She could not pause to apologise, and she did not have the breath to do so anyway. At the far end of the kitchen, she grabbed a large metal meat fork from a wall hook as she shouldered through the opposite doors. Cries of anguish and pain followed her, but they faded quickly as she disappeared down the corridor and around the corner towards the servants’ exit.
Femke’s breathing was coming in ragged gasps as she staggered the final few paces. Gripping the meat fork tightly in her right hand, she opened the door and looked across the courtyard outside. There was no sign of her adversary. She had beaten him to the exit. The pain in her side was excruciating, lancing through her as if a spear had just been driven into her chest. With an iron discipline, she calmed her breathing and concentrated on blocking out the pain. There was an alcove to the side of the door. Femke ducked into it and flattened herself against the wall to prevent anyone approaching along the corridor from seeing her until the last second. She did so in the nick of time.
No sooner had she concealed herself than the would-be assassin came racing along the corridor. He grabbed at the door handle only to find the cold metal prongs of the meat fork pressing at his jugular.
‘Move and I’ll stick you like a pig,’ Femke rasped.
The man clearly did not think she would follow through with her threat and he whipped up his hand to try to sweep aside the vicious kitchen implement. He was not fast enough. Femke jabbed the prongs of the fork into his neck even as his hand struck her wrist. As a result, the man caused the fork to tear through his own flesh, opening the main jugular artery and spraying blood in a bright red fountain across the corridor.
He screamed in horror and clasped at his neck to try to staunch the spurting flow.
‘Who sent you?’ Femke asked, holding the fork in front of her threateningly. ‘Tell me and I’ll help you.’
The man did not answer. Femke was not sure that he had heard her in his panic.
‘Who sent you?’ she repeated firmly. ‘You need a medic, or you will die. The main artery must be stitched, or you will not last more than a few minutes. I will help you get to a medic if you tell me who sent you.’
‘No! He’ll have me killed if I tell.’
‘And I’ll let you die here if you don’t. Do you want to die now, or have a chance of escaping your master’s wrath? Choose quickly. You don’t have long to decide.’
The man looked at her with wild eyes. She met his gaze with an icy stare.
‘Lacedian,’ he spat. ‘Lord Lacedian sent me. Now take me to a medic. Quickly!’
It was some time later when Femke returned to the Emperor’s study. The guard on the door had doubled. She smiled as she noted it. A little late, maybe, but at least the Emperor was now treating his personal safety as a matter of more import again. It was so easy to relax in familiar surroundings. It had been some time since the old-school Lords had tried to kill him, so it was only natural that he should suffer from a little complacency.
Femke asked the guards to announce her, and she was immediately called inside. Emperor Surabar’s eyes were like those of a falcon when she entered: alert and taking everything in. She bowed gently, bending more at the neck than the waist, to avoid increasing the discomfort in her side. How long would her ribs take to heal? She had certainly not sped up the healing process today, she thought grimly. It was frustrating to be so limited in what she could do, but she knew that if she did not take her healing seriously, her ribs might become a permanent restriction. That was something she could not afford.
‘Did you catch him?’
‘I did, your Majesty. He is no longer a threat.’
‘Did you kill him? I hoped to question him.’ Surabar frowned, staring at Femke’s injured side. ‘You’re hurt again, aren’t you?’
‘My ribs are not yet fully healed,’ Femke admitted with a grimace. ‘I’ll be more careful with them in future.’
‘You’re not fit to be doing anything but rest, young lady. If I weren’t so stuck for good operatives, I’d have the medics lock you in their emporium until you were fully recovered. Sadly, I don’t have that option. Tell me, where is he and what did you learn from him?’
‘He’s locked up. He’s lost a lot of blood, but the medics are tending him. I think he’ll live. I can tell you that he’s not a member of the Guild of Assassins. I’ve seen him before, but I don’t know his true name. I would have considered him a spy rather than a killer, but he was offered enough money that he decided to branch out. It seems we have found Reynik’s next assignment.’
The carriage approached the large rectangular country house at a stately pace. Lord Kempten peeped out through the closed curtains of the carriage windows. The stone building looked cold and grey. In some ways it would be nice to spend some time here again. It had been some months since he had last visited. Of course, Izzie had been with him then. It would not be the same here without her.
Izzie had dominated his thoughts during the journey. How would she react to his ‘death’? The Emperor had promised that he would send her out here to the country house at the earliest opportunity, but to send her immediately would look suspicious. His heart ached at the thought of what she would be feeling right now. At least he could count on the children to look after her. They were reliable and sensible. They would help her through it.
‘I can’t tell her,’ Surabar had told him. ‘It’s too risky. I need her to react with authentic grief if the deception is to feel real. I know it will be hard on her and your children. You can be sure that I’ll apologise to them all at the first opportunity afterwards, but I’m sure they’ll see I’ve done this for the best of reasons. You have become a legitimate target for the Guild. I’m not going to let them get to you. This deception has a double benefit. It will instantly give Reynik the sort of profile he needs if he is to infiltrate the Guild, but it will also put you out of harm’s way for a while.’
