But she wasn’t right about this!
Having successfully negotiated the lock, Corin slipped into the room. He left it dark, and locked the door behind him. He settled into a chair to await Lhasha’s return. She wouldn’t listen to reason, so it was time for a practical demonstration of her own vulnerability, and if that meant giving her a good scare in the process, so be it.
Lhasha carefully studied the man from across the crowded tavern of the Fortunate Knight. He wasn’t a Purple Mask, she was sure of that. The Masks prided themselves on being physically fit, a necessity for climbing into upper story windows. This man had to weigh at least three hundred pounds—he could barely climb the stairs, let alone a terrace. The tavern wasn’t warm, but even from her hiding place in the shadows in the corner of the bar she could see his face was glistening with perspiration. No, he definitely wasn’t a Mask, but she still had a bad feeling about the meeting.
Lhasha preferred to freelance, but on occasion she would do work for hire, if the price was right, and this price was very, very right. An unsigned note left at the front desk of the Wyvern’s Pipe had been forwarded to Fendel by the proprietor. Knowing she needed money, Fendel had passed the message on to her. Very short, very mysterious—just a number, a time and a place. Lhasha didn’t like mysteries, but the number on the page was too high to ignore.
If she’d told Corin what was going on, he’d have no doubt objected to the meeting. He objected to everything, even her clothes. “They attract too much attention. They make you stick out in the crowd.” But of course, that was the whole point.
She told him she was going out on a job. It wasn’t really like lying to him … it was for his own good. Corin took his job seriously. A little too seriously, sometimes. He wasn’t even drinking anymore—not a drop since she’d hired him. These past few tendays he spent all his free time mastering the few thieves’ tricks she’d taught him, or practicing with his sword, honing and refining his already impressive skill with the blade. His dedication bordered on mania. That was why she hadn’t mentioned this rendezvous. No sense getting him worked up. Besides, she didn’t need her hired muscle looking over her shoulder all the time; she had enough sense of her own to avoid walking into a trap.
Lhasha gave a quick scan of the rest of the bar before deciding it was safe to meet her prospective employer. She slipped out of her chair in the shadows—almost seeming to materialize from the darkness—and approached the fat man sitting at the table across the room.
The man glanced up, and wiped the sweat from his shiny forehead with a silk handkerchief. Now that she was closer, Lhasha could see that his entire wardrobe was silk … bright red, gold, and yellow, with a splash of orange for effect; plus some permanent sweat stains under his armpits and around his collar. He looked like some kind of bloated butterfly.
Lhasha herself had a similar outfit, and she briefly wondered if she looked as ridiculous in her silks as he did in his. No, she quickly decided. She didn’t. On her it looked good.
Most of all, she noticed his rings, if that was even an applicable term. Little more than huge hunks of gold, encrusted with a variety of oversized, ill cut gemstones. Calling them gaudy would have been a compliment. Half a dozen bands of gleaming yellow, each completely devoid of any sense of style or taste, despite the obvious wealth that had been spent on the materials. Lhasha felt a brief touch of regret that so many beautiful gems had been condemned to an eternity encased in such ugly prisons of gold.
“Finally!” he said in an a voice as loud and overbearing as his dress and adornments. “I’ve been waiting a dragon’s age.”
A little taken aback by his lack of discretion, Lhasha apologized.
“I’m sorry … I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”
The man waved his chubby hand in an imperial gesture of forgiveness, making the rings actually clunk against each other with a dull, heavy sound.
“No matter, you are here now. Fetch me some wine … if you have any that won’t make a man of my station ill.”
Lhasha couldn’t help but smile a little at the mix-up as she took a seat.
“What are you doing?” the man protested, half rising from his chair. “How dare you presume to seat yourself at my table!”
Suddenly Lhasha wasn’t smiling anymore. “Sit down and shut up, you blathering fool,” she hissed. “I’m not the serving wench, I’m the person you’re meeting!”
