“You’re in no place to bargain!” he spat.
The bright birds continued hopping and chirping, but their attention seemed more focused on the corner near a pair of stacked cages than on the two men. Something wet and shiny moved in the shadows there. “I can if you want Saint Hegenstein’s rubies. Without them, you’re still damned.”
The bounty hunter’s eyes widened in rage. “You’ll tell me where they are!” He stepped closer, jabbing his rapier tip toward to the bars. The light in his hand moved, illuminating the massive eel coiled in against the wall. Frothing slime boiled from its gray-blue skin.
“Never,” Ahren said defiantly. He stomped his foot.
The eel stirred. Its head emerged from the slick coils.
“I’ll have you flayed, you whelp,” Osgood growled. “I’ll tear your eyes out. Cut your cock off.”
The eel’s mouth opened, revealing double rows of teeth.
“From what I hear, you need as much as you can get.”
Osgood thrust the slender blade. Ahren jumped back. The blade tinked between the iron bars. Finally roused by the commotion, the eel lunged, stretching its body nearly twenty feet. It latched onto the back of Osgood’s head then yanked him down.
Screaming, Osgood dropped his sword. The beast shook him like a doll. Blood streamed from its mouth. It gulped, stretching its mouth wider around his head. A fang pierced Osgood’s eye. It shook him again. His screams stopped. The glass bottle tinked and rolled from his hand.
The door behind Ahren pounded, jostling the already weakened latch. With little time, he dropped to a knee and began picking the cage lock.
The eel pulled Osgood’s limp body back, sliding it along a trail of slime and blood back toward a ground-high hole from which it had come. Another eel slithered out from the dark entrance.
“Sir Osgood?” The door buckled again. Something popped.
Ahren worked the pick around and clicked the lock. The approaching eel sprung, hitting the gate door like a ram as Ahren pushed it open. He rolled to the side, nearly slipping on the slicked paving, and grabbed Osgood’s fallen sword.
The stunned eel reared back. Ahren lunged, slicing it deep in the flank. Blood and yellow ooze gushed from the wound. The eel lashed and writhed on the ground. It turned toward him just as Ahren drove the slender blade through its purple mouth and out the back.
The door pounded again. Ahren slammed the gate door. The lock clicked into place.
He looked around. Lights stirred in the house. With the barred windows, there would be no escape. Osgood’s legs disappeared through the jagged hole. The eels must have chewed their way in through the cellar. A cellar would lead to the undercity. The choice was facing swords and crossbows or a dark maze of eels.
The door jolted. Wood cracked. A pair of men charged through. With no time to think, Ahren scooped up the glowing bottle. Its light surged blindingly bright at his touch. Diving forward, he slithered through the slime-coated opening and down into a stone cellar.
The cage gate rattled outside. Clutching the sword, Ahren looked around. He saw no eels. The trail of bloody slime continued through an open door. The strange, glowing bottle grew hotter. A tiny fracture glowed orange. He pinched it by the neck where it was cooler then held it down as to not blind himself and followed the disgusting trail.
A pungent stink of fish came from the next room. Stepping through, he saw Osgood’s burgundy pants and tall boots protruding from a knot of slimy coils. Against the wall, beside a half-assembled armoire, a hundred finger-length eels writhed atop a frothy mass of dead parrots and other brightly-colored birds. Several of the tiny, white eels flopped and squirmed toward Osgood’s corpse. Disgusted, Ahren plunged his rapier into the giant, coiled eel. It twisted and rolled. He stabbed it again and again, finally hacking a deep gash across four of the coils.
The gate rattled again outside. “He’s down there,” someone yelled.
Looking up, Ahren spied an old door beside a bricked window. The wood below the bottom hinge was swollen with pungent mucus and chewed open. He kicked it hard, loosening one of the wide planks.
“Don’t let him escape!”
He kicked again, sending the plank flying out into the blackness beyond. Boot steps raced through the courtyard as Ahren squeezed through the narrow gap and out into the dank canal streets of the undercity. He looked around, trying to find his bearings, then headed left.
The brilliant bottle burned his fingertips. Ahren wrapped his cloak over the bottle neck to keep from burning himself and followed the narrow walkway. Something splashed down a passage beside him. They were waking. He could almost feel the beady eyes of a hundred eels watching him, waiting to strike.
