Despite being a native of Jennen, Callan Ashe was well familiar with the country of Dhanen’Mar, the city of Aralexia, and the games of the King’s Challenge. This was in fact his twelfth time in the city, and his third during the course of the games. Upon all past occasions his reasons for coming to Dhanen’Mar had been linked to his profession, and this time proved no exception. Thankfully, however, his contracted task left him much time to seek out his own entertainments.
It was currently just past dawn, First-day of summer’s final week. In more exciting terms, it was the day that commenced the duels of the King’s Challenge, and even at this early hour the streets were thronging as thousands made their way toward the forum in the city’s east end, hoping to gain a good seat.
Callan had every intention of joining them, although he didn’t share in their concerns. There were special boxes of seating for the highborn and their guests, and although he was technically neither, the handful of people aware of his talents here in Dhanen’Mar tended to treat him most generously. Born to Death and backed by Commerce, Callan Ashe made his living as an assassin—and one known, within the small, discreet circles that made up his clientele, for being among the best in the world. His areas of proficiency were poisons and a bow, although occasionally a job would require him to step outside his comfort areas. It mattered little, in the end; once locked onto a target, he would find a way to see it done no matter the circumstances.
He was presently sitting alone at a small table upon the outdoor patio of an eatery. There were few other customers, as the bulk of the city’s inhabitants were now making their way to the arena, and Callan was idly watching the masses pass by as he ate his breakfast in silence. From what he overheard, it seemed the list determining the pairings for the first round of the Challenge had now been released, and everyone appeared to have an opinion regarding who they thought would win, which combatants were most likely to kill or be killed, and how large a bet should be placed upon their choices. Callan had nothing against gambling personally, but he doubted he would be participating in the illegal betting himself this week; with most of the entries sure to be of Dhan’Marian stock, he would know too little about the fighters to risk any of his much-loved coin upon them. But simply watching would no doubt prove entertaining enough.
He was just finishing the final bite of his jam-filled pastry—these Dhan’Marians loved their rich, fatty foods—when a woman of about sixty years shuffled out onto the patio, come from inside the eatery. He mindlessly noted her appearance as he wiped his fingers on his napkin, and gave no reaction whatsoever when she dropped a tiny, folded square of parchment onto his table as she moved past. Callan finished with his napkin, laid it down and concealed the thrown item into his palm. He drank the last swallow of blueberry juice remaining in his glass, got to his feet, and started off down the street.
He had no idea as to the identity of the woman who’d tossed him the message, but this sort of act was not an uncommon occurrence in Callan’s life. No doubt she was but a messenger or spy for one of the countless highborns now congregated in Aralexia, one who was now looking to commission his services. It was for this reason Callan had reacted as he had—by giving no acknowledgment whatsoever. The lives of both himself and his clients often relied upon such discretion, and he was long-familiar with such practices.
It took him only a few moments to fully immerse himself in the crowd, quickly caught up in a rowdy gaggle of youths who paid him no attention. Keeping pace with their group, Callan deftly unfolded the small square of parchment, glanced down briefly, and took in the address written there. He stayed with the group for another block and then turned south, hoping he was heading in the right direction. The address given lay upon a fairly busy road, but he’d not been to the city in more than a year and so was simply making the best guesses his memory would allow.
His doubts were proven groundless about ten minutes later when he came upon his destination without incident. He stepped into the small shop with mild curiosity, instantly noting that it appeared to sell books. A man of about forty years sat behind the counter, dusting the spines of a pile of leather-bound tomes, and he glanced up at Callan’s entrance. The shop seemed otherwise empty, unsurprising given the day and time.
“In the back, if you would, Master Ashe,” the man behind the counter then said, his eyes again fixed upon his books even as he gestured to the doorway behind him.
Callan’s blue-green eyes glanced about again. This sort of situation always presented dangers, for there always remained a possibility someone seeking retribution for one of his prior marks had learned his identity and now attempted to carry out some sort of revenge. Callan had survived a few such scenarios, but he sensed no threat here and now. Still cautious, and somewhat reassured by the knowledge that he carried a poison-dipped dagger in his coat, he moved past the counter wordlessly and passed through the open doorway beyond.
