He surreptitiously tugged the cord one last time before moving his hand to the crossbow. ‘I think it safe to assume you’ve killed my guards, so all that remains is to discuss what you want,’ he said. His voice was sharp and assertive. Contanto had faced death many times before, but come out on top and he refused to be afraid of it.
The cloaked man remained silent.
‘It’s like that then.’ He paused a moment and sighed. ‘What did I do? Kill someone close to you? Put your family out of business?’ He had tilted the gimballed crossbow and pointed it at the intruder. He intended to kill the man regardless, but he would like to know what had brought him here, and if there were more people that would need killing, to ensure that this irritating interruption was not repeated.
The front of his desk was false wood, being little more than a paper screen. He had spent hours firing bolts at targets all around his office, at first entirely in preparation for a situation such as this, then because he found it diverting and enjoyable. In a moment the bolt’s deadly toxin would be coursing its way through the intruder’s veins, but first he wanted to know why he was here. Still the man said nothing. It was disappointing, but that was often the way of things. The man reached to the hilt of his sword and began to draw it, the hood falling back from his face a little. He was young, younger than Contanto would have expected, but his eyes were old, old and hard. He had seen eyes like that before. The man meant to kill him and he would do it without hesitation or mercy.
They had toyed with one another for long enough. He clicked the hair trigger on the crossbow and was comforted by the thrum of the bowstring and the release of tension in the small weapon that accompanied it. His expectation was such that it took a split second to realise that there had not been any sound of the paper being punctured, nor of the man reacting to being hit. That split second was all it took for the man to move across the room. He was freakishly fast.
Contanto looked around for something, anything that might influence what was to come. Had he been over confident? He let out a slight gasp as the intruder’s blade pierced his chest. He couldn’t quite believe that anyone would have the audacity or ability to actually manage to kill him. It wasn’t quite as painful as he was expecting either, but perhaps that was just the shock. Then it was done.
Soren left by the front door as innocuously as anyone could. He walked briskly away discarding his dark cloak and quickly blending into the crowd. His heart was racing with excitement. It was a perfectly executed kill. He wondered briefly if he should try to send word to the General, but decided it was unnecessary. Word would spread quickly that Contanto was dead but what would follow that, he could only guess. With the head of the city’s underworld dead, there would be chaos and internecine warfare amongst the criminal gangs.
He spent two hours on a circuit around the city, looping around and backtracking several times until he was certain that no one could be following him. Then, and only then did he return to his apartment.
‘Ruripathian scouting parties seen crossing the border! Farmers reporting their livestock being rustled. Outrages and atrocities being committed all along the border!’
Despite the noise on the square, the crier somehow managed to raise his voice above it allowing himself to be clearly heard even from fifty yards. The news disappointed Soren. After all of their efforts, it seemed that relations with Ruripathia had disintegrated regardless. Something occurred to him, it was a familiar thought, almost like déjà vu, but he couldn’t quite work out what it was. Something someone had said to him, but he couldn’t remember whom. He was struggling with the memory, trying to dig through the jumble in his mind. It had been about Chancellor Marin not being what he was supposed to be. Nevertheless, he had other matters to attend to. Grand Burgess Anton Spiro walked out of the Guilds’ Hall onto the square with his two minders, and this required Soren’s full concentration.
He was greeted by several traders, much like Contanto had been, but with a noticeably different atmosphere. The greetings seemed genuine, not rooted in fear. Soren had not been able to discern any notable pattern in Spiro’s behaviour. Every day was different. His house was in Highgarden, and he was married with two children, one of whom was preparing to enter the Academy. Soren had no desire to kill Spiro in front of his children no matter what the reasons for his assassination, so the house was out. He worked long days but was never far from his minders. It looked as though the Seafarers’ Guild had provided them. They had the tough weathered appearance of sailors. They were big, mean looking men but Soren was willing to bet that they were more brawn and aggression than ability. For angry merchants and guild members, they were more than enough of a deterrent but they would amount to no more than an inconvenience to Soren. The greatest threat they represented was escaping to raise the alarm.
The Guilds’ Hall was enormous and given the time frame within which Soren had to complete the assassination, he really didn’t have the luxury of being able to acquaint himself with the layout.
He had divided the available time evenly between the three targets, which in reflection might have been mistake. He felt he had spent longer then necessary in preparation for Contanto’s assassination and had not taken into consideration the fact that one of the other ones might require more time. The imposition of this novice error was making itself known to him now. It narrowed the options in terms of locations, but as he had discovered, every man left an opening, it was just a case of finding it in the time he had.
The street was busy, just as Soren had hoped. Crowds were vital for the success of his plan. Spiro walked down the street every morning on his way to the Guilds’ Hall. For three mornings Soren had been watching him, from the point that his bodyguards collected him from his house, and walked with him down to the hall. It was the only consistent element in Spiro’s daily routine that Soren had been able to identify.
