25 –
Ariadna
The Manor house was as large and over the top as Ariadna had expected it to be. From where she crouched, hidden amongst the thick bushes lining the inner fences of the garden, Ariadna waited with a cold and calculating gaze. Two men stood on guard by the front gate, another pair by the door to the actual house. Just above that there was a balcony where two more men stood bored out of their minds.
Ariadna moved with care, to avoid making a racket. When she had inched a little closer to the right, she spied another guard circling the house. She did not doubt there may be another around the other side. Leaving dead bodies, whether stashed away in the same bushes or not, would be too risky. It would send everyone on the grounds into a frenzy before the assassin could even make it in.
There came the sound of men calling out and an iron-gate groaning as it was pulled open. Ariadna wanted to make this nice and quick. There was still Mallice Mara to kill, and she did not intend to linger for long.
A guard came riding past the gate on a beautiful brown steed, it carried his master with almost as much pride as the man himself. This place reeked of arrogance, down to the very horses in Arin Vikander’s stables. The guard rode past the bushes in which Ariadna remained hidden, unbeknownst to the assassin in his midst.
Ari wriggled her nose at the scent of horse shit and sweaty hair, following the man with her gaze alone. She smiled. Once she knew the guard was gone for certain, Ariadna slipped out of the bushes and dashed towards the edge of the house. A small water wheel creaked by the side of the house, water splashing as the wheel turned. It was loud enough to cover the sound of Ariadna testing the ground surrounding the house.
The assassin remained tucked away in the shadows. She stopped and ducked behind the water wheel as a guard on duty went stomping around the house, fed up from the heat. Ariadna had already slipped around the house and climbed up a pipe before the guard had even looked back to give the area a once over. She forced open a window and slipped inside once deeming it safe. The window slid shut behind her with the faintest of clicks.
Around her, the Manor House stank of musky perfume and body odour. The heat was not doing the place any favours, and neither was the perfume. Ariadna tightened a small mask around the bottom half of her face. Right now, it was more for the smell than anything else. At the sound of a door opening further down, Ariadna hoisted herself up onto the ceiling panes using a heavy stone pillar. With one foot pressed against the pillar and the other against the wall, Ari crawled her way up to the ceiling like that and gripped the ceiling panes tight as she held herself in place.
A simple servant entered a room further down, bearing a silver tray of cups and a jug. Her greeting to the lord of the house and no other was just the confirmation Ari needed of his presence. Servants were not smart enough to look up. Then again, it seemed neither were most guards. Things did not tend to just fall out of the sky often, so they never saw any reason to expect a person of all things to do so either.
Ariadna took this moment to observe her surroundings closely. She had never liked extravagant things. The marble floors and cream stone walls gave her a headache, and she did not want to begin guessing how much they had cost.
Arin Vikander was a wealthy man indeed, a ‘business man’ of sorts. What he did to earn his vast wealth was shameful and immoral. However, Ariadna could hardly call her own wealth honest money. Unlike Ariadna, Arin Vikander liked to flaunt his money, and he did a damn good job of it too.
The man helped suffering businesses find success and they always, always did with his help. Arin had restored a failing slavers trade after a worm epidemic had nobles afraid to buy slaves from across the sea.
Arin had also aided a Councillor who had made a very poor investment in the fishing market – all it took was poisoning a few fields of crops, used to feed cattle supplied to the Fortan market, and suddenly people took their chances with fish and steered clear of the meat market. The list of business ventures went on. To finish off, the man used his cunning to sneak extra funds out of the businesses he helped each year without their knowing; all by labelling it as extra ‘city tax’.
Ariadna watched as the servant left with a brush of her skirts. She climbed her way down again and slid through the dining room, locking it after her.
“Who the hell are you?” Arin Vikander’s voice had not changed much over the years. If anything, it had gotten cockier. The way he carried his tone as though talking down even to strangers without knowing who they were – it made Ariadna want to punch him in the throat, then and there.
The assassin turned and pulled her hood down first and then her mask. “Long time no see, Bastard. How has your whore been keeping you?” Ariadna asked. Unlike her father, her voice was cool and gave away no signs of her having the upper hand in this confrontation. Lord or not, Ariadna was going to skewer this pig and leave him in whatever state she felt he deserved. Her steps were small and calculated.
“I told you to never come back here. Should have guessed you’d be a dumb bitch and return, anyway.” Arin hissed. By the way he gripped his steak knife with a clammy hand, Ariadna could tell he was really shitting himself.
The assassin continued to stalk her way towards her father. She had not removed her own weapon yet, perhaps because she was tempted to kill her father with his own blade. The red carpet beneath covered the sound of her feet pressing against the ground. Arin had designed himself a well-made coffin, all cushioned and ready for himself to be buried in. He leapt from his chair without warning and opened his mouth to cry out for help.
A quick flick or Ariadna’s wrist sent a shiny dagger, the length of her middle finger, soaring towards her father and it hit home in his chest. She missed his heart on purpose; just as she had purposefully chosen a blade which was not big enough to pierce him all the way through either. Ariadna was on her knees by Arin’s body in a breath, stuffing a piece of his tunic which she had cut off into his mouth.
