The Bard's Blade

by Brian D. Anderson

She crinkled her tiny nose. “I don’t snore. You do.”

  Placing a hand to his chest, he huffed loudly as if the mere suggestion was unfathomable. “Me? Snore? Never.”

  Without another word the girl skipped over to the bed and dove under the blanket. Sir Marrish smiled at his daughter for a moment, then retrieved another book from a nearby shelf—likely something more interesting for an adult.

  Lem felt a touch of guilt, a feeling he rarely experienced of late. The happy little girl snuggling down in her father’s bed would wake in the morning to find herself an orphan. The guilt was fleeting, however. She would be placed in the care of the man who had put out the contract: the brother of Sir Marrish’s late wife—the wife he’d had murdered so as to be with another woman. Revenge, Lem found, was by far the most common motive for his contracts. It still bothered him that the Order of the Red Star had apparently gained favor through bribes and intimidation with almost every king and queen in every nation they had thus far traveled. It amounted in a real way to government-sanctioned assassination. But so long as he was careful, risk of discovery was nominal. And he was always careful.

  He waited until the girl was sleeping soundly before stepping out of the corner. Sir Marrish was so engrossed in his reading that he did not feel the gentle touch of the blade’s edge on the back of his scalp. Lem had discovered quite early in his new career that, when used properly, the vysix dagger could be virtually painless. Just the tiniest scratch was enough to end a life. He had by now become rather good at gauging precisely the correct amount of pressure to use if he wanted to leave the victim unaware that they had just been killed.

  He paused long enough to see the man’s eyes close and his body slump down in the chair before exiting the room. The guards outside were still unconscious, and would be for another few hours. No one would know how he had done it. An examination of the body would turn up nothing. In the end it would just be put down as yet another example of the Shade’s deadly work.

  Hearing that people were calling him—a mysterious and deadly new assassin—the Shade did not fill him with any sense of pride. However, he had to admit that it was fitting. After the first debacle, it quickly became obvious he had a real talent for this type of work. Yes, shadow walk gave him a marked advantage, but beyond that he had also become a master of learning when, where, and exactly how to strike. He had developed a nearly infinite degree of patience. And perhaps most importantly, he had learned to ignore any feelings of fear.

  He waited until the bowmen looked away before hurrying out of their line of sight. Once in the street, he glanced back at Sir Marrish’s house, his face a mask of indifference. Twenty-five, he thought. He wondered how many more there would be. After paying Farley what he was owed, and a few odds and ends for Shemi, he had managed to save seventy-five gold pieces. Not nearly enough to save Mariyah. An indenture with a life sentence could cost a hundred times that. But it was a start.

  The rumble of an approaching thunderhead spurred him to move on. He walked at a leisurely pace, with those he passed along the way taking little or no notice of him. He had stopped dressing in all-black attire some months ago. It didn’t help; if anything, it drew attention, especially in the immediate aftermath of the contract being fulfilled. Walking about dressed like he was up to no good was not a clever thing to do.

  Lightning split the sky, followed a few seconds later by a sheet of rain that drenched him to the skin within moments. He smiled. No show tonight. He could relax for the evening, probably by playing some dice with Quinn and Clovis. Hallis didn’t care for games and would instead lie on his cot reading until dropping off to sleep. Shemi often joined in as well, especially if there was no time to make it to a bookseller after finishing his duties.

  Despite Lem’s objections, his uncle insisted on earning his keep by washing the troupe’s costumes and cooking their meals. Farley paid him a copper per day, even though the cheap bastard normally paid the lads he hired twice that amount. But Shemi didn’t mind. And in truth, the extra coppers wouldn’t have had any great impact on their relative wealth. At the same time, Shemi’s pay was enough to keep him well stocked with reading material. Occasionally he would need to ask Lem for a little more if a volume were of particular value. But he never complained. After all, it was usually only a few coppers, and it made his uncle happy.