Still searching for an exit, he turned down a main street. He smelled smoke. A thin wisp rose from his wadded cloak.
“Sir Osgood is dead!” a voice cried. “He went through that door!”
Ahren spied a round-faced building ahead. He recognized the shape as Raspiet Bakery, or at least the underside of it. Never wanting to miss a customer, Frau Raspiet never sealed the undercity entrance. Ahren raced toward it, leaping across the blockish stones set in the canal for crossing. The brass lock glinted on the polished door ahead.
There was a bright flash and pop. Shards of glowing glass exploded out from the bottle, some hissing as they hit the water. Everything went black.
Water swished in the darkness.
“Did you see that?”
Torchlight moved down a passage in the distance.
Blindly, Ahren felt the rest of the way to the door until his fingers touched the cold wood.
Splash. Splash. Swish.
He traced down until he found the lock. He’d only gotten a glimpse but recognized the style. He crouched and removed the roll of tools from his belt, feeling for the correct picks.
Two men with torches turned onto the street behind him.
“What was that?”
Quickly, Ahren slipped the picks into the lock. Twisting them around, he found the mechanism. Holding his breath, he worked the tiny lever.
A terrible scream pierced the dark passage. The torchlight waved madly, swinging around and sending shadows dancing. Water splashed. “Help me!”
Frantically, Ahren clicked the lock open and dove through the door. He pushed it shut and let out a long sigh. The muffled screams and panicked cries seeped through the thick wood. Then silence.
A strip of light shone beneath a door above, partially showing the stars before it. The aroma of fresh pastries wafted down toward him. Ahren stood and carefully made his way up the steps. Sir Osgood the noble bounty hunter, catcher of the Whemile Butcher, was dead. Fritz would want the news at once. But first, he’d pay Anya a call to let her know of Osgood’s end. And Ahren figured the best way to tell her would be with a fresh, stolen pie. He’d update Fritz in the morning.
The Blossom of Eternity
“ENTER.” AHREN PRAYED HE wouldn’t need the dagger at his belt or the sword hanging a step away, concealed beneath a cloak.
A middle-aged man stepped into the room, his mouth open under the thick moustache as if about to ask a question.
“Close the door.”
The visitor shut the door behind him. “My name is Henri.”
Ahren motioned to the table in the middle of the small room. An open bottle of schnapps and two earthenware cups rested beside a burning lamp. “Sit.”
Henri bowed and quickly took the wooden chair before him.
“I’m Ahren.” He lowered into the opposite seat and poured two drinks. “I understand you have a problem.”
A pink tongue darted between Henri’s lips. “I come from Münwitzer, a small village in the Kleshvet Mountains.” He swigged the strong drink. “I’m a carpenter. Viscount Prussek, a wretched fiend, has done everything possible to ruin me and my family. He’s summoned me to work, without pay, on his manor. He beat my niece, a servant in his house, for spilling water on the floor. And he…” Henri swallowed. “He raped her th
en cut her face for fighting him. Now, no man will want her.”
Ahren sipped his drink. “So you want him dead.”
Pursing his lips, the old man nodded.
“The killing of a noble, no matter how villainous, isn’t easy.” Ahren eyed the carpenter’s faded blue shirt, its collar frayed and ringed with dried sweat. “Nor is it cheap, especially if the assassin is the Black Raven.”
Nodding, Henri lifted a bulging canvas bag to the table. It thunked with the chink of coins. “This is everything I have but my clothes.”
Keeping his eye on the mustached man, Ahren opened it and peeked inside. Copper and silver coins filled the hefty purse. He wondered if there was even a gold drein among them. Still, it was far beyond anything a mere carpenter could afford. Judging by Henri’s story and demeanor, the payment came from far more than just him. Even then, Ahren had been paid twice as much for a fraction the risk. But the job did offer something more than gold. His presence in Lunnisburg had already drawn too much attention. Something a wanted man, as he, could never afford. It was time for a change of scenery.
After a long silence, Ahren spoke. “Speak of this to no one. I don’t care how trustworthy. Not your wife, your brother, your children. If word of your involvement was to get out…” Letting the sentence hang, he finished his drink. “Understood?”
