Assassin's Blood

by Marina Finlayson

  Unsettled, I left the kitchen and headed for the door through which I had entered the building. Outside, a cool wind blew, making me wonder if this sith had originally been part of the Realm of Winter. It certainly didn’t have the balmy feel of our own Spring sith. But the sky was clear, and the grounds were well lit by bobbing faelights. I heard the sound of something striking wood and decided to investigate in that direction.

  I passed a little cottage and a stand of tall pines. On the other side of the trees, a large, flat area of packed dirt stretched. Two men, their shirts off and their bodies glistening with sweat, were wrestling. Another, a little further on, faced a wooden wall on which were drawn the outlines of human figures. In rapid succession, he drew a series of knives from sheaths concealed about his body and hurled them at the painted figures. Thunk, thunk, thunk. Each knife quivered, its blade embedded in the heart of a painted figure. That was the noise I had heard. When all the knives had found their targets, he collected them and performed the same manoeuvre again.

  I watched, fascinated. His accuracy was unnerving, though his movements were so fluid, almost languid, that he hardly seemed to be aiming. Each time, the knives found their targets unerringly. Sometimes he varied things and aimed for the head or the throat instead, but every time, the result was the same. He never missed.

  The wrestlers finished their bout with the smaller man pinned facedown in the dirt, his arm twisted up behind him. He yielded, and the victor released him, then they both stood and bowed to each other.

  The smaller man wandered over to watch the knife thrower. “Nice work, Evandir, but maybe not all your victims will do you the favour of standing still while you throw knives at them.”

  Evandir cast a cool glance at the other as he pushed blond hair impatiently out of his eyes. He had a hard face that suggested cool glances were not unusual with him. “If you’re volunteering to run, I’ll be more than happy to put a knife in you.”

  The first man laughed and buried his sweaty face in a towel. They seemed to be finished their practice—or whatever this was—so I slipped away, conscious of my dwindling candle. There was still so much to see.

  I bypassed the cottage, heading for another, larger building. It turned out to be stables, which I realised as soon as I got close enough to get a whiff of that familiar horsey smell. It was the grandest damn stables I’d ever seen—more like a mansion than a place to keep horses. I was sure the horses didn’t care if they had majestic columns out front and elaborately carved friezes over the doors.

  Resisting the temptation to go inside and check out the horses, I moved on. The sound of childish laughter led me to a small school where teenaged fae bent over their books, and then on further to where a group of smaller children played on some swings. How many people called this sith their home?

  I hadn’t considered it before, but I supposed the assassins must have families, and they all lived here together. I didn’t like that thought. I was happier imagining them as faceless killers who did nothing else. It was easier to hate killers than people who enjoyed a beer as much as I did, people with real lives. I didn’t want to consider that they might have family who would miss them every bit as much as we missed Nevith.

  I stopped in the lee of a stone wall where the shadows gathered eagerly and stared, unseeing, at my candle. It didn’t matter if they had children. They had chosen this life. No one forced them to go around killing people for money. What kind of career choice was that? Not one that any decent person could make. And Nevith had done nothing to deserve his horrible end. He was as innocent as those children.

  Probably more, if they were growing up in an environment where killing was the norm. At least they hadn’t had that weird, empty look to them that the servants in the kitchen had had.

  My flame flickered, and I jerked upright, adrenaline flooding my body. The candle was only the width of two fingers tall now. High time to make my way home.

  I strode back along the paths and alleyways I’d taken, heading for the main building. This place was a real rabbit warren of buildings, as if they’d grown organically, smaller buildings sprouting off the sides of larger ones with winding paths appearing between them. But I had a good mental picture of the layout now, and I’d be able to draw a reasonably accurate map when I got back. The king should be pleased with me.

  Hopefully, this would give him the push he needed to do something about the scourge of the Vipers once and for all.

  Darkness pooled around the feet of the flying buttresses as I came out into the open space that surrounded the main building. Moonlight lay softly on the short grass and silvered the stone paths. All I had to do was keep going in this direction and I’d arrive back at the gate I’d come in through. I could see it from here, firmly closed against the outside world.

  And yet my steps slowed, my feet hesitating. I came to the door that I’d followed the assassin through, and I laid a hand on it, feeling the smoothness of the ancient wood. My fingers swept across the surface toward the door handle, hesitating.

  Maybe I should have tried to listen at the door to that conversation between Ashovar and the tired-looking man. He was obviously someone important. But I’d been so eager to look around that I hadn’t even thought of it. What if I could have learned something vital to tell the king? The more I thought about it, the more it seemed like a missed opportunity.

  My instincts were usually reliable, so I turned the handle. Just a quick look. I could spare a few more minutes.

  I slipped inside, closing the heavy door behind me, and retraced my previous steps. Down the hallway, around the corner. Up the grand staircase. I trailed down the first corridor, checking the view out the windows, noting the better perspective of the assassins’ compound this bird’s-eye view gave me.

  The door to the room where the assassin had met the tired-looking man was still closed. I crept closer, laid my ear against the door. They might not even still be in there.

  I strained to hear anything. The door was thick. Was that the low murmur of voices or only my imagination? I leaned my whole body against it, straining to hear.