“Shush.” Ariadna whispered, her voice trembling as she fought to keep back her anger.
Arin only replied with a grunt and a vicious cough as he choked on the cloth. He could taste the fine silk on his tongue, along with the particles of perfume he had sprayed on earlier. During the time he lay there suffering, Ariadna had gone about the room and closed off any curtains, as well as extinguished a few candles to leave them both in as much darkness as she could afford.
Now, all Ari could make out was Arin’s sharp nose and wide eyes which darted back and forth from her to the door. She had pierced one of his lungs quite badly. Normally a person had thirty minutes maximum before they died. Arin only had five, so Ari had to be quick – no matter how badly she wanted to drag this out. Not to mention that bitch of a serving girl would be back to clean up the table.
Arin coughed loudly, spewing blood all over the material within his mouth. The assassin sent a knife to his groin and listened as Arin let out a sob and tears rolled down his cheeks. She held him down as he lay there writhing. After a moment, Ariadna moved away as she caught the scent of blood and urine mixing in between her father’s legs.
I hope he shits himself next, Ariadna thought bitterly. She gave her blade a good wipe on his sleeve and remained crouching.
“I’m going to pay Jooney a visit after this, my beloved sister. Your favourite daughter will join you in your grave soon enough, so you needn’t worry about what I’m going to do to her.” she whispered. Any and every sound from behind the dining-room door had Ariadna looking over her shoulder to check if anyone had somehow slipped inside. The door had been secured, there was little chance such a thing should happen. “How much did you get for me?” she asked and looked back at her father as he continued to bleed out. Ariadna was not necessarily expecting an answer from him, not whilst his balls were bleeding.
Arin choked against his gag.
“Did the sisters at the convent pay you a decent price at least? Or was I some kind of sick donation? I suppose that would make s
ense – religious organisations are so quick to take money but, never actually give back.” Ariadna asked.
Arin moaned behind the material in his mouth this time, his hands trembled as he clutched them against his chest. The assassin pressed the material deeper into his mouth until he made a choking sound, which she shushed him for.
“I know Jooney is married now, to that fool of an aristocrat, Gabriel Daeton. She always attracted the arseholes, a skill she’d picked up from you.” Ariadna paused a moment to give her father a pat on his leg. She avoided staining her glove with blood and piss – it was all part of not leaving or picking up any traces of her being here. “Ah, you're lucky I'm busy and can't stay. I would love to leave you here to bleed out,” Ariadna began. She poised her dagger against the lump of her father’s throat and gave it a quick pierce through the flesh and muscle. “But an assassin always covers her own back and you're not worth the trouble.” Ariadna was already out the window by the time the door to the dining room had been broken open and Arin was already dead.
26 –
Troian
Forta was as shitty as Troian remembered it to be; the northern side at least. He was more than pleased to be able to afford a room in The Swallow Inn; where all the pretty women in silk pranced around and the wine was so sweet Troian was certain it was what heaven tasted like. Then again, anything which did not taste like sand was heavenly.
Artus, on the other hand, seemed far more interested in being able to get off his horse and stretch his legs out. “My arse is cramping up.” he moaned and gave his buttocks a heavy rub. He still hadn’t gotten used to sitting for hours and he was certain he never would. Last Artus recalled, he and saddle sores were finally starting to become friends.
Darkness had crept up on them and the men had lost track of the hours they had spent riding. As much as they both liked to believe it did not matter, it did. Troian and Artus’ lives depended on the number of hours and miles they had put between themselves and the Khaishee Mercenaries. Kholo was not kind to traitors and if he had any sense, he would always be unkind to them.
The Swallow Inn was full as usual; however, a few empty tables here and there gave the two mercenaries hope of being able to sit down for a cold drink and a hearty meal.
“Do you reckon the prices have gone up since we were last here?” Artus asked. He followed Troian as they pushed their way past a drunk man to get inside the inn. It had gotten a lot busier since they had last stayed.
“I hope not. Our job pays well, but that gives me no reason to pay extortionate prices.”
Both mercenaries faced each other and said in unison,
“Honey glazed pork with roasted potatoes and buttered corn. Hold the garlic sauce but, keep the ale coming.” they shared a laugh afterwards. It was their favourite meal to eat, particularly because it was the one they had shared during the first night of their first mission together.
“Let’s go get and some food before I turn to cannibalism. Damn, I need to eat and soon.” Artus moaned, although he did it with another laugh.
The pretty barmaids Troian liked so much bustled around from table to table, with a tray in their hands and a sway in their hips, and the women did not hesitate when their customers gave them a stroke on their legs or sent a dirty joke their way. The women had long ago decided life was too short to fret about men being men, so their behaviour did not offend them at all. For that reason, the male customers respected the women (a rare thing) and did not push their luck for anything. That was what the whores were for.
“What day is it today?” Artus asked.
Troian settled himself into a padded chair and looked across the table at where his companion sat. His brown hair was a greasy mess from travelling hard and Troian wanted nothing more than to scoff down a good meal and then sink into a tub of steaming hot water. It made him shudder to think of such a luxury.