“Yes.” Henri nodded.
“Once your business in the city is complete, go home. I will follow you in a week’s time.” Ahren refilled the two cups. “Strangers in small villages always draw attention. When the viscount dies, I want no one to know I was there. So I’ll need a place to stay. Somewhere safe, where I can come and go without notice.”
“I have a barn.”
“That’s good. I’ll need it no more than three days. Once I’ve finished the job, I’ll be gone.” He set the clay cup before Henri. “I’ll need you to give me every detail you know about the viscount, his habits, his house, his servants, the village.”
“Of course.” The weight of fear seemed to slide off the carpenter’s brow. His trembling eyes studied Ahren, almost disbelieving the assassin’s acceptance.
“Good.” Ahren lifted his cup. “To Viscount Prussek.”
#
Cricket songs filled the night as Ahren guided his horse into the valley, passing apple orchards and fields of young wheat. Stars glimmered above, a welcome sight after months of living beneath Lunnisburg’s eternal haze. Eventually, Ahren reached Münwitzer. Clomps from his mount’s hooves on packed earth echoed through the dark village. The town was smaller than he had imagined, and the weathered state of several of the buildings only alluded to how decrepit they might appear under daylight. Ahren thought to the heavy purse of small coins the carpenter had given him. Such a meager treasure would have taken more than just a few of Münwitzer’s families to amass. It very well could have taken the entire viscounty to gather their assassin’s blood money.
After passing a stone well, he turned left and followed the road until reaching a narrow, two-story house on the outer edge of the town. A squat oak stood beside it, shading a table and a pair of carved benches. Henri’s home was just as he’d described. Ahren veered off the path and led his horse to the domed barn behind it.
A lamp, its light almost completely hidden beneath a metal hood, hung from a thick rafter. The stale film of straw dust coated everything inside the otherwise empty barn. After stabling his horse, Ahren shouldered his pack and scaled the ladder up to the loft. A spotted cat dashed behind a pile of hay as Ahren’s head cleared the edge. An unbleached napkin lay half submerged in the bowl of stew it had covered. A pitcher and folded blanket rested beside it. Ahren set his gear off to the side before checking to see how much of the cold meal the cat had left for him.
He picked through the potatoes and stringy bits of chicken before setting the bowl aside for the cat still hiding in the shadows. The moon wouldn’t set for another two hours. By his estimate, that gave him half an hour to get to the baron’s home, another hour for surveillance, and enough time to get back before sunup. The village had paid for an assassin. It was time he went to work.
#
Ahren awoke. Beams of late morning sun shone through the tiny holes and cracks between wall timbers. His horse snorted in the pen below. One of the heavy barn doors groaned open. His hand went to the crossbow beside him as he slunk back behind a mound of hay.
Peering between the floorboards, he saw black, braided hair and a sage dress. The woman set a small basket and pitcher on a table. Her face downcast, she poured a bucket of water into the horse’s trough. She worked quick, obviously nervous with stilted movements and tight hands. The curve of hip and breast told she was no girl. Still clutching his weapon, Ahren recalled the moments before he awoke. Two hard raps had roused him from sleep. Then, the door had opened.
She picked up the empty bucket and opened the barn door. “Leave the bowl down here when you’re done.” Her voice was soft yet strong. The same soothing authority as if calming a frightened horse. The door groaned shut behind her.
After several heartbeats, Ahren emerged and crept silently down the ladder. His gaze locked on the door, he reached for the cloth-covered basket. The coarse fabric was warm. Flipping it aside, he was immediately met with the aroma of fresh bread. A still steaming loaf rested inside beside a pair of apples and a hunk of cut sausage. A cool grin stretched across his lips. What Henri and his conspirators lacked in funds they more than paid in hospitality. Ahren tucked the basket under his arm and scaled back up to the loft. He had water, a good meal, and many hours before dark to plan the viscount’s death.
#
Purple and fiery hues faded from the setting sun as Ahren emerged from the barn. Keeping to the tree lines, he rode across farms and a pastureland before reaching the orchard surrounding the viscount’s manor. A chest-high crumbled wall, consisting of flat stones mortared with eons of moss, circled the property. After tying his horse, Ahren hopped over the wall then followed the straight rows of ancient apple trees.
