by CS Sealey
At that moment, a five-man-strong unit of City Watch guards rounded a bend in the street and continued on their usual patrol of the rich district.
“Watch,” Zoran said quietly. “This is how you upset the cream of society.”
He grinned, then hurried toward the City Watch unit, leaving Astel and Gast watching from the shadows. As he approached the soldiers, he pulled down his face mask and adopted an anxious expression.
“At last!” Zoran exclaimed, coming to a halt in front of the first patrolman. “I’ve been looking all over for some of you lot!”
“Is there a problem?” the commander asked, looking Zoran up and down with the same level of interest as he would regard a pile of steaming horse dung.
“I’m not sure,” Zoran said. “When I was passing through this street a couple of hours ago, I heard a great deal of shouting and a lady screaming. The cries were ever so desperate, sirs.”
“Which house?” the commander said quickly, his manner changing instantly.
“The duke’s manse.”
“Come, men!” the City Watch commander said and hurried down the street to the largest house in the district.
Zoran pulled up his mask and moved back into the shadows. Astel hurried over, glancing repeatedly at the City Watch, who were now pounding on the front door of the duke’s fine house.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Astel whispered harshly. “You just implicated yourself!”
“No, I did quite the opposite.”
“Shouldn’t take ’em too long to find it,” Gast said, joining them. “Should be burning nice and steadily now.”
As they watched, Matrice’s stout housekeeper staggered back as the City Watch forced their way into the foyer, declaring a quick permit under the order of Queen Zennia and public security. Zoran could not help but laugh as he pictured the five men spreading through the house, searching for evidence of a fight that had never taken place.
Only a moment later, Zoran heard a shout as a City Watch guard found the first piece of planted evidence. Before hiring Yosef, he had spent a considerable amount of time monitoring the manse, learning the patterns of the household servants and the duke himself. Leaving Astel alone on the street mere moments before, he had scaled one side of the building and prized open Eila’s bedroom window. Once inside, he had worked quickly. He had disturbed the bedsheets and ripped open a pillow with his knife and thrown it across the room, spewing feathers. He had dislodged several books from the bookshelf and scattered them across the floor. Then, fishing into one of his pockets, he had produced two letters. One of these he laid gently on Eila’s writing desk, making it appear as though she had been writing it at the time of the fight, and the other one he scrunched tightly in his hand before dropping it unceremoniously on the floor. Finally, sweeping aside his robes, Zoran had undone the cords of a second damp pouch hanging from his belt and pulled out another pig’s heart. Dripping blood across the writing desk, carpet and books, Zoran had created a violent fight between the duke and his wife. Replacing the heart in its pouch, Zoran had thrown open the windows, leaving bloody handprints on the glass, then climbed back down into the garden and gone to meet Gast.
Astel turned to Zoran in utter amazement, hearing another shout from inside the duke’s manse.
“Commander! Sir, there’s a fire in the garden!”
“Good, they’ve found it,” Gast said, chuckling. “I was wondering how long it’d take them to look out a window.”
“No…” Astel whispered. “Zoran, you didn’t!”
“I did.”
“But why? You were told to frame Grachis Solom, not the duke!”
Zoran shrugged and gestured back to the house. “There are lines I simply do not cross…and the duke insulted me one too many times.”
“But you still killed Eila, didn’t you?” Astel asked. “Gast brought the body back from the estate, yes? Why didn’t you just – Hey!”
Zoran and Gast ignored Astel, crossing the street and moving quietly down the alleyway that separated the Matrice house from its neighbor. The large garden was bordered by a thick hedge but the men managed to part the bushes without being seen or heard. They peered through the leaves and saw the distraught housekeeper hurrying across the lawn to where the City Watch were standing in a group near a blazing pyre. Though the flames were crackling fiercely, even from that distance, the men could see the body that had been hastily placed on top of the now burning wood pile.
“Where has your master gone?” the City Watch commander asked of the housekeeper.
