by C. M. Lind
Aimee held the rag on Vitoria’s nose. “But I never said to trust him. Remember, darling, you can love someone, but not trust them.”
Vitoria raised her hand and took the rag, holding it close on her inflamed nose. “I don’t love him.”
“I know you don’t, darling. It’s the sentiment, not the literal translation you need to remember. That’s why you need to be free of Conyers. You view Ulrich as a tool, not a person.”
Vitoria looked back to the floor, holding the rag against her sore nose.
Aimee put her finger to Vitoria’s chin to look her in the eye. “Am I a tool too, my dear?” she asked as if the words themselves were painful to say.
Vitoria’s mouth went slack and her eyebrows narrowed. “Of course not,” she whispered.
Aimee let her chin go and smiled. “I didn’t think so, but to be honest, I’ve been afraid to ask.” She turned back to the table, but Vitoria grabbed her by the hand.
Vitoria’s mouth opened and closed a few times, but no words came out. She tightened her grip on Aimee’s hand. “You’re not,” she managed to say after several silent seconds.
Aimee squeezed Vitoria’s hand back before returning to her table. “What will you do then?”
Vitoria’s back went straight, and her voice became hard. She was all too eager to leave behind such unwarranted sentimentality. “The plan is simple: be the part, lure him away, kill him, hide the body, and slip out. It shouldn’t be a problem given what we know about him. I’ll be his favorite kind of whore: a thin, virginal redhead. I have a lot to do, and only fourteen days to get ready .”
Aimee nodded along with the plan. “Then what?”
Vitoria tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
“Then what?” Aimee turned to Vitoria, leaning her back against the table behind her. “What will you do afterwards?”
“Dispose of the wig, the gown—“
Aimee raised her hand to interrupt. “No, I mean, what will you do when you’re done with the job?”
Vitoria stuttered, and, when she could find no words, she merely shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“You sound like me, a long time ago.” Aimee chuckled, but there was no warmth in her at that moment. No heart behind her laughter.
Vitoria crinkled her forehead.
Aimee turned to the table, and went to the tips of her toes to reach the highest shelf on the wall. “I married young. My mother, who taught me most everything I know, died unexpectedly. She could fix almost anything.” She sighed, her fingers touching the bases of dusty bottles that lined the shelf. “Almost anything.” Her fingers stopped at an unlabeled green bottle.
“My brother got everything. He was cruel, and he didn’t want to share even a petal with his younger sister.” Her fingers teased the bottle from its place, knocking dust free that rained around Aimee. “I had nowhere to go. I was a simple country girl, but there was someone who had always had an interest in me from the city.”
A single length of cobweb clung to the bottle, and she picked it off with her fingers. “I was scared. I didn’t know how to get by in the world, especially in the city. So, I married a man over twice my own age!” She thoroughly dusted the bottle with her loose sleeve. “Can you imagine it? A fifteen year old girl with a thirty-six year old man? Perhaps among the nobility, but not among the peasantry. He wasn’t kind, he wasn’t handsome, he wasn’t anything a girl would want—but he was stable. At least I thought so.”
She pulled the cork off the bottle and offered it to Vitoria. She took it and instinctively brought it to her nose. She tried to sniff, but instead got the overpowering herbal scents of the sachets stuffed up her nostrils. Aimee gave no sign of noticing, so Vitoria moved the bottle lower and brought it to her lips. She tentatively lifted the bottle to allow a small stream of liquid to dribble to her mouth, unsure what it held within. She pulled it away from her like it was offal, as that first drop touched her tongue. Her lip curled up as the taste of pine trees overtook her mouth. “That’s disgusting!”
Aimee laughed. “It’s not for everyone. Usually it’s not drunk straight, usually mixed with something else.” She took the bottle back. “I used to hate it too, but I got used to it. It was the cheapest liquor around, and my husband,” she said the word with abhorrence “he drank it like water.” She threw back the bottle and took a long drink.
Vitoria gagged at the sound of Aimee’s swallows. With every gulp, Vitoria tasted the pine needles anew.
