The Copper Assassin

by Madolyn Rogers

  Gorgo wondered why he’d bothered trying to keep secrets. He met her eyes. “That was a mistake, wasn’t it?”

  “Not at all. You are free to tell your story however you please.”

  “And you enjoy the parts I don’t tell as much as the ones I do.” It was almost a challenge; Gorgo was too tired and annoyed to be cautious.

  The Warlord merely looked amused. She poured a second glass of wine. “The silences can be more revealing.” She handed it to him. “Finish your story, and abandon your reticence. It spoils the telling.”

  Gorgo sighed inwardly, drank off the wine, and told the rest. He described his encounter with Shaoti without interruption by the Warlord. “I met with Six & Seven twice during the last five days. I had him gamble to supply me with funds and keep Water paid. He’s really a very good gambler. He claims it’s luck but it’s skill. He kept me in pocket money.”

  “How much did you tell him of what you knew?”

  Gorgo did not dare to lie. The Warlord’s voice was dangerously soft. “Everything. But he’s very close-mouthed. You needn’t worry he’ll talk.”

  “He’s free to talk as much as he likes. It isn’t illegal. Was that the whole of his part?”

  “Yes, though not by his choice. He wanted to come with me, of course, but I made him stay out of it.”

  “Does he know you went into the Fence?”

  “Yes, I left him a message.”

  “Wonderful. Then I suppose I can expect him to come knocking on my door next.”

  “Yahsta, I shouldn’t think so.” No, Six & Seven would have more sense. He might talk large, but he never actually went off and did something idiotic like join the Catsclaw, or brave the Fence wards.

  “Perhaps there’s no need to worry. I’ve already sent a message to your family assuring them of your safety.”

  Gorgo watched her closely, not trusting this turn.

  “As you may imagine, you’ve earned a reward for your service.” The Warlord pulled a metal badge from a pocket and handed it to him. “It’s usually presented with more ceremony, but I didn’t think you would appreciate that.” Her tone was dry.

  Gorgo stared at the thing in his hand. It was a Wyvern’s Shield, the diamond-shaped platinum medal given out only for notable service to Wyverna. Gorgo did not know anyone who had one. He traced a thumb over the bas-relief wyvern. Its winged forelimbs were spread wide, its talons extended, its mouth open in a screech. Below the icon his name was inscribed. He swallowed, and remembered that the honor came with cash. Forty gryffons, wasn’t it? He looked up. “And the money?”

  “I had it sent to your parents.”

  “You told them my part in this?”

  “I told them—or rather, the Hands did—that you informed me of the recent assassination attempt, thus foiling Morbid’s attempt at surprise. They were most impressed, I heard.”

  Gorgo observed her through narrowed eyes, and said nothing. He was still trying to calculate what all this might mean.

  The Warlord gazed back thoughtfully. “You’ve been wanting to ask me a question for some time. Ask it.”

  “When may I go home?”

  “I thought that was it. You are free to leave whenever you like, of course.”

  Gorgo felt no reassurance. “Will you give me your stamp so I may pass through the gate?”

  The Warlord settled herself on the table edge again. “Are you familiar with what’s said about the Fence, Gorgo?”

  “That it’s difficult to enter but impossible to leave? Yes.”

  “You knew the rules of the Fence. Yet you chose to enter. And you chose to enter through the wards. Had you made a different choice, we would not now be having this conversation.”

  “If I had made a different choice, you might be dead now.” Gorgo felt anger rising, though he knew it would do him no good.

  The Warlord laughed, deep and rich. “Indisputably so, Gorgo. I didn’t say I wasn’t pleased at your choice. But this has nothing to do with saving my life.”

  Gorgo felt off balance, and unprepared with an answer. He was out of his depth, and it was nearly a new feeling for him. The Warlord was not what he had expected. He had never pictured her with a sense of humor. It had startled him to hear her laugh, to see the grim legend of the Warlord dissolve into a living woman. At first he had thought her sense of humor made her more human, but now he realized it only made her more unnerving. Her amusement came intertwined with her perceptiveness, her ability to see through the games people played. He had not gotten away with anything in this interview. She had merely sat back and let him try his tricks, with an amusement that he thought had some measure of sympathy in it, that came from understanding the motives behind his ploys. He would almost prefer that she were angry. That might be easier to fight against.

