The Bound Folio

by Rob J. Hayes

  “I once accepted a contract by a man named Lady Morcanon,” said Nate Veritean.

  “Eh?”

  The King's Assassin chuckled again, his hood bouncing up and down. “He liked to think of himself as a woman in a man's body. He contracted me to murder not one, but four people, all on the same night, at the same time, despite those four living in separate locations and never assembling in one spot.”

  “Business competition?”

  “I didn't ask. I never ask.”

  “Shame, that.”

  “I'd had some experience with timed toxins before, but never anything like this. Each individual had to be poisoned at just the right moment, with just the right mixture, and I couldn't be more than a minute outside my time window.

  “I used Spider Frog extract.”

  Alfer let loose a whistle. He had never dared use Spider Frog extract before, for a very good reason; those who tried to collect the dangerous stuff had a habit of dying along the way. The toxin could be administered through the skin, and there was no known antidote. After exposure, death usually occurred within hours.

  “I had to use a catalytic agent on some of the mixtures and an inhibitor agent on others. It was probably the most complex assassination I have ever accomplished.”

  “You did accomplish it then?” Alfer was genuinely intrigued and amazed by the assassin's skill. “They all died at the same time?”

  Nate Veritean was silent for a few moments, and then the hood moved in what Alfer guessed was a shrug. “More or less. The third victim survived for two minutes longer than I had planned. Lady Morcanon was still impressed, though.”

  Alfer laughed. “Aye, that's a good one. Bet you planned it for a while.”

  “I did.”

  “How about this one then — ever heard of an assassin who wasn't an assassin?”

  “Go on.”

  “Hector Argrad, wilds witch doctor who sometimes went by the name of Leeches. Truth was ol' Leeches wasn't too good at his job. Barely knew a kerring shroom from a darkroot shroom.”

  “Five hours of excreting blood from every orifice, ending in blood loss and death,” Nate Veritean quickly interjected, “versus a rubbery, mostly tasteless fungi.”

  “I guess you know the difference.” Alfer continued: “So, Leeches wanted a patron and a rich one at that. Someone who could keep him fed and sheltered for the rest of his life. He picked Farin Colth, some high and mighty merchant or something ruling over part of Chade. Sat on the council and made decisions and reaped the rewards.

  “Leeches paid me to poison Colth again and again. Nothing fatal, just something that would hurt like all the Hells and leave him begging for a cure.”

  “Corpse tree root?”

  Alfer had to grin. “That's the one. Not many folk know about that one. Gives stomach cramps like you wouldn't believe. Makes pissing feel like you're passing fire. After two moons of regular dosing, Colth was about ready to pay for my services himself. Then, along comes Leeches and says he has the cure. I stopped poisoning Colth and Leeches takes the credit. Still looking after the fat bastard, far as I know.”

  Nate Veritean's hood nodded and the man reached into a pocket, pulling out a small glass vial filled with a green liquid. It was impossible, even for Alfer, to determine what was in it just by the color, but the introduction of a prop into their little game set his nerves on edge.

  “I was once hired by a man calling himself Levine Farmer, though I've come to doubt it was his real name.” The King's Assassin placed the little glass vial on the roof in front of him. “He contracted me to murder another assassin.”

  Alfer felt the hairs on his arms stand up. He tried to ready himself for combat, though he felt distinctly unready.

  “This other assassin went by the name, the Night Blade, and was long retired.”

  “Reckon I know this story,” Alfer said, his voice a low growl.

  “I don't think you do. I did not entirely trust this contractor, but the money he offered was good. I followed him and found him meeting with this Night Blade, apparently offering my counterpart a contract to murder me.”

  “Weren't really so much an offer,” Alfer complained, fear prickling his skin and sending sweat dripping down his back despite the chill in the air. “You were already contracted. What he gave me was more like a warning.”

  “Regardless, I took my opportunity there and then to poison my target.”

  Alfer swallowed. “That was you in the tavern. The one in the hood.”

  A laugh escaped the hood of the King's Assassin. “No.”

  “Oh.”

  “The Night Blade met with my contractor, then stayed for a second ale. I placed a measure of Gipple venom extract into his drink.”