The street was always busy at this time of the morning. It was neither too wide nor too narrow, and there were a multitude of alleyways leading away from it, any of which would facilitate a good escape. It would be a brazen killing, in full view of the crowds and the bodyguards and would cause quite a fuss. It was this fuss that he hoped would allow him to melt into the crowd and disappear. If it went wrong it would be a disaster, but Soren found the prospect thrilling nonetheless.
He lurked at the entrance of one of the side alleys waiting for Spiro and his men to appear at the end of the street. He had been at the house when Spiro left, but had rushed on ahead to be ready for them. In the crowd his sword would be useless so the dagger would be the best choice. Something with a smaller hilt would have been better, but he had not got the money spare to buy a stiletto. The wound it would cause might not have been severe enough either. He would only have one chance so he needed to be sure that his equipment would do what was required.
He spotted the larger of Spiro’s two bodyguards first, and then focussed in on Spiro himself who followed shortly behind. Most people moved out of the way as soon as they saw Spiro and his men, but there were enough who didn’t to cause some bustling and jostling. It meant the bodyguards were a little farther from Spiro than they should have been. Not by much, but just enough.
Soren stepped out from the alleyway and walked toward the approaching men. He slipped seamlessly between the moving people around him and readied his dagger. The bodyguards drew closer and he fought the urge to look at them, forcing himself to stare toward some imagined purpose at the far end of the street. He was between the guards before they noticed him, not that they paid him very much attention anyway. As Soren bumped against Spiro, one of them gave him a gentle shove away. But the bodyguard was too late and it was already done.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, and sidestepped out of the way before walking quickly toward the nearest laneway. He had sharpened the blade to a wicked edge. It cut so smoothly that it would be seconds before any pain was felt. He had slipped it between Spiro’s ribs, into his heart and given it just enough of a twist to ensure
the wound would not close. Spiro would take three, maybe four steps before the catastrophic loss of blood would cause him to drop to the ground and die. Perhaps he would have enough time to realise what had happened to him, but perhaps not. Either way, Soren was halfway down the alleyway before the body hit the ground.
His heart was racing and it was a struggle to maintain his composure, as it always was after a kill. Walking calmly away from the scene of an assassination was perhaps the most difficult part of the whole undertaking. There were shouts from the street behind him, and a scream. If the bodyguards had more than a shared brain cell, which judging by their appearance and demeanour may not have been the case, they would by now have connected him to the fact that their boss was lying on the ground in a pool of blood. Working out where he had gone would be more difficult for them. The fog of confusion and panic was an invaluable tool.
C h a p t e r 4 8
THE BLACK CARPET
Once the excitement of the kill faded, Soren found he was always left with a sense of disappointment and emptiness. He had bought a small mage lamp in a dealer’s shop in the artisans’ district a few days before and he held it now as he sat on the edge of his bed. He waved his hand over the glow in the centre of the glass sphere that was framed by two flat metal cylinders top and bottom which were connected by metal rods. It was not the brightest mage lamp he had ever seen. Either it was so old it was nearing the end of its usefulness or it had never been a good one to begin with. There had been no more made since the outlawing of the practice of sorcery, so the value of one even as dim as this was still high. He studied the lamp in search of the blue fringing, but he was not sure if he could see anything. He had come to think that magic was the key, or at least some sort of magical energy, but he had not seen the blue glow since the day on the plains, no matter how hard he tried.
He had bought the mage lamp to continue experimenting with the Gift. He was still no closer to understanding how it worked than he was that day and he had no desire to starve himself just to see if that would bring on the same experience. He reasoned that the mage lamp was a concentration of magical energy, so he hoped it might, if held close enough and long enough, bring on a mild form of the feelings that he had when near the shaman. It didn’t.
He had been trying it most evenings since he had moved into the apartment, but the result was always the same. He was becoming frustrated by the fact that he had no control over when, where or how strong the Gift of Grace affected him. He knew he should be grateful for what he had. The Gift was always influencing him and even at its most unnoticeable it gave him the speed and strength that he took for granted, but that gave him the edge over all others.
The fact that he knew there was so much more if only he could just learn to call on it was maddening though. He threw the mage lamp onto his bed and went to the window. He looked down on the street and the sight of people passing by reminded him of how lonely he was. He thought of Alessandra, as he still often did. He missed not just the fact that she was no longer in his life, but also the idea of her being in his life.
To make matters worse Ranph was not in the city. He had returned to manage his family’s estate on the shore of Blackwater Lake. As head of his family, that was his duty now. Henn, Jost and his other acquaintances from River House valued the favour of the Count of Moreno above their friendship with Soren, and as a result would have nothing to do with him.
He thought of Alessandra again, involuntarily as his mind drifted, whoring in the finery of her apartments in Oldtown. Thoughts like that popped into his head for no apparent reason at the most random of times and they always hurt. Frustrated and lonely, he decided to go out. He knew that he ought to be scouting his next target, Tanto dal Trevison, but he really could not put his mind to it so he thought there was little point in trying to force the issue.
