Villains by Necessity (v1.1)

by Eve Forward

  appear to be made of inept lace. “Sir,” began the tailor, “are you sure you wouldn’t want to purchase ...”

  “I’ve purchased quite enough, thank you,” retorted Sam. “Can you mend them or not?”

  “Sir,” replied the tailor huffily, “you have lost much of the original fabric. I’ll need to do quite a bit of patching.”

  Sam ground his teeth silently. “And I suppose you don’t have any matching fabric.”

  “There really is no call for it, sir,” explained the fellow; Sam forced himself to stay calm.

  “Look,” he said. “I’m a member of a group of theater performers.”

  “Ah yes, in town for market day, are you?” asked the fellow with a raised eyebrow.

  “Yes,” answered Sam. “We’re doing ...” his mind raced, “The Tragedy of Oswald, Prince of Volinar.’ You know, the one where the fellow’s uncle kills his father and marries his mother? It’s a very good play,” he added. He’d seen it performed once, in his younger years ... He’d taken Cata to see the performers when they came to Bistort one year. Sam had been very amused by some of the complicated poisoning scenes, since they were incredibly inept by assassin standards.

  “Ah yes, sir ... and this is your costume, then?” The tailor poked at the heap of faded blacks.

  “Yes indeed,” Sam nodded. “I’ve got the lead this year ... only when we were rehearsing this morning one of the fellows bumped into me and knocked me off the stage into a bramble patch ... tore my costume right up. I was furious, of course.”

  “Hmm, I imagine so,” retorted the tailor, scratching at some of the darker reddish stains on the fabric. Sam dismissed them with a wave of his hand.

  “Stage blood,” he said curtly. “Didn’t get a chance to wash it out. Take care of it for me, will you? I’ll need them by tonight... Here’s a deposit,” he added, clinking down a gold tellin on the countertop. “There’s more if you get them done in a hurry.” The tailor took it with a disdainful look.

  “Very well, sir,” he said. “They should be ready at about five this afternoon.” He vanished into the back room. Sam dithered about for a moment and then with fretting heart took himself back to the Frothing Otter for a meal and some sleep. Valerie’s amulet was nestled in a pouch around his neck. All was well, but something in the air made him uneasy. , One by one, the companions returned to their rooms at the inn and slept the sunny hours away.

  Sam’s time sense awoke him at precisely half-past five that same day. Lying flat on his back on the hard inn bed, his eyes suddenly flew open, staring at the cracked and faded ceiling. He slid out of the bed and peered out the window. Night was falling. A cool breeze ruffled his hair and brought a smile to his face. Five hours of intense sleep had sent sparks fizzing in his blood. He could have gotten by on two or three hours, but now he felt fully recharged and ready for just about anything. It was good to be back in a city, full of buildings to hide in and around, people to not be seen by, and the gentle flowing tide of humanity all around that had once been his livelihood.

  He sniffed the night air, scenting dinners being cooked, drinks being poured, buildings releasing their heat, and the presence of people going about their business.

  It was a beautiful night, even if it wasn’t as dark as it should have been. Clouds drifted over the moon and streetlamps cast stark pools of golden light and blue shadow. The night sent shivers down his spine, so glad was he to have it to himself. He felt in very high spirits.

  First things first. He snatched his moneypouch from its hiding place in his pillow and donned his hated green and brown clothes. Then he drifted swiftly downstairs and out the inn door, making his way back through town to the tailor’s, forcing himself to walk normally.

  He walked to the shop with tension in his limbs. Had the fellow made a mess of his clothes? Was he going to be doomed to wander the streets like a failed peasant? He ignored the

  “Closed” sign on the door and walked in.

  The tailor looked up from finishing a hem on a green silk dress and gave a twitch of his nose when he saw who it was. “Oh, it’s you again. I told you five o’clock. You’re late.”

  Sam was in too good a mood to let the fellow get to him. “Well, I was otherwise occupied ... got the cos tume?”

  The tailor sniffed. “Yes, here ...” He fumbled under neath the counter and tossed a paper-wrapped package to Sam. “I had to make a few substitutions here and there, depending upon what I could find lying around ... I don’t think your audience will notice.”

