The Light of Heaven

by David A. McIntee

  The shooting cell was cramped, but it was well hidden, and that was the most important thing to the man inside. A person could stand right outside the base of the tower and look straight up at it, and see nothing but stone and wood, with no sign of the opening that looked out at the Esplanade. To see the opening, an observer would have to be a magician, hovering at least twenty feet in the air.

  The shooting position itself was a bare two feet high, forcing him to lie flat, with a small loophole giving a good field of vision. Thankfully there was a small cubby-hole behind it, just large enough to stand up in and stretch. He made sure to do this at least once an hour during wakefulness. He knew better than to let himself become cramped or numb and so miss the shot when the time came.

  He had placed a covered chamber pot and a knapsack of provisions in the cubby hole. He also had a bucket of earth next to the chamber pot, to hide the smell with. It would be embarrassing, as well as fatal, to be discovered because of an out-of-place stink. He had spent one night sleeping in the cell already, and there would be another before his chance would come. He had known that when he first entered the cell, but the timing had felt right. It was better to already be in position, waiting, than to try to slip in when the target was already on the way.

  The cell granted a good view of the esplanade that fronted the castle, a blank white expanse with a cliff face to the right, and tradesmen's stalls and shops in a descending terrace to the left. Despite the chill weather, there were people on the streets below. Most were tradesmen going about their business, or hawkers selling their wares to sailors and fishermen selling the day's catch. A dog stood out stark black against the snow and a cart rumbled out of the castle.

  The assassin had a keen eye, and was confident that he could put an iron-tipped bolt through the chest of anyone in the esplanade below. But he was after one target, and one only. Besides, some of the people below were there to confuse and confound any pursuers while he escaped and he didn't know who they were. They didn't know him, he didn't know them. It was safer for all of them that way.

  The man in the cell smiled and aimed his crossbow at a couple standing near the dog. The woman was pretty enough, the man not sufficiently handsome for her, in the shooter's opinion. The man looked on his woman proudly, as if he wanted any observer to see what a catch he had made. Then, for an instant, he looked up at the clouds, and his throat was an inviting target. He would never see his death coming. However, the man in the shooting cell settled for cocking a finger at him instead.

  A madman - a role in which he was certain the aristocracy, if not the Final Faith, would cast him, until they knew better - could create great terror and confusion from this position. A few seemingly random bolts from the blue piercing heads and hearts would create outrage across the nation. Shoot the dog too, and the populace would really get into a frenzy. There were people who would get a thrill of pleasure from that. He wasn't one of them, but for a moment he could understand them. He shivered, thinking that this was a sort of understanding he could do without.

  He slid out of the narrow shooting position and made use of the chamber pot and the earth. By touch alone - he daren't light a candle and give away his position to the outside world - he then retrieved a small water skin from a knapsack and warmed himself up with some stinging liquor.

  Getting the right balance of simplicity and forward planning had been at the forefront of his thoughts for many months. The best way to kill someone with the least chance of getting caught was always - and would always be - to hit them over the head with a piece of street debris in a dark alley one night. The more one planned and set conditions, the more likely it was that some element would become a stumbling block that would get you hanged. With that in mind, he didn't wonder that he had nightmares of being trapped in a coffin. He almost regretted the decision to take up his position two days in advance of the duty he had been hired to undertake. Almost, but not quite. It was better to be part of the scenery, invisible, than to skulk his way to a good position when the streets were thronged.

  He squinted up at Kerberos. It looked the colour of a bruise tonight, like blood purpling under dead skin. He looked away, half imagining that it was a bilious, sickly eye, watching him. It felt like a spotlight, picking him out for all to see, and that, at any moment now, he would hear the cries of alarm and anger. Then the soldiers would come.

  He turned away with a grimace, but could still feel its diseased light on him. He curled up and closed his eyes, as he often did when he felt troubled. He always hoped that he would sleep, and find the thing that troubled him gone in the morning.