“He received a note from a boy a couple of hours ago, sirs, but he should be in the house! I don’t understand it. He would have told me if he was going out somewhere, sirs!”
“Where is this letter now?”
“I don’t know! He was in the sitting room when I gave it to him.”
The commander of the City Watch returned to the house, shouting to the men of his unit to follow and search every room. Letting the hedge close in once more, Zoran pulled back and began to walk down the alleyway to the front of the house.
“Zoran, tell me what’s going on!” Astel whispered harshly, having joined them. “What have you done? Whose body was that?”
“Sad story,” Gast said. “A woman named Ellith died of fever yesterday. No family, so no money for a funeral. Now she’s got a funeral pyre. Better than my own father had.”
“And all women look the same when they’re nothing but ash,” Zoran added.
“So…what happened to Eila?” Astel asked.
The assassin smiled.
*
“Good evening, duchess,” Sable had murmured earlier that night, his hand clamped over Eila’s mouth. “I am Zoran Sable. Your husband hired me to kill you.”
Eila had wrestled against his grasp, her terrified eyes wide.
“However, I have had a change of heart,” he had continued, the words sounding strange coming from his lips. “Stop struggling.”
Though still quivering in fear, Eila had complied.
“As I was saying, your husband has offered me a great deal of money to end your life. He knew you were coming here tonight, despite your secrecy. Your movements have been watched for a long time. He is fiercely jealous.”
Scared confusion had flashed across her beautiful face.
“This…” he had said, indicating her stomach with the tip of his knife. “He wants you dead because of this. I will take his money but I will not take your life, these two lives…No. Not for him.”
When Zoran had paused to look at her lover, Eila had frantically tried to speak but Zoran’s hand had remained firmly clamped over her mouth.
“Don’t worry, I won’t kill him either. Now, listen to me. You must leave tonight, separately. Don’t return to your home, just take what little you can from here and go. If you’re still in El Smials in the morning, your husband will find you and try again, and the man he hires then won’t be so merciful. Understand?”
Eila had nodded. Zoran had cautiously released his hand from her mouth and watched as the duchess slowly sat up, drawing the blanket up to cover herself.
“What about Grachis?” she had asked quietly. “What will happen to him?”
Zoran reached over and plucked out the dart he had expertly thrown from the rafters moments after Solom had fallen asleep.
“That depends on you. He will not wake until the morning. But you must write a letter before you leave – do it now.”
Eila had shakily risen from the bed and attempted to cover her nakedness with her hands as she had picked up her items of clothing from the floor.
“To whom should I address it?” she had asked a moment later, dressed and sitting at the large writing desk in the bedroom, a quill held in her hand.
“Someone you trust,” Zoran had said. “No, not Solom. Someone who is unconnected with this. Your father, your brother, or a friend, perhaps, who has no love for your husband. State that you fear for your life, that the duke has threatened to kill you and
Solom. I will deal with the rest.”
“Then what must I do?”
“Head south, west, east, somewhere nobody knows your face, and hide. Live. Raise your child. But never return to this city, understand?”
*
“You let her go?” Astel asked, his eyebrows raised in astonishment. “I – I can’t believe you, Zoran!”
“I’m still coming to terms with it myself,” the assassin admitted, “but what’s done is done. I put Eila’s letter in her room; the Watch will find it and piece everything together. The final touch is Matrice himself.”
There was a great deal of shouting from within the duke’s house and the three men turned and looked up at the second floor.
“Sounds like they’ve reached Eila’s bedroom,” Gast said.
“But Matrice will just deny it,” Astel argued. “He’s the duke! They’ll just let him go.”
“I don’t think so. He can argue all he likes, but the evidence will be quite compelling. I have to see this for myself.”
Leaving Astel and Gast in the alleyway below, Zoran clambered up the front of the manse, moving from window to window, keeping to the darkest shadows. He reached the sloping roof and hurried up and over to where the bedrooms were situated. Swinging over the edge, he landed carefully on the wide windowsill of one of the attic storage rooms. It was directly above Eila’s bedroom.
