He recognized the man: Lord Berithan or Berithane. He had only visited the neighboring city a handful of times to establish and maintain his false identity of Lord Anglion, but his keen ears had picked up the man's lilting accent, common among the upper crust of Praamis.
He shrugged it off. He never bothered with the clients' reasons. All that mattered was the gold in his pocket, and the thrill of the job.
Feed me, whispered the voice in the back of his mind. He grimaced. More than a week had elapsed since his last kill, and Soulhunger was growing restless. The dagger, hanging in its sheath on his hip, would grow louder and more demanding. Its insistence pounded like a headache behind his eyes. If he didn't give the blade what it wanted, its lust for blood and death would overwhelm him.
He never knew where the dagger had come from—he'd had it for as long as he could remember, since the day he strode into Voramis empty-handed, his mind a blank slate. Soulhunger and his abilities had never been explained to him, but he'd stopped questioning them long ago. The superhuman speed, strength, reflexes, and senses served him well, made him the legendary assassin the people of Voramis believed him to be.
He drew in a deep breath, and Soulhunger's strident protests settled to a dull ache at the base of his skull.
From his vantage point on the inn's crumbling rooftop, he had a clear view across the city of Voramis. To the southwest, a forest of ships' masts filled the Port of Voramis, and beyond spread the clear blue expanse of the Endless Sea. Behind him, to the west, the breathtakingly grand Palace of Justice dominated the skyline, standing like a looming sentinel over the city. In the Temple District to the north, the stately shrines of the thirteen gods of Einan rose high into the sky.
But his steps led southeast, to a hill upon which stood the mansions and sprawling estates of Upper Voramis, home to only the wealthiest nobles of the city. Including one Lord Estyn Damuria.
* * *
I wonder what's got their loincloths in a twist.
Mercenaries wearing burnished armor patrolled the broad courtyard, the rooftop, and even the perimeter outside the walls of Lord Damuria's mansion. Though the nobleman tended to keep his property well-guarded, this far exceeded his typical level of security. The mercenaries—the Steel Company, as they called themselves—came from the city of Odaron far to the north, and they charged exorbitant rates for their services. Lord Damuria had to be paying a hefty fortune to have an entire company, fully ninety steel-clad men, on hand.
The Hunter had spent the last two hours watching the mansion from the comfort of a nearby rooftop. Even from two hundred paces away, his keen eyes could pick out the shape of the daggers resting in their belts, the dents and notches in their metal armor. None of them would see him lying flat on the sun-baked clay tiles.
Below, Upper Voramis bustled with the typical early morning traffic. Nobles' carts rattled up and down the broad avenue, drawn by teams of horses outfitted in finery that cost more than most Lower Voramians earned in a year. Vendors hawked their wares at the top of their lungs until the red-robed Heresiarchs shooed them away.
The white cobblestone streets of Upper Voramis were far cleaner and brighter than the mud-covered ways of the city below. Instead of the reek of mud, refuse, and unwashed men and women that permeated Lower Voramis, the perfumes of myriad flowering trees and bushes predominated. The nearby Maiden's Fields added a touch of green life that the dust-covered commoners in the rest of the city would spend a fortune to enjoy.
The Hunter relished the beauty of Upper Voramis, and had crafted a number of disguises and false identities that allowed him to blend in with the well-dressed nobility and merchant-nobles. Today, however, was not a day to bask in the sweet scent of the Snowblossom trees or stroll the petal-lined walkways of Maiden's Fields.
He turned his attention back to Lord Damuria's estate. The walls towered a full ten paces high, more than sufficient to keep out thieves and assassins. Save for him, of course. He could scale it in under a minute, his powerful fingers finding holds in tiny fissures or between the stones. If necessary, he could carve his way through the Steel Company mercenaries and enter Lord Damuria's mansion by brute force alone.
But that wasn't his style. He had been paid to kill Lord Damuria, but he had no vendetta against the hired guards. Every time he paid an unannounced visit to the Damuria mansion, he simply avoided the guards.