  In that moment, the door was snatched open, and I pitched forward. I sprawled on the carpet and the candle, the precious light-weaver, rolled free. In horror, I lunged for it, but the flame flickered—once, twice—then dwindled and died.

  A hand jerked me roughly to my feet. “Got you.”

  12

  Ashovar’s grey eyes blazed down at me in fury for an endless moment, then I stamped down hard on his foot with the heel of my boot. At the same time, I drove my free elbow back into his stomach.

  To the assassin’s credit, his hold on me barely loosened—but it loosened enough that I could twist my way out of his grip. I leapt away, drawing the gun concealed under my jacket in one smooth movement and pointing it at the man behind the desk.

  “Stay back or I’ll shoot him.”

  His boss showed no sign of alarm at having a gun levelled at him at point-blank range. Did he not know what a gun was? That seemed unlikely, given his profession, even if fae assassins didn’t use them because of their iron content.

  The assassin made no move towards me, glancing at his boss for instructions.

  The tired-looking man eyed me thoughtfully for a moment, as if I were a trained seal that had just surprised him with a new trick. “You are unusually enterprising.” He actually sounded approving. “But I think you’ll find that gun will do you no good here.”

  “Bullshit.” My gun worked just fine in our own sith. He was trying to talk me into giving up without a fight. I had to admire his balls, but I wasn’t falling for it.

  He sat back in his chair, a small smile on his face. “Go ahead, then. Shoot.”

  “Do you think I won’t? I can’t miss from here.”

  “Whether you will or won’t makes absolutely no difference.”

  This guy would make a great poker player. Arms steady, I held the gun in a firm double-handed grip. The barrel never wavered as I st
ared him down. “Tell your goon to get out of the way.”

  I started backing away, sights still trained on him.

  He sighed. “She’s not going to shoot. Take it off her.”

  Crunch time. I’d never killed someone in cold blood before, but it was quite clear that if I didn’t pull the trigger, my days were numbered. They probably still were, even if I shot them both, since the gunshots would bring others running and I’d be unlikely to make it out of the sith. But there was still a chance, and I wasn’t ready to die yet.

  I pulled the trigger. I had no silencer, and the sound was overwhelming in the enclosed room. The gun kicked in my hands, but I was prepared for that. The bullet would still find its mark, right in the centre of the smiling man’s forehead.

  Except it didn’t. I was swinging around to take out the assassin who was now lunging for me when I registered something wasn’t right. No impact. No blood.

  It didn’t matter. My finger squeezed the trigger again, but the assassin kept coming. He ploughed into me like a charging rhino, taking me down in a tackle that any front-row forward would have been proud of. I lost my grip on the gun as his hands closed around my throat. I struggled and thrashed, trying to twist him off me somehow, but he was solidly muscled and outweighed me.

  What had happened to my shot? I couldn’t have missed at that range, but he wasn’t injured at all. I got in a good swipe at his face, but the lack of air was starting to tell. Panic bubbled in my chest as I clawed at his hands. Did he mean to kill me? Had it all been for nothing? Willow would never even know what had happened to me.

  “Enough, Ashovar. Let the girl breathe.”

  Merciful Lady! The pressure on my throat suddenly eased, allowing me to drag in a glorious breath. Ashovar rolled off me as I gasped and coughed, trying to convince my aching lungs to work again.

  He hauled me to my feet, twisting one arm up behind my back, his other arm around my still-painful throat. His grip left me in no doubt that he was prepared to break my arm—and probably finish strangling me, too—if the man behind the desk gave the word.

  I staggered as he shoved me toward the desk, and then stared, transfixed. The bullet hung in mid-air over it, frozen in space and time. Was this Air magic? It was powerful indeed if it could halt a speeding bullet in its flight.

  As I watched, the bullet wobbled, then dropped to the desk with a gentle clatter. The seated man didn’t even blink, much less look at it. He ran a dispassionate gaze over me. “She’s not much to look at, is she? Not even full fae, if I’m any judge.” The man turned a chilling gaze on my captor. “I had thought better of you, Ashovar.”

  “I had thought better of myself, my lord.” The assassin’s deep voice rumbled at my back, a note of self-loathing in it.

  I began to shake as the initial adrenaline of being caught drained away. Now what? I couldn’t bear to think. Something painful and lingering, most likely. I had invaded the inner sanctum of the Night Vipers, and I could expect no mercy.

  I clenched my teeth, trying to control my shaking. The face of the man in front of me was a cool mask, giving nothing away. It didn’t look like the kind of face that would be inclined to show mercy to enemies.

  My gaze slid to the warped dagger behind him. It was more than ugly; there was something unnerving about the way it kept drawing my gaze even though I wanted to look away. It couldn’t have said “enchanted weapon” more if it had had a flashing sign. Its cold blade shimmered, almost as if it was moving, as if it were some kind of liquid rather than metal. I forced myself to lift my chin and stare straight back at the man behind the desk instead.

  “And what’s wrong with being half fae? How many full fae have managed to sneak in here without you knowing?”

