by Logan Jacobs
Unless they worked for haggish barkeeps, that is.
“Oy, where you going, boy?” the bar woman squawked after me. “Shift’s barely begun!”
I halted in my tracks, and when I turned around, I kept my gaze submissively dropped.
“I-I’m just getting into work, actually,” I said, but it wasn’t my voice I heard. It was the voice of the kitchen boy. “Woke up late is all.”
“What, again?” she scoffed. “Get your ass into that kitchen before I--”
“Aye, miss,” I quickly agreed, and I made sure to shift my weight as if I were intimidated by the hag. “I was just putting my things up, and then I’ll be in.”
“You better have your hide back down here in less than one minute,” the barkeep snarled. “Or else I’ll drag you down here by your ankles and broil you with the hog!”
I feigned a frantic bow, and I even tripped over my gangly ankles just enough to draw a snort of disdain from the yellow-eyed barkeep. Then I dashed for the stairwell of the turret, and the moment I was out of sight, I straightened my posture again and smoothly ascended the stony stairwell.
The turret was dim and cold, with nearly burnt-out torches lighting the way all the way up. Sporadic doors that led to the corridors of rooms shot out in every angle, but I continued upwards until I finally reached the top. Because my frame was ganglier, I found myself tired by the time I reached the landing, and my chest rose and fell rapidly as I tried to regain my breath.
But just as I reached for the furthest door on the landing and grabbed the iron latch, another door to the right of me flew open. Suddenly, I stood face-to-face with a housekeeper.
Well, what I assumed was a housekeeper from the similar uniform, the broom she carried in her hand, and the surprised expression on her face.
“Loriet!” the rosy-cheeked woman boomed.
I let go of the door latch and hid my two-toned gaze toward the floorboards, but I tried not to be dismissive of the woman that could have potentially caught me red-handed.
I was so close to my post, and I was running out of time.
The woman began to sweep a small corridor I hadn’t even noticed when I first approached the door, and she spoke to me in a much gentler tone than the barkeep had.
“What are you doing way up here?” she probed. “I thought you were meant to be in the kitchen today.”
“You know me,” I chuckled.
Though not even I knew this version of me, but luckily, the bet paid off.
The housekeeper echoed my snicker in agreement.
“Too right,” she chortled in her husky voice. “If I was placed in that kitchen for the day, then I would want to hide for a bit of quiet, too.”
She continued to sweep the landing, but she encroached on my space as she waited for my response, and my pulse quickened.
The other hindrance I’d found with being a mirror mage was that I could only mirror into the last person I touched, and if I was already morphed, then I would automatically change into that new person. Because of this, I was desperate to not make contact with her.
“I was only hoping for a five-minute break,” I told the woman as I pushed myself against the cobblestoned wall and waited for her to sweep past me.
“Don’t worry, love,” she tittered. “I won’t let that viper of a woman know you’re up here. A few hours, and she’ll have gone home, anyway.”
“Are you heading down?” I prompted her.
“Ah, yes.” The housekeeper nodded and started on the step. “Don’t be too long now, otherwise we’ll all get it in the neck.”
“Of course, I won’t be long,” I agreed with a forced laugh, and I shuffled back to the door and placed my hand firmly on the iron latch.
I waited until her footsteps grew more distant, then I swung the door open and firmly shut it behind me. I had found myself in the turret storage room, the exact area where I’d planned. Through panting breaths, I reached to the bottom of my trousers and ripped off both frayed cuffs, and I swiftly set about securing them into one long piece of fabric.
Once I had what I needed, I began to wrap the fabric around the latch. I pushed one side through the hole and pulled it as tight as I could. I then weaved the rest of the clothing through the crevice of the door, around the iron arm, and wrapped it until the black metal was covered with the fabric. I followed the rest of the broken off uniform back through the limiter and tugged it to the back plate where I finally tied it off. Then I tested the door by tugging it a few times and was satisfied that no one could get in here unless I allowed them to.
