“Evening, Miss.” One plate-sized hand closed on the door’s latch and opened it for her.
“Thank you, Mika.” She entered her office.
The tidy little room had been used to host private card games before Mya took it over. It was still set up as such in the unlikely chance that the pub was raided by the City Guard. But now no one entered except at Mya’s express invitation, and she extended that to few. A fire crackling in the small hearth rendered the room warm and cozy. She pulled a chair nearer to the blaze, sat and worked at the wet laces of her soft black boots. Her fingers shook with pent-up energy, and she couldn’t pick apart the knots. Laughing quietly to herself, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath and flexed her hands.
Memories of the attack flooded her mind.
Assassins falling out of the rain-soaked sky. Her heart beating like a hammer, her veins surging with heat, she could count the raindrops beading on their waxed cloaks. Plucking daggers from her sheaths, she was moving even before their feet touched the ground.
Duck-roll-parry-slash-flip-stab…and it was done. Two corpses lay at her feet.
Thank you, Lad…
The thought calmed her shaking hands enough that she could untie her boots. As she placed them on the hearth to dry, she heard a familiar clomp of boots, then the door opened and Paxal came in with a heavy platter. He was the only person who had an open invitation; anyone else would have knocked, or she would have heard Mika reducing them to a bloody pulp. The platter bore three items: a tankard of mulled wine, a plate of steaming stewed mutton with vegetables, and a cloth napkin rolled around polished silver eating utensils. Mya’s mouth started watering even as he arranged the meal on the card table and laid out the silverware with precise motions.
“Thank you, Pax.” She smiled at the nightly ritual and dragged her chair back to the table, facing the room and the door with the fire warm on her back.
“Bit damp out tonight, Miss, so I fortified the wine with some plum brandy.”
“You’re a godsend.” Mya didn’t know how he managed it, since the Golden Cockerel didn’t have a kitchen, but every night he had her dinner ready and piping hot when she arrived, despite her irregular schedule. This was better than home had ever been, and Paxal was better family than she had ever had. Rumor had it that he’d lost a daughter long ago, and spent years inside a whiskey bottle, but he had never offered an explanation, and she had never demanded one. This was Pax, loyal without indebtedness or fear, exactly what she needed.
Mya raised the tankard to him, then took a swallow of wine. The hot spicy concoction set a tingling warmth in her stomach that radiated outward to infuse her limbs, and she sighed in contentment. “When I die, I’m leaving my entire fortune to you.”
“Best not.” He smiled and turned to go. “I’d just piss it all way on wine, women and song.”
As the innkeeper left, her assistant, Dee, came in with a ledger, a stack of letters and a box of writing tools.
“Evening, Miss Mya.” He placed the letters to the left of her plate, then sat across from her.
“Evening, Dee.”
Dee was tall and lanky, and about her age. Though they apprenticed near the same time, she hadn’t known him well, except as the butt of jokes about his rumored aversion to blood. His true talents, she had discovered, were an aptitude for numbers and organization, and his fine, elegant penmanship. Not one to try to fit a dagger into a sword’s sheath, Mya made him her administrative assistant and lodged him in one of the rooms upstairs.
Mya took a bite of tender mutton, and tried not to let the meal distract her from business. This was another nightly ritual, and it calmed her nerves like the hot, spiced wine she sipped between bites. Her hands stopped shaking as she shuffled through the letters, dictated responses, and reported her activities of the day. She didn’t mention the assassination attempt to Dee; it wasn’t something he needed to know. She’d see to that bit of business herself.
Dee logged dates, amounts, and names in his ledger as she spoke, nodding with each notation, asking pertinent questions when they arose. By the time she was halfway through the letters, she had nearly forgotten that she’d killed two skilled assassins only an hour ago.
“Our meeting with Jayse went well, but I think he’s hedging for a better deal than I offered. Send him a note thanking him for his hospitality, and quote him two gold crowns per day for our services, four if he requires personal protection away from his place of business.”