  When he said nothing, the Warlord continued more somberly. “If you had chosen to enter by a gate, we would not be having this conversation. But you chose to conquer the Fence. It is a choice with consequences. The Fence has claimed you, Gorgo. It’s a hard-won honor, and an even greater responsibility. You may lay it down if you wish, but you must find the way. You came into the Fence on your own; so too you must leave on your own.”

  It was a moment before Gorgo trusted his voice. “Can I leave the same way I came in?”

  “I wouldn’t advise it. The Fence wards are not the same on the return. There are no neat divisions you can solve one by one. It is a jungle. Wormlight could glide through it; unless you think you have her powers, you’d best not try. The Fence grows dangerous on the return.”

  “Warlord, the only other way out of the Fence is through one of the gates, and I need your stamp to pass through those.”

  “That is why they say the Fence is impossible to leave.”

  “But you made the Fence. You could break its rules.”

  The Warlord chuckled. “For that very reason, I would be the last one to break its rules.”

  He was wasting his time arguing, Gorgo knew; it had all been decided. His head ached brutally. He buried his forehead in one hand and tried to think. He saw a flash of movement from his shoulder as Honeylegs sprang to the floor. She rushed at the Warlord and halted just before her boots, fangs dripping. Her ranks of eyes gleamed with a feral light. Her long hairy legs held her crouched, ready to pounce. Small as she was next to the Warlord, she looked menacing, a fatal golden blob before the dark mountain of the Warlord’s form. The Warlord did not move. Her eyes rested on Honeylegs with the same dark and serious expression as they had on Gorgo.

  Gorgo could not help laughing at Honeylegs’ fierce patronage of him. It broke him out of his preoccupation and cheered him. Even if she was only a spider, he had a friend. “Honeylegs, come back here.”

  She relaxed slowly from her crouch. Reluctantly, pedipalps waving, she slunk back to Gorgo and scuttled up to his shoulder on sticky legs. He stroked her with one finger. “You little fool.”

  “She will sense your desires and act on them. That’s one of the reasons her breed is so valuable.”

  “That was no desire of mine.”

  “They needn’t be conscious desires. If you feel something menaces you, she will attack it.”

  Gorgo had no reply for that. He struggled to make sense of his options; if he had any options, that was. “How will I live in the Fence, Warlord?”

  “Now as to that, that is a simple matter. You are entitled to a greater reward for your service. I am prepared to offer you a post in the Fence.”

  The Warlord’s idea of a reward left something to be desired. “Doing what? Handing out glasses of wine?”

  She laughed. “No, I don’t think you’re suited to be a page. I would assign you to Mayden’s department. His is the largest; there’s always a place for more workers there.”

  “I would be working for the Implementer?”

  “Not directly, no. I would put you in agriculture.”

  Gorgo remembered Shaoti, the sorceress he had met in Stone Hearth. Hadn’t she said she w
as director of agriculture? He would be working for her. Better her than the Implementer, at any rate. Gorgo rubbed at his forehead; his headache still splintered behind his eyes. Did he have any other options? He wished he could talk to Armida, or even Six & Seven. Well, there was no harm in asking. “I would like to see my family again before I give you an answer.”

  The Warlord nodded. “That is a reasonable request. Come here.”

  Gorgo had stiffened again while he sat, and rising was painful. He crossed slowly to the Warlord.

  “I will give you a temporary stamp. Hold out your hand.” Gorgo offered his right hand. The Warlord removed a ring from her third finger; it was a simple band of iron, containing a Fence sigil etched in blue. She touched the ring to the back of his hand, and in a moment the Fence rune glimmered on his skin. Gorgo ran a hand over the glowing blue symbol. It had no texture to his touch; it was a mark of magic. “It’s a twelve-hour stamp. Do you know how it works?”