His eyes rose to the tower rising above the four-story building. He hadn't visited Lady Damuria in nearly half a year, not since the "young Lord Anglion of Praamis" had excuse to come to Praamis. The fact that her husband hadn't left Voramis in all that time played a role as well. When Lord Damuria traveled, he took most of his Steel Company mercenaries with him, leaving the mansion with only enough men to keep out the riffraff. The Hunter had never had trouble scaling the mansion, using the gargoyles and other unnecessary architectural flourishes as handholds, and entering the towertop room. His efforts had always been rewarded—Lady Kerina Damuria was nothing if not enthusiastic.
He gritted his teeth. He hadn't been with a woman for far too long, and it was distracting him. Perhaps it's time to pay a visit to The Arms of Heaven. Suzette knew his desires well enough, and he could spare a bit of coin.
That brought a smile to his face. With the exorbitant fees he charged for his services, he could afford anything he wanted. He'd actually purchased a Praamian patent of nobility to establish his Lord Anglion identity.
Pushing aside thoughts of beautiful women, he turned his attention back to Lord Damuria's mansion. The constant flow of Steel Company mercenaries confirmed his suspicions. Something had Lord Damuria skittish as a newborn foal.
The Praamian nobleman—Beritane, that's the name—had said Lord Damuria was difficult to contact. Whatever it was had Lord Damuria in fear for his life.
Odd, given that he's one of the wealthiest men in Voramis. I guess all the gold in the world and a private army isn't enough to make you truly feel safe.
He contemplated his plan of attack. He could approach this target any number of ways, but which would lead to the fewest unnecessary complications? After a few moments, he made up his mind.
Time to see how good these Steel Company mercenaries really are. Human error had simplified his job more times than he could count. One lazy patrol, sleeping guard, or moment of inattention could open a hole for him to slip through to reach his target.
He slipped down the sloped roof. The mansions of Upper Voramis were spread too far apart for him to travel their rooftops conveniently, forcing him to use the main avenue. Of course, he always came prepared.
He dropped to the ground behind the concealment of a thick hedge and reached the satchel he'd tucked beneath it earlier. The rough-spun clothing of a workman lay within, along with a pair of pruning shears and a small shovel. He still wore the alchemical mask concealing his true features. The clothing and tools completed the disguise of a grizzled, one-eyed gardener.
As he came around the hedge and emerged onto the side street, he adopted a stooped posture and dropped his eyes to the street. With the slow shuffle of a weary working man, he would draw little attention. If anything, the nobles would ignore him—they didn't need his sort muddying the pristine image of life in Upper Voramis. The Heresiarchs would say nothing as long as he didn't loiter.
The flow of people, carriages, and vendors thickened on the main avenue that ringed Upper Voramis. Myriad scents assaulted the Hunter's sensitive nostrils. If he wanted, he could identify the unique odors of each person and animal that passed him. But without a target to follow, he simply forced himself to take slow, deep breaths until his nose adjusted to the overwhelming array of smells.
As he passed the Maiden's Fields, he searched the avenue for the little wooden cart with its buckets of flowers. Disappointment twisted in his gut. He'd hoped to see Farida here—her favorite place to set up her bright blooms. At the same time, he found himself relieved not to see her. Perhaps her absence meant she was receiving lessons in reading, wr
iting, arithmetic, music, and history from the Beggar Priests. He'd given more than enough coin to ensure her life in the House of Need was as comfortable as their austerity permitted.
He picked up his pace, wending through the busy streets and exiting the gates that led down the short, steep descent to Lower Voramis.
The buildings at the base of the hill were like nothing in either Upper or Lower Voramis. Though their architecture was the same mixture of brick, stone, and wood as the rest of the city, they were painted garishly bright colors—each color indicating a different manner of entertainment.
Painted women in scanty garments lounged outside the white buildings, calling out to passing pedestrians, offering teasing glimpses of their wares. The men who stumbled out of the orange and yellow buildings had glazed eyes, dull expressions, and the manic grins of narcotic-fueled euphoria. Thick clouds of opium and arguilah waterpipe smoke puffed from within the grey buildings, while the shouts and cheers of men enjoying dog fights and bare-handed brawls shook the walls of the red buildings. Heavy-set bouncers allowed only men to enter the blue buildings, while women were sent to the green "pleasure palaces". No one ever spoke of what went on behind the walls painted a funereal black.