  Sam, meanwhile, was tearing open the packet. He un folded black cloth, faded, yes, but clean now, and pressed. Patched, he noticed in horror, with a few scraps of black and dark gray, and elsewhere dark blue, dark green, deep purple, dark browns, and dark red. He clicked his teeth in annoyance.

  “This is silly,” he stated. “I’ll look like a right jester in this garb.” The tailor shrugged.

  “See if your company has any ink or stage ichor around, then, and dye it. I can do no more.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” replied Sam. “Here, this should cover it...” He tossed a handful of silver at the man. The tailor started to protest, and Sam added, “Espe cially since you’ve done an inadequate job on matching the colors and putting me through the trouble of dyeing it.” He put just a touch of coldness into his voice as he spoke, and the tailor reluctantly conceded. Sam paused a moment and scooped up a pair of dark brown leather gloves and a long indigo scarf. “I’ll take these too.”

  Arcie was enjoying the first good meal he’d had in what seemed like years. He’d scanned the inn’s menu, de liberated a moment, and then ordered half of it. He was just tucking into his second plate of roast pork with ap ples and mushrooms when Sam came darting through the door, crossed the crowded dining hall, and leaped up the stairs that led to the private rooms. Arcie noticed an expression of glee on the assassin’s face, and resolved to investigate just as soon as he’d finished dessert.

  A platter of mashed potatoes, two puddings, and a slice of chocolate cake later, the Barigan padded heavily up the stairs, puffing contentedly on his pipe. He found the door to Sam’s room by careful listening, choosing the one that had a sort of soft whistling coming from it, the noise Sam made when he was working on something but not being stealthy about it. Arcie knocked, and called, “Ho, laddie! what’s are you about now?”

  From within came the reply; “Go away, Arcie, I’m dyeing.”

  “What?” snorted Arcie. He opened the door; Sam had locked it, of course, antisocial fellow that he was, but Arcie wasn’t an exguildmaster for nothing. He peered inside, and chuckled at the sight.

  Sam was sitting cross-legged on the floor, wearing only his black shorts and the numerous network of scars that decorated his skin. He was surrounded by wet black arti cles of clothing spread out on the floor. In front of him was a bowl filled with black liquid. Empty ink bottles were scattered about. Sam, the clothes, and the floor were liberally bespattered with black. Sam looked up at Arcie and sighed. “Come on in, then, and shut the door,” he sighed. At some point he’d run his stained hands through his hair, and his gold-blond tufts were now half-toned and spiky, making him look as though he had a large hedgehog on his head.

  “What are you up to, Sam?” asked Arcie. Sam had a birthmark on his shoulder, the size of a coin and starshaped, Arcie noted. This too was ink-stained. Oddly, none of the assassin’s numerous scars intersected it.

  “It should be obvious. I’m dyeing my clothes,” stated Sam, dipping a blue scarf into the bowl and then squeez ing the moisture out of it, spreading it out to dry next to a pair of leather gloves. His other clothes, Arcie noticed, had been patched, and the patches were dark and wet.

  The much-abused black cloak had been hemmed neatly, and now looked something more along the lines of a patchwork quilt. Arcie shook his head in amusement.

  “Well, as long as ye’re having a fun time,” he said, and with a final grin backed out of the room and left the as sassin to his work
. A few more splotches and Sam was done. He spread the clothes in front of the open window so the cool night air would dry them. Rummaging among his accoutre ments, he unearthed a small hand mirror used for dis tracting people and signaling other assassins. He checked his reflection. He did need a shave. He’d done what he could to maintain his appearance on the trail; Kaylana’s presence was a wonderful incentive, but only so much could be done with little time and cold water. The first and last time he’d tried to grow a beard had been back in the wild days of his teenage years. He’d planned to use his beard as a place to store blowgun needles and such, but when his stubble finally had grown long enough to distinguish, he’d discovered to his horror that it was a brilliant red-gold, pitifully sparse, and downy soft. He’d tried the soot and grease on it, the same mixture he used on his hair, but then everything he’d tried to eat had tasted of rancid butter and chimneys. He’d finally shaved it off with a dagger.