Hopefully, no one accessed this turret too often.
I quickly unhitched my crossbow, brought my weapon around from under my cloak, and dropped my satchel on the floor to retrieve two bolts. I touched the tip of the arrowhead to test the sharpness, and then I crossed the dusty storage room and climbed up a rickety ladder against the wall. The rooftop entrance was directly above, and I gave the wooden planks a firm shove just before the light of day poured in along with a strung gust of wind.
The turret top was enclosed by stone crenelations, and I positioned myself near the edge of the roof and filtered my eyes through the crowd below me, until finally I got eyes on the location where the Lord had last been seen. I then followed the path to the Lord’s House, and I noticed his silhouette already grounded within the window of the Union walls some sixty yards or so across the street.
He was not difficult to distinguish considering his hardened features and hooked nose.
The Union building was made of stone and slightly mottled glass, and the torchlight filtered through the panes, leaving his shadow on full display. He stood next to another darkened figure, though I couldn’t tell who it was that he was talking to.
I watched as his hands flailed as he spoke, and I counted down the minutes until he would eventually have to leave. It was any second now, and I couldn’t afford to take my eyes off him now.
Time slowed down as I anticipated the lord’s next movements. He grew larger then smaller behind the mottled window, and then he lit a cigar. I watched as the amber hue burned the front of the filler and throbbed red before dimming to black again. With each puff, the underneath of his hooked nose glowed above his mouth.
He didn’t even know those few puffs he took before stumping it out would be his last, but it hardly mattered. He indulged like a glutton either way, and I smirked at the smug pucker of his features while he let a whole cloud of smoke waft over his companion without a thought.
My borrowed, wiry hair billowed in the wind as I waited for Lord Emory to exit the Union, and eventually he did. To my delight he was the only one to leave, and as he waltzed out alone, he slammed the door behind him like he owned the place.
The lord had a huge grin on his face as he sauntered down the road before suddenly disappearing behind some other stalls, but I knew his trajectory would put him right at the threshold of a market delivery point in under a minute.
I cocked my neck up and then shot my chin out. It was time. I just had to wait for him to walk out from behind the stalls and wagons and into the open street.
I angled the crossbow close to my chest and allowed myself to listen to my heart rise and fall. It was imperative that I was in tune with myself and my actions, otherwise, anything could cost me my success. The crosswind was strong from the west up here, three carts were set to cross within my target range, and all the sounds of the bustling town echoed off the stone buildings around me.
Still, I focused on the steady thrumming of my heart as all of this failed to rattle me, and I double-checked my shooting position while I straightened my posture.
“Angle, and pull,” I whispered to myself like a mantra, and locked my bowstring back so I could load my bolt.
Then I heard clomping steps echoing up the stony stairwell below, and I froze with my fingers still poised on the loaded bolt.
I held my breath and waited for the sounds to disperse as whoever was mounting the stairs entered their
sleeping quarters. Instead, the footsteps grew louder, and it sounded like they belonged to a man.
Or the large, angry barkeep who’d had her yellow eyes on me.
I had no choice but to trust that I had jammed the door closed with the fabric tight enough. At this point, I was seconds from missing my shot, and I let out a slight huff and swiftly braced the stock of the crossbow against my shoulder.
Then Lord Emory continued his walk out from behind a stall, and I took aim as I let out a long, steady breath.
“Three, two,” I uttered to myself as I rested my finger taut against the trigger. “One!”
The bolt ripped from the bow and cut through the air with ease and accuracy as it plummeted toward my target, which was the heart of the lord. With one swift strike through his ribs, the man was thrown backward to the ground, and the only thing left of him was his wine-red suit and his legacy.
I watched as the subtle steam of his soul exiting his body gently fluttered into the air, and then his inky red blood spilled out of the small incision in his chest where my bolt protruded. His face drained of color the longer his soul siphoned from him, and a few seconds later, he was only the shell of himself with his binder’s pages rolling away in the breeze.