A faint breeze swept down from the surrounding mountains, rustling the leaves. Ahren reached the orchard’s edge and crouched behind one of the thick trunks. The three-story house stood over twenty yards from the tree line. The H-shaped manor boasted spacious front and rear courtyards. A lichened statue of gray stone stood in the front. Ahren skirted around to the back of the vine-coated manor. Small shrubs accented the simpler rear yard. The square ends of stacked lumber peeked from beneath a cloth tarp. Rickety scaffolding hugged one wall where Henri hadn’t finished replacing the window frames.
Ahren scanned the grounds, making certain they were clear, then crept into the yard, up the creaking scaffolds, and through an unshuttered, third-floor window. His glove-leather shoes made no sound as he crossed an empty bedroom and knelt before the door. He pressed his ear to the cold keyhole plate. A harpsichord played in the distance. Ahren peered through the tiny hole to see an empty, mirrored hallway. Quietly, he inched the door open and slipped through.
Tall mirrors lined the long passage from floor to ceiling, seemingly stretching for infinity. A pair of narrow tables along the left side were its only furniture. The glass lamps burning atop them reflected in the polished panes hundreds of times. Small, brass-edged keyholes were all that marked the halls otherwise hidden doors. Following the narrow blue rug down the passage, the music grew louder.
Heavy footsteps approached from the end of the hallway. Ahren pushed the nearest door. Locked. He checked one on the opposite wall; it opened. Quickly, he darted inside and closed it just as another door opened.
Squinting through a keyhole, Ahren watched a hatchet-faced man in leather and brocade walk past, his thick arms swinging beside him. The brief glimpse met Henri’s description of Othmar, the viscount’s elder nephew. Releasing his held breath, Ahren looked about the room. A painting of a stout man with a thick, graying moustache stared down at him. Twisted vines wove along the canvas’ edge, ending at large, purple blossom at the viscount
’s feet. Books and maps covered the walls of a cozy library. Ahren waited several heartbeats to be sure Othmar was gone then crept back into the hall.
The door at the end of the mirrored passage led to another hall. Keeping to the shadows, Ahren made his way to a pair of dark, wooden doors. The strums of the harpsichord came from the other side. Peering through the crack between them, he could see the back of a graying man’s head before the golden brown instrument. Ahren scanned the room as best he could. The viscount appeared alone.
Carefully, he cracked open the door. The hinges squeaked. Ahren froze. The viscount continued his song.
Ahren squeezed through and closed the door behind him. Reaching into his pouch, he withdrew a bowstring garrote. A flowery perfume grew stronger as he neared the nobleman. Ahren wound the string tightly around his hands. Slowly, he inched closer, bringing the taut string up. The viscount ended his song and reached for the goblet beside him.
With a viper’s speed, Ahren struck, wrapping the garrote around the man’s throat and yanking back. The viscount’s hands fumbled with the bowstring then flailed back. Twisting and struggling, his movements slowed. Pulling by the garrote, Ahren led him gently to the floor. The noble’s body fell still. Ahren held for several long minutes before finally relaxing his grip. With a sigh, he returned the bowstring to his pouch and removed a long raven’s quill. He set it on the ivory keyboard then left, locking the door behind him.
Suppressing any urge to rush, Ahren retraced his path through the mirrored hall, climbed back down the scaffolding, and melted back into the orchard. He followed the tree rows until reaching the stone wall and turned in the direction he’d left his horse. With luck, he’d be out of the valley before anyone found the viscount’s corpse.
Light flickered ahead. Crouching, Ahren peered closer. A lamp rested on the low wall while a figure circled Ahren’s mount.
Cautiously, Ahren tucked back into the shade of the grove and moved closer. His fingers touched the dagger handle at his belt. He peered around a thick tree trunk to see a man in his twenties sifting through his saddlebags. A hunting bow rested on the wall beside the lamp; a wood hatchet hung at his waist. Ahren moved to the closest tree and drew his dagger.
Sea of Quills (Tales of the Black Raven Book 2) Page 15
