The Assassin's Twisted Path

by Elizabeth Guizzetti

  “By the laws of this Realm, you will hang till you are dead. By the laws of Port Denwort, I condemn you. May the Waters of Resurrection wash you clean.”

  Behind the mayor, his grandson signaled the executioner.

  The crowd cheered.

  Roark refused to let himself blink as he observed the last few moments of light in the man’s eyes.

  The executioner knocked back the lever to the gallows. The man’s eyes widened as he fell. His neck broke cleanly. Feces spilled down his leg and plopped on the ground. His light disappeared.

  A few street urchins scurried over and ripped off his clothing. The crowd cheered again. With nothing else to see, the spectators wandered back to their ordinary lives. It was a busy market day. Nearly every space was filled with basket weavers, pot makers, and farmers. Since the mayor’s executioner gave him leave, no one minded the Fairsinge taking the corpse.

  As Edar instructed, Roark wrapped him in tarred leather and tossed the man over his shoulder. The mayor’s youngest guard helped him put the corpse in a wagon. Sweat coating every inch of his skin, he trudged back up the hill to Edar’s cottage. He stopped to drink a tall cup of water once inside, then carried the corpse down the stairs to the basement.

  Edar chopped ice which he put into a metal tray, which he slid under his metal table. He set clean cotton gauze on the ice. “We always must keep the subject cold to slow the decomposition.”

  Roark set the body upon the table and cut off the scraps of fabrics still hanging from his body.

  “This man is thinner than I’d hoped … so many are hungry.” Edar examined the subject’s blackened nailbeds and rotten teeth. “Unusable!”

  With a sharp short knife, he cut out the tongue and eyeballs and dropped them into a beaker of whiskey. Edar washed the knife and made three incisions into the throat. He removed the larynx and sliced it into small pieces which he dropped into the beaker.

  “Truthsayer’s potion. The mayor’s guard often uses it. Please move it to the north wall and bring that tray of gallon jars.”

  Roark did as he was bid. It was common enough practice in the Guild to loosen tongues with simple whiskey. However, perhaps being showed a jar of someone’s eyes and tongue might scare truth out of some.

  Edar cut open the torso.

  “Is that the normal size of a human liver? The one you have seems smaller,” Roark said.

  “It’s enlarged. A young man should be much healthier. Still, his heart, lungs, and kidneys can make decent remedies. And his manhood can still be dried for the mayor.”

  “Why does that happen?”

  “Most likely, he was starving.”

  Roark thought about the rise of the slave trade, families of brigands in the forests, the elderly and children scraping out an existence. He remembered every person he’d killed over the years. How many were stealing because they were hungry? Dear Goddess of the Resurrection, what if that happened to me?

  “What are you thinking?”

  “How I don’t want to be resurrected as this man.”

  “Nor I, my friend.” Edar covered the cadaver with the wet gauze.

  •

  Chapter 5

  Port Denwort in the Realm of Dynion

  Another long and painful nightmare haunted Roark. Feeling a dagger slice open his cheek, he leapt from bed. He was alone, alive and in the relative safety of Edar’s mother’s room. He moved to the dressing table and gazed at his reflection in the mirror. His flesh was intact. He was still beautiful.

  The sky outside his window was the pale blue of predawn. Roark’s hand trembled over his saddlebags. These weeks he had learned much, but it was time to leave for a job and report to Corwin. He hoped the recipe for the Healing Blood and Truthsayer’s potions would be enough.

  In the kitchen, Edar hummed as he pulled bread from the oven. A bandage, a ceramic beaker of blue powder, herbs, and an empty pot and ceramic from the lab sat upon the table, but Edar didn’t speak of the donation. Instead, he cut off a thick hunk of bread and placed it in front of Roark and put out a jar of quince jam. “I could cook kidneys to strengthen you?”

  Kidneys and toast did not sound appetizing, but Roark would need his vigor both for his donation and travel, so he agreed. Behind him, meat sizzled as Edar dropped it into hot butter.

  Edar pushed a bench to sit beside Roark. Perching on his chair, his eyes grew wide as Roark sliced open the scar on his arm and leaned so the blood could fall into the waiting cup.

