by Ben Galley
Beren sniffed. ‘Thief,’ he stated.
Farden shook his head. ‘No. Much worse.’
‘I…’ Beren looked as though he was about to back away, but he stayed put. ‘And you do this… for a living?’
‘Wouldn’t call it a living.’
It was hard to tell behind his scarf, but Farden guessed the leper was unimpressed, grimacing. ‘You may not be a leper like me, but something’s still eating away at you,’ he said.
‘Mhm,’ Farden hummed, unwilling to give that a response. Beren shrugged. He’d tried. With a little sigh, he turned and walked away, heading straight for the main entrance.
Farden lifted an eye to watch him go. ‘Good luck, Beren,’ he mumbled.
Beren didn’t respond, but he had heard. His ears still worked just fine.
Farden followed in the shadows behind. Successful or not, the leper would be a distraction at the very least, and he could use that to his advantage… Farden bit his lip, feeling the little sting of guilt for thinking in such a way. But it was cold, iron fact, he told himself, and he kept moving.
The streets surrounding the keep were narrow, and irritatingly well lit. They were noisy too. As night had only just fallen, there were plenty of people wandering the streets; rich folk in their finery, heading to dinner, or home, or, if they were lucky, to whatever banquet the Duke was holding that eve. Farden worked a jagged path around to the eastern side of the keep, lurking in doorways or alleys. When he couldn’t hide, he simply crouched down with his hands out, muttering about alms. It worked a treat. The people hurried past, ignoring him, save for the occasional gob of spit on his cloak, or in his hands. But no shouts. No calls for guards.
Farden could hear shouting coming from the keep entrance now, only a street or so away. A shrill squeal of a woman rang out. He quickened his pace.
Whatever it was, by the time he reached the corner of the keep, between his balcony and the main entrance, the number of guards had doubled, and there was a throng of agitated nobles clustered together, clutching each other. They were all trying to get a glimpse of something inside the keep, but the guards were holding them back.
‘Keep back there!’
‘Be still, lady!’
‘Oi! No pushing!’
‘He’s a leper! You wanna get sick, do yer?’
Beren had been a distraction after all. Farden quickly stepped into the bright street and put his back to the crowd. A throng of people rushed past him. Even a guard or two. They barely noticed him. Perfect.
A few minutes later, the mage was crouching by a barrel of rainwater. In front of him was the eastern wall of the keep. A sheer construction, slimy with age, with no doors or windows at street level, just one lone balcony hovering about thirty feet above him. A single torch sat on its railing. The door behind it was closed, and its little window dark. Perfect indeed.
Farden leant out into the street and cupped his ear. He could still hear the muted rattle of a commotion, tumbling through the streets. It was quiet here, between the low buildings and dark, grand houses. Distractions were wonderful things. Nobody noticed a double-sided hook, painted black with soot, soar upward into the air. Nobody heard the thud of its padded spikes as it caught the stone railing of the balcony. Nobody saw a cloaked figure run up the wall and haul himself up the skinny rope.
The mage dragged himself over the railing and crouched behind the door. His breathing came in heavy slurps. His head pounded like a blacksmith’s forge with the effort of the climb. His arms burnt. Farden grit his teeth. He had never felt this weak before.
When the feeling had passed, he staggered to his feet, coiling up the rope and its hook. He left it on the balcony, just in case, and then went to try the door. Unbelievably, it was open. Farden had to keep from laughing. Whomever owned this room obviously hadn’t expected any intruders to be so bold, or so stupid. Farden gently pushed it open, wincing with every little creak and whine the hinges made, and slipped into the dark room.
He let the glow of the city light his path while his eyes adjusted. The room was empty. There was a large bed on his left. A wardrobe on his right. Somebody had laid out an outfit on the bed. Farden frowned at it. A gaudy pair of stockings with matching pointy shoes, a tartan tunic, and a jacket with ripped sleeves to show the silk lining. Fashion, he thought, a practice of the vacuous, the time-rich, a notion for the pyre. Farden barely resisted hawking a great glob of spit on the display. That would have made a nice accessory at the banquet.