The carriage stopped in front of the main doors. The driver, who was actually a member of the Imperial spy network, jumped down and opened the door.
‘All clear, my Lord. Don’t dawdle outside, though. There’s always the chance of a watcher.’
Kempten stepped out of the carriage. His back was stiff after the long ride, but he did not wait to stretch. He climbed the few steps to the front doors as quickly as he could and slipped inside.
The house staff was minimal; just enough to keep the place clean and tidy whilst the Lord and Lady were not in residence. Izzie would bring the bulk of the house staff with her from the town house in Shandrim when she came. There was no one around. He went to the kitchens and rummaged through the cupboards until he found the dahl. The embers of the kitchen fire were still warm. A little fuel and some gentle encouragement with the bellows soon revived it to a healthy blaze.
A short while later Kempten sat in his favourite chair in the study with his feet on a footstool and a large cup of steaming dahl in his hands. He looked out of the windows at the green trees and open fields. It was so peaceful here. He closed his eyes and his mind suddenly raced back to the moments before his ‘death’ in the Court office in Shandrim. The scene was vivid in his mind. He could remember every detail:
What would it be like to die? The thought would not leave.
He fiddled with the papers on his desk, first tidying them and then messing them up again. The bag of pig’s blood felt awkward and obvious. Would the fake dagger hilt that Femke had given him fool anyone? He ran his fingers through his silver-grey hair. A moment later he ruffled it again.
‘This is ridiculous!’ he muttered aloud.
How best to look for one’s own assassination was not a thought that had ever crossed his mind before. There were so many little details that could give him away. Was his hair norma
lly combed this neatly? Was his desk usually this tidy? Where should he put his quill and inkpot? Should he be holding his quill? Should he die in a dramatic pose across the desk, or just collapse like a bag of turnips on the floor? The questions flooded his mind, increasing his tension and nervousness with every passing minute.
How long to go? It must be soon.
A new thought crossed his mind. What if I’m being set up? What if this assassination is for real? Did Emperor Surabar really forgive me for intending to kill him at his coronation? Reynik’s training as an assassin was real enough. Would the Emperor now test his protégé’s resolve by having him make a real kill? What could be easier than to throw a knife at a target who had been ordered to sit still?
His agitation increased still further.
What a fool he would look if he were found with a fake knife sticking from his chest alongside a real one. What would people make of it? Would anyone put together the pieces of the puzzle? Would anyone care to? He had made a lot of enemies amongst his fellow Noblemen recently. He had never been a popular man, but supporting the Emperor had done little for his reputation amongst his peers. To them he was a traitor. In their view, one who upheld a commoner’s right to wear the Mantle of the Emperor had resigned his right to be called a Lord. Could the contract be real?
He moved to get up from his chair, paused, and then sat down again with a sigh. ‘Oh, Izzie! What have I done? What am I doing? I hate to hurt you like this, but it won’t be for long. It’ll all work out. You’ll see.’
For a moment, every minute of his sixty-six years weighed down on him. He felt old, yet he knew he had many more years of life left in him – assuming, of course, he was spared a violent death. He drew his fingers under his eyes and across his face, feeling the slack skin tighten as he stretched it over his cheeks. ‘You’re a wrinkled old fool, Kempten,’ he thought sadly. ‘Surabar is only five years younger, but despite his silver hair, he looks and acts as if he’s still in his late forties. What do you think you’re doing? You’re no Surabar. One way, or another, this mess is going to be the death of you.’
There was no warning. The door burst open. It was Reynik. He registered the blade already in flight and his mind, despite working at high speed, found yet another gear. He froze. The knife passed over his shoulder at a blistering velocity, striking the target inside the cupboard behind him with a frightening thud. He was not hit. His worries had all been nonsense. Surabar was protecting him as he had promised. Relief flooded him with a warm glow, spreading from the pit of his stomach to flush his face.
Reynik paused in the doorway for a moment. His boyish face was intent, his balance perfect. ‘Shand! Was I ever that young?’ he thought in a bizarre mental aside.
He knew what he had to do. Easing his jacket aside to reveal the fake knife hilt protruding from his chest, he punched the bag under his tunic, causing a flood of pig’s blood to release. Then he grabbed the false knife with both hands and sank forward onto the desk, allowing a pool of dark red blood to spread from under him.
Reynik was gone. The sound of his feet retreating at a run down the corridor was getting softer. As the young man’s running footfall faded, so more feet approached – also at a pace. The new arrivals paused at the doorway.
‘That man just killed Lord Kempten. Hey, you! Stop!’
The voice belonged to Jeremus, one of Femke’s fellow spies. He recognised the man’s tones from the planning meeting they had held the previous day. Without pause, Jeremus led his unwitting accomplice away in rapid pursuit of Reynik. The noise of their retreat faded quickly. It was all going perfectly. Could it really be this easy to fool everyone into believing he was dead?
He remained where he was, still and silent. He knew that if he moved, he would disturb the blood on the desk. All he could do now was wait. If all went well, he would not have to wait long.
