House of Assassins

by Larry Correia

  “A fragment that big, yes. But that’s no mere shard. It is a device.”

  “What?”

  “You may examine it if you wish, but don’t let it touch your skin.”

  “I’m fine.” She wasn’t going to go anywhere near that thing. She’d read enough about black steel to know that it was the most dangerous substance in the world. She wasn’t about to touch it. That was wizard business. “What would happen if it touched my skin?”

  “It would taste your blood, and then somehow judge your character and intentions, an effect similar to when someone attempts to pick up an ancestor blade.”

  She flinched and took an involuntary step back. Everyone had heard stories of ancestor blades angrily lopping off the limbs of those found unworthy of picking them up.

  “Don’t worry. It isn’t nearly as destructive or volatile as an ancestor blade. This was designed for a purpose other than war, though I’m sure if it fell into the wrong hands, it could be used to cause incredible destruction. If I’m gone, and you need to move it, use leather gloves to place it into some sort of container, and then make sure that’s securely tied.”

  “What?” Rada had dealt with a few ancient treasures in the library, but none of them had actively wanted to harm her. It was said that black steel was alive. “Why?”

  “Over the last eight hundred years quite a few Historians have lost careless fingers to it,” he explained as he set down his candle and pulled on a pair of thick workers’ gloves. “The Mirror can be very unforgiving.”

  “It’s a mirror?”

  “Of a sort.” Vikram knelt next to the thing, and gently, ever so gently, reached out and took hold of the edges. He slowly lifted the piece of black steel, rotating it so that she could see what was on the other side.

  Rada saw her reflection in the mirror. Perfectly smooth, clear as the glass she used to read. What manner of force did it take to polish the hardest substance in the world?

  She could see herself, and the stone wall and open door behind her, but the background grew darker and darker, until it was just her alone. It was as dark as the space between the stars. And then, oddly enough, there were stars.

  The longer she stared into it, the deeper it seemed to grow, until she felt like she could reach out…and through it…

  Then there was something else in the mirror with her.

  Rada gasped as she spun around, but there was no one standing behind her, like there had been in the reflection.

  Vikram saw her reaction, nodded grimly, and then placed it back on the floor, reflective side down. Thankfully.

  “So you saw it too?”

  “Saw what?” she shouted. “What was that?”

  “The Asura.” Vikram rose, and quickly pulled the gloves off. “Now I know you’ll do. We must go.”

  Knees shaking, Rada followed him back to the stairs. Vikram closed the door, locked it, and then held out the chain toward her, key dangling from the end. “Here.”

  However, she didn’t reach for it. “Not until you tell me what that thing inside the black steel was.”

  “Have you ever stopped to wonder why in ancient times, man was so quick to believe in ghosts and gods, yet today we’re not?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Because it’s easier to believe in things when you can see them.”

  She stared at the dangling chain for a long time. Then, grudgingly, too curious for her own good, Rada reached out and took the key.

  Chapter 49

  The tiger ran through the snow with effortless grace. The night air was freezing, but the excitement of being so near his goal kept him going. As he approached the assassins’ camp fire, darkness gathered around the tiger as matter was rearranged, and out walked a man.

  Inquisitor Javed adjusted his coat and pulled his wide-brimmed hat down low. Now he was cold. Honestly, he’d not been truly warm since his last night in the Capitol, in the bed of Arbiter Artya. That memory made him smile as he began walking toward the light, crunching through the deep snow.

  The assassins had sensed his magic approaching and prepared themselves accordingly, swords in one hand, demon in the other. There were two of them, an unmatched pair, one tall, thin, and young, the other short, fat, and old.

  “Who are you, wizard?” The fat one demanded.

  “Calm yourself, Lost House. I’m no real wizard, just an amateur who likes to play at magic.”

  “So you say, but the tiger pattern is a difficult one to master.”

  “If it’s not difficult, then what’s the point in trying? Speaking of which, what did you two do to draw Sikasso’s ire so much that he would send you out here to freeze?”

  The assassins exchanged a nervous glance. Very few people in all of Lok knew of the existence of the Lost House, and fewer still would so brazenly name their master. “You’re Inquisition,” the fat one muttered.

  “You possess a swift mind. Yes. I am Inquisitor Javed, Witch Hunter, fifteen-year senior, on a mission from the Grand Inquisitor himself.” He gave them his most disarming smile, difficult to do when his beard was already covered in blowing snow. “Mind if I warm myself by your fire?”

  “I am Omkar,” the fat one said as he unhappily sheathed his sword. “What’re you doing here?”

  They’d said nothing about joining them by their fire, but Javed closed the distance anyway. “I’m hunting a group of fanatics. I picked up their trail north of here. They were easy to follow, what with all those frozen bodies you two have left along the way. I was looking for Ashok Vadal, but since you’re both still alive, I can safely assume the Black Heart isn’t here.”

  “They’re ours,” snapped the thin one.

  Javed held his hands out over the fire, letting the heat soak into his leather gloves. “Not anymore. You will leave them to me. In this weather, you ought to be grateful for my taking over.”