Farden was reaching for the doorknob when it suddenly began to turn. The door sprang open and the mage was abruptly confronted by a portly man wearing naught but a towel and a very confused expression. Farden’s reactions snapped into life. Without hesitation, he grabbed the man by the throat, choking the shout that was about to escape, and dragged him into the room. Bang! He kicked the door shut with the toe of his boot. Thwack! Farden slammed the man onto the floor with both hands.
‘Where is the Duke?’ he hissed.
‘Gurgh!’ choked his victim.
‘Come again?’ he snapped, releasing his grip on the man’s neck ever so slightly.
‘B…banquet hall!’
‘Thank you,’ said the mage. He grabbed the man by his hair, lifted him up by it, and then slammed him back down, cracking his head neatly against the stone of the floor. The man went as limp as a sock. Farden knelt down and held a hand over his chest. His heart fluttered weakly, but it fluttered all the same. Farden shrugged and pushed the fat, naked man under the bed, using his own towel to wipe the little streak of blood from the stone, lest any maid come to check on her master. His head was pounding once again. All this excitement, he cursed.
Farden tentatively reached for the doorknob for a second time. He turned it slowly, pulled, and a shaft of yellow light fell in to pierce the darkness. He pressed his eye to the crack and spied a well-lit corridor beyond. Two women in long dresses floated past, nattering softly to each other. There was a guard standing by a window at the far end of the corridor. The mage wrinkled his nose. This wasn’t going to be easy.
Farden leant away from the door and rubbed his stubbled chin in thought. Out of the corner of his eye he spied his reflection standing in a thin mirror beside the wardrobe. The mage leant into the shaft of light spilling through the open door. He grimaced at the sight of himself. If he were a guard, he would have speared the mage on the spot, no questions muttered. Everything about him screamed trespasser. Intruder. Deadly. Halt! Farden let his head loll to the side, looking at the outfit splayed across the bed. He took a deep breath. Very well, he told himself, trying his very best to think of the large sack of gold waiting for him back in Castle Tayn.
No more than a minute later, Farden was standing in the corridor, dressed from head to toe in his stolen finery, and feeling very uncomfortable indeed. He pulled his tunic down for the tenth time and made sure his knives weren’t showing. His tights itched. His shoes bit. The jacket smelled of flowers and scented oils, and his tartan tunic was too small. The man hadn’t just been portly, but he was short too, and the mage, being a hint over six foot, barely squeezed into his clothes. The Albion fashion of long, flowing sleeves was his only blessing; they hid his vambraces perfectly. With a sigh, Farden combed his long, sweaty hair to one side, tried on a polite smile, and walked confidently towards the guard at the end of the corridor.
The sound of his shoes on the carpet thudded out a death march. One, two, three, closer and closer he got to the guard. Farden stretched his smile to the very limits of his jaws, fingers tightly clasped behind his back. Shoulders back. Toes pointed. He smiled and he smiled and he…
‘Good evening, sir,’ said the guard, bowing low and waving him past.
‘Evening!’ Farden cried, a little over-enthusiastically. He tried to smile even harder, but ended up grimacing, so he nodded and hurried on down the corridor, trying to keep his pace slow and calm. He barely managed.
Silence. He had begun to notice it, hanging in the corridors and doo
rways like a low, heavy mist. Where was the music? The clattering sounds of banqueting? The whooping and drunken braying of the dancers? Save for the shuffling of his feet, all was quiet in the corridors.
He soon found out why.
Farden turned a corner and came to an archway leading out onto a balcony. The light and smell and warmth of a crowded hall washed over him as he left the corridor to lean over the railings. Spread out below him was a circle of tables holding a feast that would have made a beggar cry. Nobody seemed to be eating, just staring. Farden followed their gazes to a man in rags, lying on his stomach near the entrance. Specks of blood surrounded him. A trio of guards held their spears, at arm’s length, to his neck, where a scarf had been tightly wrapped. Beren. The poor leper had his hands and feet bound by rope. His chest heaved slowly. There was a crowd of nobles and guests standing in a crescent around him. Nobody wanted to get too close. A large man in a purple robe was pacing up and down before him. Wodehallow. Farden leant further forward. His voice was a low rumble to the mage’s ears.