The man froze, half in his seat, half standing. “You? You’re the best thief in Elversult?”
“I don’t know if I’d go that far,” Lhasha said modestly, “but I’m good. Very, very good. You were expecting someone else? A man perhaps?”
“No …” the man said slowly, lowering himself back into his seat. “Not a man, necessarily. Just someone more … imposing. You don’t look like you’re cut out for this kind of work.”
“What kind of work do you think I do?” Lhasha asked suspiciously. “I’m not an assassin,” she hastily added.
“No, of course not,” the man said, shaking his head so vigorously the flesh on his cheeks and neck actually jiggled. His voice had changed from the imperious tone of a noble addressing a serf to the slick patter of a merchant trying to close a deal. “My inquiries around town weren’t for an assassin, but for a thief. One of exceptional quality. One not working for the Purple Masks, or the Cult of the Dragon … not too many independent operators left in this town. My sources said to leave a message with the innkeeper at the Wyvern’s Pipe. Imagine my chagrin when he told me you had recently checked out. But since you’re here, I take it you got my message?”
Lhasha nodded. “It was passed on to me. You’re offering an awful lot of money, probably enough to buy anything I could possibly steal. Something doesn’t seem right about this.”
The man gave her an oily smile that did nothing to reassure her.
“And yet you’re here, despite your doubts. The sum must be to your liking.”
“It’s a good place to start the bargaining,” Lhasha said.
The man shook his head, still grinning his repulsive smile.
“Oh no, my pretty little thief. The offer is non-negotiable. Take it or leave it. If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to read people. I can see you’re already thinking of taking my offer.”
Lhasha found his condescending attitude grating. Pompous and vain, he obviously felt himself above the unwashed commoners of the city. Lhasha wanted to get up and walk away, just tell him to take his offer and stuff it down his fat, swollen throat, but he was right … she was very close to accepting. It was more than she’d normally make in a month. More than enough to get Fendel started on Corin’s prosthetic arm. She had to at least hear the odious man out.
“I’ll admit you have my interest. What’s the job?”
“Nothing too difficult. One of my competitors has recently brought a package into the city, something quite rare. Something you can’t just buy. My industry is very competitive, and it is vital that I get the package for myself.”
“What is it?”
He waggled a chubby finger under her nose.
“Tut-tut. You’ll find out when you get there. It’s in one of the warehouses over in the merchant’s quarter. Heavily guarded, of course. I’ll give you the exact location if you accept. Needless to say, the utmost discretion is required. That is why we came to you, and not the guild. Too many spies in the Purple Masks, no secret is safe with them.”
“I don’t like being kept in the dark,” Lhasha said. “How large is this package? Will I even be able to carry it out if I find it?”
The fat man waved his hand dismissively, his horrible rings catching the light from the tavern’s fire.
“I guarantee that won’t be a concern.”
Still, Lhasha hesitated. Her instincts were rarely wrong, and something about this job seemed off.
“As I said, I have a gift for reading people,” the man said, “I sense you need something more. A sign of good faith, perhaps. Tell you what … I’
ll pay you half up front, the rest on delivery. Do we have a deal?” He extended a plump hand.
Lhasha considered the offer for several more seconds before clasping his hand in her own slender fingers.
“Deal.”
Corin heard someone just outside the door. Lhasha was back earlier than he expected, he wasn’t even in position. Moving as quickly as he could without giving himself away, he found a corner that would be well concealed in shadows when the door to the hall was opened. He’d wait until Lhasha was inside before springing out—hopefully a good scare would make her change her mind about a bodyguard at the foot of her bed.
The door was opened slowly, cautiously. Three silhouettes crept in, the last closing and locking the door behind them. The light from the hall had illuminated the intruders for a brief second before the door shut. Three men, their faces covered by violet cloths wrapped tight around their skulls. Purple Mask assassins.
Corin remained motionless, cursing himself for being unarmed. A stupid breach of protocol … a White Shield was trained to always carry a weapon, whether on duty or not.
