“Now your mark.”
This was difficult. Her eight fighting-knives and other blades were costly but could be replaced. But giving up her insignia meant giving up her identity. There would be no going back. She kept her face impassive as she scraped the blade across the skin of her bare arm, cutting away the spider emblem tattooed there. Gritting her teeth, she handed knife and the bloody flap of skin to the guard. Another rushed over and pressed a poultice to the wound, binding it tight with gauze. Katja looked into the eyes of the Mistress, who nodded approvingly.
“I admire your spirit, Katja. I always have. I advise you to fix your other tattoos as soon as possible.” Katja’s hands strayed to the spiderwebs etched around her eyes. Of course. Another trap she had laid for herself. She nodded.
The Mistress waved her away. “Now go. You have a year of grace. No Spiderkin will harm you. Good luck, Katja. I hope I never have cause to see you again.”
Katja was led from the torchlit chamber in silence, wondering just who she was now.
* * *
Katja took a deep breath, mentally shaking herself to banish the memories, then opened her eyes and stared hard across the table. “So you know I’ve had dealings with the Black Asps in the past, and that they went catastrophically. Why, then, are you asking me to do anything?”
She thought that her would-be client would chuckle, but he did not. Instead, the cowled head nodded magnanimously, like a teacher whose pupil had asked the right question.
“Call it a second chance. A chance to hit back. Think of it, Shade-Eyes. Your greatest triumph, the kill of your career, against the very people who wrought your downfall. Blade-Weaver would be born again. And if you fail, what have you lost? At the very least, you win an honorable death.”
It all sounded so tempting. Of course it did. It was meant to. Katja leaned back in her seat and folded her arms, burying her wounded pride and her thirst for redemption beneath her long-hardened armor of professionalism.
“So. You want to take out a contract against the Black Asps. That’s a lot of people, and they’re all a mean bunch of bastards. And I’m just me. Who’s your specific target?”
Her visitor spread his arms. “Why, Grand Master Zavine.”
Katja’s eyes narrowed. “Big hit.” But she didn’t ask why. You never asked why. Her knives never questioned their wielder, so why should she? “You’re asking more of me than you know.”
“I assure you, my dear, I know exactly how much I am asking of you.”
Katja began to stand. “I’m not sure you do. I’m good. But to take out Zavine—”
“Calm yourself, my dear,” came the placid reply. “I have every confidence in your ability. And as for your willingness—your little … incident with the Black Asps …”
Katja’s frown darkened. “What about it?”
The figure chuckled and motioned for her to sit.
“What if I told you I knew who was responsible?”
* * *
A shadow loomed around a corner. Katja ducked back behind the crates and held her breath. The shadow was followed by a familiar figure. He was small, unassuming, dressed in simple black robes. Only the iron snake-pin—the single adornment on his austere outfit—gave any sense of how important, and dangerous, he was. That, and the shark-like smile that hung about his lips.
Bazan Grayfang.
As he passed Katja’s hiding place, her hand slipped to one of her concealed blades. They called to her, pleaded to be wielded, yearned to sink into the flesh of his back. It would be so easy. He was alone, undefended. He was hers for the taking. It took every ounce of her willpower to resist the siren song of their steel.
She dearly wanted Bazan’s death. But that wasn’t part of the plan. As he disappeared around another corner, she slid the half-drawn blades back into their sheaths. She had a sweeter revenge planned for him. She just had to be patient.
It would be worth it. It had to be.
* * *
Slowly, carefully, Katja sat back down. Her client inclined his head. “I thought that might get your attention,” he mused, too smug for Katja’s liking. But he had the information she craved.
“You have it. What’s the deal? You keep this hanging over me until I do everything you want?”
“Oh, lords above, no!” The client sounded almost affronted. “Not at all. Rather, my dear, I will give the information to you now. Call it a … show of good faith.”
Katja mulled this over. Good faith it may be, but it would also mean she owed him an honor-debt. It would mean there was little chance of escaping this contract. Still … her hand traced the dark skull-like pits tattooed around her eyes that hid her once-intricate Spiderkin guild-tattoos. Nothing could replace that loss. But revenge might soothe it a little. And here was her chance. Could she turn it down? No.
She folded her arms. “Right. Tell me what you know and I’ll consider your contract.”
“His name is Bazan.”
Katja’s eyes narrowed. “The Grand Master’s right-hand man.”
The cowled figure shrugged. “One of them, yes. No Grand Master worth their arsenic would trust in only one right hand.”
Katja scowled. “That’s a name. But how do I know you’re telling the truth? Tell me how, and why, and if I believe you then you have my blades.”
The cowl seemed to smile. “Distrustful, but honorable, with a healthy dash of cynicism. Yes, Katja Shade-Eyes, I think you will do nicely.”
“How. And why.”
* * *
Katja wished that the damned Black Asp representative would stop smirking. They were on neutral ground. It wasn’t even a high-level exchange—just a bunch of hotheads from both Spiderkin and Asps who’d tested the turf boundaries and been clumsy enough to get caught. How dare he act superior to her? She could tell he was trying to intimidate her, but she had heard much of this Bazan Grayfang. Practically second-in-command of the Asps—and didn’t he know that he was honoring her by lowering himself to so routine a meeting with her, a mere rank-and-file assassin? But she had been entrusted with this hostage exchange and would show him what Spiderkin were made of, so she met his knowing gaze defiantly. The air was taut with tension.
