The three holdouts—who, for reasons all their own, had continued to endure her attitude—wandered off muttering to themselves. She yawned and watched them go. When she was satisfied they were far enough away, she barked to her pair of thugs.
“I'm going to go lay out the black list contracts for tonight. Can I trust you idiots to hold down the fort while I'm gone?”
The reply was a barely coherent grumble followed by a pair of inebriated laughs.
Maribelle made a sound of disgust. “I'll be quick about it then.”
She stood and paced out into the city, jingling her ring of keys as she went. Keeping her black list jobs safe from people eager to cut her out as the middle man was one of her primary concerns, so her methods were constantly evolving. She stored the raw details of the jobs written out on parchment. Certain key information was kept abstract, a symbol or phrase of which only she knew the meaning. The buildings she used to store the more valuable contracts were purposely scattered, so that a dedicated searcher would need to pull apart half the city to find more than one or two of her best jobs. Unfortunately, that meant a great deal of walking. She made her way to the first building on her list and fumbled for the key. Absentmindedly, she pushed on the door before putting the key into the lock . . . and it opened.
“No,” she muttered under her breath. “I locked the door. I know I did. I always lock the door.”
She rushed inside, fearing that she would find the interior ransacked. In the dim light that filtered through the open door and between the boards covering the windows, everything appeared to be intact, not that there was much to see. The previous residents had taken all they could when they left. The three rooms were almost bare. A table, a few scattered chests, and the broken frame of a bed were all that remained. She heaved a chest aside and levered up the floorboard beneath it. There was a shallow hollow dug into the ground. It was where she'd hid the pending contacts and materials for at least a dozen jobs, big and small. She earned a cut of each job, and as such the mound of papers was worth a small fortune. Or it would have been, if it had still been there.
“How? How is that possible? There is no sign of a search! How could they have known where to look?”
At the sound of a short, sharp creak, Maribelle's head turned to the door. It slammed shut; in the relative darkness, only a vague form was visible. She cried out, a profanity-laden plea for help echoing off the rafters as she pulled a strange weapon from her belt. It was a pouch of leather, sagging as though stuffed with pebbles, and affixed to the end of a short stick. She raised the weapon and charged. There was clear skill and training behind her motions, and significant weight behind her attack, but before she could take a second step, a gloved hand closed around her wrist. A tug, twist, and sidestep spun her around. The full force of her charge sent her backward into the door. The air burst from her lungs and her head thumped hard against the wooden planks. Her weapon was ripped from her hand and its stout handle was pressed to her throat.
“Be silent,” he instructed calmly.
The weapon was held lightly enough to allow her to breathe, but firmly enough to threaten a far more forceful application if needed. She struggled to catch her breath and wisely did as she was told.
“Your men are bound and gagged, and your hiding places have all been cleared.”
Slowly it became apparent to her, once her eyes had adjusted, what it was that had so quickly bested her.
“A mally?” The weapon pressed harder. “Malthrope, malthrope,” she hastily corrected. “You're the one, aren't you. The one Duule let get away. So he never caught you. What do you want?”
“First, answers.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I want to know about these,” he said, pulling a stack of pages from his belt and waving them. They were the briefings Maribelle had hidden. “I want to know why these people deserve to die.”
“I . . . I don't remember all of them. Half of the time, the people making the offers don't even say.”
He breathed a hissing breath. “Then tell me who made the offers.”
“I can't tell you that. These people pay for discretion. I tell you their names today and tomorrow they find someone else to handle their jobs, and the first price is on my head.”
“Then you've got a choice to make.” He leaned closer. “Today or tomorrow.”
She breathed a few shaky breaths, eyes locked on his. Keeping the pressure on the weapon held to her throat, he smoothly stowed the pages and drew out thin dagger with a long, deliberate ring of its blade.
“You can't kill me. The contacts will be worthless to you if you do. You won't know who ordered them, so you won't be able to collect!”
“I am an animal, remember?” he said, angling the blade over her heart. “I can't be expected to understand such things.”
Her breathing quickened as he pressed the blade slowly into the leather armor. The blade passed through it as though the armor wasn't there. When she felt the tip of the blade touch her skin, she gasped.
“Fine! Fine, I'll tell you! And I swear I won't tell anyone about you!”
“Yes,” he said, withdrawing the blade. “You will. You'll tell everyone about me. An assassin needs a reputation. So you will tell about the man who works for you. You will tell how he wears the skull of a wolf as a helmet. You will tell that it is stained red with the blood of his victims. You will tell everyone who will listen that this assassin, the Red Shadow, has carved a bloody swath across Tressor for years. He is vicious, without remorse, and unmatched.”
“You think people will believe that?”
“They will,” he said with certainty.
She considered the words again. “They might, at that. But Duule is still alive, and more powerful than ever. When he catches wind of you, he will come after you. No one holds a grudge like Duule.”
“Let him come. I will deal with him when he does,” he stated. He sheathed the dagger and flipped through the pages at his belt with his free hand. He pulled three free and held them out. “Take them. Tell me who ordered them.”