“This is a surprise,” he said, taking in the man within the small room he now stood in.
“Close the door and take a seat. I have a rather unique proposition for you,” Devlin Alvik said from his seat at a small table.
Callan did as asked, his curiosity now largely piqued. He knew the royal jester by sight, and was fairly certain they’d exchanged mindless pleasantries in the past while encountering each other at social functions. There was absolutely no doubt Alvik knew precisely who he was and how he earned his living. In return, Callan had heard a thing or two in regard to the man who’d summoned him here, knowledge that led him to suspect Devlin Alvik of being an extremely sly son of a bitch. The depths of political intrigue in Aralexia went far beyond anything he’d encountered in any other kingdom, and the royal jester was thought—by some, at least—to be at the center of much of it. Aralexia was a dangerous city on many levels.
Callan said nothing as he settled himself into the chair across from the royal jester, his expression showing only mild interest. He fixed his gaze on the other man and waited.
“I don’t have much time here, Master Ashe, so let me get straight to my reason for sending for you,” Alvik began.
Still Callan said nothing, wondering who the jester was going to pay him to kill.
“I trust,” Alvik went on, staring at him, “that you have come to Aralexia for more reason than to simply view the King’s Challenge games?”
“You would be correct in that thinking,” Callan told him. He was here to kill a man, of course, to fulfill a contract agreed upon some weeks ago. His client had suggested using the raucous backdrop of the games for the event, and Callan had agreed, thinking he could do a little mixing of business and pleasure.
Alvik paused briefly as he took this in.
“No cause for worry, jester,” Callan then added, grinning at him slightly. “It was not your name I was given.”
“I suppose I should be thankful, given your reputation,” Alvik returned dryly. “But I do have some further business for you, if you’re interested.”
“I’m always interested,” Callan told him. “Especially when a client begins with claims of offering a unique proposition.” He was mocking the jester, and Alvik knew it; for it was rare when one didn’t come to him stating a proposition that they considered distinct—to Callan, however, their aims were all so very similar.
Alvik considered him, then said, “It is said that those of your ilk hold to a tight circle.”
The words put Callan on instant alert; there were few places where an opening such as that would lead, and all exceedingly dangerous. “That is true,” he replied cautiously.
Alvik smiled at him. “I believe an assignment has been given that I would have great interest in interrupting. Might this be something you would consider, Master Ashe?”
Callan said nothing for several long moments. The jester had been right—this was a proposition most uncommon. He was also correct in knowing professional assassins—the few of them that there were—generally held to a code which kept them fr
om competing for jobs or getting in each other’s way.
What Master Alvik was now suggesting, however, was for Callan to eliminate one of his fellow assassins strictly in the interest of keeping safe his target. And this was an objective that could quite possibly see him dead.
“I may consider it, depending on a few details,” he finally replied.
Alvik stared back at him unflinchingly. “I am prepared to offer you two hundred gold, paid in full upon the final day of the Challenge, should you prove successful.”
Two hundred gold? That was a price more than double his typical fare.
“Who’s the mark?” he asked suspiciously.
“A warlord by the name of Baiel Maves.”
Callan felt he was beginning to understand. “I have heard his name. He is entered in the Challenge, yes?” Clearly, someone thought they had a better chance of seeing themselves through the rounds without having to face the sole warlord who’d entered this year.
“Yes,” Alvik nodded. “And if he dies in the games, fine, but I need him protected at all times when off the field of play.”
Callan paused. “Let me be certain I’m understanding you correctly,” he finally started, frowning. “You want to hire me to protect a warlord?”
Alvik was quiet a moment. “I am fully aware of the fact that he is most assuredly capable of defending himself. However, it would be in the city’s best interests that he . . . remain ignorant to the threat now lodged against him.”
