Finding Lord Brismar Gulan’s home proved to be a simple matter of merely asking a bartender near the north end of the city. He thought perhaps this was not the best idea, given that he was about to murder him, but he had timed it quite well. The bartender answered his question while in a rush to serve an unhappy patron on the other end and only glanced at Lem for the briefest of moments. If asked about it later, it was highly unlikely that he would be able to accurately describe who had made the inquiry. Still, there had to be a better way of locating future targets, one that didn’t risk exposure.
From the shadows on the other side of the street, Lem regarded the three-story building to which he had been directed, where Gulan resided on the top floor. At ground level there were several shops and on the second floor another residence. A narrow stairwell situated between a jeweler and a haberdashery led to the upper levels, though this was blocked off by an iron gate and guarded by two surly-looking men wearing swords. A balcony spanned the front and right sides of the top two floors, the lights in the windows of which were all dimmed. A narrow alley to the right of the building was barred by a tall fence, but another on the left was open.
The guards were leaning casually on the wall, passing a bottle between them. Though they didn’t seem to be particularly vigilant about their duty, Lem did not want to risk being seen. Instinctively, he felt the tingle of the shadow walk. Only a few people were about. Nonetheless, he needed to time it carefully. If someone happened to look directly at him, the guards might notice his crossing.
His heart felt like it was trying to pound its way out through his ribs. Only by tightly gripping the hilts of his knife and the vysix blade was he able to keep his hands from trembling. You should wait, he warned himself. Find out something about this man first. The desire to have this over and done with was making him act impulsively. Gulan might not even be at home. Or there might not be a way in, even if he did succeed in getting past the guards.
He started to turn back. After all, there was no set time. He could wait. He should wait.
But you’re not going to.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
In a sudden rush, he burst into a dead run, straight for the open alley. The guards did not look up. To their eyes he was nothing but the dimmest shade, gone before it was noticed. Once out of their view, he pressed his back to the wall and gulped for air, his head swimming.
Don’t pass out. Keep moving.
A part of him hoped he wouldn’t find a way into the top apartment and that he would be forced to turn back. But a drainpipe on the far corner dashed this hope. It was an easy climb. And just a short distance from the pipe, he could see a window. Perhaps it was locked? If so, he would then have the perfect reason to call things off for the night.
The slick surface of the pipe made for a harder climb than he’d anticipated. Even so, and to his disappointment, it was not so difficult as to stop him from drawing level with his objective.
He stepped warily onto the ledge. The window opened outward and had no handle to grip, and white curtains prevented him from seeing inside. Very carefully, he removed the knife from his belt and pushed it between the edge of the window and the frame. At first there was no movement. He pressed harder on the knife handle, his other hand still wrapped around the drainpipe for balance. Such was the pressure he was exerting, the blade bent under the force. He heard tiny pops and cracks as the wood started to splinter. Encouraged, he pressed harder still.
All at once the window flew open. Surprised, he let the knife slip from his grasp, and he felt himself teetering precariously backward. Only by some marvel of balance did he manage to snag hold of the frame’s upper lip, preventing what would have likely been a fatal fall. The clatter of steel hitting the hard slates below echoed loudly through the alley.
Knowing this might draw the guards to investigate, panic seized him, and abandoning all caution, he threw himself inside. Curtains quickly wrapped themselves around his body and over his head, leaving him totally blind. With a bone-jarring impact, he crashed down onto the floor.
To his ears, the screeching tear of the curtain’s supporting rods being ripped free combined with the resounding thud of his body hitting the boards might well have been a herd of cattle stampeding through the room. For a moment, he lay completely still. Even his breathing seemed loud enough to be heard by anyone within fifty yards. But as the seconds ticked by, he realized that no one had been alerted. No voices came from outside, and none from the room he was in. Aside from the faint sound of hoofbeats on cobblestone drifting up from the street, all was silent.