“Got it.” Dee looked up from his ledger. “Cordial or firm?”
This was a common question. Dee had a good grasp of language and could alter his prose and his penmanship to make a letter anything from friendly to downright threatening, an invaluable skill.
“Cordial, but no hints of personal friendship. He’s a little too smooth for my taste.”
“Right.” The corners of Dee’s mouth twitched in amusement, and she felt a twinge of irritation.
Forget it! Just nerves.
Mya went back to her letters; mostly reports from her Hunters on progress, or lack thereof, on their assignments. She fired off replies for Dee to jot down, later to be copied fair for her signature in the morning.
Only one more… Mya picked up an envelope of fine parchment sealed with black wax. Strangely, there was no imprint, just a blank oval impression in the wax.
“Personal correspondence.” Dee nodded toward the envelope as he gathered up the rest of the letters. “I didn’t want to get turned into something small and slimy.”
Mya crooked a smile at Dee’s exaggeration as she pressed the obsidian ring that encircled the third finger of her left hand—the ring that identified her as a master in the Assassins Guild—to the seal. A tingle ran up her arm, as if someone played their fingers gently over her skin. The tingle meant that if anyone besides the intended recipient opened the letter, the note inside would be destroyed. This simple magic ensured that private correspondence stayed private. Her own ring would impress the same enchantment upon a wax seal. A jolt of mild pain from her ring would have meant the presence of dangerous magic. Though a spell trap might not turn her into a slug, as Dee’s little joke suggested, deadly magical traps were not impossible. Though he opened her guild correspondence, Dee left any personal or sealed letters for her.
She cracked the seal, removed the letter and unfolded it. The embossed crest in the corner caught her eye like a glint of moonlight on the blade of a dagger. She knew that crest like she knew her own name. Every member of the guild knew it…and feared it. All the tension and pent-up energy from the assassination attempt, quelled by her comforting routine, returned like a kick in the stomach.
She read the note.
Master Hunter Mya Ewlet
Twailin Assassins Guild
The increasing lack of cooperation within the Twailin Guild has resulted in an overall decline of revenues and a loss of guild influence in the region over the last six half-year cycles. This is unacceptable. Your own division, however, has not shown the same decline as others. Considering your success against the failures of your peers, and despite your youth, you show great promise.
Therefore, I am honoring you with the appointment to the position of Guildmaster of the Twailin Assassins Guild.
Since the previous guildmaster’s ring was destroyed after the death of its owner, it is my wish that you contract the services of the guild crafter of magical implements in Twailin to forge a new guildmaster’s ring. Upon its completion, don the ring, then convene a meeting of the other masters and show them this letter. From that day forward you will assume all the duties and responsibilities of Guildmaster of the Twailin Assassins Guild.
Sincerely,
Grandmaster
“Holy shit,” she muttered as she re-read the note.
She shivered from a chill that the fire at her back had no power to dispel, quivering the paper in her hands so badly that she could barely focus on the elegant script. The illegible signature seemed to squirm as if it would writ
he out of the page and bite her. Her office, so snug and secure only a moment ago, now felt claustrophobic, as if the walls were closing in around her. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
“Something wrong, Miss Mya?”
Mya started and jerked her head up to look at Dee. She had completely forgotten that he was still here. She drew the parchment down into her lap, below the table’s edge. Had he seen the Grandmaster’s crest?
“No. Nothing wrong, Dee.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Just a surprise, is all. Nothing important.”
Godsdamned guildmaster… Her mind spun so fast she felt nauseous. It was one thing to fight with her fellow masters against appointing a new guildmaster. But the Grandmaster… No one but the guildmasters of each city and his secret cabal of representatives even knew who he was, but he wielded ultimate power in the guild. As nicely as the note was phrased, this wasn’t a request; the Grandmaster expected her to assume the post.
You’re a slave…
No!