  The quartz shivered under Roark’s shirt. It also desired the spilled blood, but Edar could never know about that.

  Edar licked his lips. His milky pupils dilated. He was so focused on the blood, Roark prodded gently, “Are those kidneys going to burn?”

  “No, no that wouldn’t do.” The lich’s silk shoes squeaked across the wood floor as he hurried back to the stove.

  Roark wet his finger with the blood and smeared it on the quartz while the lich’s back was turned. He was finished before Edar dished the plate of kidneys and set it before him.

  While Roark bled into the cup, Edar mixed the potion. He added a bit of water and smashed the blue powder and herbs into a paste which he placed in the pot.

  He put the pot into the flame and watched the paste spark. The lich gently swirled the cup of blood and drizzled it with his concoction, stirring it slowly. “We must be careful to not let it clot early.”

  Roark bandaged his arm. “The kidneys look wonderful.”

  “Thank you.”

  As Roark ate his breakfast, Edar drank the blood potion. His carotid artery pulsed; his flesh grew flushed and pink. He licked the cup, trying to get each drop. Then his lips. He checked his chin with his hand and tasted the fallen morsel.

  “You will return, Lord Roark?”

  “Assuming I don’t die on the battlefield.”

  Though Edar’s skin was slowly taking on the signals of life, it sagged deeper than usual.

  Roark patted his hand. “Fear not. I’ve spent too much time with my aunt. That’s what she always says. I don’t think I can bring back a whole body, but I’ll bring back samples to help us with our work.”

  Edar smiled, and Roark noticed the smile wasn’t so gruesome with fresh blood in his veins. Edar’s gums had puffed and returned to a more natural pink color.

  •

  Micagrav Harbor in the Realm of Larcia

  Weak from his donation, Roark lifted his hand toward the sun and counted the fingers to the horizon. Jaci ensured he was on time, but the dock was empty of any Expanse-faring ships and the beach mostly deserted as well, except for seagulls and a few dwarven women collecting mussels in the distance.

  Roark threw a stone into the sea, watching it skip once, and crash into a wave. He thought about his report. He learned a lonely lich can make a wonderful host. He also learned he didn’t like the conflict he felt deep within his soul. However, Corwin wouldn’t care about that.

  The apprenticeship was a reciprocal relationship, but Edar didn’t have to ask after Roark’s comfort or cook kidneys and fresh bread for him. Roark thought about writing to Alana for advice on how she dealt with the conflict between the vows she made as a Fairsinge Martlet and as a Guild War Ender. That was pointless; he would worry her over a question he knew the answer to: Alana was a Martlet first and foremost.

  Roark heard the soft shuffle of stones behind him. He put his hand on his knife but didn’t unsheathe it as he turned.

  They didn’t have to let him know they were there. He did not take his eyes off the dwarves who approached as he bowed before Kajsa Goldsvein, a lovely middle-aged dwarf-woman of fine breeding and taste. Her long blonde hair and beard were plaited neatly with a band of translucent silk which set off the delicate rosy coloring of her skin.

  “We’re hiring you instead of Sewryn, so you better be as good with poisons as he,” Kajsa said. Behind her as always was Doriel Angrock, the widower of Kajsa’s elder sister, who walked with purpose and resolve of the regular soldier that he
once was. Only now, his body was incomplete and his weaponry lighter; Doriel’s left forearm ended in a stump.

  Though Roark had worked with them many times, it was a new experience to work alone. “I won’t disappoint, my Lady-in-arms, Master Doriel.” Roark inclined his head slightly in the language of the Larcian Dwarves, matching her highborn accent.

  “You better not. I will kill you before I let you slander our Great Lady’s name with incompetence,” she replied without anger or malice in the same tongue. Roark did not doubt Kajsa’s resolve. Roark’s performance affected the War Ender who hired him. The jobs of any Journeyman Assassin before they earned a reputation were the most dangerous because they were the most expendable.

  “Break bread with us, Roark. I want to explain the way the boulder rolls.” Kajsa pulled out a bottle of mead which she poured into flagons. Doriel unwrapped boiled buns, fiddling with the cloth bag’s knot with his teeth.