I didn’t linger any longer than that. I quickly stowed my bow on my back and headed for the ladder again. Then I let myself slide down into the storage room with my boots braced on either side of the ladder, and as soon as I shifted my satchel onto my back, I pried the fabric loose from the latch.
When I came out onto the landing, I was relieved to hear the heavy footfalls were shuffling around behind an inn door by now. I slowly shut the turret door behind me, careful not to raise suspicion, and began my descent. With the unloaded crossbow stowed once more under my traveling cloak, I swiftly jogged down the turret steps, and when I reached the lower landing, I hid in the shadows of the stairwell and scoped out the scene in front of me.
The young warlocks still waltzed between the curtains, and still with mugs in hand, though this time, a few held small, tied sacks in their hands as well, which I could only assume they had just gone out and bought from the nearest stalls. One of the warlocks walked to the bar with a snobby saunter while the others egged him on to pay for another round. He got the attention of the bar woman, and I took that as my cue to get out of there.
In seconds flat, I was ducking through the entrance curtains of the building, but then I accidently bumped arms with a passing man.
“Pardon,” he grumbled without glancing at me, but the backs of our hands had already grazed one another.
“No problem,” I called back, and I kept my head down as I felt my features already shifting to match his own.
It didn’t matter, though. I kept walking until I was hidden along the side of the building again, and I listened to the crowds of locals as I tore my waiter’s garb off and swapped it for my own.
Then I relaxed the tense muscles in my shoulders as my skin began to prickle, and I let my form shift. I clicked my neck and began to feel for my familiar frame, and my muscles started to swell under my shirt while my forearms began to bulge. My jaw widened as I gained several inches in height, and as I felt my wiry hair turn soft and shaggy again, a grin came to my face.
My own face.
I was Dex Morgan again.
The crowds in the streets were hollering and gathering near the dead body of a lord when I left the alleyway behind the inn, and I spared the scene half a glance before I turned on my heels.
Then I headed in the opposite direction with a satchel on my back, and a crossbow stowed beneath my cloak.
Chapter 2
I followed the ambling beings of the street back toward the town centre, and since I had some time to kill this morning, I thought I’d see if anything piqued my interest enough to buy.
I loved the town centre, even though it was not the center of the land at all. Placed slightly south on the kingdom’s map, it was where all the traders came to bargain their goods off for scraps of gold, but it wasn’t the only place a person could barter in Ocadia.
Many years ago, the king told the landfolk that only non-magical goods and trades could be sold off in such a close proximity to the castle, which caused many vendors to set up markets elsewhere. Some nearby shopkeepers were allowed to sell magically enhanced fruits and vegetables, though, after managing to convince the king there was no harm in it, and this allowance stood as long as they sold nothing that changed the chemical balance of the mind.
There was a different marketplace far from the castle for that sort of thing, and another for dark magical ingredients, and there was even a market where the patrons could purchase the temporary use of a whole being, whether it be a nymph for the night or a necromancer’s hand. Then there was the industry area in the far south of the city, right where the forest seeped into the stream that trailed around Ocadia. This area was for the artificers, blacksmiths, arcane solderers, glass blowers, and any kind of work that let off a thick, heavy smoke into the sky.
Personally, I preferred to stroll around the stalls in the town centre, mostly because they were simple. The same vendors had sold their products in the same stalls they always had over here, and I was a simple man who could appreciate consistency.
I forked off from the main crowd that had swallowed me up outside the inn, and I headed toward a less busy street on my right. Luckily, I was back in my natural form, so if I bumped into someone, I could easily avoid another morph. It was only when I was already in disguise that I had to be extremely careful.
The Kingdom of Ocadia was a generally happy one, and today proved it. The sun beat down on the grasslands in the north, and the people travelled happily to their chosen destination without a care in the world.