This was the Blackfall District, home to the Bloody Hand, and the place where citizens of Praamis indulged in every sort of entertainment, vice, and depravity that could be desired or imagined. The Hunter had little reason to frequent this section of town, save for the infrequent visit to The Arms of Heaven—always in disguise, of course. The Bloody Hand ruled Voramis from the shadows, controlling the city through the threat of violence, blackmail, and crime. Thieves, assassins, pimps, thugs, smugglers, they had their hand in everything illicit. No one operated in Voramis without their permission.
Except for him, of course. Though he despised what they were doing to the city, he'd made a point of avoiding direct conflict with the Bloody Hand. Not out of fear, but because he didn't need the hassle. If he angered them, they could prove a powerful enemy. Only a fool pokes an unchained greatcat, someone had told him. As long as they stayed out of his way, he had no reason to interfere with their business.
His steps led through the Blackfall District, toward the monolithic sanctuaries of the Temple District. He avoided Divinity Square; at this time of day, the broad plaza around the Fountain of Piety would be crowded with the pious, poor, and pompous. He had no need for gods anyway.
Beyond the white-washed temples, the streets grew muddier, the houses dirtier and shabbier. The people also looked rougher. They wore work clothes, their hands gnarled and callused from heavy labor, faces stained with dust, sweat, and grime. The commoners of Lower Voramis minded their own business, preferring to live their lives without interference from the King, nobility, or the Bloody Hand.
A wall of foul odors hit him as he entered the Beggar's Quarter. Debris lay piled high along the streets, and people emptied buckets of refuse into the alleys without care for those huddled in makeshift huts below. The denizens of this section of Voramis were the forgotten, downtrodden, and abandoned.
That's what makes it the perfect hiding place.
He set his gardening tools against a nearby wall; someone would find them and sell, trade, or perhaps even use them. From within his leather satchel, he produced a shabby cloak, which he slung over his hunched shoulders. He moved at a quick shuffle, fast enough to avoid being accosted but not so hurried he drew questioning gazes.
Deeper into Beggar's Quarter he went, occasionally pausing in his journey to "rest" and scan the road behind him for any sign of pursuit. No one knew he was the Hunter—his alchemical masks concealed his true features—but decades as an assassin had taught him to be wary.
Confident he was unobserved, he ducked into an alley. His stomach churned at the concentrated odor of filth and refuse in the tight space, but he forced himself to move at a steady pace toward the door at the far end of the narrow lane.
The interior of the building appeared empty at first glance. The rotting wooden beams looked ready to collapse beneath the weight of the roof, and large cracks ran through the mortar of the stone walls. However, deeper in, thick pillars shored up the ceiling, and a layer of plaster kept the wind from whistling through the walls.
Makeshift huts and tents dotted the floor of what had once been a warehouse. People moved among the dwellings, and the smell of smoke and cooking food permeated the building. A child ran past, a dog yapping at his heels. Two men sat before a barrel, a deck of ragged playing cards spread out before them.
One looked up as he entered. "Is that you, my lord?"
The Hunter nodded. "Aye, 'tis." He spoke in the thick accent common among the Einari living on the continent of Fehl across the Frozen Sea. "What d'ye think of my new face, Karrl?"
The man, known by his friends as Twelve-Fingers Karrl, grinned. "Looks mighty fine, mighty fine indeed." He squinted up at the Hunter. "I hardly recognize you."
"That's the point, eh?" The Hunter gave him a dramatic wink. "If ye don't recognize me, neither will them what's lookin' fer me."
"S'truth," said the other man, a fellow by the name of Jak the Thumb, on account of his disfigured thumbs. "They can't harm you if they can't find you." He tried to tap his nose, but he'd clearly had too much of whatever was in the clay jar on the barrel.
The Hunter grinned and tapped his own nose. "Right ye are."
He'd had one of his contacts in Lower Voramis put out the word that this building was a place beggars could squat without fear of hassle. Their presence made certain no one would think to find him living here. To explain his odd comings and goings and the odd disguises, he'd started a rumor that he was a nobleman from the land across the Frozen Sea, hiding from assassins sent to kill him. No one had questioned it—the people living here tended not to ask questions as long as they could find shelter from the wind.