  “But they’re friends of the man who destroyed our—”

  “Silence,” Omkar snapped at his companion. “I’m afraid you’ve made a great journey for nothing, Inquisitor. Their lives belong to us.”

  Curious. “The Inquisition needs these fanatics alive.”

  “Why?”

  “Normally slaves do not demand answers of their masters.” Javed kept his voice jovial as he insulted them, but he could already tell how this would unfold. These wizards had developed some personal stake in tormenting these rebels, and they wouldn’t relinquish such an investment easily. Javed knew what he had to do. “Don’t forget that it’s the Inquisition which holds your leash. Now the time has come to call off Sikasso’s dogs.”

  The thin one had never put away his sword. “You’re a long way from the Capitol, witch hunter.”

  “And you’re a long way from your swamp, dog.”

  Omkar opened his big mouth to say something else, and Javed promptly stabbed him in it.

  * * *

  The Keeper of Names shivered by the campfire, tired, cold, and afraid. He didn’t look into the fire, but rather kept his back toward it. Recent experience had taught him that looking at the fire would ruin his vision in the dark and make it easier for the assassins to get him.

  There was a noise out in the darkness. Keta instinctively turned his head in the direction, as did everyone else who was still awake. His hand went to the big cleaver he kept beneath his blanket and waited.

  After the first few nights of being picked off one by one, now they slept in shifts. Keta was supposed to be asleep, but rest no longer came easily for him. These people—these brave followers of the Forgotten—were his responsibility, and that weighed heavy on a man.

  The noise didn’t come again. It might just have been a branch breaking beneath the weight of the damnable fresh snowfall that had slowed their progress and trapped them upon the Akershan plain, still many miles from their hideout…Or it might have been the murderers sneaking up to slit more throats again.

  Keta prayed once again for help, begging the Forgotten to protect his faithful, an
d to deliver them from these killers. Why must you test us? Have we not suffered enough? What would you have us learn from this nightmare? Then he tried to go back to sleep, but he kept his hand on the worn handle of his meat cleaver.

  They didn’t know for sure who was hunting them. Keta had only caught the briefest of glimpses of a man with a gray beard, corpulent yet nimble for his build. Whatever their motivation, the killers were methodical and cruel. Worst of all, Keta had a terrible suspicion that they were enjoying the process. Like they could have easily been wiped out by now, but they liked making them linger.

  The warrior caste that Jagdish had sent to guard them had done their best, but the most capable among them, the murderers had targeted first. They’d find them in the morning, heads missing, or bowels spilled and frozen, and the ground was too hard to even bury them.

  Then, in a move that shouldn’t have surprised him, they’d started attacking the animals. They’d kill, or wound them so that they’d start screaming during the night and have to be put out of their misery. Deprived of their horses they were slower and more vulnerable. They had all the meat in the world, with no good way to carry it.

  During the days, all the group could do was keep trudging on through the too deep snow, hoping to reach the hideout. The warriors had tried to hunt down their attackers, but they never left behind tracks to follow. And those who’d gone off to search for them had never come back. They’d either been murdered by their quarry, or fled back toward civilization. They only had a few of their sword swingers left, and those brave men wouldn’t even wander off to take a piss alone.

  The column of the faithful had lost warriors, workers, and casteless, both male and female, but so far the killers hadn’t targeted the children. Some of the parents called that a blessing from the Forgotten himself, but Keta suspected it was because the children were their weakest members, and as long as they were alive, being carried, or trying to trudge through deep snow with their little legs, the group would remain slow, easy victims. Once the adults were dead, the killers could just leave and the winter would take care of the young for them.

  By day they marched, making awful time through the unusually deep snow. By night they waited to be murdered. The fatigue and tension were getting to everyone, and many of the faithful had begun to fight among themselves. Keta had done everything in his power to keep them united and calm, leading them in chants and prayers, telling stories of bravery, and giving encouragement, but even he was beginning to fray, unable to defend against a threat that seemed to move effortlessly from one shadow to another.

  The mountains were achingly close. If it hadn’t been for this miserable storm they would’ve already reached their goal. Once they got to the secret path beneath the stone, they would be safe. He’d even told the others about what landmarks to look for, that way if he got picked off the rest could reach the Creator’s Cove without him.

  There was another sound, clearer this time, and Keta bolted upright.

  “Someone’s coming!” their lookout shouted. Everyone grabbed their weapons. Even the children had knives.

  It might be a trick. It wouldn’t be the first time the killers had tested their defenses, making enough noise to wake them all up, before retreating, that way the next day everyone would be even more tired and irritable. Keta actually hoped they would come out and fight.

  “There. I see someone!”

  Then Keta spotted it too, a single dark spot on the white snow trudging their way. This part of the Akershan plain was not nearly as flat as it looked from a distance. There were swells and gullies that you could really only see by their shadows when the sun was setting, but whoever it was wasn’t sticking to those, they were walking out in the open, not even trying to hide. The only reason he’d even gotten this close without being seen was the falling snow.

  Keta couldn’t take it anymore. He threw down his blankets and began to shout. “Come out and fight us, wizard pig! We are the faithful. The Forgotten will punish those who have wronged us! He is the god of the sky. He is the god of war! And he will deliver us from your evil! Come out, bloated coward who slinks about in the dark! Oh, nightmare of the plains, show yourself!”