Wodehallow. He had aged badly. The paintbrush of time had daubed his face with liver spots and burst purple blood vessels. His hands were clasped across his ample belly. His grey hair had been waxed and combed sideways over his head to hide the growing bald spot that was threatening to usurp his hoary tresses. Even from that distance, Farden could see the skin of his hands were like parchment, flaked like pastry. And yet still he wore that guileful, inimical little smirk that the mage could recall from their last meeting, so long ago. His nevermar had stolen most of his memories, burnt them to ash, but that he remembered.
Farden thought of the slaves in the canal. He thought of the children digging for clay. He thought of the beggars rummaging through bins. He thought of the stench of the factories several walls and a window away. He sniffed the air and tasted fat-drenched geese and sweet wine and sugar icing wafting around the hall. He watched the ladies and men in their finery shrug and go back to their dancing. He listened to the bards and skalds as they picked up their instruments as if nothing had interrupted them. He watched Beren as he was dragged away by the rope around his legs. Farden’s hand strayed to the knife hiding under his tunic. This blade might actually do some good tonight, he thought.
The mage crouched down behind a large emerald flag that had been draped over the railing and loosened his belt so he could quickly snatch at his knives. He had left the sword with his clothes in the room. It was too bulky to hide under anything but a cloak. Farden rubbed his forehead, cursing his headache. It still hammered away at his poor brain. His thoughts were a bruised mess. He clamped his eyes shut, clamped his teeth, and did his best to stifle them.
When he opened his eyes he found an elderly woman with a knot of dark hair standing over him. Her arms were crossed. There was a stern expression pasted across her painted, powdered features. Farden jumped to his feet and adjusted his tight clothes, trying to smile. She pursed her red lips.
‘Madam.’
‘Tsk. You men are all the same. Why don’t you just go to bed if you can’t handle your drink, hmm?’ she berated.
Farden feigned a sheepish look and shrugged. ‘Just a headache, madam.’
The woman rolled her eyes. ‘Sure it is,’ she tutted, beginning to walk away. ‘The feast has barely begun and we’re already knee-deep in drunks and lepers.’
Farden cleared his throat and combed his hair back into place. He hoped his dishevelled, scarred face wouldn’t attract too much attention. No doubt, in this crowd, he was a new face, and an unsightly one at that. He would have to do this quickly, before anybody became curious enough to challenge him. Farden peeked over the railing and saw the Duke sitting at the apex of the circle of tables, surrounded by his lords and nobles. His fawners. A burly guard with a green cape emblazoned with the crest of Wodehallow, a trio of boars on a harlequin platter, pushed his way between the guests and leant to whisper in the fat Duke’s ear. Wodehallow nodded along to the secret words, and then excused himself from the table. High on the balcony, the mage began to move. He could sense an opportunity. It was time.
As Wodehallow rose from his chair and swaggered through the clumps of people swigging wine and chin-wagging, a pair of gaudy shoes padded swiftly down the oak stairs of the balcony and onto the granite flagstones of the hall. The Duke paused briefly to take a goblet of wine from a passing servant. A woman, barely more than a girl, moved past him, a fair hand lingering on his arm. She whispered something in his ear and he chortled, flicking wine on her neck and chest. She giggled and melted back into the crowd. Wodehallow swaggered towards a door at the back of the hall. A door flanked by guards.
Wodehallow reached the door. Farden was barely a few yards behind and swiftly closing in, weaving his way through the minglers and drunkards like a pickpocket. If this kill was to be public, then so be it. He would fight his way out, magick or no magick. He had done it before. Farden’s narrowed eyes burnt into the back of the Duke’s skull. His head throbbed with the music and the laughter in the hall, but he ignored it all. His sweating fingers throttled the handle of his hidden blade.
The Duke paused momentarily at the door. He laid a chubby hand on its handle while he muttered something to the pair of guards. The mage seized his moment. He surged forward, pushing his way through a gaggle of guests like a river punching through a weak dam. A woman squealed as she was shoved aside, making the guards at the door look up. Wodehallow turned, and saw death staring back at him. Death in the face and hands of a bedraggled, long-haired man in an ill-fitting outfit. His face was like steel, harder than the blade flashing in his hand. Wodehallow’s flushed cheeks ran a horrified shade of white.
