The Copper Assassin

by Madolyn Rogers

  In the ice islands, Morbid had been lean and lightning-quick, a jaunty figure with her cap of raveled black curls and her mocking mouth, one hand always playing over her sword hilt. She had been a firebrand in the dark years, afraid of nothing, her energy a magnet that drew followers. The government was crumbling and the families fragmenting, while the southern raiders swarmed in stronger fleets every year to attack them. Morbid had been a sign of hope then, like Black Cat herself come again to save them.

  Babinsa had met her when she herself was sixteen, and Morbid nineteen. She had worshipped her then: Morbid, who dared anything, who never cowered. In time, Babinsa’s girlish admiration had deepened into true friendship. She believed Morbid to be the destined leader of the ice islands, and had always supported her bid for power.

  All of it began to seem an empty game, however, here in cold Wyverna beyond the ocean. All their enemies were long since crushed. The southern raiders had been burned out of their hives, leaving behind only a charnel house of ash and bone. Their people had been forged into a mighty power, and all serious dissension had withered away. They were wealthier and more powerful than they had ever been in the ice islands. The time of crisis had passed. Yet Morbid alone had not changed. She had dreamed and plotted and chewed on leadership so long that she could not see anything else. Perhaps the greatest difference between her and the Warlord, Babinsa thought, was that Morbid had never been able to face reality.

  The wine left a bitter taste in Babinsa’s mouth. Morbid’s stride practically hurtled her across the room now, her hands clenching and unclenching, her frustrated energy giving her the look of some caged beast. Radice watched with a tolerant, even admiring smile. Though he might plague Morbid on occasion, her magnetism drew him as much as it did the others, Babinsa knew. He would never truly challenge her. Chassi looked bored, waiting with a soldier’s patience for the signal so they could get on with the business. Neither of them seemed to feel the cold doubt that lodged in Babinsa’s breast whenever she looked at Morbid. She still loved her, but she was old enough now to see beyond that. She knew the Warlord was stronger. Babinsa would do all she could for Morbid’s success, and she still told herself it was possible, but she could no longer truly believe it. Morbid had been beaten fifteen years ago. The only reason she didn’t know it yet was because she was a true Kharvay, and had to see her body pierced by the sword to believe she was dead.

  Babinsa traced her old friend’s features with her gaze as though she would never see her again: the black curls grown ratty, the soft flesh wasted away over her hard muscles until she was all rope and bone, the deep lines graven around her sardonic mouth. Her piercing eyes alone had remained the same. That and her ferocious energy, unchained and raw, burning her up like a bonfire. Behind her slim black figure that lashed the room like a whip, coiling and uncoiling across it, the ruby crystals glowed on uninterrupted, marking the hours of her failure.

  It was an hour past dawn when the crystals began to wink out, one by one.

  12: Chess Pieces

  Devourer take the sun, Gorgo thought. He would keep charging forward. But first he needed a plan.

  Gorgo stepped back into the shelter of the alley and took stock of himself. He was a mess. His trousers were shredded below the left knee, blood soaking through the rough wrappings he had made from his shirt, and his calf throbbed with pain. Blood crusted his right shoulder and made a dark stain over his tunic. The wound on his right arm ached, but at least that one was not bleeding. He was bruised all over, moving stiffly and with pain. Small cuts scored his hands from clambering over the rocks. Not to mention his general dirtiness, the smell of curdled sweat, the rips in his clothes. His shirt was torn in half, but at least his tunic hid that.

  Yahsta, he could not go walking through the Fence District like this. He was far too conspicuous. He would need to make his way through several streets to reach the cliff face, the lower flank of Yahsta’s Claws. There lay the entrance to Mort Glave, the Warlord’s stronghold. And how would he gain admittance? He had no Fence stamp, nothing to earn the trust of the guards.

  Gorgo peered out at the street. Almost no one was out at this hour. Buildings of grey stone, mostly small two-story residences, lined the cobbled avenue. In the distance an enormous four-story building, patterned in grey and white stone, rose above the houses. Its round cupolas of bluestone gleamed in the dawn. Along the street before him, iron streetlamps cast a smudgy yellow radiance into the lightening sky. A small party of jacks tramped by, heading north.

