by John March
Inside, the air felt heavy, and unpleasantly warm. Patches of mould grew around the edges of decaying plaster, and beads of water gathered on the cooler outer surfaces.
De'Argent moved unremarked through the building, the image of a fat merchant shuffling towards the hot pools, seeking relief from gout or some similar ailment. The fragment of clothing his client had provided him acted as a guide, a casting specific to the assassin schools of Cassadia, allowing him to trace a path to the owner at close range.
Lord Conant reclined in the pool, hot water swirling gently around his limbs, driving his thin bathing smock of white cotton to float up around his thighs. His head rested back on the edge of the pool, mouth open — snoring softly.
Silently skirting the pool, De'Argent knelt directly behind the old man, carefully avoiding the puddles of water on the floor, and looked down onto the sleeping face. His fingertips almost brushed the old man's few remaining hairs, and he felt an anticipatory tightening in his stomach as he studied the features below him.
Almost an exact match for the image of Lord Conant he'd been shown. The scout had employed a Perillian doppelgänger to steal a likeness, but more often than not ,such creatures would quickly lose shape, leaving nothing more than a passing impression of the original.
De'Argent carefully memorised as much of the surrounding detail as possible — the thin spirals of steam rising from the surface of the water, Conant's sour breath, the rise and fall of his chest, and the way his clothing drifted in the hot water.
Aside from his eyes, De'Argent remained completely still. Moments of such perfection were rare. To be so close and have time to preserve in such detail, to commit so much to memory before a kill, a profound blessing. Although he no longer counted the numbers, he could only recall a couple of other occasions like this.
At last, satisfied he could gain nothing more by delaying, he summoned his agent. The commission had requested death with the appearance of a natural origin. He'd chosen a malevolent deep water ephemeral for the task, practising the form necessary to bind it to his will a dozen times before setting out.
His summoning surged into the water, a brine demon flowing over the edge of the pool, and sinking to form a living layer beneath the warmer water.
As it dragged Lord Conant under, folding over arms and legs to stifle any escape, the old man woke up. De'Argent leant over the pool, his face a few hand spans above Conant's, watching the expressions change as surprise turned to panic, then desperation. He wanted to remember this too — to capture the stream of escaping air bubbles, the darting eyes.
He waited one hundred slow heartbeats after the last bubble broke the surface, and the dead man's eyes had rolled back in his head. Enough time to be sure, before driving the brine ephemeral away.
Even then he checked every part of the room. There would be no marks on the body, and only warm water in the lungs when they dragged the old man from his bath, all the appearance of a tragic accident.
Satisfied, De'Argent stepped beyond the world skin, moving faster than any prudent traveller of the between would consider safe, yet slow, by his own standards.
Quentyn
THE CLEAR SKY of the Tranquillity celebrations had closed in to a featureless dull grey, a loose mist that consolidated to a thin drizzle as the day progressed. Orim made his way along the lower Ryle way, its stone paved surface slick, as if drenched in cold sweat.
Here the roads ran on either side of a central canal, and on two levels with a narrower upper road on either side. Crowded buildings the colour of dark honey, piled at least three stories high to the side of each road.
It felt much like traversing a constructed version of his homeland fjords.
Orim watched for the nineteenth marker, small brass plates used to measure out sections of longer roads at intervals of about fifty famd, a Haeldran measure roughly the length of a tall man.
For the last five markers, the road ran almost straight, ending abruptly in a broad open area under a high wall which might once have housed one of the cities great gates. Long since sealed up and overgrown, it sprouted vines, creepers, and an assortment of other small plants from cracks in its stone face.
The city streets overflowed with revellers, and the symor drivers had given up for the night to join the celebrations. Orim would have taken a symor on any other evening, knowing he needed to find his quarry as soon as possible. He walked as quickly as he could, pushing past groups of people streaming in the opposite direction.
He'd sought Ethal Quentyn first in the living quarters of the Genestuer orders, amongst the many buildings scattered along the length of the first claw. A lengthy, ultimately fruitless search, where nobody seemed to recall Quentyn. Eventually he'd discovered a repository where a white-robed scribe found the address for him.
In a room full of shelves holding thousands of trays, each packed with small sections of parchment, on which details of all the current members of the various orders were inscribed, the scribe had gone directly to the one holding Quentyn's.
Orim had taken the paper with the address from the hands of the protesting man, and set out immediately. It was obvious someone had inquired about Quentyn before him, and he didn't want others following.
In all his time as Ronyon to this city he'd not ventured this far along the Ryle way before. Once the main processional route into the city, it retained some of its former grandeur, marred only by the uneven, crowding buildings banked up on each side.
As he neared the end of the avenue, scanning the gaps between buildings on his side, trying to guess where to turn, his far-sense stuttered and faded. Orim cursed under his breath, hoping the man hadn't been fool enough to live near one of the great spikes.
A degree of luck, and a small bribe, led to a narrow lane where a glyph etched into the marker stone matched the second one on the paper he carried. He cursed silently for a second time. Although he didn't know the exact location of the nearby spike, it was close enough to completely suppress any casting.