The atmosphere was shattered as one of the Spiderkin acolytes scuttled up to Katja. “What is it?” she snapped, and then she saw his expression.
“Mistress, it’s the prisoners. They’re …”
But Katja didn’t let him finish. She thrust him out of her way, back to the huddled figures bound behind her. As soon as she saw the first bloated, blue-tinged face, she knew that something had gone disastrously wrong.
“What’s wrong?” called Bazan. “Are the prisoners safe?”
Katja turned back to him. Bazan Grayfang, ambassador of the Black Asps, raised a perfect eyebrow. She found herself unable to speak, but he spoke for her.
“If our men have been harmed … then you leave me no choice.”
He jerked his head in a curt signal and the crossbow bolts began to fly.
* * *
Though Katja couldn’t see the smile, she knew it was there. She could hear it behind her client’s suppressed chuckle.
“They were poisoned, weren’t they?”
Katja said nothing in reply. She just glared, daring him to avoid the point any longer.
“But you never left their side. Not until the exchange, and then there would have been no time.”
Katja nodded curtly.
“How, then, could that have happened?”
“You tell me,” snorted Katja. “You have the answers. If I knew them I wouldn’t be sitting here now. I’d be out on a … personal mission.”
Another chuckle. “No doubt you would, Shade-Eyes. I would expect nothing less of you.”
Katja idly traced a finger around the cuff of her jacket. She knew that her client would know what was concealed there, ready to be wielded at a moment’s notice. He seemed to take the hint.
“They were poisoned before you took them pr
isoner,” he declared, smugly folding his arms. Katja pulled a face.
“Impossible. There’s no poison that could pull that off.”
“The Asps know their poisons,” chided her client. “And they are known to experiment.”
Katja studied the hooded figure. He clearly knew what he was talking about. There was no point speculating who he was. If he didn’t want to be identified, then he couldn’t be, that much was obvious. Instead, she listened to her instincts, and they told her to trust him. She hoped that this time they were right.
“And why? Why me?”
The figure shrugged. “No reason. You just happened to be the unfortunate in charge.” He cocked his head to one side, as if appraising her pityingly. “I’m sorry, Katja Shade-Eyes. You were the least important part of his plan.”
Katja tensed. If her client had meant to rile her, then he had succeeded. But then, it made sense. She’d been respected among the Spiderkin, but hadn’t broken into the inner circle that would bring true esteem and power. And now she never would. She tried to control her temper and leaned nonchalantly in her seat, aware of the blades at her side. They urged her to take the contract. Any chance at Bazan was a chance for revenge and regained honor. They thirsted for it. But, Katja knew, this situation was not so simple. “I admit,” she allowed, “that the prospect of revenge is tempting. Now I have the information, of course, there’s nothing stopping me acting on it anyway.”
“Apart from the debt of honor you owe me. There is still honor in you, is there not?”
Katja’s eyes narrowed. “I like to think so. Very well. But that honor compels me to ask you something before I agree to this contract.”
“By all means, ask away.”
Katja leaned forwards, hands firmly splayed on the tabletop.
“Why do you want Grand Master Zavine dead?”
The figure seemed to grin beneath its hood and spread its hands in a small, quiet shrug. “I have my reasons.”
Katja narrowed her eyes. “I am sure you do. And I would be interested to hear them.”
The figure waved a gloved hand dismissively. “I am sure that you would. But you have no more need to know them than a knife needs to know the motives of its wielder. You are my means to the end.”
“You are aware that she is my aunt?”
The hooded figure sat back with an air of satisfaction. “I am indeed. I was wondering when that matter would be raised. Yes, Grand Master Zavine is your aunt. But, as far as my sources tell me, you have not had contact with her since you joined the Spiderkin over a decade ago. I would hazard that you are hardly close.”
“Nevertheless, you are asking me to ignore the obligations of blood. To place a contract over my own kin.”
The man cocked his head. “All assassins are expected to place their clan-kin over their blood-kin. That is the way of things.”
“But,” Katja replied archly, “I do not have a clan. So why entrust me with this? Surely there are many who would be happy to bring about the fall of the Black Asps.”
The man leaned back over the table. “Exactly. The Black Asps have many enemies. As unaligned kin, the Grand Master will trust you. And if I can trust you to do this, I can trust you to do anything.” There was a long silence as Katja and her would-be employer stared across the room at one another.
“Despite your … status, you have a reputation for loyalty, Katja Shade-Eyes. I trust that it is not unfounded.”
* * *
Once she was past the guards, the Asps’ Nest was easy enough to navigate. She’d found what she was looking for in the tunnels between the storage rooms. She scurried up the stacked barrels and stole along the long ventilation shaft bored into the rock, making sure to wrap her gauze scarf around her face. Even at this distance from the Ritual Chamber, the scent of incense was becoming overpowering.