  CHAPTER 2

  Erak Brand was awake and alert as soon as he stepped out onto the esplanade. An army of servants from the castle had swarmed around the open space overnight, putting the finishing touches to the banner-draped enclosures that now housed the various groups who had come to view the wedding of Freihurr vom Kalten's eldest son, Motte, to Undina of Malmkrug. He was lucky to have seen any of it, of course, since he'd been on duty in the castle itself most of the time, but a wedding always gave him a cheerful buzz. It wasn't so much the dancing or the food as the idea that two people were so committed to each other and to the Lord of All.

  Well, maybe it was the dancing and the food as well, if he was honest with himself.

  Erak was of average height and had a wiry build under his amour, but that didn't mean he was more resistant than anyone else to the lure of extra food. Any soldier in the Empire soon learned that rations, like sleep, were something to be savoured whenever available, just in case there was a dearth of them around the next corner.

  He walked around the edge of the esplanade, watching the people who were beginning to fill it up, ready for the happy couple to be presented to them. Weddings had always been a time for a celebratory drink, and carousing, and if people were going to flaunt the local temperance laws that Freihurr had instituted, it would be at an occasion like this.

  Ducal soldiers of Kalten lined the castle walls, their dress amour glinting even in the overcast light of the winter's day, scarlet surcoats covering their mail. Erak himself, like the other knights of the Order of the Swords of Dawn who were in Kalten, wore his normal amour and a white Final Faith surplice. In the eyes of the Lord of All, it was a day for vigilance, like any other.

  That buzz was still there, though, and he was determined to enjoy it just enough to be glad of it but not enough to be distracted by it.

  Watery dawn light woke the man in the shooting cell. There was no more claustrophobia now and he knew that he wouldn't have to spend another night crammed into this cell. Outside, the day was beginning. Flatbed carts pulled by teams of two or four horses were moving to and fro along North Cliff, fetching and carrying goods around the city from the various docks and markets.

  The assassin's crossbow was particularly powerful, to get good distance, and needed a windlass to draw. The man unrolled an oilskin, which had half a dozen quarrels nestled in its slim pockets, and slid one bolt out. Its tip was diamond-shaped and it weighed two ounces. It was surprisingly short for something intended to be shot by such a large bow, only eight inches instead of the usual fifteen or so. The assassin had chosen this bolt for its balance of range versus stopping power. Shorter, it would go further than an average bolt, but hopefully the weight meant it would still pack at least as much punch when it hit flesh.

  He rolled the oilskin back up, with five quarrels still inside. He wouldn't like to be arrogant enough to think that he would need only one, but nor did he think it likely that he would get to fire a second time.

  As the morning wore on, more people gathered in the esplanade. The smells of hot foods became stronger, and Erak wondered how much of it was masking the smell of grain spirits. The wedding ceremony was taking place in the castle's main hall, of course, but it was the tradition that the bride and groom be presented to the people beforehand, for their approval as well as the approval of the Lord of All.

  Everybody loved to see a
happy couple, especially if it meant a chance to take an hour's break from hard labour to taste a delicate sweetmeat from foreign parts, not usually served to a fisherman on the west coast.

  Finally, an honour guard of Ducal soldiers marched out of the castle gates and formed up on the esplanade. Eight members of the Swords emerged, their raised swords forming an archway through which Motte and Undina walked. Freihurr vom Kalten and Undina's father followed, as did an Eminence of the Final Faith. From the white hair, Erak knew he was being honoured with a sight of Ludwig Rhodon. Three more Eminences were approaching the gate behind him, blessing the crowd.

  And that was when the buzz of pleasure stopped.

  The albino that had just emerged onto the esplanade didn't look that remarkable. He wore robes that were carefully tailored to give the impression of piety. Only the small crossed circle of the Final Faith on his cloak-pin indicated how important he was.