Here the dwellings were built into the naturally steep sides of ancient rocky spurs along the length of the Ryle. Narrow passageways, lined with small tenements, stacked three or four level high, ran outwards through the broad stone ridges.
Orim walked carefully along the side of the path, avoiding the running drain, alert for lookouts and ambushes. Two dozen paces in the path opened out into a small courtyard, built up on all sides, with three branching passages at the far end.
But his eyes were drawn to two large men standing outside a door on the walkway of a corner dwelling a level up. They yawned and scratched in the manner of guards who'd been there a while, but not yet long enough to settle.
He moved into the shadows, checking the surrounding balconies for watchers. If he'd set these guards, there would have been a man or two with crossbows somewhere on the walkways overlooking the entrance, but a careful scan revealed nothing.
With the use of casting, the two men would have been easy to overcome. Without it, he must rely on stealth, and his blades. From where they stood, all the stairways to their level were visible. To reach them he needed to gain the balcony on the far side.
Orim glided through the shaded area under the walkway, directly beneath their feet, rounding the edge of the building, then climbed swiftly, using the bars on a low window to silently lever himself up to one of the balconies' supporting brackets.
He slowly reached out and eased his weight onto it, testing for stability, before swinging out to grasp the bottom of the walkway, and pulling himself up over the railing in a single fluid motion. Straightening, he listening carefully for any reaction from the men guarding the doorway.
Dwindling remnants of daylight angled through the mouth of the alleyway, colouring the upper levels of the buildings on his right a dull orange. From the streets beyond delighted shrieks, catcalls, and loud laughter heralded the start of the first night of Tranquillity revels.
Orim slipped a brace of heavy double-edged stiletto blades
from his belt and wrist sheaths. Just over double a hand's width in length, they were robustly constructed with heavy mid sections, and honed until they were sharp enough to shave with. Poorly balanced for throwing, but ideal for close quarters in-fighting.
Grime-encrusted windows of milky glass, set high in the wall and barred from the inside with heavy wooden shutters, offered the only possible way in to Quentyn's rooms from the near side. Narrow cracks in the shutters allowed faint traces of the dim interior light to leak out, sufficient to reveal the shadows of people passing in front of the light on the other side.
Orim pressed his ear against the glass for a moment. From inside came the scraping sound of furniture being dragged roughly over the floor, and low conversation from at least three distinct voices.
He moved soundlessly to the corner with his back against the wall, blades held low. A few paces beyond the corner, the nearest of the guards stood stolidly, arms folded, staring ahead. The second guard leant back against the wall on the other side of the doorway, twisting the heel of his boot restlessly against the surface of the walkway.
They wore cuirboilli leather chest-pieces with riveted iron helmets. Their ill-fitting armour suggested members of the city guards, but their scruffy appearance and poor discipline suggested they were freebooters, enforcers or low-level mercenary hirelings in disguise.
Orim took deep quiet breaths, clearing his mind, muscles relaxed, poised, waiting for the second guard's attention to shift. On another day, he might have attempted parleying with whoever was in the room, but Vittore had been clear about leaving no witnesses.
After a few moments, the guard on the far side of the door looked away.
Orim lunged around the corner. Moving quickly through the shadows in complete silence, he struck before they noticed him. His leading stiletto, held flat and almost horizontal, punched through the side of the first guard's neck.
Orim released his grip on the blade, careening off the railing into the second guard as the man turned back, eyes widening, mouth opening.
Orim slammed him backwards, rammed his forearm under the man’s jaw, forcing him against the wall to cut off his warning shout. The remaining stiletto breached the centre of the stiff leather armour with a noise like a cracking egg shell, angled upwards through the guard's midriff.
Even as the second guard desperately pushed back, his breath rasping through a constricted throat, Orim's superior strength drove inexorably forward, forcing his head upwards.
Orim pulled the blade free, and stabbed again. With the third blow, the blade angling up under his ribs, the guard shuddered convulsively, eyes rolling up, his grip on Orim's arm loosening. An involuntary spasm passed through his frame.
Orim knew the strike had inflicted a mortal wound, but he maintained the pressure, twisting the blade further in, peripherally aware of the first man on his knees, sinking to the floor with great wet pulses welling between fingers, flowing to sluice unevenly over the balcony edge.
When the guard's struggles stopped completely, Orim carefully lowered the body to the floor, the stiletto making a dull, sucking sound as he tugged it free. He leant forward, inhaling deeply, listening for reactions from the room.
Aside from a few murmuring sounds through the wall there were none. A sticky warmth spread through the leg of his trousers where they had pressed against the dead man's thigh, the air full of the thick cloying metallic smell of pooling blood.
Orim slipped the guard's short sword from its sheath, and hefted it to get a feel for its weight as he moved toward the door.
Ebryn managed to open his door before the third set of impatient knocks. Outside stood Master Quentyn, his pale head bobbing vigorously from side to side.
Quentyn made a strangled sound, like a cat coughing up a hairball, his eyes bulged, and his mouth produced faint popping noises, as if struggling for breath. Ebryn stepped backwards. Quentyn was the last person he had expected to see here, and something seemed to be very wrong with him.