Impulsively, Mya crumpled the note and pitched it into the fire. The fine parchment ignited instantly, and she watched it burn. She snatched up her tankard and gulped her wine. The drink warmed a path to her stomach, but did little to calm her suddenly singing nerves.
“Will you want to draft a reply?”
Dee’s question snapped her out of her daze, and she forcibly focused her thoughts. “No.”
All her life, Mya had relied on her quick mind. Now that mind, the mind of a trained Hunter and master assassin, whirred into motion. Like flipping through a deck of cards, relationships, causes, effects, dangers, and threats flashed by. Little more than an hour ago she’d survived the most organized and well-executed attempt on her life to date. Was it coincidence that she received a letter appointing her guildmaster that very night? If the other masters knew, they might take one last shot at her, knowing that once she wore the guildmaster’s ring, she would be immune to attacks from anyone in the Twailin guild. She shook her head. The letter had been magically sealed; nobody could have read it. Nobody even knew she had received it except— Mya’s eyes flicked up to her assistant.
“That’s all for tonight, Dee. Write up those responses we discussed, and I’ll sign them in the morning.”
“Very good, Miss Mya.”
She watched as he gathered his things, surreptitiously casting worried glances at both her and the fire.
Worried about me, or about my reaction to the letter?
Mya trusted her people, and Dee more than most, but news of this sort would be worth a lot to her enemies. She swallowed another gulp of the fortified wine and forced her voice into calm, sure tones.
“Goodnight, Dee. I’ll see you first thing in the morning.”
“Goodnight, Miss Mya.” He looked relieved to see her acting normally again, gave her a casual smile, and left the room.
“Damn it! Suspecting Dee? You’re being paranoid, Mya.” But some niggling internal whisperer asked, But are you being paranoid enough? She sat back and sipped her wine, trying to force coherence into the whirl of suspicion in her mind.
Forge a new guildmaster’s ring…
Mya held up her hand, gazing at the master’s ring on her finger, reflected firelight dancing red on the polished obsidian. Each ring cost a small fortune to enchant, for they did more than seal letters and detect magical traps. Much more. Hers not only made it impossible for any of her Hunters to attack her, but also foiled any attempt to spy on or locate her using magic. But the ring’s true power lay not in what it did for her, but what it did to her.
The magic of her ring bound her to the guild; she could neither leave, nor remove the ring. Lad had been right all those years ago. She had been a slave. The enchantments wouldn’t even allow her to hack off her finger to release herself from its grip. And under the Grandfather’s domination, she had learned what that slavery meant. Mya remembered the cold stone slab beneath her, the chill of the Grandfather’s blades. The drug he had given her blunted the pain, but the real horror had been the elation on his face as he peeled her flesh from living bone.
My life was his to spend…
Ripples danced on the surface of her wine as she raised the cup to her lips.
…until Lad saved me.
Now, without a guildmaster, she was, to a certain extent, free. If she donned a guildmaster’s ring and learned the identity of the Grandmaster, the shackles upon her soul would tighten again.
“Miss Mya?”
“Yes?” Her eyes snapped open, but it was just Paxal.
“Dee said you were finished, but…” His eyes settled onto her half-full plate. “Was the mutton not to your taste?”
“It was fine, Pax. I’m just not very hungry tonight. That’s all.” She forced a smile, finished her wine in one long swallow, and stood. “The wine was especially nice. Thank you.”
“My pleasure, Miss.” He piled everything on the tray. “Anything else tonight? Another cup of wine?”
“No wine, thank you, Pax, but…” Her mind spun ahead. She could trust Paxal, and he was subtle, a fixture everyone took for granted. “…a couple of favors.”
“Name it, Miss.”
“First, when the fire burns down, empty the ashes and scatter them in the rain. Do it yourself.” Magic could do amazing things, and the last thing she wanted was for that letter to be resurrected from the ashes.
“I’ll see to it personally.”