She shakily took the pages. Her eyes had adjusted enough to the darkness that she could just barely make out her own writing. They were three of the highest-priced jobs. She glanced at some markings she'd left on the corner of each and quickly offered up a name and description of each client. They were all wealthy, aristocratic scoundrels from nearby cities. He listened intently, then backed away, finally taking the weapon from her throat. Despite the fact she was no longer in immediate risk of harm, some mixture of wisdom and fear inspired her to keep still and keep quiet.
“In a few days, if these targets have earned their fate, then you will have your proof and I will have my payment.”
“Payment! All of this just to do the job? Why? If you are after my money, why not just steal it when you took care of the boys? And why be so choosy about the job?”
“Because I am a hunter, not a scavenger. And because not everyone deserves to be hunted.”
He stepped to the boarded up window and delivered a single swift kick. The blow dislodged the boards, bringing the light of day streaming in to viciously sting at Maribelle's eyes. By the time she had blinked away the tears, he was gone.
#
Locating the men responsible for ordering the kills was simple enough. By the time the sun had set on that same day, he had found the first of them. He was an elf living just outside of a port town. The place was Korr, and the man was Gorinil. Elves were common in the eastern ports, and wealth was common among the elves. Gold was the sort of thing that accumulated over time, and elves had more time than most. They often owned ships, sometimes dozens of them, and earned absurd sums for ferrying otherwise unattainable goods across the sea from South Crescent. Fine woods, rare gems, exotic creatures, spices, and all manner of other commodities had made whole families wealthy, and even those not fortunate enough to own the ships still made a tidy living working as sailors and on the docks.
Elf society tended to favor simple, elegant clothing and accessories, but Gorinil had fully embraced Tresson culture. He dressed in flowing, silken robes colored with priceless dyes and detailed with gold thread. His estate was massive and well-protected. Around the grounds, which were nearly as large as Jarrad's plantation in the early days, ran a tall and sturdy fence. There was a pair of ornate and mismatched carriages inside a coach house toward the back of the grounds. Six guards were stationed near the two fence gates. The manor at its center was three stories tall and had dozens of rooms. The roof had slate shingles, the doors had polished brass hinges, and the whole of the structure had been solidly built to withstand the harsh storms that scoured the shore region a few times a year. To a casual observer, it was an insurmountable task to slip inside such a place; before his time in Entwell, Lain would not have considered it. Now, though, he knew better than to take it at its appearance.
Gorinil's guards were little concern. Though they were well equipped, it was clear that more had been spent on the weapons than the men carrying them. The dead-eyed men stood their ground, staring without seeing. There was no patrol, and they seldom even took a glance around them. In moments, Lain had scaled the fence and found a dark crevice of the manor's outer wall to plot the next step. The sturdiness of the building would have made it difficult to force his way in, but with so many windows to take advantage of the view, finding one that wasn't properly secured was a certainty. In no time, he had scaled the wall and found his way to a small window leading into the attic. Once inside, the heavy construction of the mansion simply meant that sounds didn't travel very far. For his sensitive ears, it was little problem. Closing his eyes and keeping still, he focused on the voices from all over the house as they filtered through the thick walls to him.
There was a pair of carriages outside, which suggested that Gorinil had a visitor of similar wealth. This was fortunate. When the sort of wealthy man who would build a place such as this met a peer, each would boast. They would boast of their fortune, and power that such fortune brought. Nothing was a greater expression of power than the having the means and will to order the death of another. If he listened, before the night was out, the motivation would come spilling proudly from the scoundrel's mouth.
The attic was just as extravagant as the rest of the manor, entirely finished and more pleasant than most commoners' homes. Furniture and clothing that had fallen out of fashion cluttered the pitch-black space, draped with sheets and left to be eaten by moths. He navigated the space silently until he reached the chimney. Once there he put his ears to work again. The voices of the household were nearest: these spoke of chores to be done, those of the nearly finished evening meal.
When he found two voices speaking exclusively and reverently of business, he knew he'd found the master of the house. He tuned his sensitive hearing to their conversation and followed it through the rooms as the night progressed. At first, the conversation spoke in broad terms of schedules and volumes and prices. There was talk of this acquisition and that commodity. After they had eaten and retired to the study to smoke and sip brandy, though, the conversation turned to those troublesome rivals who were standing in the way. It was at this point that the name of the target was peppered into the conversation. To Gorinil's credit, he remained vague on the subject, but he couldn't resist remarking that this equally ruthless thorn in his side would cease to be a concern before long.
And so the reason was revealed. This man, with all of the greed of Marret and the savvy to feed it, had ordered the death of a counterpart in another town. Two predators competing for the same prey, and one deciding to eat the other along the way. It was all Lain needed to hear. He slipped out of the attic, over the fence. He would take this target and earn his bounty, and now was as good a time as any.
