Imperial Assassin

by Mark Robson

  His memory of the room did not fail him. By touch, he found the wall torch nearest to the door. A flint and steel hung on a string beneath the wall bracket. Some noise was inevitable, but he was far enough from the guards that he did not expect to be heard.

  Reynik lit the torch. The scratch of the flint on the steel sounded loud in the quiet of the room, but the instant shower of sparks fell just right, lighting the torch at the first attempt. Taking the torch from the bracket, Reynik fanned the flame of the torch until it had a good hold and then moved to inspect the furniture. A nicely upholstered chaise longue appeared perfect for his purpose. He held the torch to one end of the seat, working the flame back and forth across its width until the whole end was burning with a substantial flame. Smoke belched from it, quickly filling the upper half of the room with a thick black cloud. This presented a new danger, but Reynik was committed to his impromptu plan now.

  He threw the torch into the corner of the room, where it set light to a rug. The room would be an inferno within the next few minutes. The chaise longue was not as heavy as Reynik had anticipated, but having not shut the door completely, it did not matter. He picked it up by the end that was not alight and charged the door, using the flaming piece of furniture as a battering ram. The crash as he smashed the door open certainly drew attention from the guards, but they did not have more than a second to react before the burning piece of furniture launched over the gallery side and descended like a flaming meteor at the guard seated at the base of the stairs.

  ‘FIRE! FIRE!’ Reynik yelled at the top of his voice, drawing a knife with each hand.

  ‘What in Shand’s name!’

  The guard at the base of the stairwell had managed to dive out of the way of the incoming missile, but the impact scattered burning pieces of wood all over the lower hallway.

  ‘Put out that fire. Quick, before the whole place goes up. Jarron, Dakreas, get upstairs and kill him before he torches the entire house,’ ordered another voice.

  There was the sound of running feet and the dog in Lord Lacedian’s bedroom started barking at the top of its voice. Footsteps also sounded on the stairs. Reynik impaled both knives point down in the banister rail, turned and grabbed the nearby suit of armour. Surprisingly, it was heavier than the chaise longue, but he managed to heave it over the banister rail. The resulting clatter, yells and cursing yielded exactly the result he had been hoping for. On the other side of the upper landing, the door handle moved.

  ‘FIRE! FIRE! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!’ Reynik yelled again, determined to encourage Lacedian out into the open.

  It worked. Reynik snatched his knives from where he had stuck them in the wooden banister rail and was perfectly poised as Lord Lacedian’s door opened and the old Lord looked out tentatively to see what was going on. The throw was longer than Reynik would have liked, but it was a clean shot. He took it, hurling the blade with all his strength. The blade flew straight and true, burying itself in the old Lord’s chest before he had a chance to react. The image of the old man’s shocked face burned into his retinas. It was a moment Reynik would never forget: a moment that would leave a stain on his soul that he knew could never be totally cleansed.

  Reynik did not wait around. It was all about getting away now. He turned and ran back into the smoke-filled room, retching at the wave of nausea that gripped his gut. It was easy to blame the smoke for emptying the contents of his stomach on the floor, but he could not deny the truth. What he had just done was wrong – terribly, irrevocably wrong. Every fibre of his body knew it. Nobody would ever know the truth of how much this mission was costing him. All anyone else would see was the killer – the man who had first killed Lord Kempten, and now Lord Lacedian.

  Crouching to stay below the worst of the smoke, he realised that the torch had now set light to the floorboards. Unless someone got the fire under control soon, the entire house would go up in flames very quickly.

  He raced across to the window and opened it. His hands were shaking as he grabbed the rope from the window ledge. He kicked open the shutters. The wind slammed them shut again, but he had broken the latch. He shouldered the shutters apart, climbed out through the window, and proceeded to descend the rope hand over hand as far as it went. His gloves gave him extra purchase on the water-soaked rope, for which he was very grateful.

  From what he could see below him, all the guards were now inside the building, either dealing with the fire in the hallway or looking for him. His stomach threatened to heave again, but he fought the sensation by tipping his head back and allowing the rain to wash over him for a moment. The feeling of the rain battering against his face was strangely cleansing.

  He looked down. The ground was about two body lengths drop from the end of the rope. He let go, landing lightly and drawing another knife as he launched into a sprint away from the house.

  The dark night closed around him as he ran, the thick curtain of rain adding a further veil of concealment. There was no sign of immediate pursuit, but he did not slow just yet. Around the first corner, Reynik shucked off his pack and dropped it into a dark, shadowy alleyway. He did not want to be caught by the militia carrying such equipment.

  He began running again, taking his pre-planned escape route through the side streets and alleys until he had put a good distance between him and his victim. At least he had only had to kill his target, he thought, grateful for this mercy. The assignment would have been many times worse if he had been forced to kill one of the innocent guards. Lord Lacedian had been proved a traitor. That fact did give some small consolation for his actions.

  Reynik prayed the men fighting the fire would have enough sense to save themselves if the blaze became too fierce. The elements were on their side to contain the fire. The torrential rain would have a cooling effect, though he doubted it would be enough without some swift and positive fire fighting from within the building.