He wandered through the streets without any thought or purpose. There was usually something comforting about the sense of familiarity they provided, but tonight he couldn’t seem to find the peace that it brought. He walked for hours, until the night had well and truly arrived. Certain parts of the city never slept, and it was in one of these areas that he found himself. There were bars, brothels and gambling dens; the types of places once overseen by Abelard Contanto but that were now enjoying an independence that was unlikely to last long.
He had not really been thinking about it, but his wanderings had been taking him toward one place. It was a duelling club that he had become aware of some time previously. Not one that set its competitors on the road to competing in the city’s arenas, but one which might well lead to floating face down in the harbour the following morning. He had his blades with him of course; no self-respecting banneret would be seen out of doors without them.
This form of duelling was highly illegal, and every few months the city crier would announce that the Watch had closed one of the clubs down. There were never any arrests of course, the clubs were frequented by aristocrats, merchant princes and criminals, not to mention that the competitors were usually bannerets, allegedly the finest men the city had to offer.
Occasionally someone who had not studied at the Academy would try their luck, most often a thug or a bruiser who over estimated his abilities. They tended to end up providing whatever types of marine life that could survive in the filthy harbour with a meal.
He stood for several minutes watching the door to the club. Cloaked people would stop and knock at the door and an inspection slot would open. A moment later the person would either be admitted or they would move away, their night’s entertainment refused them. Entering would mark a step down for him. Bannerets tended not to resort to this until there were no other options, or they had a drug addiction to feed. The money to be made was not fantastic compared to what a banneret could earn, but it was better than nothing for those that either could not find choicer work or for those that could no longer expect any better. Soren didn’t need the money though. He was looking for something entirely different.
He knocked at the door and waited for the inspection hole to open. It rasped open and a pair of eyes regarded him suspiciously.
‘What do you want?’ asked the man on the other side.
‘To come in,’ Soren replied, smiling. He pushed back his cloak to reveal the hilts of his blades and the purse at his belt. The eyes stared at them for a moment and then the inspection slot shut. The door opened and the man who owned the eyes gestured for Soren to enter.
‘This way, sir, the bar is down the stairs. I hope you enjoy your evening,’ he said, smiling to reveal a set of filthy teeth.
Soren walked in and made his way down the steps. As he went, the sounds of raucous shouts and the clashing of steel became audible with increasing volume.
He came to the end of the steps and out into a large cellar room. It was lit with large mage lamps and despite the subterranean location, it was very bright. There was a small bar with a disinterested tender to the left, and a large crowd of men gathered in front of him. He couldn’t see beyond them, but from the noise it was obvious to him what was going on. He walked to the bar.
‘Who do I need to speak to?’ Soren asked.
The bartender took one look at the hilts of his blades and nodded to a man standing quietly to one side of the crowd. Soren made his way over.
‘The barman said to speak to you,’ said Soren.
‘Did he now. And why did he do that?’ the man replied.
‘I’m here to duel.’
‘Are you now.’ He appraised Soren with a little more interest and his eyes drifted down to the hilts of his blades. ‘Well, are you ready to go tonight?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good, what’s your name?’ the man asked.
‘Soren.’
The man looked at him questioningly, expecting more. ‘Just Soren then,’ he said, after a moment. ‘I am Mateo. Are you a banneret?’
‘Does it matter?’ Soren asked.
‘Well, the bookmaker will need to know one
way or the other. I have no objections to putting a normal person into the duels, but obviously your chances for victory are significantly smaller if you’re not,’ Mateo replied.
‘Yes, I am a banneret,’ Soren said.
‘Good. I’ll put you in at the end. So until then, relax, enjoy the duels, place a bet or two, and I’ll call on you when it’s time.’
He watched the next few duels with interest. The competitors were older men for the most part, many carrying that air of men who have seen war, as well as carrying the scars that come with it, although these could have been the dividends of a life on the underground duelling scene he supposed. That was the major difference between the clubs and the arena, sharp blades and three blood drawing wounds here compared to dulled edges and three touches in the arena, where blood was occasional and not a requirement. ‘To the death’ was rarely seen in the arena, but on occasion it was known to happen. Here it was no problem if one of the blood drawing wounds resulted in death. In fact, killing was actively encouraged. Bets would be placed not just on the result of the duel, but if would be won by blood or death.
They fought on a strip of black, painted on the floor and affectionately known as the ‘black carpet’. It was twenty paces or so long, and only a few paces wide. The restricted space would take a little adjustment, but Soren didn’t foresee it as being a problem. He wondered what the penalty would be for stepping off the carpet, as no one seemed to break the rule. Perhaps it was the duellist’s last vestige of honour in a life that had reached the lowest ebb that made them adhere to this one rule, but it seemed to be the only one that there was.
Punching, elbows and knees were all part and parcel of the black carpet. That didn’t bother Soren though. He had always found the formal duelling at the Academy restrictive and stuffy, the strict rules being a poor reflection of real fighting. This would be far closer to the reality of combat, which was fitting, as it was quite likely that someone would die on the black carpet that night.
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