  He smiled. “You have spirit. Not many, as you have surmised. But as for unnoticed—did you really think our wards were that weak? I knew the moment you stepped into our sith.”

  If that was true, why had they let me wander around, spying on them? My heart clenched in my chest. The answer was clear—because I was never getting out of here alive. They probably thought it was amusing to let me think I was achieving something, only to snatch my victory away.

  “You know I’m not the only one who knows where the entry to your sith is, don’t you? If I don’t return within the next few minutes, half the Realms will be battering at your door.”

  The man behind the desk said nothing, merely lifting an eyebrow at the assassin who held me.

  “She’s lying, my lord. I was sure no one followed me.”

  “Unless her friends have more of these intriguing little candles,” the man replied. “You didn’t notice her, after all.”

  There was a hint of rebuke in his tone, and the assassin bowed his head.

  The man reached behind him and removed the dagger from its stand. My eye followed it as he laid it on the desk. “Sit down, both of you.”

  The assassin thrust me toward one of the chairs that faced the desk. Its wooden arm banged painfully into my thigh, and I half fell into the seat. I glared up at him, rubbing my throbbing shoulder and trying to ease the ache. He ignored me, dropping gracefully into the chair beside me.

  “That’s better. We are not savages, after all, Miss—”

  I stared back at him and said nothing.

  “Answer when Lord Celebrach addresses you,” the assassin growled.

  Lord Celebrach picked up the twisted dagger and began to tap the blade against his open palm. Watching the shimmering length of distorted steel was almost hypnotising. Up this close, I could tell it was steel—was it the iron in it that affected me so? But I’d handled plenty of steel blades in the mortal world; I even owned a few. Being only half fae made me much more resistant to iron than the purebloods. No, there was something more about this dagger. Something wrong.

  “You must forgive Ashovar. He is understandably upset at his failure. Let me tell you a little story.” The man leaned back in his chair, the blade still tapping that hypnotic rhythm on his palm. “When the Realms were new and the Lady still walked our fields and forests, a covert war raged among the fae. Which Realm would be the one to rule the others? This was before good King Agar’s time, of course, before the Lords agreed to swear to one high king. Political killings were rife as each Lord tried to claw his way to the top of the pile, but they were messy affairs in those early days. Carried out by amateurs. It became clear to the great folk of the Realms that a better way was called for—a way to keep their own hands clean, while still delivering the desired results. And so, the Night Vipers came into being.”

  Right. He made it sound like the Vipers were some kind of benevolent public service. He’d have to work harder to convince me that the Lords had wanted a guild of assassins.

  “A Winter fae was the first Viper,” he continued. “His name was Ishitil, and over the years, he gathered a group around him who were equally dedicated and professional. But, good as they were, the attrition rate among this group was high. Assassination is a dangerous profession, Miss—”

  Again, I kept my mouth shut, and Celebrach gave a small sigh, as if my lack of cooperation disappointed him. Sigh away, buddy. I’m not playing your little game.

  “I could force you to tell me, you know. I’m sure Ashovar would be only too happy to apply a little persuasion.”

  The grey-eyed assassin levelled a cold stare at me. He’d probably love that, since I seemed to have shamed him by following him in. Not that I was scared of him. But I’d certainly lost any interest in his nice eyebrows or the Byronic fall of his hair over his eyes. In fact, I’d taken quite a dislike to the man.

  “Call me Arrow,” I said finally. Why make this harder than it had to be? If he wanted a name, I’d give him one.

  “Arrow. What a quaint nom de guerre.” Celebrach shrugged. “Your real name makes no difference anyway. One way or another, that person dies tonight.”

  A chill shuddered through me. I wasn’t scared of Ashovar, but this Celebrach gave me the shivers—him and his cr
eepy dagger. Did he mean to kill me or not? That one way or another left a little wiggle room, didn’t it?

  “As I was saying, Arrow, Ishitil found himself running dangerously short of assassins after a few years. The Vipers’ services were in high demand, but not all his operatives were as skilled as he. Consequently, he needed to find replacements, but who has the time to train new people? To spread the burden, he instituted a system whereby each Adept would take on apprentices and shoulder the burden of their training.”

  Ashovar shifted in his chair, and Celebrach’s eyes gleamed as he glanced at him. He seemed to find something amusing, though I couldn’t see anything funny in what he’d just said. Judging by his sullen look, neither could Ashovar.

  “But there was a small problem. How to find these apprentices? Secretive orders such as ours can hardly send out heralds asking for volunteers, and there comes a time when recruitment possibilities from within our own ranks are exhausted. So Ishitil instituted a rather … eccentric system.” He pointed the sinister dagger at me. “You are fortunate that we still follow this system, otherwise I’m afraid you’d already be dead.”

  I must have blinked, because he smiled.

  “Yes, Arrow. Ishitil decided that if anyone could find us, they were good enough to be considered. There have been many attempts over the years. Being a Viper is a position of great status.”

  Yeah, maybe among psychopaths. Although it was true that a depressingly large number of people would do anything if the money was good.

  “Do you wish to be a Viper, Arrow?”

  “Who wouldn’t?” I replied flippantly.

  He smiled. “So, we face a choice. Recruit you to join our number or kill you.”