  “More or less.”

  “Then let me be explicit. After twelve hours away from the Fence, the mark will begin to burn. The pain will grow worse every hour until you return. If you resist the pain, worse consequences will follow. As soon as you pass through a gate of the Fence, the mark will disappear.”

  “I understand.” Despite the brand on his skin, Gorgo felt relief. He would see the river again, the buildings of the Pton Enclave, his parents and cousins, Six & Seven. “May I go now?”

  “By all means.”

  Gorgo turned away, then looked back. One last curiosity tugged at him. “Warlord, what has become of the golem?”

  She snorted and stood, stretching like a hunting cat, her still patience vanished. “I will answer your question tomorrow, when you answer mine. Now I have another matter to attend to.” She strode across the room, no longer looking at him. The unleashing of her energy reminded him of the rushing onset of winter storms against the coast. He turned to head for the door, but heard her voice behind him. “I have another question as well, Gorgo.”

  He turned back. Her eyes burned on him, their dark depths gleaming. “Why did you choose to try to stop the assassin?”

  Gorgo had asked himself the same question more than once over the last few days. “I didn’t do it for you,” he said frankly. “I did it for Wyverna.”

  She raised one eyebrow. “Then we have something in common.” She waved him off. “Go now.”

  As he approached the door, the Warlord’s seneschal and two Margays entered, escorting Na•ar. No expression troubled Na•ar’s contained face, but Gorgo felt a moment of sympathy for him. Gorgo had not enjoyed his own interview with the Warlord in the least, and he had been on the Warlord’s side in the rebellion.

  The seneschal and the Margays had already exited by the time Gorgo limped stiffly from the room. Na•ar remained standing before the Warlord; as Gorgo disappeared out the door, he heard the man say quietly, “Good day, Warlord.” Gorgo tarried a moment to hear her reply.

  “It’s been quite some time, Na•ar.” Her voice sounded genial. “Let’s see, I last saw you—was it thirteen years ago?—bargaining down at the half-built docks for a share of the southern raiders’ loot. You were 24 then, were you not?”

  “I am sure you remember my age; your own was not much different.”

  “A year younger, in fact, though that’s not generally known. Our people find success young. You did well for yourself in the founding of Wyverna.”

  “Yes, I have.” His voice was as noncommittal as always.

  “I told you that day there was every opportunity in Wyverna for an ambitious man to create something for himself. I was pleased to see you do it. It would be a sad loss to Wyverna to be without the Green Market.”

  “I am honored.” Na•ar sounded more cautious than ever.

  “Do you remember my words?” The Warlord’s tone remained conversational.

  “You told me to stay on the up side of the law and I would do well.”

  “Ah yes! I wished to stress that to all who came from the ice islands. Our people were not accustomed to heeding laws. It was important for all to realize that laws would have force here.”

  “I think all do now, Warlord.” His tone came dry.

  “Apparently not. You’ve been dealing on the Nameless, Na•ar.” Her voice was still pleasant, but a vein of hardness ran through it. He was silent and she continued, “Do you wish to make me repeat it all for you? It will not improve my mood. You sold the Assassin of the Kahlrites to Morbid for a thousand mountains. Not a small dealing even on the Nameless Market. It was not wise, Na•ar.”

  There was a moment’s silence. “I see that now,” Na•ar said mildly, with what Gorgo thought was tremendous understatement. “What charges am I facing?”

  “What are you guilty of?”

  Na•ar hesitated again. Gorgo would have done so as well, before answering such a question. Was it better to admit the whole truth so as not to be caught concealing something from her, or hope she did not know it all yet and remain silent? Na•ar answered with a question, sounding at once weary and resigned. “Am I charged with conspiring in the attempted assassination against you, Warlord?”

  The Warlord returned his question to him once more, voice dangerously soft. “Did you know to what use Morbid would put the assassin?”

  Na•ar chose, wisely Gorgo knew, to answer with the truth. “I was fairly sure of it, yes.” He offered no apology, voice tense but level.