After a few more seconds, he calmed enough to notice a pain in his ribs. The handle of the vysix dagger was pressing nastily up against the bone. Shifting his weight to relieve the pressure, a stray thought flashed through his mind. Had Vilanda not given him this blade, he would now be weaponless and unable to go on. It was as if some unseen force were demanding that he continue, removing the obstacles … and his own objections.
Pulling away the curtains, he could now see that he was in what looked to be an office or den. There was a small desk in the far corner, a few bookcases, a tall cabinet, and a round table in the center where several bottles and a few half-empty glasses had been left. The furnishings were more austere than he would have expected to see in the home of a lord. Maybe not all nobles were wealthy, he considered. Or perhaps Gulan had simple tastes. He shook his head, cursing inwardly. None of this mattered. He had to concentrate.
There were two doors, one directly ahead and another to the right of the desk. The first turned out to be a closet containing nothing but a few boxes and a folded leather coat stuffed onto a high shelf. The second led into another room of similar size, with walls covered with wine racks, most of them well stocked. There were also three barrels, each stamped with an eagle holding a rose in its beak, stacked at the far end beside yet another door. Whoever Lord Brismar Gulan was, he certainly liked his spirits.
Lem pressed his ear to the door. Hearing nothing, he eased it open just enough to see a hallway, its floor covered in blue carpet and rooms spaced evenly on either side. He would need to search the entire dwelling.
You don’t even know what Gulan looks like, you idiot. He shook his head at his own foolhardiness. He could easily end up killing the wrong person. But if he turned back now, the broken window was sure to be discovered and his target alerted. A man with enemies who were willing to pay to have him assassinated was sure to suspect the worst. Then he would employ extra protection. This could seriously complicate matters. No, it was too late. Lem knew that his path was fixed.
He pulled the door open another inch.
Just then, a man emerged from two rooms down. He was dressed in a loose-fitting white silk shirt, black pants flared at the cuff, and a smooth-edged hat studded with gems around the brim. His hands were planted firmly on his hips as he talked angrily to an unseen person still inside.
“I’ve already told you, Brismar, your wife cannot do as she pleases just because she’s the king’s cousin. So either stand up for yourself or I’ll do it for you.”
Quickly Lem pushed the door shut again, leaving just a narrow crack to see what was happening.
“I will,” a voice replied. “But you have to understand that she’s not one to take bad news well. You don’t know what she’s capable of. She’ll never allow me to be free of her.”
The man in the hall threw up his hands. “You’re a weakling and a coward. You should simply tell her you don’t love her.”
“You think she doesn’t know that? She’s always known.”
“But if you tell her about us…”
“I already have. She doesn’t care. I can have all the lovers I want, but she will not be divorced. She said she would see me dead first. I promise you, she meant it. And if you confront her, she’ll kill you.”
“I won’t keep living like this.”
A hand reached out through the doorway and touched the man’s face. “You won’t have to. Not
forever. But you have to give me time. She fears the disgrace of divorce and the disapproval of the king. I’m working on a way she can leave me without ruining her name.”
He slapped the hand away, glaring furiously. “You said that a year ago.”
“And I meant it. You’re a merchant; you don’t under-stand what’s involved. If I left her for a low-born, her reputation would be severely damaged.”
“So what will you do? Make me a noble?”
“If I could arrange that, would you want it? That way we could be together, and her precious reputation would remain intact.”
The man’s posture relaxed for a moment, then stiffened once again. “No. You’re dreaming. I’m first-generation merchant class. The son of a farmer. The king would never elevate me to lord.”
“You’re a self-made man with a flawless reputation. Just give me more time. I’m sure I can make the king understand.”
The man in the hallway took a small step back. “I’m sorry. The answer is no. Either leave her or forget about me.” Having delivered his ultimatum, he turned away and strode off down the hall, disappearing around a corner.
“Damned fool,” said the voice from inside the room. “He had better not do what I think he’s planning.”