  He needed to find a lone traveler. Gorgo ghosted across the street after the jacks had gone. Pain lanced him at every step. He headed for the mountains, keeping an eye out. One street further, Gorgo found what he was looking for. A police officer had just stepped from a tavern ahead of him. He wore the uniform of a talisman officer, a ‘tail’ colloquially, one rank above a jack. He was not much larger than Gorgo.

  Gorgo scooped Honeylegs off his shoulder and stared into her beady eyes. “Honeylegs, can you put that fellow over there to sleep? Without damaging him: we don’t want a death sentence.”

  Her eyes gleamed back at him; she tapped one tawny foreleg against his palm and pounced to the ground. “Wait till he’s by the alley,” Gorgo hissed after her. She scuttled like a sandy dustball wind-blown across the cobbles. The talisman officer sauntered on, oblivious, his gait a little unsteady. Honeylegs swarmed up the back of his pants and his studded leather jerkin. She clung to his collar for a moment before she bit. Gorgo loped forward in time to catch the man as he fell, and half-dragged, half-carried him into the nearest alley. The tail was still breathing—good. Apparently Honeylegs had more than one type of poison.

  Gorgo made sure he was out of sight of nearby windows before he stripped off the officer’s uniform. The tails wore grey shirts and trousers of sturdy cotton, and their leather jerkins were dyed red. This one had carried a short sword and a dagger. Gorgo grinned as he saw the weapons; armed again at last. He yanked off his own bloody tunic and trousers and the remains of his shirt, and used the knife to cut up his shirt properly, in neat strips of bandage. He wrapped more strands around the ruin of his leg, staunching the last bleeding. He did not want to look closer at it, or think about it. He bound more strips around his shoulder. Better. The wrappings did nothing for the pain, but that he could ignore. He dressed quickly. The uniform was a little large for him, but not badly so. It covered the worst of the night’s travails. Pinned to the jerkin was the tail’s badge, a twisted redstone talisman with the man’s name inscribed across it: Officer Lisgard. Gorgo surveyed it with satisfaction. This would get him into Mort Glave. He pushed aside thought of the consequences of this assault. He would deal with that later. Now nothing mattered but stopping the assassin.

  He stowed Honeylegs in his pocket, and strode for Mort Glave. No need to skulk now. The pain from his leg faded into the background, his thoughts focused on his mission. In only a few more turns he found himself at the mountain face. The foot of Yahsta’s Claws loomed above him, an almost sheer cliff of diamond-hard grey stone. This was the rock on which Wyverna was founded, the unyielding stone the sea could not wear away. Beneath an overhanging ledge, he found the small green door Morbid had described. It was plain, of impure, greyish greenstone, and the seal’s head knocker was crudely forged bronze. Gorgo pounded and waited, curbing his impatience.

  It was not long before a young woman opened the door. Gorgo saw no weapon on her, but her close-fitting black jacket and trousers, trimmed in blue, looked rather like a uniform. She tilted her head to the side and inquired, in pleasantly modulated tones, “What is your business in Mort Glave?”

  “I have a very urgent message for the Warlord.” Gorgo snapped it out importantly. Tails always sounded pompous.

  He caught the barest shadow of a mocking smile on her face. “Come with me, please.” Gorgo saw no sign in her manner that anything dramatic had happened this night, and he felt a flicker of hope. He strode after her springy steps into a great stone
corridor. It was lit by oil lamps that burned with golden flame, their dancing light illuminating the sweeping scenes of war that cavorted along the walls. The panoramas were worked in bright metals and precious stones, a riot of movement and color. The fitful lamplight made shadows dance along the scene and lurk in the corners of his eyes. The air felt chilly, heavy with the wet smell of rock. It seemed to cling to his skin.

  The young woman led Gorgo down the hallway and through a fork to the right, reaching an immense circular staircase that spilled down into the depths, its great steps of smooth-polished stone. Everything in Mort Glave seemed oversized, intimidating. Gorgo knew that the monks had helped to sculpt these caverns in the early days of the city, using their power to shape stone to widen the natural cave complex into this vast hive. Nonetheless, he had not anticipated what it would feel like to walk through these magic-carved halls. Everything around him was designed to communicate the might of Wyverna, the arcane powers its people wielded. Even as accustomed as Gorgo was to the works of magic, he felt the awe of it.