  The Warlord let a few moments of silence pass while Na•ar waited. “It’s justification enough to charge you in the conspiracy. But I shall not. You did not expect Morbid’s attempt to succeed. You are charged with selling an illegal item on the Nameless Market.”

  “And the penalty?” Na•ar’s tone remained as taut as before.

  “The penalty for such crimes, as you undoubtedly know, is a double fine. The monetary half of the fine I assess at one thousand mountains.”

  Only what he had gained from the sale, and nothing more. Na•ar must have braced himself for the worst at this news. She was not punishing him with the monetary fine; it would be with the other. But his voice sounded steady still. “And the other?”

  The Warlord paused a moment. “You’re a sorcerer, Na•ar. Not a well-known fact; you don’t advertise it as do many Hologrims. What need have you had in the last thirteen years to sell your talents, with the Green Market to support you? So you practice them privately. Nonetheless you practice them. I have a service to require of you now. You brought your cards with you, I am sure.”

  Na•ar’s voice sounded resigned, self-mocking. “Yes, for all the good that they did me. Would that I hadn’t!”

  “Sorcerers can never bring themselves to leave behind the tools of their magic, any more than I set down my axe. There’s no shame in it.” Gorgo heard the Warlord’s footsteps on the floor. “Bring your cards and come. I shall show you what I require of you.”

  Gorgo hurried away, stretching his aching muscles. He did not stop until he had exited the door of Mort Glave, and stood breathing the clear air under a cloudless spring sky.

  18: The Fence of Finality

  The River District had not changed, Gorgo realized with some surprise. But why should it have? He had last been here only five days ago. It seemed much longer. He stood on the bank of the river, watching its clear waters plash and eddy their way down to the sea. Just over the rise behind him sprawled the low stone buildings of the Pton Enclave, his home for fifteen years. There was no place in the world he knew better. Gorgo smiled at himself. It should have been no shock to him that when he dived deep into his own mind to fight Wakár, he had found the river there. Now this spot chafed at him like an outgrown favorite shirt, comfortable yet confining.

  He turned again to the enclave. He should go and greet his parents, but what he really wanted was to find Armida and Six & Seven. Honeylegs tapped one foreleg on his neck, her palps waving. He raised a hand absently to stroke her. She had drawn a few eyes on the journey here, but he d
id not care. He still had no knife, and he felt better with her on watch.

  Small figures trotted from the enclave toward the riverbank. Gorgo narrowed his eyes against the sun, trying to make them out. Yes, some of his cousins. In another moment he was sure. Six & Seven, Rall, and one of the other girls. Gorgo yelled and waved, and Six & Seven broke into a run.

  His cousin whooped as he ran up to Gorgo, grappling him and clapping him on the back. “Yahsta’s balls, Gorgo, what kind of crazy shenanigans have you been up to? Have you lost your mind?”

  “I’m fairly sure I have.”

  “I don’t know if I should believe half of what I’ve heard. Did you really get a Wyvern’s Shield?”

  Gorgo pulled it from his pocket. Six & Seven took the medal with wonder, turning it over in his hands. Rall and the other girl crowded close to peer over his shoulders. “Demon hells, will you look at this?”

  “It’s only a hunk of metal,” Gorgo said, bemused. He rather regretted getting it. It had certainly brought him no joy yet.

  Rall stared at him. “Yahsta, Gorgo, that’s nearly the highest honor a civilian can get. And is it true you walked the Fence?”

  Now there was a marvel to beat anything he had seen in the last five days. He had never thought to earn Rall’s respect. “I did, but I don’t recommend it.” It was absurd to be admired for crossing the Fence, when it had brought him only trouble, and it now turned out he could have avoided the whole mess by simply strolling through a gate. Gorgo was by now nearly embarrassed that he had crossed the Fence, and it sat poorly with him to hear the congratulations.

  “By Yahsta’s green guts, what the hell is that?” Six & Seven had noticed Honeylegs at last.

  “Oh.” Gorgo lifted her down on the edge of his palm. “Six & Seven, meet Honeylegs. A little something I picked up at the Hunger Market.”