“Master Quentyn?”
Quentyn snorted dramatically and bent forward, holding onto the door frame for support, body shaking in silent spasms.
“Wha—” Ebryn said.
Quentyn's hand was tanned and golden. Just above the wrist he saw three inked braids, the outer two red, and the inner light blue.
“Sash?”
The glamour disintegrated like a thin morning mist blown away by a sudden gust and before him was Sash, her body convulsing with silent laughter, tears streaming down her face.
“Oh—” she said, straightening up and recovering her breath. “I'm sorry, I just couldn’t resist.”
Ebryn's heart still raced in his chest, but he couldn't help grinning at her.
“How did you find me?” he asked, stepping back to let her in.
“Easy. I asked a student. Everybody's heard of master Tenlier — he's rather important,” Sash said, looking around. “These rooms are big.”
She moved past him towards the balcony, trailing her fingertips along the back of a chair. “And you've got a view over the city.”
“Yes,” Ebryn said, trying not to sound apologetic. “It's much more than I expected. Tenlier told me many of the senior adepts were doing research in a place called Magadigar, and others in Tapulupat and Yoyt-something. I think this room belonged to one of them.”
He followed her, but remained inside the room at a respectful distance as the balcony was only wide enough for a single person. Outside, darkness had already settled, the sky turning an impenetrable black, and thousands of street lights in shades of blue and green visible in all directions.
“Doesn't it look like all the stars have fallen to the ground?” she said.
“Yes. I wonder what one would look like if it really did, though.”
“Like a large, very bright diamond,” Sash said. “It happened at home a few times when I was very young.”
He looked at her carefully to see if she was joking again. “In Senesella?”
“Yes. I saw one once, but I wasn't allowed to touch it.”
They stood in silence, watching the city. There was something fascinating, almost terrifying, about its immensity. Ebryn could almost imagine everything had turned upside down, and were it not for odd patches of illuminated buildings and sounds carried through the still air, it might have seemed they were suspended amongst the stars in the sky.
After a while Sash turned, and moved past him back into the room. She stood next to one of the chairs, her eyes travelling across his room, lingering on his bed. She glanced at him, and quickly looked away.
She wore an inward, almost solemn expression, and for the first time Ebryn had no idea what she was thinking. He found he was seeing her almost as a stranger would, and was struck again by how perfectly beautiful she was, almost as if he'd needed a moment of stillness to be able to view her clearly.
She turned towards him and a dozen lights from outside reflected in her eyes like floating sparks or miniature orange-red flames.
“Do you want to sit?” he asked.
“Oh … no,” she said. “I actually came up to find out if you'd like to come and see the procession with me — with us?”
“What procession?”
“Today's the first day of the Tranquillity holidays, and part of that is a great procession around the inner circle road. A lot of people come to watch, can't you hear the noise starting?”
Ebryn nodded, although he couldn't really hear much difference. At night the city always sounded impossibly loud to him. In Conant, it had been so quiet when in bed at night he'd been able to distinguish between the hooting of different types of winged hunters. In Vergence, he suspected he'd be hard-pressed to pick out the sounds made by somebody outside his room.
Ebryn paused to put his boots on before following Sash to the landing outside his room. As he tightened the straps a light flared outside his door.
“Aara, is that you?” Sash said. “What are you doing here?”
He heard Aara
's voice, but couldn't make out her reply.
“That's wonderful. I was concerned when I didn't see you. I thought you might have been sent home,” Sash said.
Ebryn emerged from his room to find Sash holding an illusory flame in the palm of her hand. He could sense no heat or smoke from it, but the flickering light illuminated the balustrade which overlooked the open central well of the building.
Aara stood just outside the door to her room. When she saw Ebryn she bowed her head, and turned away slightly. She reminded him of a small forest deer, startled whilst foraging away from cover at night.
“We're going to the Tranquillity celebrations. If you're not doing anything you can come with us … if you want to?” Sash said.
Aara peeked quickly at Ebryn around the fringe of her headscarf. “Thank-you — I would rather stay.”
“We need to go, or we'll miss the start,” Sash said, turning towards the stairs. “Are you sure you don't want to come with us?”
Aara shook her head, already retreating towards her room. “Not for me.”
“She seems very shy,” Ebryn said, once he thought they were far enough down the stairs so Aara wouldn't hear. “I don't think I've heard her say more than a few words to anyone before now.”
Sash glanced up to where Aara had been standing. “Yes, she does seem shy. I suppose that's why she keeps her face covered all the time.”
“I'm not so sure that's the reason. She doesn't seem to like men looking at her face. In Goresyn, amongst women who are devoted to the graces, some wear a covering for their hair, for religious devotion — to show they favour the grace of modesty.”
“What are women like in Fyrenar?” Sash asked. Her tone sounded casual, but he could see her watching him carefully.
“I don't really know,” Ebryn said. “The only woman I had much to do with was Fidela—”
“Fidela?”
“She's the housekeeper at Conant Manor. She kind of raised me when I was young. There were a few girls from the village she had for cleaning, but they were always too busy to talk and she sent them away when they'd finished working.”