  The stairs descended interminably. At last they emerged into another great corridor, similar to the one above, but grimmer. The bas-reliefs on these walls were worked in iron, and the only light came from the dim red glow of braziers. The shadows lay thick here, and Gorgo imagined he could feel the weight of the rock pressing above him. They traveled far down this hallway, through twisting turns and past many doors. They passed only two individuals in their whole journey through Mort Glave: one scurrying page, no older than fifteen, and one forbidding soldier in the black and silver uniform of a Margay. At last they came to vast double doors made of pure greenstone, standing half-open.

  “I will announce you to the Warlord,” the woman said, and vanished within. In a moment she reappeared. “Enter.”

  Relief washed through Gorgo. If the Warlord was within, then he was in time after all. He strode into a large throne room and came to a halt, his relief curdling into sickening disappointment. A premonition of disaster clutched at his heart. On the vast basalt throne sat a small hairless man, with skin grey as stone. He looked tiny against the great throne, but no self-consciousness showed on his face, nor any other emotion. He turned cold black eyes on Gorgo. White lights like stars swam in their depths.

  Gorgo had seen him only once before, when the Hands entered a casino in Ilkour where he and Six & Seven were gambling. Conversation had ceased, the noisy din of the room dropping away in an instant into deathly silence. Everyone there, nobles and underworlders alike, had tried to become invisible until the Hands had gone.

  “State your name and business,” the Hands said, his voice colorless and precise.

  “Where is the Warlord?” Dread clotted in Gorgo’s throat.

  “You may state your message to me.” The grey man showed no expression, not even a flicker at Gorgo’s rudeness.

  “I haven’t come to give my message to underlings,” Gorgo snapped. There was no time to be polite, whatever the costs of it. He heard a strangled noise from the corner of the room, and saw a young man there choking back laughter, while a girl beside him hid a grin behind her hand.

  “The tail is too proud to give his message to me.” The grey dwarf remained expressionless, his voice uninflected, though his use of the term ‘tail’ might have been an insult in turn. “Cadi,” the Hands called. The black-clad woman reappeared. “Take this officer to the Warlord.”

  Cadi inclined her head. “Where shall I find her?”

  “In the North Corridors, I believe, talking with Gaithorn.”

  Cadi escorted him out without another word, and Gorgo breathed easier to have the Hands behind him. With luck he would not have to encounter the man again. Cadi led him back up the long stairs, through the hallway decorated with battle scenes, and to another great spiral staircase that seemed to wind up forever. They were ascending high into Yahsta’s Claws. Where was the golem? Undoubtedly she had entered here hours ago. Gorgo’s guts churned. Everything was taking too long. Surely he was too late.

  At last the stairs spilled out into a great dim corridor which forked away in two directions. Cadi started down one of the passages, Gorgo keeping pace at her side. At a juncture of hallways she stopped for a moment. “How shall I announce you, officer?”

  “Talisman Officer Lisgard.”

  Cadi glanced past his shoulder, and her gaze sharpened. Gorgo wheeled to look. He saw only empty corridor, but in the next instant Cadi’s arm whipped around his neck, and he felt the cold edge of a blade against his throat. “I am acquainted with Officer Lisgard,” she muttered in his ear. “Don’t even think of making a move for your weapons. Start with your true name and let’s work from there. See if you can convince me you don’t have murder in your mind.”

  “Where is the Warlord?” Gorgo gritted. “How far from here?” Where in Yahsta’s name had she gotten the knife? He’d seen no weapons on her.

  “You’re forgetting it’s the one who has the knife who does the questioning.”

  “I don’t care if you have Yahsta’s tenfold teeth! If I don’t find the Warlord quickly there will be a murder.” The pressure of the knife did not relent and he added, “There’s an assassin here.”

  “I’m beginning to believe it.” Her tone was unyielding.

  He was framing a reply when another voice interrupted from behind them. It was deep, so low it seemed to vibrate the walls, rich and amused-sounding. “Aren’t you doing my work for me, Cadi? Let the man go.”

  Cadi released him, and Gorgo wheeled around to see the speaker. He faced the Warlord at last. Relief flooded him.