The assassin took that in, and then began to laugh as he finally gained full understanding. Someone had placed a hit upon this warlord, presumably to keep him from winning the competition. It was unlikely, however, that his would-be killer would be successful, and instead probably be killed himself for his efforts. It would appear the problem would have then solved itself, but only until one factored in the common attitudes of Dhan’Marian warlords. Should this Baiel Maves realize he had been targeted simply to manipulate the outcome of the games, there remained little doubt of the trouble he would stir up, most likely publicly citing corruption and ruthlessness within the country’s home city of Justice. He would probably even accuse the king’s council of the act, men Callan figured may or may not be at the heart of the matter—for the royal jester’s aims now made that conclusion too murky to draw.
“It appears you have quite the mess on your hands, don’t you, jester?” he finally asked, no longer laughing but in a voice still dripping with mirth. “I shudder to imagine the reaction of the populace, should they discover their royal council attempting to manipulate their beloved games.”
Alvik was now glaring at him. “I did not ask for your opinion on the matter, killer. Only if you would see to it.”
The title of “killer” was likely meant as an insult, but Callan fully knew and accepted what he was, and therefore took no offense, intended or not. “Do you know who’s been hired to hit the warlord?” he asked, still smiling faintly.
“No,” Alvik shook his head.
Callan shrugged. The circle of men sharing his profession was fairly small, and he figured he’d have little trouble quickly discerning this information for himself.
“Make it three hundred gold and we have an accord,” he said, anticipating an argument and then much further haggling.
“Done,” Alvik said instead, without pause. “So long,” he then went on, eyeing Callan, “as you could assist me in one further matter—a trifling thing, in comparison.”
“I’m listening,” Callan said, still fighting back his surprise over the jester’s casual acceptance to his price of three hundred gold.
Alvik produced a small piece of parchment from a pouch at his waist and slid it across the table toward the assassin. “For reasons best not discussed, I’m hoping you can tell me something in regard to any of these men.”
Without even looking at the list, Callan asked, “Who are they?”
“Fellow Jennites whose names you may recognize. If so, I would hear of them any details you know.”
“Games’ participants?”
“Yes.”
Callan now assumed the “reasons best not discussed” included the fact that the royal jester was going to use any information given him to somehow manipulate the upcoming duels. The assassin didn’t approve, but for what he was being paid, he didn’t much care either. He turned his gaze down to the six names scrawled upon the parchment.
It then took everything he had not to begin laughing.
Rydin Kale.
Callan had known Rydin for many years, had, in fact, been a companion of his upon numerous jobs calling for a blend of their respective talents, and while he was surprised to see his friend’s name listed here, above all he found the fact of it incredibly amusing. These Dhan’Marians had absolutely no idea what was about to be unleashed upon them—nor would they be forewarned, or at least not by him.
It was a strain, but, knowing the jester was watching him intently for any reactions, he managed to keep his expression blank as he continued staring down at the names before him. He hadn’t a clue what had possessed Rydin to enter the Challenge, mostly likely the prize money, but he was now very much looking forward to simply sitting back and watching the ensuing carnage unfold. This year was going to be a King’s Challenge event not soon forgotten.
“Beynon Ansell,” he read, this name just below Rydin’s on the list.
“You know him?” Alvik asked.
“Heard of him. He’s a mercenary with a fairly frightening reputation. Expect him to kill any he gains the upper hand over,” he concluded, knowing he was giving the other man the exact information he wanted with his final words.
“Anyone else?”
Callan’s eyes returned to the list. “Galwey Zalfs,” he said. “He was a knight for King Stoneburn until about three years ago. There were rumors of plots being perpetrated behind his majesty’s back, but nothing could be proven so he was exiled rather than killed. He’s getting along in years but I wouldn’t underestimate him.”
“Will he show mercy?”
Callan gave the question serious thought. “Likely not to any knights or Justice officers. But to any who live outside the law, like himself, he will probably let live.”
Devlin Alvik was now nodding. “Anyone else?”
“No. Those are the only names I know,” Callan lied, pushing the parchment back across the surface of the table to the jester.
Alvik collected the list and stowed it back into his pouch. “Then it appears our business here is concluded. I will expect an update from you once a day, to be brought here personally, and know that your sum will be paid in full should the warlord still be alive—and ignorant of all plots against him—at the conclusion of the week.”