  A young couple raced by, jackets held up against the downpour. Lem stepped onto the street to allow them to pass. He noticed the young man wore a silver bracelet with several moon-shaped charms attached by tiny chains. A follower of the Moon Goddess, Nephitiri. As he watched them walk on, he thought of how different life here was from that in Ralmarstad. People who worshiped Kylor lived side by side with those who did not. There was no Hedran to persecute heretics. Living by Kylorian law was a personal choice, rather than something to be enforced. And while the High Cleric was a person of tremendous influence and power, the church could not throw anyone in prison without the consent of the ruling monarch.

  In fact, he’d been amazed at just how many gods and goddesses there were. Some, like Nephitiri and Mannan, Lord of the Sea, had substantial followings, with several temples spread throughout Lamoria. But there were myriad other lesser-known deities, with only a handful of worshipers. The Church of Kylor was by far the largest and most influential, with more followers than all the other faiths combined. And yet not a single conflict had arisen among them.

  Lem had not realized he had stopped in the middle of the street, continuing to watch the couple until they disappeared around the next corner. He lowered his head, and the rain poured from his chin and the tip of his nose. He wondered where they were going. Somewhere warm and dry, probably. Somewhere that death wasn’t a part of their every waking moment. Somewhere they could sit and simply love one another.

  He stood there for a time, trying to picture home. The image was becoming increasingly difficult to call forth, which was troubling. That he killed was a thing he had come to accept. But he could always lose himself in the memory of the life he left behind. His mind had become something of a sanctuary, one that was slowly fading from view.

  Just before reaching their tents, the rain increased to a full-blown torrent. He passed by Farley’s without so much as a sideways glance. He would tell him tomorrow about the contract. No rush.

  On entering his tent, he saw Shemi drying his hair beside his cot. A smiling Quinn was already rolling the dice, and, as he often did, taunting Hallis for not playing. In contrast, Clovis was looking decidedly sour, the stack of coins in front of him considerably smaller than Quinn’s.

  “Ah, another sheep ready to be fleeced,” Quinn called.

  Lem smiled. “We’ll see who gets fleeced tonight.”

  “You say that every time,” he countered. “How much have you lost? Four silvers? No, five.”

  “I’m feeling lucky tonight.”

  While changing into some dry clothes, he noticed Shemi had a grave expression. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  His uncle replied in a whisper. “I saw Vilanda today. I was just about to go into a bookshop when she caught my arm.”

  “What did she want?”

  “She said only that I should give you this.” He produced a folded parchment from a small box under his cot. “I opened it. I’m sorry, but curiosity got the better of me.”

  Lem quickly unfolded the letter and read its contents. It was brief. Two sentences.

  Farley lied to you. He knows where she is.

  The words stabbed into his heart, and rage threatened to overtake his mind.

  “Do you think she’s telling the truth?” Shemi asked.

  “I don’t know. But I’m damn sure going to find out.”

  Storming outside, he headed straight into Farley’s tent, finding him with a glass of wine in one hand and whispering into the ear of a young woman sitting on his lap.

  Farley looked up, a frown rapidly forming. “Do you mind? I have a guest.”

  “I don’t care. Shemi saw Vila
nda today, and she sent me a message. Would you like to know what it said?”

  Farley shrugged. “Why not? Oh, wait … is it about the girl? What was her name? Mariyah, I think. Now I suppose you’re here to find out if what Vilanda said is true. Well, I’m afraid it is.” He sighed. “I thought that damn woman might do something stupid.”

  Lem’s hand tightened around the handle of his dagger. “I should kill you here and now.”

  The woman in his lap sprang up and scuttled rapidly away to the rear of the tent.

  Farley remained unmoved. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Especially as I know where she is and you do not.”

  “I’ll find her, with or without you.” Lem took a menacing step forward.

  “I’m sure you would.” He turned to his guest. “You should leave. My friend and I need to speak privately.”

  She did not need a second prompting and scurried out without a word.