#
It was a short trip to the home of the target. Rather than at the center of a fenced-in estate, it was huddled on a busy street of a bustling port town. Even late into the night, the city around his home was alive with activity. Gorinil would likely have been furious to know that despite all of the time and money he had devoted to ensuring his own security, the home of his hated rival was far safer by simple virtue of the bystanders who gathered in the streets around it. An overly curious neighbor was worth ten guards, and no fence could match the security of being surrounded by occupied homes. If only the man had been modest enough to occupy a single floor rather than an entire building, it would have been truly challenging to reach him. Instead, he chose to flaunt his own wealth by making a home of the tallest building in town. It was a narrow building of painted wood and slate shingle that rose a full four floors over the street, and just as had been the case with the man who had ordered his death, a shuttered window near the roof was the weak point. It was hanging loosely ajar, and a flicker of lantern light revealed that there was nothing else to bar the way.
Even before Entwell, flitting unseen across the rooftops had been second nature to Lain. He made his way from the city gates to the walls of the doomed man's home without once touching the street. It was tempting to head straight for the window, but he knew that if there was light in the window, there was someone in the room beyond. Instead he pulled himself silently to the sloped roof and crouched low, senses sharp. From the sound of voices he could tell that there were three people inside. The potent scent of some sort of polish was wafting through the window, and the jingle of delicate metal could be heard beneath the conversation. There were servants, two women. They were engaging in what appeared to be the favored pastime of people in their walk of life: complaining in hushed voices about their employers.
“I tell you, I don't know why he has us clean the blasted silver. The way he eats, he may as well use a trough,” muttered one of the women.
“He's having us polish the silver because if not for that, there would be nothing for us to do. He would have to let us take the night off, and perish the thought,” remarked the other. “Now he gets to sleep off half a bottle of wine while we choke ourselves on the fumes of this horrid stuff.”
There was the thump of feet on the stairs, prompting a sudden silence from the women.
“It is only me, ladies,” came the voice of the man, evidently not the target of their frustrations. “And if I were you, I would not speak ill of the master of the house. If he hadn't had so much wine, it wouldn't be nearly so easy to convince him tomorrow that he finished the bottle.”
There was the slosh of a purloined bottle and the trio slipped away from the window to one of their quarters to split the ill-gotten gains, taking the lantern to light the way. Like a breath of wind rustling the curtains, Lain nudged open the shutters and flipped down from the roof and into the window. He moved swiftly across the cluttered servants' floor, reaching the steps without so much as creaking a floorboard. Whereas the servants' quarters were packed with cupboards and cabinets, piles of rags and work to be done on every flat surface, the living space of the owner was immaculate and lavish. Elegant furniture was carefully arranged in each room. Stuffed chairs with lustrous horsehair upholstery sat awaiting guests. Tables draped with intricate lacework and carved chairs stood at the ready for meals most could only imagine. All of it was shrouded in darkness, but compared to the cave, it might as well have been the height of day. He wove between the finery, staying low to the floor rather than risk being seen by an unexpected stray servant.
After another such floor, he heard the heavy breathing of sleep. He moved with even more care now. The most critical tasks lay ahead. He needed to identify the target, find the proof that was required by the contract, and . . . perform the deed. The first part was easy enough, as the heavy breathing he heard was now turning to a rattling snore, and was coming from a room not far from the staircase. He found his way to it. There was a magnificent four-post bed, heaped with comforters. A man and woman were laying beneath them. The man was deeply asleep, erupting periodically with a fresh snore. The woman, presumably his wife, was sleeping fitfully.
; Lain crouched low beside the bed and conjured to mind the papers he'd taken from Maribelle. The man carried a silver coin, the first payment he'd received for his first shipment many years ago. It had an engraving of some kind, and he wore it on a chain around his neck as a good luck charm. The assassin hunched with his eyes level with the bed. All but the man's head was beneath covers. The night was barely cool, the nearby sea adding a bit of clamminess to the air, but native Tressons often seemed to have a low tolerance for the cold, hence the layers. Keeping a watchful eye on both the man and woman, and keeping his ears pointed to the door, Lain slowly folded back the comforter. The man did not wake, so he put his fingers to the blanket to do the same.
The man released a sudden, grating outburst, a noise loud enough to stir his wife. Lain disappeared beneath the bed just in time for her to launch herself upright and elbow the man in the ribs.
“Ugh,” he groaned, jostled from sleep. “What . . . why did . . .”
“You were snoring. Again!” she growled.
He muttered something unintelligible, then drifted back to sleep. She grumbled and climbed out of bed, fumbling her way out of the dark room. Soon Lain could hear glasses and pitchers rattling from a few rooms away. Lain slipped out from beneath the bed, more cautious now, and looked over his prey. His wife's abrupt departure had upset the covers, and tucked beneath the man's night shirt was a round shape. He tugged the chain until he could just see that it was indeed a silver coin. He was the man, it was certain now.
Lain looked to the doorway. The woman was likely in the kitchen getting a drink, but she would not be long. This needed to be done quickly and silently. He looked down to the man and made his decision. With sharp, precise movements he clamped his palm across the man's mouth and pinched his nostrils shut. Crouching down, he wrapped his arm around the man's head, reaching behind and grasping the side of his face. The target's eyes were only just beginning to open from sleep again when Lain twisted his head firmly. There was a snap, a few weak shudders, and it was done.
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 192