Callan nodded, thinking of his promised three hundred gold. Earning it was not going to be easy. Between this job and Rydin’s unexpected appearance, there was little doubt this was to be an interesting week.
“I trust,” the jester then went on, “that I don’t need to remind you of the sensitivity of this issue, and that your discretion is simply a further element of your task.”
“You don’t.”
Master Alvik nodded. “If you’ll excuse me then—the first match is set to begin at the top of the hour, and there is much I must see to beforehand.”
“I’m certain,” Callan replied, smirking, as he got to his feet.
Alvik shot him a last, silent look, and then preceded him from the room, saying nothing to the bookseller on his way out of the shop. Callan followed, similarly silent, and found the street beyond almost eerily deserted. Apparently most citizens, by this time, had already arrived at the forum.
Callan headed that way himself, but there was now one stop he felt he should make before finding his own place among the seating. Along the street, just before the entrance to the forum containing the field and its rows upon rows of slanted wooden benches for spectator seating, dozens upon dozens of vendors had crammed t
he space full of carts and booths, hawking everything from food and drink to clothes, jewelry, and even weapons. The space was crowded with citizens, but not nearly so much as it would be between matches. Callan strolled between a row of booths, looking about until he spotted what he was searching for.
A large tent had been erected near the center of the frenzy, in the dark-blue color of Thieves to further make clear its purpose, despite the signs hung upon it boasting the sale of ale within. Callan headed toward it, unsurprised to see the crowd spilling forth from its outer flaps. He reached the tent and pushed his way inside.
The scene within looked nothing short of chaotic, as men and women of seemingly every age and station pushed and shoved their way to the makeshift counter in the center, yelling their bets to the five men and women stationed to collect their money and record their wagers.
The Justice officers patrolling the grounds, Callan knew, gave the Thieves a blind eye in regard to the gambling, probably because most of them made use of the service themselves. In fact, he’d heard rumors that even King DeSiva was known to gamble upon the event.
Callan began the rather difficult process of shoving his way forward. It took him nearly ten minutes and much irritation to finally wedge himself before the counter, and, once arrived, he found himself looking into a face he’d never before beheld, but one he had reason to recognize. Flynn Fajen’s successes were legendary, and not only in Ceja and Dhanen’Mar.
“Who will it be?” the brown-skinned man was saying to him now.
Callan took him in. “You’re Fajen?” he asked, just to be sure.
“I am,” the Cejan replied, looking amused.
The assassin grinned at him. “Did you truly steal the crown of your very own king?” It was rumored that this was the act to have earned Fajen the exile from his native country, but Callan had never known whether to believe such a fantastic tale.
But Fajen was now matching his grin. “Technically, he wasn’t officially yet the king,” he replied, his eyes gleaming in obvious remembrance. “I filched it during the coronation ceremony.”
Callan barked an appreciative laugh. “One day you shall have to tell me the whole story over a drink.”
“Certainly,” Fajen agreed. “But for now, who do you favor?”
Callan tossed a small leather purse onto the counter before him. “Fifty gold on Kale. To win it all.”
Fajen looked at him in surprise, and then dumped out the contents of the purse to give the pieces within a quick count. “You’re certain of this?” he asked. “The only wagers I’ve taken on the final outcome thus far have been made on the warlord. Everyone else seems to be sticking to the individual matches for now.”
“I’m sure.”
“Very well,” Fajen said, sliding some parchment toward him. “Sign here.”
Callan took pains to write his name legibly and then returned the form. “Much obliged,” he said.
Fajen was still looking to him curiously. “If you don’t mind my saying, that’s a rather obscene amount of money to put at risk before the first fight has even taken place. It is most unusual.” He grinned again. “Is there something I should know?”
Callan smiled slowly, and then tapped a finger onto the parchment. “Take my lead, friend. Or you’ll be wanting to kick yourself once this is all over.”
“Perhaps I will,” Fajen replied.
Callan nodded, turned away, and left the tent. It was now time to find his seat; for if the first round schedule behind the Thieves’ commander was accurate, the first duel was set to begin in only minutes—and would feature one Rydin Kale.
Chapter 28
Auguries of Dawn Page 28