It didn’t take her long to reach her destination. No sooner was she in the shaft than the pounding of drums echoed towards her, leading her on through the perfumed murk. She found the loosened tiles—just as promised—and slid them carefully aside. That done, she readied her weapons and looked down into the Chamber below.
The Ritual Chamber was low, wide, circular, and lit at regular intervals by incense-spewing braziers. The flames illuminated the shadowy figures of the Asp guilders filing across the tiles, jostling for places near the ambitious and the influential. Streams of scented smoke wound to the top of the roof, partly obscuring Katja’s view from her position in the chimney that bore most of it away, but it also concealed her and right now that was crucial.
Directly below her was the object of the Asps’ attention. A wide, marble platform, circular like the chamber, with a large pillar at its center. Three figures had arranged themselves around the platform, standing with the cool air of born killers who were willing to die for their leader. Bodyguards, lieutenants—at their level it amounted to the same thing. Katja scanned them quickly, judging distances and stances. Once satisfied that she had their measure—as far as such professionals ever allowed anyone their measure—she transferred her attention to the fourth figure.
Grand Master Zavine. Her target. The biggest hit of her life. The legend among assassins stood at the front of the pedestal, surveying her massed followers. Below her was a low bench—the Pledging Stone, upon which each guild member would prostrate themselves and avow their allegiance. There was a steady flow of figures taking their turn to affirm themselves. And at the head of the queue, just discernible through the smoke, was a familiar figure. Grayfang.
Katja took a deep breath. It was time to make her entrance. Open, in full view of everyone. It went against every instinct, everything that years of training and experience had taught her, but those were her instructions: to be as dramatic as possible. As she tensed to spring, the words of the note her client had left whispered from her memories.
Make an entrance. Make them remember you, at that moment. If you are successful, you need not fear the guards. They will pledge themselves to you.
She stretched out her arms and leapt down into the smoke-filled chamber below. She landed a few feet behind her target, rolling into action even as she hit the platform. Zavine could be given no chance to move, no chance to react. Luckily, Katja had been a killer since childhood. Her limbs knew better than her mind what had to be done.
First, the guards. Even in the depths of her lair, Zavine needed those of assured loyalty at her side. Assured loyalty and skill.
They were quick—almost inhumanly so. The first was on her in seconds, but she was still moving from her landing. She rolled under his swing and swept her leg into his, sending him stumbling. Leaping up, she stamped hard on the back of his head. There was a crunch, and he went still. The second came at her, knives in hand, but even as she sprang to her feet she began drawing hers. She parried once, twice, then backhanded the burly woman in the center of the forehead with her knife-pommel. She followed up with a headbutt for good measure, sending her tumbling off the pedestal.
The third bodyguard never reached her. As her second assailant fell, Katja sensed him moving towards her. She spun on the spot and hurled her knife, taking him in the chest. She leapt forward to barge him against the central pillar. His head cracked and he went still.
Her entrance had taken maybe thirty seconds. Now she was behind Zavine. The Grand Master was at her mercy.
After that, everything became mechanical, like the sparring fights from her training years ago, in the backyard with her parents—and her aunt. Her aunt whose life she held in her hands. As her mind dwelled on this, her body fulfilled the contract.
Her knee to the back of the elder woman’s leg, forcing her to the ground. Left hand around the top of the head, holding her steady and exposed. Right hand gripping the blade, slashing with practiced accuracy across the neck. The blade entered her aunt’s throat, sliding easily through skin and cartilage. Grand Master Zavine of the Black Asps smiled up at Katja as the blood spilled from her throat.
* * *<
br />
Katja folded her arms. To an outside observer, she was simply considering the offer. Anyone who knew her reputation, however, knew that her fingers now brushed the handles of the two knives sheathed beneath her arms. “I have only one question before I give you my answer. Who wants my aunt dead? And why?”
There was silence as her companion regarded her from beneath the hood for what seemed an age. Then the figure shrugged. “Very well.”
The hood was swept back, revealing a hard-faced woman with strands of gray streaking her braided black hair. She spat out a wad of the zathani gum used by guilders to deepen their voices. Then she smiled at Katja, though it was twisted into a grimace by the scars of a long and colorful career. Grand Master Zavine of the Black Asps. Her aunt.
“Hello, Katja.”
Katja tried to cover her surprise. “You want me to kill you?”
* * *
The hall was silent. Katja could almost hear the blood dripping from the corpse at her feet, trickling and slicking into pools at the base of the dais, the acrid tang of gore mixed with the sweet incense wisping through the air. All eyes were on her. Her next movements would make or break her. She was a scorpion in an asps’ nest and she had to prove that her sting was worthy of their respect.
She recognized someone skulking at the back of the crowd.
“You.” She pointed a long knife, still dripping with Zavine’s blood, at the black-robed figure. “What is your name?”
The thin-lipped man bowed his head slowly. “Bazan.”
She could have him killed now, right then and there. Her blades could drink his heart-blood at long last … but no. They had drunk well enough tonight, on worthier blood than his. Better to make the bastard squirm a while.
Guilds & Glaives Page 2