Some of Lhasha’s cavalier attitude must have rubbed off on him.
The men stood still, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the blackness of the room. Corin’s only advantage was the fact that his eyes had already adjusted to the dark, it would take a couple minutes before his opponents would be able to pierce the dark well enough to see him in the deep shadows. He moved fast, hoping the gloom could compensate for his lack of a weapon.
He struck with lethal precision, bracing his stump against the back of one man’s neck and wrapping his other arm around his target’s forehead. One sharp pull and the man’s neck broke with a barely audible crack of vertebrae.
As the body slumped to the floor, Corin yanked the short blade from the inert grasp of his first victim. The other two assassins struck out with their own daggers, zeroing in on Corin’s location through the sounds of the kill. Their blows were uncannily accurate, knives slicing the air in a pattern designed to disembowel their unseen foe.
Corin had thrown himself clear, rolling in a backward somersault across Lhasha’s bed and landing on his feet on the other side, placing the canopied mattress between himself and his attackers. The would be assassins paused, heads tilted at odd angles as they tried to sense Corin’s new location.
The aggressive stance his opponents now assumed did not resemble men facing an unknown, unseen enemy. Somehow they knew where he was … they could feel him. Corin had heard stories of warriors who were able to do battle even in the dead of a moonless night, sensing their opponents only through sound and motion. Blind fighting, it was called. Obviously the stories were true.
Corin hefted the assassin’s dagger, trying to get a feel for its weight and balance. He was used to handling a sword, and the tiny blade felt awkward in his hand. There was no sense of substance. It was too small to parry an incoming attack, too short to strike a killing blow without getting in very close, closer than Corin wanted to get.
He studied the shadowy forms of the men across the bed from him, focusing on the way they held their knives out in front of them, moving the blades in slow side to side circles. There was no hint of the awkwardness Corin felt while wielding the unfamiliar weapon.
Corin briefly considered calling for help, but decided against it. His enemies had a vague sense of where he was, and if he closed to engage them their sightless fighting ability would enable them to meet his attack. If he stayed silent and motionless, they still would have trouble locating him precisely. Calling for help would give his exact position away, and for all he knew the knives were balanced for throwing. So Corin kept quiet, and still.
If Corin waited too long, the Masks’ own eyes would adjust enough for them to make him out in the darkness. It was time to act. He dropped flat to the floor behind the bed. Even as Corin’s body struck the hardwood he heard the thunk of a dagger plunging into the wall above him. One of his foes had keyed in on Corin’s movement, and with a flick of the wrist had launched a nearly fatal strike.
Corin used the momentum of his fall to roll under the bed in one smooth motion. An attacker dived across the top of the mattress and landed on the other side, throwing himself toward the sound of his foe in an effort to get in close enough to use his dagger. Corin’s stump swept out from beneath the bed and knocked the Mask’s feet out from under him. As the assassin hit the floor, Corin lashed out from his hiding spot with the knife, burying it deep in the man’s side. He felt the blade penetrate the chest wall, slicing through the tough tissue between the ribs. Corin twisted the blade and drove it in farther. The muffled screams of the man told Corin he had punctured a lung, and the warm, sticky fluid spurting out from the wound meant he was sure to die soon.
From his spot beneath the bed, Corin saw the feet of the final assassin land on the floor just beyond the dying body of his companion. Drawn by the sound of his partner’s death throes, the final man had leaped across the mattress to finish Corin off. Leaving the knife embedded to the hilt in the dying Mask’s torso, Corin rolled out the other side of the mattress, toward the door. He popped to his feet, only to stumble over the body of the man with the broken neck and fall to one knee. His enemy was on him before he could recover.
A bolt of pain shot through the length of Corin’s amputated arm as the assassin plunged the knife into his shoulder. Corin twisted away, dislodging the blade from the wound. He threw himself onto his back, bringing his feet up and kicking them out into the chest of his opponent before the killer could bring his blade to bear a second time.
