by Brom Kearne
1
The Eggs and Buttercups Inn was especially crowded tonight as the people of Ninaine were celebrating the official first day of summer. The summer celebration was a tradition passed down from olden times, and though it had lost much of its original purpose, which was as a solemn entreaty for nature to grant beneficial conditions during the growing season, it now afforded the people of Ninaine an excuse to forget the worries of a town which based its entire living on the caprice of nature for their harvests. In other words, it was an excuse to party and blow off steam before the real work began. They had daily parades and nightly bonfires; they had plays of local folktales and legends; they had music; they had copious amounts of food and liberal amounts of drink, and everyone from the children to the elderly found something to do.
This year’s celebration was conducted under a certain amount of stress, more so than in previous years, and so was all the more raucous as people needed the excuse for a little fun and frivolity. The town of Ninaine, as many of the towns scattered across the Free Lands, had relied heavily on the L & D Shipping Company to distribute their goods to other towns and to the trade caravans that traversed the land. When the L & D Shipping Company collapsed overnight after its head was murdered this past spring, it left a sizable hole in the economy, as many towns suddenly found themselves without a reliable means of distribution. The people of Ninaine faced an uncertain harvest later this year. They had plenty of food in the ground; what they were going to do with it all remained to be seen.
This uncertainty would be dealt with when the time came, and if that meant it heralded hard times, then it was all the more important for the people of Ninaine to get their celebrating in now when they could, or at least that was the prevailing feeling. And while they eschewed the old rituals for rain and a productive growing season, they yet practiced some new rituals, most of which called for imbibing as much as possible, staying up long into the night in order to properly honor the moon, especially as many of the Ninainers were howling at it, and watering the ground in simulation of the desired summer storms.
Among the townspeople who had packed into the Eggs and Buttercups, or the E and B as the locals called it, was one individual who sat in the corner and did his best not to stick out too conspicuously, even though he only sipped at his drink, and cast nervous glances over his shoulder at every explosion of laughter or pop of a firecracker.
He was drinking the local grain alcohol because that’s what was being served, but it was clear he did not like it. The alcohol had flushed his face, and the capillary action over his cheeks and nose made him feel uncomfortably warm in the over-crowded pub. He was nervous enough as it was without the added discomfort.
He wore a simple and unadorned grey tunic buttoned to the neck, a costume which made him stand out especially among the cotton and denim wearing Ninainers. He excited a few whispers of curiosity, but for the most part everyone was content to give this odd little man his privacy. He sat at a table by himself in the corner and spun his glass between his fingers and started every time someone laughed sharply or bumped into the table.
A particularly loud explosion sent him to the window, knocking his glass over and spilling what was left of his drink. Outside, people were parading with paper suns and storm clouds with streamers simulating rain. He was only partially relieved to discover the explosion had been a firecracker, as people were detonating them along the parade route.
“This was a mistake,” he muttered under his breath as he peered outside. He pulled a small steel watch out of his pocket and checked the time.
“Waiting for someone?”
The voice came from his shoulder, causing the man to jump nearly out of his tunic.
He turned to find a man with a deep bronze complexion standing behind him. He had a wide square face, with a strong cleft chin and a thin mouth under a thin moustache. His black hair was slicked back and his brown eyes were deep and penetrating. He wore a maroon coat with a cream cravat, making him stand out among the simple farmers as much as the man in the grey tunic.
“You are Green, are you not?” the newcomer asked. He spoke in a slow drawl and his words were carefully formed by his white teeth and sharp, pointed tongue.
“Who are you?”
“Please, have a seat. Let me buy you another drink. You seem to have spilled yours.”
“I need to know who you are.”
The newcomer ignored him and waved for the barmaid. Green noticed that the left sleeve of the newcomer’s coat hung loosely and was tucked into his belt.
“What’s your oldest malt whiskey?” the newcomer asked.
He exuded charismatic charm, from the way he smiled to the way his eyes seemed to devour everything he looked at. The barmaid was visibly flushed as she said, “We have a ten year old blended malt. But it’s expensive.”
“Cost is no bother for me,” the newcomer said. “Bring us a couple glasses.”
“Of course, right away.” She cast a curious glance at Green, trying to decide what this odd little man had to do with this devilishly handsome and obviously wealthy newcomer before heading back to the bar. And she wasn’t the only one to show interest in them. Some of the other townspeople began whispering and pointing, wondering what these two strangely-dressed strangers were doing in their town.
“Are you my contact?” Green asked once they were alone again. He sat down opposite the newcomer. “I was told that I would be meeting several men from the trade caravan and that they would . . .”
“Be providing you with safe passage to Mount Abora? You can call me George, by the way,” he said, extending his hand across the table. He had a firm grip that left Green’s hand tingling.
George took out a slip of paper and a pouch of tobacco before expertly rolling a cigarette between his fingers. He only used the one hand. Green watched him nervously, and he had a difficult time taking his eyes from the empty sleeve hanging from George’s left shoulder.
“Bear got me,” George said flippantly as he placed the cigarette between his lips.
The barmaid returned and set their drinks on the table. She produced a light for George, who wrapped his arm around her waist as he leaned in close to ignite the tip. He exhaled a slow-moving cloud of smoke and slipped a wad of money into her apron. Then he patted her rear and said, “We’d like a bit of privacy, my dear.”
“Of course,” she said, her eyes going wide at the money he’d slipped her. She was itching to count how much was actually there, and after pulling some chairs from nearby to form a makeshift wall around them, disappeared behind the bar for just that purpose.
George closed his eyes as he sniffed the whiskey and took a sip. “Sometimes the finest things come from the roughest people,” he said.