“Good.” She bit her lip. Yes, he’s the one to do this. “Also, I need to know if Dee leaves the inn tonight. Let me know first thing in the morning, before he comes in with the letters.”
“Of course, Miss.” Not a hint of trepidation or worry, just simple, honest obedience.
Perfect.
“Thanks, Pax.” She gave him a nod, and he left with the tray.
Mya paced the length of the room, looking into the dying flames of the fire with each pass, her mind a whirl of thoughts. Godsdamned guildmaster… Why me? I’m too young! I’m more successful because the other masters need my help more than I need theirs. The Grandmaster has to know that! Stopping before the fire, she leaned against the hearth and stared into the flames. The heat on her face matched the heat that rose in her blood. Is this some ploy? Do the other masters already know? Is that why Horice tried to kill me tonight? She knew she’d find no answers in the fire, but the mesmerizing dance of orange, yellow, blue and crimson drew her mind like a moth to the light. Godsdamned guildmaster…
“Stop it, Mya! You’ll start talking to yourself next!”
Tearing her eyes away from the flames, she withdrew an ornate, three-sided brass key suspended on a chain around her neck, and inserted it into a depression in the third stone on the left of the hearth arch. Silently, the concealed door beside the fireplace swung open.
She stepped through the door, pushing it closed behind her and re-locking it. Although locks in a building full of assassins seemed superfluous, she felt assured by this one. The lock had three sets of tumblers, very difficult to pick, and only one other key to the door existed. It hung on a chain around Paxal’s neck, which someone would have to break before the barkeep would give it up. Then, even if they had the key, an intruder would have to find the concealed lock, which looked like just another crack in the well-worn stone hearth. Finally, the door was set with a magical alarm to give her warning should some fool manage to break in. More likely, they’d be drawn to the little room that opened off of her office; a rumpled cot, small dresser, and a few personal items made this an apt decoy for her living quarters.
In reality, Mya lived underground.
Glow crystals set in silver sconces brightened to light her way down the stone steps to her apartments. Paxal had suggested she renovate the disused wine cellar, pointing out that it would be more secure than any above-ground dwelling. As Master Hunter, money flowed to her like water down a rain spout. She had spared no expense, hiring a foreign dwarven craftsman and paying him a fortune to ensure his silence. Here, hidden and su
rrounded by a veritable army of her Hunters, she felt safe.
At least, safe enough to sleep at night.
The stair emptied into a small living area paneled with wood and furnished with two comfortable chairs, a couch and an expansive rolltop desk. Her stocking-clad feet whispered across fine silk rugs. The hearth was cold, the firewood laid out, but unlit.
Knowing no fire could banish the chill she felt in her bones, she strode over to the map of Twailin that hung on the wall behind the desk. Pins crowded the map, each denoting an operation, their heads colored to indicate whose: green for her Hunters, blue for the other guild factions, yellow for non-guild. Picking up a red-headed pin, she drove it into the map where tonight’s attack had occurred.
Mya backed up until her knees hit the edge of the couch, and sat. She squinted at the map, a mass of green centered on the Golden Cockerel, winding out through the city like the roots of a tree. Yellow pins—the Thieves Guild mostly—encroached on the patchy blue areas, less so when it neared her own. Red pins scattered across the city like drops of blood. She examined the map, looking for patterns, openings, weaknesses. Such analysis usually helped her focus her thoughts, but not tonight. She fidgeted, her mind skipping from the assassination attempt, to the other masters, to Dee, to the letter, to the Grandmaster… Lurching up from her seat, she paced around the room, perused the bookshelf that took up another entire wall, considered pouring herself a nightcap from one of the decanters on the sideboard.
This place was her refuge, her safe harbor, but tonight it felt like a cage.
You’re a slave…
Mya shuddered when she realized how true Lad’s words had been. She had always been a slave. She had spent her life trying to be safe, to be free from the things that could hurt her.
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