The man stumbled back and crashed into the wall, but bounced off and leaped forward again. Corin rolled out of the way as the assassin’s blade sank into the floorboards mere inches from his head, sending splinters flying. Before the Mask could recover and strike a second time, Corin scrambled to his feet and across the mattress, out of range.
Corin seized the hilt of the dagger embedded in the wall and wrenched it free, then turned to meet the expected charge, driving the blade forward to impale his foe, but his enemy wasn’t there. The assassin stood in front of the door, his blade once again carving the tight little circles in the air before him.
“I can see you now. Your death is assured,” he said in a harsh whisper.
Corin knew it wasn’t an idle threat. Now that his enemy’s eyes had adjusted, Corin was overmatched. If he tried to throw the knife the Mask would see it coming and easily step aside. In hand to hand combat Corin wouldn’t stand a chance. Bleeding heavily from his wounded shoulder, he was already feeling woozy. He still wasn’t even sure of the proper way to hold the dagger in his hand, whereas the man across from him was obviously an expert with the weapon.
“Tell me where Lhasha is and I’ll try to make your death merciful and quick.”
Corin hesitated. The next words he spoke would likely be his last, he didn’t want to waste them.
Every warrior knows the margin between victory and defeat is no thicker than an archer’s bowstring. The element of surprise, opponents whose eyes haven’t yet adjusted to the darkness, a foe unfamiliar with the weapon he wields, such are the little things that can turn a battle. Even something as insignificant as the sound of a key at the door.
An assassin is always wary of discovery. In their profession they must be constantly aware of unexpected intrusions. Creaking floorboards, squeaking hinges, the click of a turning lock—these are the warning signs of discovery, and the assassin’s attention is instinctively drawn to them.
The warrior’s survival demands complete focus on the enemy before him. Every action of his foe must be accounted for and countered if the warrior is to survive.
As Lhasha turned the key to unlock her room the assassin’s attention was drawn, for the briefest of moments, to the door. Corin’s wasn’t. He saw his enemy’s distraction, and he took advantage. By the time assassin’s gaze had shifted back to Corin it was too late to evade the knife hurtling through the air. The assassin reali
zed the extent of his mistake as the blade buried itself in his throat; the last conscious thought he’d ever have.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lhasha let out a short yelp of surprise as she pushed open the door to her chambers. The light from the hall clearly illuminated the figure of a man just inside the door as he clutched feebly at a dagger protruding from his neck. Another man lay dead at his feet. The far end of the room was thick with shadows, but with her ability to see in the infrared spectrum of light—a by-product of her elf heritage—she could make out the form of someone standing on the far side of the bed, clutching his arm. She nearly bolted, then noticed that the person still standing had only one hand.
“I told you you needed a bodyguard in your room,” Corin said.
Lhasha was already over the initial shock. These weren’t the first dead bodies she had seen, though she wasn’t used to seeing them in her bedroom.
“Are you hurt?” she asked, her heat sensitive vision picking up a trail of warmth running down Corin’s arm. “You’re bleeding.”
Corin shrugged.
“It’s not too bad. I just need to keep my hand on it.”
Lhasha stepped in and quickly closed the door behind her. Fortunately most of the patrons were in the bar downstairs, so no one had responded to her little scream. With the door shut the room was plunged into near total darkness, and she was forced to rely on her innate ability to see the heat emanating from objects and creatures as she made her way to the oil lamp on the table. She struck the wick with her tinderbox and was momentarily blinded by the heat that sprang up from the lantern as her eyes made the switch back to viewing in the visible spectrum of light.
“There’s another one behind the bed,” Corin said by way of warning. “Pretty messy. You might not want to look.”
Lhasha almost took a peek just to prove she wasn’t squeamish, then reconsidered. The corpses in the doorway had more than filled her daily gore requirement. She patted the bed.
Temple Hill Page 9