“Monday, it’s taken us longer to get here than I would have hoped. I had lost all sense of time during Kanra’s sacrifice,” Troian began. He made sure to speak in a hushed tone, should anyone wish to listen into their conversation and wonder what they were talking about. “I think it was past midnight, when I came across Kanra and the priestess. It was so dark and the ceremony took place underground in some kind of cave so, I-I couldn’t really guess what time it was.”
Artus called a serving girl over and asked her politely for their chosen meal. He tossed her a coin, and the girl set off out back, past the swinging doors of the kitchen to give the cook the order.
“I’m exhausted, we need to rest.” Troian said as he scratched at an itch on the back of his head. He wouldn’t have been surprised if he sat brushing out lice this evening before bed. “At the same time, I’m too afraid to sleep. If I fall asleep now, I might not wake until two days’ time, knowing another virgin priestess is soon to be murdered.” Troian’s elbows rubbed against the table and he bounced his knees up and down beneath the table to a nervous beat only he could hear. “Shit, Art. How did we find ourselves in this situation?”
The serving girl had returned without either of the men realising, not until she placed their plates of steaming food down before them and wished them a good evening. It did not take long for the mercenaries to start forcing food down their throats. They were famished and wanted food in their bellies more than anything. It all tasted so good too, not just because they were hungry. Even simple spices had become such a luxury.
Artus swallowed a mouthful of pork and then opened his mouth to speak but, his gaze trailed off to a table in the far corner of the inn. He found his attention being drawn to a silver-haired woman dressed in black leather, with another companion a little younger than her. Despite the uncommon beauty of the silver-haired woman, it was the other who caught Artus’ eye more.
“What’s wrong?” Troian asked. He braced his hand against the back of his chair and twisted around, too eagerly than he had hoped, to find whatever had caught his companion’s attention.
Artus hardly heard him as he spoke. He appeared so drawn to the young brown-haired girl, the way her eyes held such innocence but, at the same time her posture was straight and confident as she whispered words to her own companion. Artus noted the way her fingers tapped slowly against the table.
“The silver-haired girl looks mean.” Troian said as he noticed her cold eyes meeting his and how they narrowed after a moment. Beautiful, he did not add in. But mean. When Troian turned back in his seat, Artus was still staring at the other young girl.
Artus thought she did not realise he was staring at her, for she did not meet his stare like the silver-haired woman had with both mercenaries. He thought the other girl was beautiful but, in a natural way. She did not wear her hair in any kind of exotic style, nor did she wear powder or any other scandalous make up like most women liked to wear (and liked to believe went unnoticed too).
“We have company.” Artus mumbled. He finally forced his gaze to return to the table at which he sat.
Troian did not turn around at that warning. He didn’t have to. Moments later a chair beside him scraped against the wooden floor as it was pulled back and the silver-haired woman dropped into it. Troian thought she was more beautiful and terrifying up close. He almost felt afraid to be so close to her as though he could sense a raging anger inside her.
This woman knows how to make you shit yourself with one stare, he thought. His knees bobbed up and down beneath the table.
“Is there a problem here?” the woman’s voice was cold and smooth, like liquid silver – not gold, for it lacked that same richness. No, her voice was sharp and lovely and terrible, all at the same time.
Cross me and you’re dead, was the message both men seemed to gather from that one sentence.
Artus managed a scoff as he leaned back in his seat, his hands pressed against the back of his head. “No. But it seems your friend is having quite a few.” a quick tip of his chin accompanied his response, in the direction of the woman’s table.
The wom
an looked over her shoulder and let loose an irritated curse.
There, where her companion sat, a group of four men had gathered around the other girl and now prodded her with questions and eager hands. The young girl drew away, even daring to exchange a few witty words of her own and a sharp slap across one man’s wrists as he leaned over to grab hold of her waistcoat.
“Looks like she needs some help.” Troian said to the woman.
The woman gave her chair a mighty push back at the sound of her companion yelping and she ignored it as the chair came crashing down behind her. The sound was loud enough to draw the attention of all four men but, not quick enough. The silver-haired woman had one offender in a headlock before he could even process what was going on.
She rammed her knee once into his groin and then a little higher into his stomach. She let him drop to the floor in a spluttering heap.
Another man rose to face her. He was not particularly strong or tall but, the look on his face was enough for anyone to know he liked a good fight where he could find one.
“A silver-haired woman trying to play soldier.” the man jeered. He cracked his knuckles for added effect as thought it was going to scare the woman off. “Let’s see what you-”
The woman cut him off with a sharp slap against the throat, her hand slicing the air as she rammed it against his neck. She stepped aside to allow the man a place on the floor to fall on. “Shut up and stay there, before I ram my dagger up your arse.” the woman sounded bored even when she threatened people. It made Troian and Artus wonder if she was used to brawls like this. It all seemed second nature to her.
The remaining men hesitated as she approached. They flicked their eyes back and forth from each other to the silver-haired woman, their boots shuffling against the floor as though they were going to flee the scene but, foolishly decided to stay put. Finally, one of the men spoke.
The Anari Page 11