  Their last job was the reason that Doriel suffered amputation. Did they blame him?

  “Can I help?” Roark asked.

  “No,” Doriel grumbled. The knot loosened enough to open the bag with his other hand.

  “Should I cast a circle?” Roark asked.

  Doriel shook his head and held out the bag first to Kajsa and then to him. “Who will hear us? Or care. The seagulls?”

  Roark took an offered bun, his mind spinning with the danger. He took a bite; it was filled with minced meat and gravy.

  Unlike his own people, dwarves were patriarchal. If Doriel wanted to kill Roark, would Kajsa be able to stop him? She outranked him both by birth and in the Guild. He was a male and five years older. He didn’t know which system Doriel held in more esteem. Roark still couldn’t tell. If they were lovers, would one be in charge?

  “Stop,” Doriel punched Roark’s shoulder with his remaining hand.

  “Stop what?”

  “By the way you are staring, you know what I speak. I’d hate to cause Lady Alana sadness if her nephew compromised Lady Kajsa’s reputation on his very first job.”

  Heat radiated up Roark’s throat to his cheeks.

  “We aren’t any of your business,” Doriel said.

  Kajsa laughed. “But, good to know we’re keeping the gossip mill turning. Alana didn’t tell you how the two of us came to work for the Guild?”

  “Some of it.” Actually, Roark knew all of it but was glad for the story. It was a filthy stereotype, but in general, dwarves didn’t bother telling yarns to those they planned to kill.

  Kajsa swallowed the rest of her bun in two bites and took a long sip from her flagon. “House Goldsvein’s suffered both in the loss of sons and depleted coffers during the decades-long ‘skirmish’ for the river with the Copperbloods. But the commoners who worked the river and mines suffered most of all. Sons were taken away to fight; daughters were left to tend the land, which was made rocky by the blood of our people.

  “My grandfather hoped to gain honor before we were gone in a foolish battle which escalated quickly, however, my father, in a bid to save us, called in the Guild. Without funds to pay a War Ender, the price was one of my generation. My grandfather and father thought they got a deal because I was a quarrelsome daughter.”

  “Now, Kajsa is the most loved of his children and the crown prince’s most loved sister because Goldsvein’s coffers run deep with what we send from our work.” Doriel’s tone was greasy with resentment towards the male side of the Goldsvein family.

  “As a foot soldier, Doriel proved himself in battle and rose quickly as a leader of men. After my father was wounded, he struck a bargain with Doriel to lead his army to victory. My sister was unmarriageable without a dowry.”

  Kajsa glanced over at Doriel. He did not speak.

  Lowest Realm, he is going to kill me, Roark thought.

  Remain calm, the quartz whispered.

  “For his part, Doriel was a happy and faithful husband until Kalota died in childbirth. My niece lived two days after my sister. He found no friendship or even sympathy from any quarter of my House. My mother was so grief-stricken. My brothers thought he was an upstart. Father sent him away.

  “Doriel plotted revenge from a small mountain fort where stories of his bravery held the hearts of men.” She paused again to allow her brother-in-law to continue his story.

  “Alana and Kajsa came for me before I stupidly carried out my plans, which would’ve restarted the war. We made a bargain. If I allowed Larcia to heal, Lady Alana would call in a favor for my situation. I was an apprentice for a year to learn Guild ways, then I could be a man-at-arms of any War Ender I chose. I owe the great lady much, but I owe her nephew nothing.”

  Doriel’s coarse words were directed towards him, but there was no malice.

  “I’m sorry about your hand. We wouldn’t have been able to cross the fairy-fire without your sacrifice.”

  “I got paid for my sacrifice, and I got another hand still strong enough to take you.” Doriel threw another punch to Roark’s shoulder; this one landed hard enough to hurt. Roark couldn’t tell if Doriel didn’t blame him. Or if Doriel blamed him and would hurt him someday, though his Lady-in-Arms would be using Roark for the job so he couldn’t hurt him now.

  “Doriel’s been training with throwing hatchets and several lighter swords for the months we’ve been parted,” Kajsa said. “It’s a different style of fighting, but Seweryn’s been a good teacher.”