  There were only eight members of the Order of the Swords Of Dawn visible as an honour guard. A few more Swords were meandering through the growing crowd, and one of them stopped to cuff a man who was surreptitiously drinking from a small skin. The knight sent the man on his way, and poured the contents of the skin over the cobbles. The assassin smiled to himself. If the Swords were more concerned with enforcing the crazed local temperance laws than with security, so much the better.

  The man loaded the quarrel into the crossbow and wound it. When it was cocked, he lay flat, putting the business end of the bow to the loophole overlooking the esplanade. He nestled the stock into his shoulder. Snow was still falling, but he was confident that he had a clear shot.

  The bowman wished he could take the time to wait, and enjoy the first sight of an Enlightened Eminence of the Final Faith in front of his bow. He had seen Rhodon before at public services, of course; but on those occasions, the Eminence was not a target, and he had had no bow to aim. Even if he had never seen the man before, he would still have known his target, because there were hardly likely to be two albino Eminences in the Faith.

  He squeezed the trigger bar gently, the taut cable snapped forward, and the quarrel was launched, spinning, through the air. It was a beautiful shot, and he wished there was some way for people to admire his skill. The quarrel soared in a long, shallow arc and passed between the bride and groom.

  If his estimate was correct, it hit the Eminence Ludwig Rhodon just to the right of the sternum. At least four inches of it would have gone through his robes and ribcage to rupture his heart. People had always said that aristocrats and Eminences had blue blood, but it was the red kind that was spilling loose from the man as he crumpled to the ground.

  The assassin's next order of business was simple survival.

  He left the crossbow where it was, and slid out of the shooting cell. He slid down a ladder and exited from the thirty foot high beacon tower that dominated the eastern edge of North Cliff. A staircase wound its way up the outside, to allow a constant stream of wood to be taken up to the beacon itself, but the assassin doubted that even the Order of the Swords of Dawn knew that the interior still retained the ladders and scaffolding of the builders who had constructed it. They hadn't built a secret shooting cell intentionally, of course; it was simply a part of the internal support structure, which the builders once used to store materials during construction.

  The opening he was using as a loophole to shoot out of was originally just mean to let light in so that, by means of mirrors, the builders inside could see what they were doing. Perhaps it had once also been used as a camera obscura, so that people manning the beacon could survey the horizon from inside. This use had been long since forgotten by most people.

  Not looking back, he darted across to the drovers' road and began to walk briskly but calmly. Running would attract attention. By the castle the knights of the Swords were barging around, harried by one of their own Eminences as they set up a perimeter around the victim. The shouts of Ducal soldiers began to be taken up.

  The assassin merely kept walking.

  Every Knight of the Swords on the esplanade dashed towards the falling Eminence, Erak running at their head. The Ducal soldiers spread out, shoving the crowd back, while the honour guard ushered the bride and groom, and their families, back into the castle.

  Erak grabbed the green robe of a Healer hesitating near the castle gate, clearly unsure whether to risk entering the killing ground for a patient, and shoved him forward.

  "See to the Eminence!"

  The Swords of Dawn were swarming out of every nook and cranny, but no-one seemed to know what had happened. Questions and counter-questions flew across the esplanade and within the castle courtyard. Erak himself only had one thought: where was the assassin?

  The assassin was two streets away, and walking further. It had all gone perfectly, as far as he was concerned. Every man-at-arms he passed was rushing towards the castle, while the bowman, drab in his charcoal-coloured cloak and grey tunic and trews, walked slowly in the opposite direction.

  He kept up this slow pace him though every fibre of his body wanted him to run. This way he looked like an over-fed celebrant who had left before anything untoward happened. Nothing could get in the way of his simple ruse now. Feeling genuinely in need of a touch of the celebration he deserved, he helped himself to a shot from a silver hip-flask. It was the good stuff, brought up and across the Anclas from Pontaine. It burned smoothly on the way down - and exploded more roughly into his front teeth when a fist smashed into them. The fist belonged to an athletic-looking knight from the Order of the Swords of Dawn.