  Alfer tensed. If the King's Assassin was telling the truth, Alfer had less than one day before he started bleeding from the eyes and, soon as that happened, it was too late. He tried to remember if there was a cure, an anti-toxin.

  “The name you're looking for is Teltberry syrup,” the King's Assassin said.

  Alfer was breathing heavier than he'd like. Each breath misted in front of his face. He looked down again at the glass vial in front of Nate Veritean. Teltberries were green.

  “This is the anti-toxin,” the King's Assassin confirmed.

  “I'll find Teltberries somewhere in this city,” Alfer said with a grimace.

  “No doubt,” said Nate Veritean. “But the anti-toxin takes four days to distill.”

  Alfer looked down at the glass vial again. He could feel himself getting hot, his skin itching. It made no sense. Gipple venom extract presented none of those symptoms.

  “I would like to ask you a few questions, Night Blade,” Nate Veritean said.

  Alfer considered making a play for the vial, despite not having a true idea what was actually in it. The King's Assassin could be bluffing. The vial could be the poison. Alfer cursed under his breath. Back in his day he'd have seen this coming, had countermeasures in place. Now he was old and slow. He looked up into the dark hood of his murderer. Even at his most brutal Alfer had never toyed with his targets like this.

  “Ask ya damned questions.”

  “The man who hired you. I doubt he gave you a real name, but I would hear it nevertheless.”

  Alfer saw no reason to lie. “Vellin Artho, said he was also known as Brown Fingers.”

  “And how did he procure your services?”

  “Said the King's Assassin was after me. Said he'd paid the contract himself. Said he'd pay me to kill you.” Alfer let out a bitter bark of laughter. “Tried to tell him I was retired from that game. Man didn't listen.”

  Again Alfer glanced down at the vial. There was likely no way he could take Nate Veritean in a straight fight, but if he could just graze the man with one of his poisoned knives, it would all be over.

  “I believe we have both been made part of a much larger game, Night Blade,” the King's Assassin said from the shadowy depths of his hood.

  Little spots of white started to float down from the sky. Snow flakes, each one as unique as a fingerprint, drifting down into the cold city of Truridge. Alfer groaned. He hated snow.

  “I think this was a trial of sorts,” Nate Veritean said. “An audition. To see which of us was better and, therefore, more suited to a much larger job.”

  Alfer snorted. “They could have just asked. Ain't really a fair contest given my age and the fact I've been out of the game for so long. Even worse you were told first; head start and all that.”

  “I don't think you were supposed to win, Night Blade. I believe it was my audition, not yours. You were simply informed to make things more interesting.”

  “Didn't really work, did it?” Alfer had to laugh.

  “Oh, I don’t know. At least I have had an interesting night,” the King's Assassin said, standing and rolling his shoulders. “Goodbye, Alfer Boharn.”

  Nate Veritean turned, stepped up onto the lip of t
he rooftop, and dropped down the other side to the street below, leaving Alfer very much confused and alone on the rooftop. Even more so when he realized the little vial of anti-toxin still remained where the man had placed it.

  Alfer stood, wincing as his knees cracked. He approached the vial cautiously, walking on the balls of his feet, leaving little footprints in the settling snow, and straining his ears for any sound of ambush. When he reached where Nate Veritean had been squatting, Alfer dared to look over the side of the building. Below, people hurried about, their cloaks drawn close against the chill and the snow. Just the sight of others out in the cold made Alfer shiver. What he didn't see was a man in a hood of deep shadow. The King's Assassin was gone.

  The snow fell more heavily now, settling well. The vial was already surrounded by a little cocoon of white. Alfer plucked the thing from the ground and stared at it, hoping he would glimpse some clue of what he should do.

  The problem with Gipple venom extract was, by the time the poisoned started exhibiting any symptoms, they were already as good as dead. Alfer had no idea whether the King's Assassin had been truthful or not, but simply waiting around to find out was not an option.

  “Bugger it.” He snapped the top from the vial, upended the contents, and swallowed it down. With no idea whether he was likely to live or die, Alfer decided it was time to find a warm tavern and drink his fill before passing out on a mattress that hopefully wouldn't itch too badly.