  His hair was a mess. He palmed a dagger off the bed side table and trimmed the longer locks. Then he debated a long moment, his eyes resting on the bowl of ink and water mixture. He rubbed the birthmark on his shoulder as was his occasional habit. That birthmark had always annoyed him, because he could just barely see it out of the corner of his eye. It was also a distinctive sort of iden tification his assassin training distrusted, and he kept try ing unconsciously to wipe it away. His hair, too, was distinctive, and most unfitting for an assassin. But he could fix that.

  A short while later, a dark-haired assassin treated him self to a thorough wash with clean water and soap and a good shave, then donned his now-dry clothing. Black leg gings, tucked into black leather boots, black silk shirt, black tunic, black cloak draped elegantly over the shoul ders, clipped with an ebony pin. Finally, a snug pair of black leather gloves, and a black silk scarf wound ex pertly around face and head until only his eyes, glinting dark hazel, showed. Into the sleeves went the sections of blowgun, dagger down the right shoulderstrap, dagger in left hip pocket, dagger in right calf innerstrap, folded tiger-claws clipped onto back of belt, garrote tucked into chest pocket, set of needles in right cuff, set in collar, vial of poison tucked into fold of cloth behind ear, yet more blades and more items. At last, as night deepened about the dreamy town of Martogon, a midnight figure slipped from an upstairs window and slid silently down the wall like an onyx raindrop.

  Sam wasn’t hunting tonight. He was merely enjoying being what he was, a predator, with the flow of night as his territory. He clung to the shadows and moved without a sound, enjoying the way people would walk right past him, so close he could hear their hearts beating, and never even notice him.

  He stopped once and saw himself in the large window of an empty store. He paused to admire his full-length reflection, slim, sleek, deadly. He was missing something though, the touch of richness and glamour. He thought for a moment, and then reached around and found the pouch with Valerie’s amulet in it. He weighed it in his hand, considering. At last puckishness overcame caution.

  He slipped the gold chain with its large, heavy stone from the pouch and hung it around his neck. It rested on his tunic like a deep black eye, or a hole in the world. He admired his reflection again, pleased with the utter black of the stone and the faintest glint of gold on the chain, and then slipped away into the night of the city.

  He slid up to the top of a high block of flats and ran along the rooftops with the ease of a cat. It was glory, glory and pure joy, freedom to do as he pleased, free to kill, free to live, free to hunt as he chose and was born to do, as the brilliant fire in his blood sang. And because he was free to do so, he did not. In silence, he stalked passersby in the street, people about their business in their homes as he watched from windows, men and women chatting as they dismantled their stalls in the common outdoor market. He stalked, but nothing more; crept up to them, to where an instant of movement could have meant a sudden death in the twilight, but then darted away in a joyous invisibility. Never had he felt so at one with the darkness, never before had the shadows welcomed him with such graceful ease.

  As he ducked around a corner and stopped to catch his breath in silence, words drifted down to his ears and froze his delight cold.

  “Please, don’t, I want to go home...” a voice, female, young and unfamiliar, pleading. Answered by another, rough, male, heavy, slurred with drink.

  “Yeah, we’ll let you go home, after we’ve had a bit of fun ... you like a bit of fun, girlie?” A hoarse laugh.

  “No! Stop it! Let go!” A scuffle.

  “Quit that, girlie, you know you want it,” slurred the voice. A slap, a male snarl, and a much louder slap, a female cry of pain and fear.

  “Stop! No! Help!”

  The night stirred the air where Sam had been. He leaped straight up, catlike, and alighted on a window ledge. This building must be the headquarters of the town guard, grown fat and sleepy in these days of Light ... Sam knew the type well. His brain was full of old cold anger, the fire flickering in his blood, his personal anger that was darker and colder than he ever met assignments with. The window was open. He ducked in without a sound, sprinted silently down a hall, glancing in the rooms as he flitted past. Empty, empty, barracks, storeroom ...