He glanced at the empty chair before the barrel. "Where's Thrifty Pete?"
Karrl shrugged. "Dunno. Ain't seen much of him recently."
"Tisn't like him to stay gone this long," Jak muttered in a slurring voice. "Seems a lot of us has gone elsewhere."
The Hunter raised an eyebrow. "What's he talkin' about?"
Karrl gave a dismissive wave. "Oh, you know how Jak gets when he's had too much to drink."
"I ain't had too much!" Jak protested. "Pete, Rozyn, Tarth, a few others. They ain't come 'round these parts in weeks."
"Is that true?" the Hunter asked.
Karrl shrugged. "I ain't seen 'em either, but might be they've just found somewhere else to hole up a while."
The Hunter nodded. The men, women, and children that stayed in the building were a transient lot, always on the move to find better opportunities.
He thrust his chin at the clay jar sitting on the barrel. "Spare a nip of that fer me?"
Karrl shook his head. "Jak's had more than his fair share. The Mistress herself couldn't coax a drop out of that jar."
"Ach!" The Hunter threw up his hands. "And here's me achin' for somethin' to wet me whistle." He drew a silver drake from his purse. "Might be the two of ye's could pop out and fetch another fer me? The change's yers fer the trouble."
Jak stared at the coin through bleary eyes, but Karrl snatched it from the Hunter's hand. "Back in three shakes of a bull's dangle." He pulled Jak to his feet and dragged the man away.
The Hunter had no intention of drinking whatever foul swill Karrl brought back, but the men had their pride. Something about the plight of the people living here made him want to help. Perhaps it was due to the fact that they were outcasts, just like him. The only difference was that he could afford luxury, while they were condemned to a life of hardship and misery.
As he hurried toward the heart of the building, he glanced at Old Nan's tent. The old woman was nowhere in sight. She couldn't have gotten far, not with her limbs twisted by age and malnutrition. A short distance away, a young girl—Ellinor, I think—rocked a screaming child in her arms. Little Arlo would start walkin
g any day.
A few more of the men and women nodded or offered a polite greeting, but most went about their business, ignoring him. He liked it that way. He had his own affairs to attend to.
His steps led toward the thick wooden door that guarded the entry to his private rooms. He quickly worked the complex locking mechanism, and the door swung open on silent, well-oiled hinges. Once inside, he pushed the lever that re-engaged the lock. Nothing short of a battering ram would get through that.
He strode toward the wardrobe that occupied the entire western wall of his room. Within lay an assortment of alchemical flesh masks, periwigs of every conceivable hair color, and outfits ranging from the formal wear of the nobility to the rough cloth of a dockhand. With care, he peeled off the mask he wore and set it gently in its place.
He stripped off his dirty workman's clothing, tossing them into a ball beside the bathing chamber, and splashed water over his body. As always, his fingers traced the scars on his back and chest. One for every life Soulhunger took. It was as if an invisible hand carved the marks in his flesh, a reminder of the death he brought.
Drying off with a soft cotton towel, he strode naked toward the wardrobe and perused the masks. He selected the face of a young man—well, younger than the disguises he usually wore. Though his memories stretched back forty or fifty years, he appeared in his mid-thirties, no older than forty. Perhaps whatever gave him his inhuman strength, stamina, and speed also kept him from aging. He was too tall, too broad in the shoulders to convincingly pull off the disguise of a much younger man. However, for the part he was to play, he needed to appear no older than twenty-five. The Steel Company would never buy his act otherwise.
Reaching into a drawer, he pulled out a jar of Graeme's special alchemical adhesive. The paste was water- and sweat-resistant, and affixed the mask to his face with such precision that it appeared perfectly lifelike. After years of practice, the Hunter could apply the disguise in a matter of minutes.
He turned to the mirror and stopped as he caught a glimpse of his true features. Strong jaw, a nose neither too long nor too thick for his face, and prominent cheekbones—a face most in Voramis would consider handsome. But from beneath his heavy eyebrows, black eyes peered back at him in the mirror.
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