  “Sarding light blades bend too easily,” Doriel grumbled. “If I had puny arms like yours, I would wield it better.”

  Though Roark would never be a War Ender, his time with Alana taught him that War Enders plan for all contingencies. Even getting their assassin used to their brother-in-law. Or perhaps getting their brother-in-law used to a new assassin. Everything was planned. Kajsa and Doriel’s friendship went deep, and they were stronger together, even with the loss of a sword hand.

  It wouldn’t be a good life if I lived forever without companionship. Roark decided once he got a bit closer to success, he would think about how to ask them. Kajsa might be up for it, but Doriel seemed too dour for eternal life, especially without a whole body. But if transmutation is real, maybe …

  •

  Chapter 6

  Port Denwort in the Realm of Dynion

  Dear Byronia,

  I heard you’re back in Port Denwort. I believe I discovered the last missing boy from our list. Rataen was bought by a spice merchant named Nelson Grayhook in Port Welliver.

  May the Goddess watch over your journey, Alana

  Byronia twisted the parchment into a tight scroll and slipped it into her pocket. Port Welliver was a few days ride, but first, she must discover who created the bulls and for what purpose.

  She dressed in the modest gown of a human peasant and cloaked her blond braids with a veil as was common in married women in Port Denwort, which would also cover her ears. She carefully softened her cheeks with rouge and darkened under her eyes with ash.

  Slouching, she moved slowly down the docks and entered Salty Eel Tavern—a favorite among the overseers. The door’s rusty metal hinges announced her arrival. The innkeeper nodded her way, but the tavern inhabitants scarcely took notice. The peppery smell of burnt leaf tickled her nose. A few rentboys and girls lingered about and tried to catch her eye, but she kept her gaze downcast.

  Most patrons drank a dark beer and had a bowl of pottage—including one of the plantation overseers. She ordered the same, paid in copper, and found a quiet table in the corner. The day’s pottage was a loose broth of carrots, chicken—maybe squab. A bit bland on the tongue, but it was warm and welcoming in her stomach.

  Two Larcian sailors sat in the corner, but otherwise, most of the clientele looked to be human of the poorer merchant class, sailors, rentboys and girls.

  The hinges screamed again as a group filed in wearing long brightly-colored robes of vibrant purple, emerald, or sapphire, which seemed to shimmer in the candlelight. Their laughter rang out in the dim tavern. Whoever these people w
ere, they seemed to enjoy a jolly time. The innkeeper quickly brought them three carafes of wine, and the rentboys and girls approached their table.

  The overseer scowled their way and hurried out. Byronia made note of it.

  At first glance, the beings looked to be large specimens of humans, but something was off about them. She sensed they weren’t altogether natural.

  They were the basic shape of all the intelligent species of the Realms, and Byronia quickly sketched the party, making notes of every commonality and difference between them and the other sentients of the Seven Realms. She could not tell if they were male, female or another gender. They moved and spoke thoughtfully—more like a Telchine or a gnome compared to fast-talking humans and elfkin. Their stature was slightly larger than most humans, but not overtly so. They were hairier than most dwarves, but their golden locks were coiffed in rich curls, their mustaches braided into their beards in a different weave than was common in the dwarf-inhabited Larcia. Their skin looked pale, as if the sun never touched them, and had an under hue of lavender—though that might be a reflection of their shimmering clothing and cosmetics. The group had human-shaped ears. However, when one turned in her direction, Byronia was stricken by the eyes: glassy orbs filled with an opalescent violet liquid and a single enlarged purple iris.

  She turned the page in her book and ordered another beer.

  The hinges screamed again. The overseer and six other human males from the plantation entered the tavern. Though she didn’t think they would recognize her as “the angel who saved the elfkin slaves,” Byronia slid closer to the wall.

  “Where’re our oxen?”

  “Whatever in the world are you talking about?” the one in embroidered golden robes asked. The being’s hair swirled around hir like it had a mind of its own. Once Byronia wrote that note, she almost crossed it out. That’s stupid. But not as stupid as not having an open mind, she recited from one of Corwin’s old lessons.

  “Our oxen. They disappeared.” The human man hit the wooden table which shuddered under his punch. “And we’re missing a guard.”