  In this, six burly men drunk to the point of aggressiveness, in guard’s uniforms. They didn’t see him, he moved too fast. The last one, at the end of the hall, door closed, sounds of scuffle and sobbing. Sam went through the door without slowing down, and leaped through the air, crashing into a heavy, strong human guard, stinking of sweat and drink, who roared in surprise. A flit of someone in a blue dress ran screaming out the door as assassin and guard fell to the floor. A lantern fell over and extinguished, plunging the room into shadow. A dagger flashed like Sam’s white teeth bared in fury, and blood fountained. The guard’s death throes tossed the slim assassin away; he landed on his feet, looking for exits as boots pounded in the hall and angry voices came closer. Damn it, windows too small, no other doors, one door leading only into path of danger ... only place to hide was under a large bed. No choice. He slipped into the dusty darkness beneath like a weasel going to earth.

  Under the bed it was stuffy, dusty, and cramped ... but it was also very, very dark. The unlit room was a mass of blackness, and the tiny space beneath the heavy bed was in deep shadow. He crouched in the space beneath, nervous, shaking with the afterglow of adrenalin that followed a kill and tried his best to become invisible.

  Thieves and assassins share a set of skills that facilitates their business. The wearing of dark clothing, a certain way of walking, a certain way of breathing, and even a certain way of thinking combine to allow one to seem to disappear into the shadows of a scene, not so much invisible as unnoticeable, a protective camouflage with roots older and stranger than most knew. Sam had been using this skill consistently this night, and on nights past, when he walked unnoticed through busy streets.

  Huddled in the darkness, Sam felt cool flatness against his chest. Valerie’s amulet must’ve slipped down inside his tunic, against his skin. Sam ignored it and concentrated on feeling the depth of the shadows around him, stilling himself to their stillness, willing his dark-garbed clothing to melt into the darkness of the absence of light.

  Feet drummed into the room, loud voices called for a lantern.

  Sam was silent, breathing in soft slow breaths, shaking stilled, lost in forcing himself deeper and deeper into the darkness. An assassin was a match for any man, Sam judged he was a match for any three or four with surprise and terrain in his favor, but six in a room with only one exit was suicide. A strange cold tingle swept up his chest as his will pulled at the shadows, suddenly finding them of a strangely pliable softness, wrapping deeper and deeper around him, ever more at one with the blackness under the bed... his mind swirled, drifting into the shadows, into instincts he’d never known he had, into magic and ancient knowledge, his thoughts moving in strange patterns like the blending of shadows, deeper, stronger.

  Then suddenly he saw the way the s
hadow was, and without thinking, moved through it, like a dive into cool water, even as strong hands gripped the edge of the bed...

  A crash as heavy hands flung the bed aside, and a lantern flared at the same moment, filling the room with golden light. Shouts of victory died away in confusion as the eyes of six puzzled guards searched the room. It revealed only the gory body of their dead comrade in one corner. The man’s heart had been torn out, and lay scattered in gory chunks around the room. Also ... a bed on its side, a square of dust disturbed with a blurred humanoid outline showing where someone had been. Whatever had made the outline had vanished.

  Sam had Shadowslipped.

  Sam fell up and landed lightly on his feet in front of a square of blackness that vanished instantly, leaving only the soft gray of a background behind. His heart pounded as he raised his head and looked about. He caught his breath in wonder.

  Around him, on all sides, was a landscape of unearthly beauty. He stood in a soft gray nothingness, swirling with possibility. All around him, as far as he could see, were irregular patches of black. Some lay flat on the ground, others slanted like strange walls, some were mere slivers of black smaller than his fingernail, others were great slabs of darkness that stretched into forbidding cubes or sheets.

  There were a few above him and a few below him, and, he noted in sudden surprise, some right near the area of where he stood, and these were moving! Six blobby shapes, flickering and twisting about, flat under his feet, like shadows cast by persons who were not there...

  Sam realized with a flash that such was exactly what they were. Shadows, nothing more, of the six guards who had come into the room after him. Sometimes the shadows would slant up vertically, as a guard moved closer to a wall. Sam watched a moment, and marked with his eye where the walls were. Then he walked through one.