  “I’ll have to make it up to her later,” Farley remarked offhandedly. “Anyway. You were saying something about wanting to kill me.”

  Lem drew his dagger. “Our association has come to an end.”

  Farley pursed his lips and squinted through one eye. “Oh, I think not. Not if you want to see your beloved again. And if you’re in prison, that’s not very likely. I suppose you could wait until you’re released, but you’d be quite old by then. That’s always assuming they didn’t execute you for murder in the first place.”

  “The contracts are sanctioned by the Order. You’d never turn them over.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Only that you get the contracts directly from me. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re not yet a member. I am. All I have to say is that you were the one who betrayed us. I’d surely get reprimanded for putting my trust in you. But you, lad … you would suffer a far crueler fate. Then who would save your love?”

  “You’re bluffing.” But Farley’s confident expression said otherwise.

  Farley laughed. “You think? Perhaps; perhaps not. There’s one way to find out.”

  Lem took another step. “You can’t tell anyone anything if you’re dead.”

  “This is true,” he conceded, though without a hint of fear. “You could kill me, I suppose. Or you could listen first. It so happens, I see a way out of this for both of us. One final contract—one so big that we can both get what we want. Complete it and I’ll tell you where to find your precious Mariyah.”

  This was enough to give Lem pause. “Who’s the client?”

  “The King of Garmathia.”

  This floored Lem, but he maintained a steady appearance in front of Farley. Who had drawn the wrath of Garmathia’s king?

  “And the target?”

  “The High Cleric.”

  Lem blinked hard. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Not at all. King Tribos wants to install his brother as the next High Cleric. Sadly, this means the old one has to die. And you, my lad, are the only one with the skill to accomplish such a task. The king says he’ll pay ten thousand gold … to each of us.”

  “Ten thousand?” Lem could hardly believe his ears. Slowly, he put the dagger away.

  Noting this, Farley smiled. “Enough to buy her freedom, I would imagine.”

  As tempting as this sounded, Lem was no longer the ignorant outsider he once had been. He had studied the world around him. “It can’t be done,” he stated, flatly. “The High Cleric is too well protected. And even if I could get close enough, I would never make it out alive.”

  “But if you did, just think about it. You could be with your love again. Isn’t that why you’ve been doing all this killing in the first place? Twenty-five, isn’t it? You—a man who at one time could not so much as entertain the thought of killing even someone who almost beat you to death. Now one of the finest assassins in all the kingdoms. You can’t tell me it isn’t worth the risk.”

  Lem’s mind was reeling. On its face, killing the High Cleric sounded impossible. But was it? “I need time to think.” He turned to leave, pausing at the exit. “Just know, if I do this and you betray me, you’ll regret the day you ever set foot in Harver’s Grove.”

  The rain was being blown sideways by a strong westerly wind as he started back to his tent. The droplets stung his face. Much as he hated to admit it, Farley was right. Saving Mariyah was the sole reason he had set out on this path. It was how he reconciled it in his heart; how he could live with the evil that clung to his life like a noxious mist.

  But to kill the High Cleric … that was suicide. Wasn’t it? Could there be a way? He had penetrated tight security before, but nothing like what he would face if he undertook this contract. And then there was the fact that it was most definitely not an assignment coming through the Order. Not even they would accept something so dangerous. It would be a killing of enormous significance and with wide-ranging consequences. There would be an investigation; a real investigation. Blame would need to be allocated. The clergy would not accept the crime to go unsolved, and he sure as hell didn’t trust Farley to protect him. Likely as not, the man would turn him in for the reward and get himself paid twice for one crime. In fact, it was quite possible that was already the plan.

  Lem had never felt so conflicted and unsure. There was only one person he could talk to; one person who could help him make the right decision. But how would Shemi take the news that his dear nephew had become an instrument of death? Not well; that was a certainty. He would be deeply hurt and disappointed. All the same, Lem needed to talk to someone. This was too much for him to take on alone. He entered the tent with head hanging low.