“I can’t believe he’s done something like this!” the housekeeper cried hysterically. “I thought he loved her!”
“Check those drawers over there. You two, the wardrobe.”
It took them only a moment to find Zoran’s second letter, the one he had scrunched up and thrown on the floor amid the scattered feathers and books.
My lord,
I am honored you have sought out my services for a contract on your wife and Grachis Solom. I thank you for your offer, but I must decline, as the amount you have promised is not sufficient enough for the task.
Zoran smiled and felt a great pang of satisfaction when he heard the front door of the manse open. Duke Matrice was finally home.
“He’s arrived. Downstairs, men!” the commander said.
Zoran climbed back up, scrambled across the roof once more and peered down onto the street three stories below. On the doorstep, Matrice paused. In a moment of panic, he suddenly noticed the blood on his cuffs and chest and hastily drew his jacket together. The assassin watched as the unit of guards pounced on the duke, forced him to his knees, and patted him down for weapons.
“A knife, sir,” one of the guards said, tossing the blade Zoran had given Matrice onto the steps. “Nothing else.”
“Get him on his feet and hold him secure,” the commander ordered.
“What are you doing?” the duke exclaimed. “You have no right!”
“I’m afraid we do. If you would be so kind as to explain this letter for us, sir,” the commander said, holding out Zoran’s note so that it caught the light of the flickering lamp outside the door.
“That? I’ve never seen it before!”
“And could you also explain the trail of blood in your wife’s bedroom?”
“What?”
“And the body we found in your garden?”
“Body? What body?” Matrice looked absolutely confounded. Zoran could have laughed.
“Is that blood on your shirt, sir?”
The duke hastily tried to hide the dark splatters but the damage had been done. The commander of the unit drew himself up and folded his arms.
“Though it pains me to say it, sir, you are under arrest for the murder of your wife, whose body, we have cause to believe, is the one currently burning in your garden. We also charge you with the attempted murder of Grachis Solom and dealing with hired killers.”
“But this is outrageous! I have been set up!” Matrice exclaimed, looking around frantically. “Release me! I did not murder my wife! It was the assassin! He’s set me up!”
“Keep quiet and come with us, sir,” the commander said. “You may shout as much as you like at the barracks.”
Matrice was led away, his face livid. But as he crossed the street, held securely between two Watch guards, he looked back at his house. Zoran stood up on the edge of the roof, his body framed by the moon, his pitch-black robes billowing in the warm night wind. He lifted his hand in a mock salute and bowed. Matrice’s eyes found him immediately and he ground to a halt, struggling frantically against his captors.
“There! The assassin! On the roof!”
By the time the guards turned, however, Zoran had gone.
CHAPTER 7
King Samian never ceased to surprise Archis Varren. By no means was this a good thing. Varren awoke that morning to find that the king had traveled south. Not only had he disregarded Varren’s strict advice – to concentrate on running his empire – Samian had not even told any of his advisers where he had gone.
“It’s an outrage! Did any of you know about this?” Varren demanded of the king’s four other advisers after he had gathered them in the conference chamber. The advisers were each as strange as the next and procured from every corner of the world, or so it seemed to Varren. They had pledged themselves to the crown and the Ayon Empire, becoming noble citizens and part of the royal household. Varren, however, had signed no such binding contract. He had been an Ayon since birth and his loyalty to the Royal House of Mensor was beyond question.
“Nothing,” replied Tarvenna Mei, the only woman in the king’s confidence. She was tall and dusky-skinned, with long, raven hair and large onyx-colored eyes. Archis Varren had met far-westerners before but never one of her appearance. “Last night, he went off to bed after supper and in the morning – ” she made a vague gesture with her dark hand, “ – gone.”
“And you? Not even a word?”