Lord Brismar Gulan then stepped into the hall. A stout, broad-shouldered man with thin blond curls and a long face, he looked to be in his late forties. He was dressed in a yellow satin robe embroidered with a pattern of black-and-red thorn bushes. Lem could see the consternation in his eyes as he began walking toward him.
Lem felt the tingle of shadow walk, this time made more pronounced by a massive rush of adrenaline. He raced back into the adjoining room, closing the door as quietly as possible. He hoped that maybe Gulan was just coming to collect a bottle of wine and would not continue to the office. This notion was crushed only seconds later when he heard the clack of the doorknob. Lem pressed his back to the wall near the desk, desperately trying to control his breathing. Lord Gulan stepped inside, taking a moment to turn up a lamp set on a sconce to his right.
“What in the name of creation?” he gasped as his eyes fell on the broken window and fallen curtains. Rushing to the ledge, he leaned over to look outside. “Damned thieves.”
Gulan hurried over to the desk, passing mere inches from where Lem was standing. He pulled open the drawers, hastily sifting through the contents. His eyes then shot to the closet. Removing a small knife from the desk, he crept over and, ready to strike, threw open the door. Finding no one inside, he let out a relieved sigh.
“At least they were incompetent thieves,” he muttered almost silently. Had Lem not been standing so very close by, he would not have heard these words at all.
Mumbling curses, Gulan gathered up the curtains and tossed them into the closet. While the man’s back was turned, Lem reached to his belt and drew the dagger. With a feeling of both curiosity and revulsion, he noticed that though his heart was racing madly, his hands, just as Farley had said, were steady as stone. Gulan took out a clean glass from the cabinet that he filled from one of the bottles sitting on the table. After draining the contents in a single gulp, he poured himself another, this time plopping down in a chair and leaning back with a frustrated groan.
Lem had never been so close to someone while shadow walking. It felt strange. He had been near enough to smell the man’s perfume. And now, less than ten feet away, Gulan was completely oblivious to his presence. Lem had hunted deer this way and had avoided bears once or twice. But this … it was as if he were truly invisible. As slowly as he could, he took a step to the side, still pressed to the wall. Gulan did not look up. He took another step. Then three more. When directly behind his victim, he moved silently away from the wall. By then Gulan was on his third glass.
Now, mere seconds before committing the deed, the doubts he’d stifled again flooded his brain, weakening his already faltering resolve. Could he really go through with this? From the conversation he’d heard, all the man wanted was to be happy. And for this, he deserved death? Though he was not certain that Gulan’s wife had paid for the contract, it seemed likely. It was incredible that a selfish, vain woman was able to sentence him to his end without so much as a trial. What kind of society would allow this to happen? What justified cold-blooded murder?
Lem lowered the blade. No. He could not do this. He would have to find another way to save Mariyah.
The thought had barely formed when a searing pain shot through his stomach, then spread throughout his entire body. He dropped to his knees, issuing a half-suppressed cry while doubling over with both arms wrapped tight to his body.
Gulan sprang up from his chair, clearly bewildered by Lem’s inexplicable and sudden appearance. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded. “How did you get in here? Are you the one who broke my window?”
Lem could neither move nor respond. He could only watch as Gulan ran over to the cabinet and pulled out a long, curved knife. He tried to stand, but the pain was paralyzing. All he could do was lie there in helpless agony as the snarling man charged, blade held high to strike. At the very last moment—more from instinct than any real attempt at defending himself—he managed to raise his arms, though to little effect. The bite of steel overcame the pain in his stomach as Gulan’s blade sank into his left shoulder. He fell onto his back, feeling the blood pouring from the wound. Gulan’s knife was again raised, poised for a second strike that would undoubtedly end his life. Astonishingly, it did not come. Instead, the man began staggering from side to side, with eyes wide and mouth open, issuing short sputtering coughs.
“What the…” These were the only two words he managed to utter before keeling over, motionless, with the unmistakable vacant eyes of death.