  He’d seen her twice before, in exhibition duels at Red Paw. He’d known from those that she was huge, a seven-foot giant like Cockatrice, in fact, but those distant views hadn’t prepared him for what it was like to stand in front of her. The energy she radiated was electrifying. Like a true daughter of the Oribuls, she was dusky-skinned, her hair and eyes black. Her clothes were black as well, giving her the look of a huge panther. Her short hair was tousled and sweat-dampened now, and fresh blood speckled one dark cheek. The front of her tunic was slashed and blood-darkened, but the axe she held relaxed in her right hand was unstained. Her black eyes almost blazed. “You were speaking of an assassin when I interrupted you,” she said. “I met her some time ago in the upper hallway. She may appear here at any time.”

  Cadi made a little noise, almost a squeak. “How did you escape?”

  “I had access to a route she couldn’t take.” The Warlord’s gaze stayed on Gorgo. “What do you have to tell me of this assassin?”

  Gorgo took in her blood-stained tunic and her gleaming blade. The Warlord had won her position in the ice islands by her prowess in the arena, and she was still acknowledged as the greatest warrior of Wyverna. Yet she had taken the worst of the fight. While he stared, the Warlord waited as if she had endless time. Recalling himself with a flush, Gorgo said, “It’s the Assassin of the Kahlrites—Cockatrice, they call her. She’s been charged with your death, and she can’t rest until it’s accomplished. There is no way to stop her, but there is a Kahlrite chant that will make you invisible to her: ‘Vreel gyzhalla vax gail.’ ”

  “Who sent this assassin?”

  “Morbid.”

  “You know this for a fact? Did you hear her give the order?”

  “I did.”

  The Warlord smiled slowly, but not at him, her eyes distant. “What has the assassin been instructed to do after she kills me?” She sounded far more cheerful about such a question than Gorgo could imagine being.

  He repeated what he had heard from Morbid. “The golem must signal her success to Morbid, then cut off your head and carry it with her as a sign of her victory. Then she will open the gates of the Fence for Morbid and her forces.”

  “Beheading the corpse—rather an old-fashioned gesture, that. Morbid always did have a taste for the dramatic,” the Warlord mused. Her rich voice echoed in the empty corridor. “What signal was the assassin to use?”

&nb
sp; “A magical one; Morbid gave her a signal stone to crush beneath her foot.”

  As they spoke, the faint slap of bare feet sounded down the stone corridor behind the Warlord. In moments a small elderly man in a brown smock appeared beside her—the Tea Master, M’Chay. Gorgo had seen him from a distance before, too, but never met him. The monk was a little out of breath, and seemed more serious than his usual wont. “I have deployed our creation close to the creature’s last location,” he told the Warlord, and then his eyes settled on Gorgo, brightening with interest. “And who is this?”

  “A good question,” the Warlord agreed, her regard also on him.

  Her penetrating gaze made Gorgo uncomfortable. He felt conspicuous in the police officer’s uniform; he was sure the Warlord had not missed that it was a little too large for him, and likely borrowed. She had probably overheard Cadi confront him about his false identity, too, though she had yet to comment on it. It dawned on him now that in all these days of thinking and planning to save the Warlord’s life, he had hardly thought of her once: of who she was or what she was like, of what the living, breathing reality behind the legend might be. Now he would almost rather be facing Cockatrice. For all the golem’s killing skills, she was business-like and impersonal, and her motives were simple. The Warlord was not only an unknown quantity to him, but as ruler of the city, she had almost complete power over his future. It was prudent not to volunteer too much to her, he decided. “My name is Gorgo.”

  “That will do for now. Tell me, Gorgo, can you see this creature when she walks invisibly?”

  Gorgo shook his head.

  He had almost forgotten Cadi until she spoke, her voice a little breathless. “If the assassin walks invisibly, how did you escape death?”

  “Thanks to Gaithorn’s skills,” the Warlord said. “She told me she sensed a disturbance in the patterns of force. She was working a spell to locate it when the assassin appeared, or perhaps was compelled to appear. Nonetheless the golem caught me off guard, as you see.” The cut must be little more than a graze, as no blood flowed now. “I’m glad you mention it, Cadi. Go up to Gaithorn’s rooms. She fared badly in the encounter, and I want you to keep an eye on her. Stay there until I come for you, and say nothing of any of these events to anyone.”