  After just two steps, with thoughts of warmth and beer in mind, Alfer’s knees buckled and the snow-covered rooftop rushed up to meet him.

  #

  He awoke gently, Alfer did, eyes fluttering open. The fog in his head didn’t quite clear fast enough. He saw wood above him, more planks above and to his left. To his right, a hand dangled down. A loud snore ripped through the quiet air; with it came a pounding headache. Alfer winced and wished he was unconscious again.

  “Wh...where...” His voice was raw. His mouth tasted like unwiped arse.

  “Wasn't sure you was ever gonna wake up,” said a woman from nearby. “Don't know how much you had to drink, old man, but you sleep like the dead.”

  Alfer struggled to sit, and his head started a new wave of pounding like a little blacksmith had taken up residence between his ears. A cup of water was handed to him. He took it gratefully, sipping it down with regular swallows. He knew better than to gulp — wasn’t the first time he’d been dried up.

  He peered at the woman who had handed him the cup, saw a tanned face with a few scars and a kind smile. Dazzling blue eyes underneath short, sandy hair looked back at him. She was one of the more welcoming sights he had ever woken to, even dressed in a shape-less shirt and trousers.

  “Are we moving, or is it just me?” he asked.

  The woman laughed and her eyes sparkled. “You're on Sweet Gull, headed to Sarth.”

  Alfer just stared at the woman.

  “We're a merchant rig. Your friend dropped you off yesterday. He said you'd had a bit too much to drink, but you had booked passage and couldn't afford to miss it.”

  “Oh…” Alfer nodded. “Remember what my friend looked like?”

  “Uhh…” The woman’s brow creased. “He was... um... young... I think. I can't really remember.”

  Alfer grunted and nodded his pounding head.

  “I'm off duty at the moment,” the woman continued. “I could show you to the galley, if you'd like. Perhaps some food in your belly will bring you round.”

  “Aye,” Alfer agreed. “Just give me a minute to wake up some.”

  “Of course.”

  That bastard Nate Veritean had tricked him, outsmarted him, and beaten him. Of course Alfer couldn't really hate the man. He'd not wanted the contract anyway, and at least the King's Assassin had left him alive, though he couldn't quite fathom why.

  A long time ago, someone had once said to Alfyn Tether that poisoners were a mysterious and deadly bunch of bastards who were not to be trusted. The Night Blade had ended up poisoning that man and the rest of his group. Now, in his older age, Alfer found he agreed with the sentiment even more.

  A chuckle escaped unbidden from his dry lips. Alfyn Tether, the Night Blade, was well and truly dead now. No doubt the news was already spreading that the King's Assassin had bested him.

  And perhaps that meant Alfer Boharn, the sailor, could now well and truly live.

  The Kid

  The Kid had suffered a broken nose just a couple of weeks back, and it still hurt like all the hells. He had no wish to repeat the experience, so he turned his face just enough, and the punch caught his cheek instead.

  He hit the ground hard and gasped. Dirt and air rushed into his lungs in equal measure, and a coughing fit exploded from his chest. He heard laughing, but couldn’t work up the bother to care. Kav spat at him, Benben and Jan were doubled over from their braying, and Lissa shouted something about him being of less use than the horseshit he’d fallen in.

  Lissa’s insult shouldn’t have hurt. She never spoke to him other than to mock him, but for some reason it felt like a knife in his chest. More than the punch, more than the coughing fit, her insults hurt.

  The Kid managed to get his coughing under control and opened his eyes. Kav and Lissa weren’t even looking at him anymore. Benben and Jan were making stupid faces. Nobody else around paid them any attention. Folk moved about their business as if they hadn’t even seen the punch. One guard glanced their way, then went back to staring at a merchant hawking spices from Sarth. Wasn’t exactly illegal to set up a stall so close to the docks, but it was frowned upon, which was reason enough for a shakedown.

  “Reckon he got the point,” Kav said. “Ya get the point, No Name?”

  The Kid pushed himself to his knees and then to his feet. His cheek was stinging something fierce. He touched it and winced. His hand came away bloody.