  Despite the pouring rain damping down the smell, Reynik realised that he probably stank of smoke. Having inhaled a fair amount of the acrid stuff, he could not smell anything, but the odour of burning was sure to be creating a miasma around him that could prove incriminating. He needed to change and dispose of his clothes quickly.

  Where would be the best place to go? A slight sound in the alleyway behind him gave an instant of warning. His knife was already in his hand as he spun to face the person behind him.

  ‘Hold! I don’t want a fight. I only want to talk,’ said a man’s voice from the shadows of the alley.

  ‘Who are you, and what do you want to talk about?’ Reynik replied calmly, his stance perfectly balanced for maximum flexibility.

  ‘Names are not important. I bring a message from the Guildmaster of the Guild of Assassins. He offers you a simple choice. You can apply for membership of the Guild, or he will have you killed.’

  ‘That’s it?’ Reynik asked, fighting to keep all emotion from his voice. ‘What if I apply for membership of the Guild and am not accepted?’

  ‘Then you won’t leave the Guild alive.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like much of a choice to me.’

  ‘It isn’t meant to.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Reynik paused for a moment, as if considering what he should do. Inside, his heart was racing. It was all working perfectly. The man in the alleyway would lead him to the Guild. Once accepted, he would be able to give the location of their headquarters to the Emperor and the Guild would be wiped out for ever. The sticking point was the ‘once accepted’. Would he be accepted? How would they decide if he were acceptable to join? Did they suspect what he was really trying to do?

  ‘Don’t be negative,’ he told himself silently. ‘You must convey cautious strength. If you get this wrong now, you will have bloodied your hands for nothing.’

  ‘Well?’ the man asked. ‘Will you come with me, or must I give the order for you to die?’

  ‘I will come,’ Reynik replied with a firm, controlled tone.

  A dark figure stepped out of the shado
ws. Like Reynik, he was hooded and cloaked in black. Reynik could see nothing of the man’s face, but then he doubted the man could see his either.

  ‘Follow me,’ the man ordered, and he set off down the street, flowing effortlessly through the rain and darkness without making a sound. Reynik followed, feeling clumsy in comparison. Dark puddles lurked at every step, yet his guide seemed to glide past them without making the slightest splash. With grim determination, Reynik drew on every ounce of skill he had absorbed from his lessons over the previous month. Devarusso and Serrius had both concentrated much of their effort on improving his balance and movement. Now Reynik began to appreciate why it was so important. This man was clearly a master in the art of moving silently in all conditions. It seemed likely that he was an experienced member of the Guild. If all assassins in the Guild moved as smoothly, then Reynik would have a lot to prove if he were to be allowed to join. Suddenly his feelings of inadequacy returned tenfold.

  It was hard to keep track of their position. The man wove a complex path through the city. It felt as if he was making random turns for much of the way, yet Reynik doubted this was the case. It was only when he heard a slight sound behind him that he realised what the man was doing. He was not alone. Those following would doubtless be checking to see if Reynik was working alone before they led him to the Guild. They were taking no chances.

  They were in one of the poorer areas of the north west quarter of the city when they finally stopped. Reynik was not familiar with this part of the city, but he had enough mental references that he would be able to find it again when he needed to.

  ‘Remove your hood,’ the man ordered.

  ‘Remove yours and I’ll remove mine,’ Reynik replied firmly, planting his feet in a strong stance.

  ‘That is not allowed.’

  ‘Then why should I remove mine?’

  ‘Because I told you to. In case you hadn’t noticed, a team of assassins currently surrounds us. They will pepper you with arrows before you can move two paces if I give the signal. I don’t want to have you killed, but if you leave me no choice I will not hesitate. Now, remove your hood. I must blindfold you from here.’

  ‘A team of assassins!’ The thought shot through Reynik as if he had been struck by one of the flashes of lightning that were still drilling their fiery paths through the black night sky. He could not resist a swift glance around to see if he could see any of them. He could not. All he could see was teaming rain in empty streets, yet he had heard at least one of them moving along behind them. It was pleasing that he had not made such a noticeable noise as he had moved along the streets to this point.

  ‘Very well,’ Reynik agreed, and he lowered his hood to reveal his short-cropped black hair. Black was not its natural colour, but Femke had insisted he change the colour to help disassociate him from his real past. She had also dyed his eyebrows and insisted he shave carefully every day to conceal the lighter colour of his facial hair.

  The assassin stepped forward, drawing a dark strip of cloth from beneath his cloak. Reynik stood defiantly still, with his eyes wide open and staring straight ahead as the man placed the cloth across his eyes and tied it securely behind his head. He had hoped he might be able to see something through the cloth, or by angling his eyes down as low as possible he might see through any slight gap that might occur around his nose area, but there was none. He was totally blinded.

  ‘Trust me. I will lead you carefully. It is not far from here,’ the man said quietly.

  Reynik sensed the man move behind him and he felt hands settle on his shoulders, gently pushing him forward. They moved slowly, but steadily, the man’s hands guiding him with subtle changes of pressure to turn him left and right as required. Although Reynik tried to keep a mental plot of where he was going, he quickly realised it was a pointless exercise. All he could really do was to try to keep track of time, so he could work out a possible radius from the point he had been blindfolded to their final destination.