  “Hello. One approaching your camp,” the stranger declared. “I’m not a bandit. I’m a friend.”

  If this was a trick, it was unlike the others. “Come toward the fire,” Keta shouted back. Then he whispered to the others. “Be ready to cut him down.”

  The man did as he was told, slowly. He had a sack over one shoulder and a sword at his side. He looked around at the array of readied weapons, and then meekly approached. His manner was contrite, his voice humble. “I am Javed, rice merchant of House Zarger.”

  “You’re a long way from your desert,” said one of the workers suspiciously.

  “Only because the gods told me I needed to come here.” There was a great deal of muttering at that, but his answer wasn’t so different than theirs. One of the warriors rushed over and shoved him from behind. Javed went to his knees in the snow. “Please, I beg you. I heard your challenge. If you are who I think you are, then you’ll know I speak the truth.”

  “A bold answer, when worshipping illegal gods will get you killed,” Keta said. “Search him.”

  The warriors roughly pushed Javed down, tossed his pack and sack to the side, and removed a short sword and hunting knife from him. He made no effort to resist.

  “I know it’s bold, but I’ve walked too far to lie. My friends and I worshipped in secret, until we were told of the resistance of Ashok Vadal. We came to join his army.”

  “Where are these friends of yours, huh?” asked a warrior as he glanced around nervously.

  “Set upon and killed by a foul wizard.” Javed began to weep. “Not too far from here. It was terrible, but we prevailed.”

  “You what?”

  “The wizard bragged about how they’d been slaughtering the faithful, but the gods gave us strength. I was the last. I’m no warrior, only granted a sword by the First to guard my wares is all, but I caught him by surprise. I brought you a trophy so you’d know I speak true.”

  The warriors dumped out the sack. A severed head fell into the snow. There were gasps all around the fire.

  “That’s him!”

  “It’s the murderer!”

  Round and heavy, Keta rolled it over with his toe. With the long gray beard over soft chins and doughy cheeks, it certainly looked like the magical killer who’d been hounding them across the plains.

  “Does this please you?” Javed asked.

  “You have no idea! I knew the Forgotten would deliver us.” He had prayed for a miracle, and once again the gods had provided one. Nearly overcome with emotion, Keta went over, took the newcomer by the arm, and dragged him to his feet. “Welcome, brother.”

  The faithful cheered as Keta embraced their savior.

  Chapter 50

  Grand Inquisitor Omand was in the secret chambers far beneath the Inquisitor’s Dome when he received the report. As planned, Senior Arbiter Artya Zati dar Zarger had taken the podium at the Chamber of Argument and given a speech, once again proposing the eradication of all the casteless in the world. The observers described it as moving, visionary, and heartfelt. The woman certainly had a gift.

  Of course, Omand knew it was too early to push for a final count. It took time to reshape public opinion. He had counted the great houses’ votes, both those he was certain of, like his fellow conspirators or those he knew to utterly despise the great embarrassment which was the non-people, and those who were certain to vote no, like the soft hearted, or those who’d resist simply to spite him. It was the undecided he still needed to convince.

  But there was some unexpected good news, and Omand smiled as he read the report. Artya had gotten the judges so fired up that they’d actually obligated a commission of high-status warriors to study the logistical feasibility of this endeavor.

  The proposing judge had called it a War of Extermination. But Artya had moved to am
end that title, and her name had stuck. It couldn’t be an Extermination War, because war implied the enemy was capable of fighting back, thus it would be known simply as The Great Extermination…as if the untouchables were nothing more than vermin, rats who’d crawled up from the sewers, spreading disease and disgust.

  Like everything else involving the Capitol, things would move forward with ponderous slowness. The warriors’ commission was supposed to deliver its report within ninety days. That gave him plenty of time to make things certain. As he’d done with the librarians and the Historians, Omand would see to it that this report said exactly what he wanted it to.

  The judges would be informed that the Great Extermination would be a simple endeavor, easily completed in the span of a season. Omand had studied this topic his whole life, so he knew that it would most certainly plunge the whole continent into war until every river ran red with blood. The judges would fall, a king would rise—he’d already found a perfect candidate. The people would get their strong man to follow, while Omand controlled everything from the shadows.

  All of this was necessary, for progress.

  In some of the lowest, darkest chambers, far beneath the dome, a fire burned in a smith’s forge, because the special Inquisitors who worked here needed to keep some of their tools red hot. So Omand crumpled the coded report and dropped it on the coals. He watched long enough to make sure the incriminating evidence was totally consumed before continuing with his duties.

  The Inquisition’s single most important prisoner was waiting to see him.

  The prisoner had no name. For thirty years he had been in Inquisition custody, so incredibly dangerous that they’d sawed off his arms and legs, and smashed out each tooth with a hammer.

  Omand continued deeper beneath the ground, to a hidden, protected place. Within the secretive Inquisition, very few knew of this chamber, and even fewer knew what was really inside of it. Only a select group had ever seen this prisoner, and only one Inquisitor—in the entire history of their Order—had ever learned to effectively communicate with him.