I walked along through the bustling lane until I found myself at my favorite stall. It sold human-reared lychees with limp spikes that shot out of their shells and hung over the basket they sat in. Jackfruits with hardened, textured surfaces were piled in the next basket, and right beside them, a stock of freshly picked peaches reflected the morning sun. My interest laid with the tampered produce, though.
The magical ones.
They weren’t items that healed or hurt. Instead, they held flavors that were incomparable to anything I had ever tasted from the other stalls in the area.
“Just a honeybuddle,” I said to Eroven, the wizard who fostered the fruit.
I had never done a job for the man, not that he would even recognize me if I had, but he knew me from when I was a young lad. Back then, I used to spend a lot of time prancing around the kingdom and getting into some kind of trouble, but this stall was where I always went to regain my energy.
By now, Eroven had aged. His skin had grown sunspots, and his hair had gone silver and balded at the crown. In his nature, though, he was just as young as the day I met him, and every time I saw his face, it was like I was no longer the man who made murder his business. I was simply the little orphan kid who liked the vibrant fruit in his stall.
Eroven offered a pleasant nod of the head in greeting before he reached down and pulled out an item that bloomed with large, acidically pink, circular petals. Then he carefully placed the honeybuddle into a cotton bag, and I gave him some coins in exchange for the fruit.
“Anything else, Dex?” Eroven asked me and pointed at a deep blue bubble. “This one, perhaps?”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Screwbler,” he announced as if I was supposed to know what that was.
I raised my eyebrows and motioned for him to continue.
Eroven picked up the transparent, blue-tinted bubble with his fingertips and carefully placed it in a box before handing it to me. The item looked so fragile, like it could pop any minute, and I took the box and held it tentatively in my hand while I stooped to inspect the screwbler closer.
“It’s sturdier than it looks,” the wizard chuckled. “It’s a new recipe. A mixture of daydreams, blueberries, and stardust.”
&nb
sp; “Hmm.” I nodded to show I heard him, but I was completely entranced by the thing.
“It’s not too mind-altering, of course,” he assured me. “Why don’t you just try it and see? Just eat it when you are near a place where you can lie down afterward.”
“Oh, I don’t--” I started, and I moved to pass the item back to the vendor, but he held both his hands up and shook his head.
His jowls jiggled with the movement, and he frowned.
“On the house,” Eroven insisted. “You’re one of my best customers, you know.”
“Well, thanks,” I laughed, and I closed up the package with the screwbler safely tucked inside.
“Anytime, Dex,” the wizard said. “It’s only fair that a regular like yourself gets the first taste test.”
“I’ll let you know how it tastes,” I humored him. “It looks incredible.”
“It does,” he agreed in a confident tone.
I bowed my head as a farewell, carefully held the box in my hand with my bagged honeybuddle, and headed off toward the rest of the stalls. I nodded a few greetings to merchants I recognized along the way, and I was pleased to see only half of them recognized my true face in return.
Most of the ones who knew me were actually quite valuable to my estate. They kept a watchful eye on the town centre and were always willing to give us any information I required, but I never conversed with these men and women without a different face replacing my own.
This meant none of them could point me out in a crowd, and none of them knew I was really one of the top assassins within my estate. The news of my dealings would make its way through the marketplaces whenever barons, dukes, elves, or all else were found dead in their homes or in the streets, and while I heard all the gossip in passing, no one looked my way.
Least of all my local intel.
The few residents of the kingdom who had known me during my training as a boy, or had seen me grow from an orphan to an unknown killer, especially liked it this way. They behaved as if their insider knowledge placed them above the rest, and they’d chuckle quietly to themselves whenever they saw my two-toned eyes on another man’s face. Then they’d turn a blind eye while I gathered the information I needed throughout town, and when news of another inexplicable death drifted through the streets, they were the first to praise the work with a hearty “good riddance. I hope it was the kid who did it.”