  The man had said they were not going far, but Reynik was very surprised when the pressure on his shoulders stopped him in his tracks. Surely they could not be at the Guild headquarters already? If they were, then Reynik would easily be able to narrow down the possible locations from his knowledge of where they had started. Did the man take him for a fool?

  ‘Put out your right hand,’ ordered the voice of the assassin. ‘Good,’ he said as Reynik did so without hesitation. ‘Now hold this between your thumb and forefinger.’

  Reynik felt something metallic touch his hand and he gripped it as directed, trying as he did so to discern what he was holding. The object was about the thickness of an arrow shaft, but curved and slightly textured. He wanted to move his fingers to explore the object, but his guide placed his own hand over Reynik’s and lifted it up to shoulder height, pulling him forward slightly at the same time.

  The object touched something. Reynik was certain there was the slightest of jars through the metal as it made contact, but the sensation that followed was unlike anything he had ever felt before. It did not hurt exactly, but it was not comfortable either. A tingling sensation raced through his body, making him feel as if a strange energy were sparkling and popping from the tips of his fingers to the very depths of his chest. Then there was a wrench and for a moment it felt as if every part of his body was exploding painlessly into a million pieces before coalescing again with another wrenching snap of force.

  Reynik collapsed. He could not help it. The strength in his legs had apparently disintegrated with the weird rush of energy, and he fell to the floor with all the grace of a dropped sack of grain. His head began spinning as if he had drunk too much strong ale and he rolled over onto his back, placing his palms flat on the ground to help recover from this loss of orientation and balance.

  New sensations began to register. It took a second for his brain to comprehend what he was feeling through his fingertips, but then his other senses began to confirm what his fingers were telling him. He was no longer on a wet street. There was no rain beating on his face, nor wind tugging at his clothing. The air was still. He was indoors. What he was feeling was the cold, dry, dusty surface of a stone floor. But how could that be?

  He had been on the street. His feet had not moved a step before he fell here. The strange sensation he had felt through the metal object he had been holding had not involved any feeling of falling. The fall had happened afterwards. Had he fallen down some sort of chute? No. He would have remembered, and the landing would have involved more momentum. Whatever had just happened was beyond his mind’s ability to understand and yet he could not deny the evidence of his senses. He was definitely no longer in the open air.

  Concentrating hard, Reynik listened intently for any sounds that might give him a clue as to where he might be. There was nothing. The only sound he could hear was that of his guide stepping lightly around him. Then it struck him – there was nothing! No sound of wind, or rain. There was not even the slightest hint that there was a storm raging outside. Where in Shand’s name was he?

  ‘When you have recovered sufficiently, you may remove your blindfold,’ his guide said suddenly. ‘The transfer takes a bit of getting used to, but the effects will wear off in a few minutes.’

  Even the man’s voice sounded different now they were inside. There was just the faintest hint of an echo. Could they be underground? Reynik reached up to his face and eased off the blindfold.

  The sight that met Reynik’s eyes filled him with an even greater sense of wonder. He was in a good-sized living chamber, about six paces long by five paces across. Most of the furniture in the chamber was old – very old, and of beautiful craftsmanship. There were also some wonderful hangings on the wall that looked to date back several dynasties. A single newer hanging covered the wall next to the larger of the two doors out of the chamber. It appeared to display an image of the Imperial Palace floor plan in great detail, which would no doubt be of considerable use to an assassin who moved in high circles.

 
; The central wall hanging, flanked by bracketed wall torches on either side, depicted a striking viper. It was a chilling picture, but somehow apt. As Reynik pushed his body up into a sitting position, he noticed that the motif of the viper was duplicated on small wooden shields over each of the doorways.

  ‘Welcome to my humble abode.’

  The man who had brought Reynik to this place was still hooded and cloaked, but in the flickering light of the torches Reynik could just make out the lower part of his face. The man wore a dark, trimmed beard and moustache in a style common amongst the wealthier men of Shandrim’s high society. A hint of amusement quirked the man’s lips slightly, but Reynik could see nothing else except the tip of his nose, which told him nothing more of his features.

  ‘I thought we were going to meet the Guildmaster,’ Reynik said, croaking slightly. His throat was dry. This could have been a result of having inhaled smoke earlier, but he suspected it was more to do with his method of getting here.

  ‘All in good time. First, you will probably need a drink. Would you like a mug of ale, a glass of wine, or would you prefer water?’

  ‘Water will be fine, thanks.’

  There were no windows in the chamber, despite it having the squared feel of a room in a house. This did not surprise Reynik, for he felt sure they were not in a building. There was something about the feel of the air in the room that increased his sensation of being underground. Both doors out of the chamber were shut, but he would bet every last copper sennut he had that no matter which door he exited through, he would find no windows there either.

  The hooded man went to a cabinet and poured clear fluid from a crystal jug into a glass. Reynik wondered briefly if he should be wary of drinking, but it made no sense that the man would bring him here only to poison him. If the man had wanted him dead, Reynik suspected his method of attack would have been more direct.