All at once the pain in Lem’s stomach vanished. Not a trace of it lingered. It was then he noticed the small rip on the sleeve of Gulan’s robe.
He scrambled to his feet, wondering what in the name of the ancestors had just happened. He should be dead. With heart still pounding furiously, he knelt down to examine his victim. A tiny scratch on Gulan’s arm directly beneath the tear in the robe was the only obvious wound. Surely that couldn’t have been enough to kill him. But the results were undeniable. Upon inspecting his knife, he spotted a tiny droplet of blood on the blade. He must have inadvertently nicked Gulan when raising his arms in self-defense. Incredible as it seemed, this had to be the cause. There was no other explanation. Lem regarded the weapon with both wonder and disgust. Perhaps the blade was poisoned? Of course, there was always another, more repugnant possibility … magic. Either way, it had saved his life.
With great care, he sheathed the vysix dagger and tucked it back into his belt. Gulan’s attack had wounded him badly. Blood soaked his shirt and was dripping from his fingertips onto the carpet. Not that he felt overly concerned about this at the moment. All he could really grasp was the fact that he had done it. It didn’t matter that it had been sheer luck, or that Gulan would have likely killed him. He had murdered. Something compelled him to look his victim in the eyes. The terror and confusion of the man’s final moment were frozen in place, the violence of his end written for all to see.
Guilt threatened to see him collapsed on the floor weeping. He had tried to imagine what he would feel; tried to convince himself that he would be able to reconcile this evil by focusing on the good he was doing by rescuing Mariyah from a lifetime of captivity. The wet squish of his foot in the blood pooling at his feet snatched him back. More hoofbeats clopping on stone, echoing in through the window drew his attention. It was then the pain of his injury pushed its way to the fore. He had never been stabbed before. In fact, the savage beating he’d received at the hands of Durst caused the first significant wounds he had ever suffered. This was different; sharper and more pronounced.
What have I done? He stumbled back, hand clutching his shoulder, until he struck the table, toppling several glasses as well as an open bottle of wine that rolled onto the floor, its contents splattering across the
rug, adding purple patches to the dark red bloodstains. How could he face Mariyah now? How could he tell her the price he had paid for her freedom?
You may not have known exactly what to expect. But you knew what you were doing. Lying to yourself won’t help.
However, truth and reason did not expel the feeling that something dark had invaded his spirit, a taint that would cling to him forever.
After two attempts, he finally spurred himself into action. Removing the sash from Gulan’s robe, he bound this around his wound. The way the body jostled limply when he tugged the cloth from the dead man’s waist caused his stomach to knot and boil. This, however, was quickly overcome by a growing sense of urgency. He needed to leave. Not from fear of discovery, but because he couldn’t bear being near Gulan’s body a second longer.
The pain of his injury continued to plague him as he descended the drainpipe and made his way to the corner of the alley. The guards were exactly where they had been before, totally unaware that inside the building they were meant to be safeguarding, only minutes ago an innocent man had been unjustly slain. Using shadow walk with a bit more confidence now, Lem crossed to the other side of the avenue and ducked around the next corner.
He paused to look back in the direction of the apartment. It was odd. He could see Durst kneeling in the dirt, pleading for his life as clearly as if it had happened that night. But already Gulan’s face was blurred in his memory. What did that mean? Perhaps it was a blessing. Or perhaps it meant that Farley had been right—that there had been a killer inside him all along. And now it was free.
He kept to the more dimly lit areas on his way back to the troupe. Although the binding had helped to slow the bleeding, the pain in his shoulder was increasing with every step. Shemi would demand to know what had happened to him. Attacked by robbers was an easy enough lie to tell, but what about Farley? Would he be pleased or angry? Anyone with half a brain would know that Gulan had been murdered. The trail of blood he had left at the scene was more than enough to establish foul play. The most important question was, how hard would the authorities look for the killer? Being that Gulan’s wife was the king’s cousin and the likely source of the contract, perhaps he could hope that they wouldn’t bother very much at all.
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