Green’s glass remained untouched on the table before him. “I don’t like these people,” he said. “And I don’t trust you. I’m not used to how things are done out here. I was told to meet representatives from the trade caravan.”
“I am a representative from the trade caravan and I can guarantee you safe passage to Mount Abora,” George said. “Do you have it?”
Green didn’t answer, though from the nervous way that he looked around it was clear that he did.
“On you?” George pressed.
Green’s jaw clenched, once again giving away that the answer was yes. “I want to see some kind of identification.”
“Do you realize how extremely dangerous it is to walk around out here with something of that value on your person? Why, there are bandits and rascals all over the place that would be just itching to rob you.”
As they were talking George’s sharp eyes glanced up and became fixed on the door. Green looked over his shoulder and immediately saw what had drawn George’s attention through the crowd. Two men had just entered the Eggs and Buttercups. They were conspicuous for their size and for the body armor they wore under their clothing. Each of them carried a pulse rifle over his shoulder.
The Ninainers parted as they entered, sensing
danger in their midst but not entirely ready to leave off their celebration. The barmaid attempted to head them off as they made their way towards George and Green but they shoved her aside.
Green rose from his seat as they approached. George began rolling another cigarette.
“Green, you’re going to come with us,” one of them said. He was pointing his rifle at Green. The other, standing at his flank, was aiming at George.
“Who are you?” Green demanded.
“We are representatives of the Goldsmith Trade Family. We are here to see that you receive safe passage to Mount Abora. My name is Tim and this is Carter.”
Green looked from Tim’s face to the Goldsmith family crest on the breast of his shirt. Then he turned his gaze on George, who was inhaling from his newly-rolled cigarette.
“I thought George was to see me to Mount Abora.”
“George, is it?” Tim asked. “Is that the name he gave you? Green, this is Garrett Folke, one of the deadliest assassins in the Free Lands.”
Green’s eyes went wide as he looked back at the man who had called himself George. Garrett smiled, exposing a pointy white canine tooth between his thin lips.
“Now gentlemen, if there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s when another man impugns my good reputation. I am THE deadliest assassin in all the Free Lands.”
“Get behind me,” Tim ordered, although Green was, at this point, hesitant to move. He was scared and all of this was happening too quickly. He didn’t know whom to trust. “I said get behind me. And you: Alaric Goldsmith wishes to speak with you. Stand up and face the wall. Put your hands behind your head.”
Both rifles were pointed at Garrett as Tim had stepped between him and Green.
Garrett held up his right hand and nodded to the sleeve hanging limply from his left shoulder. “Believe me, gentlemen, I would love nothing more than to speak with Alaric Goldsmith, but I apologize for being unable to oblige your request. Besides, this right here is some of the best blended malt whiskey that I have ever passed over my tongue. It would be a shame to waste it.”
Garrett held Tim’s eyes as he lifted the glass to his lips. He tipped it back, allowing the caramel-colored liquid touched his lips. Then he let the glass fall and for a half a second both Tim’s and Carter’s eyes followed it.
Garrett was so fast that Tim barely registered the movement. He only realized what had happened when blood spewed onto his shoulder. He turned to find Carter gasping and clasping at a metal blade protruding from his neck. Tim’s finger closed around the trigger as he was turning back to Garrett. The slight delay was more than Garrett needed. He had produced another of the wicked little blades between his fingers and was kicking backwards from the table. Tim fired, but the shot went high as the table knocked him in the knees. The shot seared a hole in the wall which would later be framed and serve as the most talked-about tourist attraction in Ninaine, especially by those gawkers who were standing around watching the action tonight.
As Garrett kicked the table he rolled over backwards, coming to his feet in a crouching position. With another nearly imperceptible flick of his wrist he buried a blade in Tim’s carotid artery. Blood sprayed over the table as Tim dropped the rifle and clutched at his fatal wound. He slumped to his knees, and then he slumped over on his side.
Garrett smoothed down his hair and licked his fingers before running them over his moustache. He straightened his coat and his cravat and tucked his armless sleeve back into his belt. Firecrackers and shouts could be heard from outside but they seemed to be coming from miles away in the stunned silence of the pub.
Green was backing away from Garrett and tripped over the chairs that had been scattered during the altercation.
“Now, about that parcel you’re carrying,” Garrett said, advancing on him.
Green was shaking his head. “No,” he mouthed as he scrambled on all fours between the legs of the Ninainers.
Garrett produced another blade between his fingers as he stalked his prey. The Ninainers offered no resistance as he weaved between them.
Those who were here knew they were witnessing the makings of a local legend. They were burning the story into their memories for when they would be called upon to tell it later on, and already they were embellishing it in their minds, rehearsing how they would tell of looking death in the eye that night as the legendary assassin “Gentleman” Garrett Folke passed them by.
Green managed to scramble to the back of the pub, where he fell out the rear entrance. He was on his feet and running towards the crowded road not twenty feet away when a flick of Garrett’s wrist sent him tumbling forward into the dust. The blade had severed his hamstring.
Green turned over, holding his leg and leaving a trail of blood as he scooted backwards.
Garrett stood over him and snapped his fingers. “The Countess.”
With a shaking and bloody hand Green reached under his tunic to produce an oval object wrapped in cloth. Garrett snatched it from him.
His pupils dilated as he folded back the cloth. Even in the low light from the moon and the bonfires it dazzled, bathing his square face in prismatic colors. He rewrapped it and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket.
“You’ve got what you want, now please let me go,” Green pleaded.
Garrett produced another blade between his fingers. He frowned and shook his head. The blade flashed in the moonlight as it left his fingers.