  “Aye. I got it.” The Kid looked down at the ground, lest any of the others see the dark scowl on his face.

  “Let’s get o’er ta the Burn. Reckon we can scrounge us a meal if we make No Name beg,” Kav said and started walking. Lissa stuck by Kav's side, like a flea to a dog. Benben aimed a kick at the Kid, then he and Jan hurried after the others.

  The Kid stood watching after them a few seconds, his hands clenching and unclenching. He bit his tongue until he tasted blood. He swallowed the scream of rage building inside, then he spat in the dirt and rushed to catch up.

  #

  Aptly named, the Burn stank of charred flesh and sweat. The heat made the entire area oppressive, gave the atmosphere a ‘boiling point’ feel that could bubble over and turn violent at a moment’s notice. Then there were the flies. The Kid didn’t have a word for so many flies; of course, he could only count as far as six. They buzzed everywhere, got everywhere, were everywhere. They were on the meat, on the ground, on the water, on the people. The Kid hated the Burn. Shame it was the surest place in Korral for the likes of him to get fed.

  The fires never went out in the Burn, and as long as they were lit they had meat on them. Most of it was charred to a crisp, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and Kav’s little crew were nothing if not beggars.

  “All right, Horse Shit Boy,” Kav said, giving the Kid a new nickname for the day. All the others laughed. “Get o’er there an’ fetch us some food. An’ don’t go askin’ where it came from this time.”

  The Kid snorted, but stepped to his job with haste. If he waited around or argued, Kav would beat him and Lissa would insult him again. He glanced back at her. She wasn’t pretty, far from it, but there was something about Lissa, something that made him want her to like him. Instead, she mocked him and, sometimes, even joined in with the hitting, after the others had already put him down.

  The Kid sauntered over to the nearest fire and waited, giving the cook his very best ‘I’m a starving orphan’ look. The cook ignored him. The Kid decided it was best to wait his turn. He’d learned long ago that if you piss off a cook, yo
u get the shits, and if the others got the shits, he’d get another beating for sure.

  “Well, if it ain’t the little nameless shit,” the cook said upon noticing him. “Ya got some bits ta pay fer it this time?”

  The Kid snorted.

  “What a fuckin’ surprise. Here.” The fat cook reached into the old meat barrel and pulled out a handful of charred strips of flesh. The Kid counted six and another three. He pocketed one discreetly.

  “Tell Kav ta get his scrawny arse over here. I got somin’ fer him ta do.”

  The Kid grunted and hurried away before someone bigger or armed stole his scraps.

  “That all ya got?” Lissa was sweating, her greasy hair plastered to her head. “Ya really are a useless shit.”

  The others snatched at the takings. The Kid barely managed to hold onto a single strip. Kav and Lissa got two each, Benben and Jan took three between them.

  “Cook wants ya,” he told Kav.

  “Shit. Which one?”

  “Fat one.”

  Kav raised his fist so the Kid lowered his eyes and pointed. Kav punched him in the arm anyway before walking away. Lissa went with Kav, and the Kid found himself alone with Benben and Jan. The two were brothers born at the same time, though both argued about who came out first. They had pudgy faces, beady eyes, and crooked teeth; the only real distinction between the two was Benben’s nose bent to the left and Jan’s to the right. Broken noses were proof of Kav’s dominance over the little group.

  “Give us ya meat,” Benben said. Jan echoed his words.

  The Kid stuffed his strip of burnt meant into his mouth and started chewing the tough leather. Benben laughed and punched his left arm. Jan laughed and punched his right arm. The Kid let out a whimper, backed away a step, and turned his back on the bigger boys.

  He spied Kav standing alone by the cook’s fire, tending to the meat and filching the odd fresh strip. He saw Lissa following the fat cook away from the fires. They both disappeared into one of the dishevelled hovels and reappeared a few minutes later. The cook swaggered back to his fire and Lissa walked towards the little group, wiping her mouth and scowling at the whole world. When she got back, Benben and Jan laughed at her and made jokes. The Kid ignored them all. If Lissa was angry she’d take it out on him if she noticed him.