  Shemi was sitting on his cot, wringing his hands anxiously. “Is it true?” he whispered as soon as Lem drew close.

  He shot a glance over to where Quinn and Clovis were playing dice. Hallis was still reading, as usual unwilling to be coaxed into joining them. “It’s true,” he replied somberly.

  “The bastard.”

  Lem knew he couldn’t discuss anything here, not with the others so close by. And he didn’t want to risk Shemi getting sick by dragging him back out into the rain.

  “We need to talk,” he said. “But it will have to wait until morning.”

  “Talk about what?”

  Lem stripped off his clothes and put on a pair of cotton pants. “Tomorrow.”

  Hearing the gravity in his tone, Shemi nodded his acceptance. “Very well. But first thing.”

  Lem ignored the calls for him to join the game. He was in no mood. Tomorrow he would decide just how far he was willing to go to save Mariyah. Surely there had to be a way forward that didn’t involve getting killed.

  He glanced over at Shemi, who was now stretched out on the cot a few feet away. Dread filled his heart just thinking about the moment when he would tell his uncle what he had become. But what other choice was there? If he did decide to risk everything, Shemi at least deserved to know why. In truth, he deserved to know regardless. The old man’s love and determination to risk all in a bid to save him had already caused him immeasurable suffering.

  He hated the thought of causing Shemi more pain. But as had become his life, he had to do things he knew he might regret. He had come to understand one immutable truth about himself: It was a lack of options that he hated most. And his continued to dwindle.

  19

  THE LESSONS AND TRIALS OF THE IRON LADY

  Toil without intent holds no virtue. Do not waste your labors on frivolous pursuits. Time ill spent cannot be recovered.

  Book of Kylor, Chapter One, Verse Seventy-Three

  Gertrude came to wake Mariyah early on her first morning, just after sunrise. Although still exhausted, Mariyah felt a bit better after a cup of hot tea and a piece of sweet, crunchy bread that Gertrude called a jarmin biscuit.

  “Poor dear,” she said. “You mustn’t let yourself worry so much. You look like you haven’t slept a wink.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Mariyah rubbed th
e back of her neck.

  “I hope so. Because I hear there’s a stack of books as tall as I am waiting for you in the library. And the Lady has canceled all appointments and guests for the next month.”

  Mariyah wasn’t sure if this was good news or bad. She noticed that Gertrude’s hair was neatly wrapped in a bun and that she was wearing a formal-looking dress with a silk scarf tied around her neck. “Is there something special happening today?” she asked.

  Gertrude grinned with obvious excitement. “Lady Camdon has given me and Marison leave to see my cousin for our anniversary. I thought I’d dress up for the occasion.”

  The idea of Gertrude’s absence produced a mild sense of unease. “How long will you be gone?”

  “Two weeks,” she replied. “But don’t worry. Kylanda has told everyone about you being from Vylari, so you won’t lack for company. That’s assuming Lady Camdon gives you a moment to yourself. From what I see, she has your plate rather full.”

  The turn of phrase brought back memories of the previous night’s dinner. Before she realized it, she had let out a loud and quite lengthy groan.

  “Now, now. We’ll have none of that,” Gertrude scolded gently. “It’s like Trysilia told you. Once you learn how things are done here, you’ll have plenty of free time.”

  She laid out a few dresses on the bed along with some shoes and a few bits of jewelry, then pointed to each set of attire individually. “Morning … afternoon … evening. You’ll be given time to change before each meal.” That done, she gave Mariyah a firm embrace. “You’ll be fine. Just keep your wits about you. And don’t let the others keep you up late. You need your rest.”

  After she departed, Mariyah dressed and made her way to the library. As Gertrude had said, a tall pile of books was waiting, along with a note from Lady Camdon.

  It listed the books in the order she was to read, stating that she would be tested before dinner each evening. This was not too daunting. Mariyah was a fast reader and had always been quick to assimilate knowledge. Even Shemi had remarked on this.