Aimee smacked her lips as she lowered the bottle. “It’s not an uncommon story. A man drinks too much, and he becomes angry. He does awful things to those around him, but he doesn’t remember doing them—or at least he claims that he doesn’t remember. He can’t be held accountable for them, he claims, since he didn’t recall doing them. That perhaps a certain wife should not prod him when he indulges—that he would never be so cruel without reason, so it must have been her fault for provoking him.” She sighed, rubbing the smooth glass of the bottle in her fingers while her left still held the cork.
“You and I, we are….tough, for a lack of a better word, my dear. Aren’t we? We do what we have to do, no matter what.” She took a small sip. “He didn’t take long with me, and I was pregnant so quick. I was so excited, my dear. I cannot describe the feeling, the happiness of knowing you’re not alone in the world anymore. I had never felt that with another soul—only the one that was growing inside of me.”
She took another sip, letting the gin rest in her mouth for a few moments before swallowing—savoring the pungent flavor. “I knew it was a girl. I just knew.” She took another sip, and she swallowed. It was loud, and Vitoria fought off the reflexive gag in her throat. “He took that away from me. And then, and then,” she repeated the words as if the world would not believe her tale, “he blamed me for her death.”
She slammed the cork back into the bottle.
“She was so tiny, only a few pounds I would guess. I left my husband and walked back home with her, burying her in the same woods I buried my mother. Afterwards, I didn’t even think when I harvested the little red and white mushrooms that grew in rings at the edge of the forest—the ones my mother told me never to pick. That day though, I took as many as I could carry and went back to my husband.”
Aimee clutched the bottle. “He was asleep—no wait, that is generous—he was passed out when I made it home late that night. I took money from him, and, in the morning, I bought the fattest chicken I could afford. I even paid for it to be plucked and gutted! The only time I have ever done such a thing.” She set the bottle down onto the table.
“I cut the red skin from the tops of the mushrooms and hid them—not that the bastard would ever recognize them, but you do strange things in such a state. The white flesh I kept. I minced them as finely as I could, and then I mixed it with the chicken—dicing them all together to make fine meat patties. I even added some onion, salt, and pepper. They smelled so good as I fried them in the pan.”
She crossed her arms. “He woke up to the smell. The man acted like nothing was wrong. He kissed me on the forehead, and he said that he forgave me. That we would have a bounty of children. He didn’t ask about her; he didn’t even know that I had left for almost a whole day. I told him I had already ate, and that all the patties were for him. He was so excited for the meal, and he ate four patties for breakfast, and then ate four more for lunch. By the night’s end he was dead in his own bed.
“It was slow. It was painful. His muscles gave out; he was delusional, and he had twenty-three seizures before he finally stopped breathing. I had no idea what I would do afterwards—I hadn’t thought about it. But I had to take that first step…to right a wrong…and to be free.” Aimee snapped from her melancholic state. She turned her head to Vitoria and smiled. “We do what we have to do no matter what, don’t we, darling?”
Vitoria nodded. “He’s lucky that’s all he got.”
Aimee nodded in turn. “Just like James was.”
Vitoria’s eyes went wide as she st
ared at Aimee’s.
Aimee didn’t wait for Vitoria to comment. She continued in her own musings without pause. “But it’s no matter. They’re both dead, and we must move on. This man, Jae, no doubt he deserves some such fate as those men saw. He himself probably wronged someone, and you will be the one to right it, do you not think?”
“I don’t think about it,” said Vitoria.
“Just like Conyers would want you to do, my dear.” Aimee sighed. “I no doubt believe this man deserves to die, but we cannot be ones who follow without question, who only do as commanded, to kill but never know why—to be tools. Kill this Jae, but when you are done, leave it all behind.”
Vitoria rose from the table. The rag had long since lost its coolness, and she set it on the table beside Aimee. “You speak as though this job, that the assassins could not do alone, will not be the end of me.”
“Vitoria, my dear, until Ulrich’s visit you had utterly given up. You act as if you have already decided that this job will be the last thing you do.”