The next phase was to get him swiftly out of the building with the minimum of fuss. The less people saw, the more they would speculate. Rumour would spread like wildfire. It would only be a matter of hours before news of his murder would be all over the city. It would help, of course, that the rumour and speculation would be fuelled and amplified by Femke’s network of agents and tattle touts. The whole process from beginning to end would take less than a day. Within a week, talk of the assassination would die down to become yesterday’s news and the name, Lord Kempten, would be consigned to a footnote of Shandrim’s bloody history.
A minute went by – then another. There was a noise at the door. He did not flinch. To look would be to potentially ruin everything.
‘OK, my Lord, the stretcher bearers are on their way.’
It was Reynik. His quick return meant he had successfully fooled the man accompanying Jeremus. Everything was running to plan. No wonder the Emperor was well informed if his intelligence service was this effective, he mused.
The sounds of further approaching feet became apparent. He remained unmoving, determined not to inadvertently give the game away. As the new arrivals entered, Reynik began directing them.
‘Put the stretcher down there. Have you got the jacket? Great. You spread this jacket on the stretcher. We’ll put Lord Kempten on top of it. Give me that one. Thanks. Right, you and you, grab his shoulders. We’ll take his legs. On three . . . one, two, three.’
He relaxed totally, allowing the men to lift him from his chair and place him on the stretcher. Reynik was very precise in his instructions. The lift was clean, efficient, and did not bump him in the slightest. It must come from the military training, he mused. Inside a minute of them arriving, he was being carried out of his office and along the corridor towards the main entrance foyer. It was incredibly tempting to crack his eyes open a little to see how people were reacting to this sudden dramatic turn of events. He knew, however, that this was no joke. He could not afford to give people the slightest reason to doubt that what they were seeing was real. He did not give in to temptation.
A sudden change in temperature and acoustics told him they had exited through the main doors. The street noises in the square outside the building included the usual bustle of carriages, pedestrians and horsemen that characterised the centre of Shandrim. The exception was the scream of a woman who could not have been more than a few paces from where he was being carried. His heart leaped in his chest at the sudden, piercing shriek. How he restrained the rest of his body from jumping at the alarming noise, he was not sure. Maybe he didn’t.
The stretcher was lifted into a carriage, which pulled up even as they left the building. Reynik climbed inside with him and closed the door. He felt the light dim as the young man drew the window curtains. The carriage lurched forward and they set off at a trot away from the scene of his murder. They had done it – or had they? Everything had happened so quickly that someone would surely question the circumstances. From the assassin’s strike to the body leaving the building had been a matter of just a few minutes. Would the illusion be undone by its sheer efficiency? Only time would tell.
‘It’s all right, Lord Kempten. You can sit up now. We’re unlikely to be stopped. Congratulations, my Lord. You may now consider yourself as one of the dear departed.’
He sat up, feeling strangely detached and vacant. From the look on Reynik’s face, he judged his appearance was none too healthy. The young Legionnaire’s expression was grave and worried, as if watching a man on the verge of collapse.
The noise of the carriage wheels clattering along the cobbled streets was loud. ‘Poor Izzie!’ he muttered under his breath. ‘I wonder if she’ll ever forgive me for this.’
‘It’s said you offer money for information,’ she croaked.
‘That depends on the information, crone. What is it you would sell me?’
Toomas looked at the filthy old woman at his door. Her clothes were poor and ragged, her muddy cloak drawn tightly around her in an effort to hide the tatty garments beneath, and she stank. The smell radiating from her was that of the stale unwashed filth of months. It
was hard to comprehend how even the poorest person could sink so low.
Her hood was drawn low to hide her face, but that was not unusual. Many who sold him information wanted to remain anonymous. She need not have bothered, though. He had no desire to seek out the identities of ragged old beggar women.
‘I’m told you would like to know about the man who killed Lord Kempten.’
That got his attention. The old woman cackled. He had tried to conceal the flash of hunger in his eyes, but he was too slow. She had seen it, and she knew he would pay dearly to learn what she had to say.
‘How much?’ he asked.
‘Five gold sen,’ she replied with another cackle.
‘That’s ridiculous!’ he said quickly. ‘No one would pay that much for your information, woman. I’ll give you two silver senna, and not a sennut more.’
The old woman turned and started to shuffle away.
‘Wait! Where are you going?’
‘I may be old and poor, Toomas, but I’m not a fool,’ she replied over her shoulder. ‘The information I have is worth five gold sen. If you won’t pay me for it, I know there are others who will.’
Toomas ground his teeth in annoyance. He did not want to part with so much gold, but he knew there were those in the city who would be willing to pay much, much more for information about this particular man.
‘OK, old woman, five gold sen. Wait there a moment and I’ll fetch your money.’
Toomas closed the door, closed the bolt and raced upstairs to where he kept his secret stash of money. He had always done well at his little sideline. It was well that he did, for his legitimate business was not so lucrative. He would have had several lean winters if it had not been for his ability to make a profit from trading snippets of information here and there. His network across the city had become quite extensive over the last few years. It was not as big as some, but he had stolen the march on several of the more established tattle touts recently. This might be his chance to make a serious coup.