  The knight wore a tunic, gambeson, and trews bound tightly to what looked to be shapely legs. Greaves were strapped to the shins, and bracers to the forearms. Iron caressed the shoulders and torso, under a surplice bearing the crossed circle of the Final Faith. Staring out from under the helmet were a strange and arresting pair of eyes. One was clear sapphire blue, the other a striking almond flecked with gold.

  The assassin froze for a moment, startled out of his confident walk.

  "What the -"

  Instinctively, he pushed past her and started to run. How could they have found him?

  Gabriella DeZantez started to run, bolting after the fleeing man. Why was he reacting so strongly when he had only been breaking a local prohibition on drinking spirits? He wouldn't have gone to the gibbet for that. On the day of a Ducal wedding he'd have got away with having his booze poured away.

  Her heart pounded, every other beat feeling as if it was being given a kick by the slam of her feet on the cobbles. The street ahead sloped down towards a shallow grey estuary. Boats bobbed up and down there, making a fence between the slope and the dark muddy pools. Falling snow curtained off the warehouses and docks on the southern side. The clunking of woodwork and distant calls of men floated, muffled, across to Gabriella, under the dark segments of a wooden pontoon bridge which loomed up close, before stretching into the grey void. Ahead, the fleeing man darted left, onto the bridge across to South Cliff and Gabriella followed. At the other end of the bridge, the man darted left, towards another street opening.

  Behind her, she heard horses' hooves booming thunderously on the thick planking. Gabriella was baffled. Who were they chasing? She looked around and saw that several mounted Knights of the Swords had crossed the bridge. The horses heeled around, the leading knight waving to Gabriella. It was a lanky man named Markus. The tone of his hoarse shout convinced her that something major was afoot.

  "Sister DeZantez! Have you seen anyone?"

  "Just the man I'm chasing. Who are you chasing?"

  "Someone put a quarrel through Eminence Rhodon!"

  She had no reason to assume her fleeing drinker was the same man, but some sense told her that it was a good enough reason for him to run.

  "My man went down Three-Tun Alley! You'll never get those horses through there!"

  "Keep after him, and we'll set up a catchment area. Drive him towards us."

  Gabriella threw herself back into a run,
wishing she had a bow. It didn't have to be one of those Volonne-designed repeaters either, just something that would bring him down quickly.

  She turned into the narrow opening her quarry had run into, and skidded down a near-vertical alley that was as much a sewer as an alleyway, before bursting forth onto a promenade fronted with food stalls.

  A ruffian suddenly lunged out from the shadow of a hay-wain, slashing at her with a dagger.

  Gabriella pivoted aside, drawing her pair of short swords in the same movement, and catching his wrist between them. His hand, still gripping his weapon, arced to one side, while the rest of him crashed back against the wagon under a heavy kick from her boot.

  She didn't spare him another glance.

  A few travellers and labourers ducked aside as she pushed past them to keep her quarry in sight. As the cold gulps of air burned her lungs, she saw the fugitive sprinting for the base of the south cliff itself, which gave this side of town its name. Gabriella wouldn't be surprised if her quarry started making for the Jolly Sailors, as most criminals seemed to these days. The Jollies was a veritable thieves' den, though none in Kalten called it such by name.

  She stopped trying to work out his course; the Jollies was all she needed to know. Get into that rat-warren of rotgut tap-houses and flophouses, and he could disappear completely. Gabriella would have to keep her eyes and ears very much open.

  The man's footfalls were audible enough for her to keep track of them, and she followed him through an alley barely wide enough for her shoulders to fit through. She burst out into an old yard filled with cluttered little workshops, huddling tight against the base of the cliff. The yard stank like the privy that people clearly used it as, and was surrounded on three sides by the old brickwork of some kind of warehouse, three storeys high. The fourth side was a row of plastered walls with narrow back doors to the shops.