Chapter 26
In his dreams, Randolph was enveloped by affectionate dogs. What types, he could not recall, for his visions were obscured by the confused haze that always accompanied his dreams. But what was real, and easily recollected, was the sound of his door opening, accompanied by the clink of armor. He launched to his feet, wearing nothing but his threadbare trousers and sleep in his eyes.
Around him was darkness. The only light that he could see was the faint glow of the lanterns in the hall that sputtered from the cheap oil that fed the flames—that capricious light outlined the intruder who looked fit for battle, but carried no blade. The peaked spangenhelm with a hanging chain aventail, the fitted shining scale mail that hung to the knees and just below the elbows, the hard iron rings that lined the hard leather bracers and tall boots—all of it glittered in the fluctuating lamplight.
Randolph’s hand shot for the knife that he always kept tucked into the mattress, while his eyes stayed on the person. Nothing had ever happened in the manor, but, even through his disbelief, his reflexes took over. It was out faster than Randolph realized, ready to defend, but the stranger did not advance. Instead the stranger took a step back into the hallway, and a single, empty, leather-bound, mollifying hand was put out.
“How the hell did you get in here?” spit Randolph. His words were hot and strong, and, as he spoke, his eyes shot to the intruder’s hips. The thighs, he thought, would be where he would strike, right where the thigh met the torso. All he would have to do is bring the knife up under the scale and slice deep. The person would be dead in seconds with one slash.
“I’ve been here all along,” she hissed, motioning for him to keep quiet with her raised hand. “Keep it down! I don’t want to wake everyone else.”
The knife, and his tone, lowered in unison as his pounding heart skipped a beat. “Soli?”
“Yes, Randolph?” She brought her hand down to her side, and she looked both ways down the hall.
He looked down at the knife. “You…” he trailed, unable to form a complete thought with the adrenaline that still coursed through his blood. “Are you alight?”
“Everything is fine, I assure you,” she said softly.
He took a deep breath, and then he slid the knife back where it belonged. “I like the new look.” A small, bitter smile formed as he thought about how it was just his luck that nothing continued to ever happen in the manor.
“You mean this old thing?” She lightly pounded her fist onto her chest. The scale clinked in protest to being called old. It was as fine as ever, and it shone with pride.
Randolph walked up to her. “It’s a good look for you.” He clasped her shoulder, and the fine, lightweight scale tinkled a heavenly chime. “Nice craftsmanship. It seems lighter than I would have thought.”
Soli’s eyes flickered away from his own and ventured downward for a few stray seconds to his bare chest. She smiled. He could just barely make it out through the chain aventail which covered her lips—an unusual design for what he had seen on helms. “It’s supposed to be,” she said, and her eyes slowly turned upward, towards his hand upon her.
He pulled it away in an instant, running his fingers through his loose hair. “It’s not that I mind the late night visits—actually, you feel free to come down whenever you want—but what do you need? It’s not even dawn.”
“We do not need the sun to fight. It’s time to train.” She pointed to his armor nearby. “Get ready. Meet me in the yard.”
Randolph nodded, and, as he turned around to his gear, he heard the clink of her mail down the hall. Still half-asleep, he sat on the edge of the bed. Was he dreaming, he wondered? He couldn’t be. If he was dreaming she wouldn’t have been wearing armor, in fact, she wouldn’t have been dressed at all, he reckoned. But, then again, he changed his mind with a smirk: he wouldn’t have minded if she had merely started in the armor…
* * *
“Here,” she said as she threw him his sparring sword. It was a heavy, battered, wooden thing that had already seen many blows in its day.
Randolph caught it without pause as he entered the sparring ring. The wooden weapon fit his hands perfectly, which was no surprise given that he had it ordered just for him when he first starting working for the Reinouts. It was almost a perfect simulacrum of his own blade, only thicker and made of hard oak instead of steel.
“And what will the great Mistress of the North be wielding today?” He dropped into his stance, distributing his weight evenly, giving his center a solid base. He had already stretched in his room, and his warmed muscles were excited to move. He held the blade up to her. “More words from that sharp tongue of hers?”