“You forget, my lord,” Lhunannon said hesitantly, “that he was greatly angered after your conversation with him. Your argument may have prompted him to take off like he did.” Igmund Lhunannon was an old man but had much more strength in his limbs than his frail exterior suggested. He was in his sixties and had been serving the royal family for at least forty years. Gray-haired and slightly shriveled, with bony hands that occasionally clutched at a walking stick, the man was full of stories and wise advice that Samian seldom seemed to value.
“He can’t marry whomever he likes! It’s about time he realized that. He is the king of the Ayons, he has obligations!”
Vrór uttered a quiet grunt from where he sat on the carpet and licked his sharp canines. “I guess he’s gone off to see his sss whore woman, then.”
Varren crossed the room and stood over the thing that had once been a man, now cowering feebly under the pressure of his piercing gaze. A great mystery surrounded Vrór Saranov. The man had been Lhunannon’s apprentice for a time before disappearing into the wild to further his studies. After several years of wandering the forests, plains and mountains, Vrór had returned, horribly altered. Whatever he had attempted to accomplish while practicing his art in solitude, Varren could not imagine, but it had gone horribly wrong. The little man, who had once been much taller, had been greatly disfigured – transformed. He had sprouted horns and grown animal fur. He had the eyes and claws of a nocturnal hunter and a tail similar to that of a wolf.
“You’re keeping something from me.”
Vrór averted his eyes. “Nothing, my lord! I hide nothing! I only assume from what sss you yourself have said!”
“Don’t take me for a fool, Vrór!”
“Leave him be,” Tarvenna said, touching his arm with her slender fingers. “He is not worth the time.”
“Off.” Varren shook her hand free of his jacket. “You all seem to forget the trouble this boy-king has caused. He is disrespecting his father’s wishes with nearly every act and word he utters!” He glanced at Lhunannon. “By the Spirits, I wish you had never taught him to close his mind! I could have seen this coming.”
“Looking into His Majesty’s thoughts is strictly forbidden!
”
“And leaving the city with no guard or escort of any kind is better?” Varren snapped. “He could get himself killed – ”
“He did leave his signet ring behind,” Lhunannon said, “so the chances anyone will recognize him are very unlikely.”
“There are worse things in the wild than kidnappers! None of you seem to realize just how serious this situation is! The boy knows little of life outside these walls.”
Varren ran his hands through his hair and swore loudly.
“I think you underestimate our master,” Eron Galenros said. The man’s eyes had the unhealthy look of a soul teetering on the edge of madness; always red-rimmed and his pupils were large and black. Occasionally, a distant look would come over his face mid-conversation and he would simply cease talking, find a place to sit down and stay there for hours, unmoving. Sometimes, he would even collapse without warning and enter what appeared to be a deep sleep. Although Galenros tried to control these episodes, it was a part of his nature that could not be entirely tamed.
“Speak,” Varren said, calmer now. “Tell us what you’ve seen.”
Galenros drew in a long breath and let it out silently, closing his eyes. “He has the sword with him, he’s not defenseless,” the seer said, before opening his eyes once more. “His training in recent weeks proves his ability to use it, Archis. However, yes, he goes to meet his – What did you call her, Vrór? His sss whore woman?”
Vrór growled.
“Is he beyond the empire’s borders?” Varren asked anxiously.
“Yes.”
Varren cursed again and rested an agitated hand on the mantlepiece. “Where?”
Galenros rubbed his stubble, his face screwing up with unease. “You will not like what I tell you, Archis.”
“Sss, tell us what he won’t like!” Vrór said, sitting forward on his haunches.
“He goes south…to the islands off Kirofirth.”
*
It must have been close to midnight when Angora woke. She became immediately conscious of hands tearing her bag from beneath her head and rough fingers clamping onto her arms. Then she heard harsh male voices talking quickly and angrily to each other. She tried to scream but a hand hastily covered her mouth. The darkness under the tree hid her attackers’ faces well. The dull light from the veiled moon and stars showed little more than the eerie silhouettes of three large men.