‘Guards!’ he managed to gasp, before pushing through the door and hurtling into the dark room beyond. Farden leapt after him, snarling. The guards brought down their spears, but Farden was already too close for comfort. A knife slammed into the eye-socket of the first. A fist ploughed into the groin of the second. Both men crumpled to the floor, one dead, one wheezing. Farden’s head exploded with pain after the sudden, jerking movement, but he grit his teeth and ran on, dashing through the doorway and slamming it shut behind him. He was plunged into gloom. He felt for a bolt and found a wooden bar instead. It thudded as he rammed it down into its iron cradle. Farden turned around, and another knife snaked out from under his tunic, hungry for blood like its twin.
The room was musty, low-ceilinged, and dark, lit only by a single candle on the far wall. It was also a dead end. There were no windows, and no doors save for the one at his back. As fists began to pound on it, Farden took a step forward and scoured the shadows for his prey. It didn’t take him very long to find it. There, at the far end of the room, lit by the wobbling light of the lone flame, Wodehallow was cowering behind a crate of cabbages.
Farden couldn’t help but grin. This was all too easy.
Wait… his pounding brain shouted.
All too late. Something painfully hard and thoroughly heavy struck him square in the back of the skull, sending a shower of sparks surging through his eyes. Farden crumpled to the floor. The pain left him breathless. He gasped against the cold stone of the floor. It pushed against his cheek, urging him to get up. He lifted his hands and began to push, but a blunt object prodded him hard in the back of his neck. He slumped to the stone again. A line of blood began to wander down his forehead.
‘The Fiend never misses!’ somebody chuckled.
‘That it don’t, Forluss, that it don’t,’ a high-pitched voice replied. Kint. It was unmistakeable. Farden groaned with pain and frustration. Somebody crouched beside him. He could feel their breath in his ear, slippery like the blood that was beginning to fill it. The toe of a black boot rocked onto his left hand and pressed down. Farden winced. ‘What have you gotten yourself into now, Four-Hand?’ Kint again.
The mage didn’t reply. His head swam with questions and skull-splitting pain. He twisted his head to watch Wodehallow rise from his hiding spot and waddle closer. ‘A fine job, y
ou two,’ he gloated. Kint and Fat Forluss quickly bowed. They were wearing chainmail and leather, with surcoats emblazoned with the cat and daggers over the top.
‘Thank you, yer Duke.’
‘Thank’ee, lord,’ they chimed.
Wodehallow folded his arms across his fat belly. ‘Roll him over so I can see his treacherous face,’ he ordered.
Two pairs of hands grabbed Farden by his collar and turned him over. Farden tried to struggle but he quickly found the sharp edge of The Fiend pressing against his windpipe. Broken glass on rough skin. The mage tried to glare at Forluss but just felt nauseous instead. He wanted to vomit.
The upside-down face of Duke Wodehallow came into view, and an upside-down smirk as well. ‘I recognise you,’ he mused. ‘But why?’
‘Never forget a face, yer lordship?’ asked Kint, swaggering about behind Forluss, gathering rope and other things.
‘Never in a hundred years. It pays for a man of my position to recall every fellow you deal with, especially one as dangerous as this.’
‘Dangerous, is he?’ Forluss couldn’t help but chuckle, that low, burly grunting.
Wodehallow leant closer. He peered into the mage’s glazed eyes. ‘Indeed. This man isn’t just your average assassin. I wonder where young Duke Leath found you then, hmm?’ Wodehallow stood straight and kicked Farden viciously in the ribs with the pointy toe of his silk shoe. Farden coughed and spluttered. ‘Kiltyrin was right after all, what a vicious card that plucky young bastard Leath has been hiding up his sleeve. And barely off his mother’s tit too. Little shite.’ Wodehallow had turned an angry beetroot. ‘Try to kill me, in my own house? My own city? We will have to teach him a lesson!’
‘That you will, sire,’ Kint nodded. As Wodehallow stamped towards the door, Kint threw back the thick oak bar and opened the door wide for him. Bright torchlight flooded the room, half-blinding Farden in the process. Outside, two lines of smug-faced guards waited patiently for him, as well as a crowd of curious men and women. The dead guard had already been cleared away. By his side, the Duke leant close to Kint so he could mutter in his notched ear. ‘Be sure to thank your Duke for his kind warning. And please inform him I will be travelling to Tayn very soon. He and I need to have a very long discussion about how to deal with Leath’s treachery!’