The sun was just peeping over the horizon, and her armor seemed brighter in its rays. Randolph wondered if she had polished it that very morning. The awakening sky was tinged with pink and yellow, and he could see her smile through the aventail—she looked as pleased as a happy bride hidden by her virtuous veil.
“Irene took me glove shopping a while ago,” said Soli. She turned to the shed that housed the guard’s equipment, and slowly walked in. Randolph noticed that her hair was pulled back. A small braid peeked out from under her helm—the first time Randolph had seen it in such a way.
Randolph pictured what she would be like with her hair free as he adjusted his grip on the sword. “Really?” he mocked. “Did you find anything you liked?”
“Of course not,” she said. Her was voice was muffled as she shouted through the tan brick walls of the shed. “But I did visit a delightful carpenter after I accidently left her behind at a particularly boring store.”
He chuckled. “If you come out of there wielding a carpenter I will be impressed.”
She laughed, and the armor clinked along. “No, but we did have a long talk.” There was a clunk, as if the top of a trunk slammed. She walked out of the shed, and in both of her hands she held axes crafted from oak. They were the same style as the ones he had seen in the alleyway: single handed bearded axes with pronounced horns. The blade was wide, yet thin. The wooden weapons were crafted much like his own, except they had been stained a deep red.
“So, you found yourself a carpenter that makes toy weapons? Sounds much more exciting than gloves.” He simpered as he moved his body and sword to face her as she stepped into the sandy ring that was Randolph’s training grounds.
“I don’t know about that.” She raised the axes as she put her right foot forward. The axes moved in her hands as if they were as light as a paintbrush. “You made glove shopping a lot more exciting last we were out. Perhaps I was just going with the wrong person.”
He laughed. “Flattery won’t win your fight for you today, sweetheart.” But it won’t hurt, he added silently.
“I do not need flattery to win against you, Randolph.” She smirked.
Randolph dropped the laughter. It had never occurred to him until that moment that if the two did spar, that she might very well pummel him senseless. He loo
ked back at the manor. No one else seemed to stir within besides the usual—the bakers already baking and the few guards who stood for the nightshift. The last thing he wanted was his own men to happen upon their fight—just as he had fallen face first into the sand.
He never let the doubt even touch his voice. “Are you sure?” He waved the sword a few inches with his words. “This may be wood, but, if I hit you, it’ll still break bones.” It had, after all, many times in the past when sparring with new guardsmen.
She laughed; its crystal tone echoed in the empty yard and awoke a few birds nearby. Startled, they erupted into chirps. “I was advised yesterday that I should not travel with you anymore. No more outings. No more fights in the street.”
“What? Why?” His brow crinkled. “Advised?”
“Yes.” A curt, hollow laugh spilled from her lips. “Advised. As if it was merely advice.”
“Who?” he asked; his brow was still crinkled.
In a moment the content façade vanished. Her melodic voice turned scornful. “That sniveling Irene,” growled Soli. “As if she were fit to handle me.”
Randolph startled at the shift, not because it disturbed him, but because he felt it was a genuine moment from her—a purely uncensored, honest confession, and it was something he wished he could see more of. “No,” he said after a few quiet moments had passed between them. “I mean who told her about the fight.” The sword wavered in his hands as he wondered if she thought it could have been him. “I didn’t say anything!”
“I know.” She motioned for him to raise his sword. “But someone did. That cow had the nerve to say that I should have a certain level of decorum.”
Randolph scoffed at the comment and at his own ridiculous worry over Soli suspecting him. Of course she wouldn’t think that of him, he reasoned. “Decorum is so boring,” he said in his perfectly exaggerated Irene impression.
Soli nodded, her aventail rustled as it hit her scaled shoulders. “How about I show decorum as I was meant to do.”
Randolph blinked, and she was in front of him. Her axes reached out, striking at his body. He turned, and sidestepped out of the path of the first, and his sword knocked the second back. She recovered within a second like a dancer who hadn’t even missed a beat, and she launched back against him. The first axe went for his head, and Randolph brought his blade up to block, which connected with a clunk. Her second, meanwhile, aimed lower, lashing at his thigh. Even through the hardened leather and chain it stung.