As we walk towards the textiles room, Illy softly starts, “Schis— Reggie. We said some things, and I don’t regret them, but what do they mean for us?”
I smile warmly, comfortingly, compassionately towards her as I respond, “It only means whatever you want it to mean. There’s no pressure.”
She flusters for a moment before mumbling, “I—, I mean specifically, I begged you to come back alive you dorky jerk. To, after the battle, you know.”
I know the exact statement to which she’s referring, and it was creatively profane, but I’m not sure how to address it. It technically didn’t happen. I offer up, “I was saying there’s no pressure for a reason. Anything you said while we were, ah, in the vault, can stay there, if you aren’t personally certain. I have to stress that part. You have to be absolutely certain, for whatever you want, because I don’t want to hurt you. Like I said, I love you dummy. It doesn’t require being in love for me to want you safe and happy, just the care that comes from considering you a beloved friend.” I then add a bit salaciously, “Even if you are a teasing flirt.”
Illy’s face fights between a smile and a frown, and when she regains control of her facial features, she lands on a sly smirk to tease, “You know you love it.”
I flick my eyebrows in a motion that’s equivalent to saying, “Perhaps,” and I sense Illy’s heart flutter once more. I lean against her side as we walk shoulder to shoulder, still holding hands. I don’t want Teuila, or Luni, or Lil to feel neglected, after we’ve spent so much time either apart, or not being able to rest in a soft bed.
Since Luni and Lil are fairly tangled and intertwined, it’s easy enough to lift the two of them with a single telekinetic grip. Lucky stirs as I lift Teuila with the other telekinetic grip, and he silently follows the floating bodies of his family as they follow Illy and me towards the “soft stuff” room.
In a nice little sequestered corner in the back, I spy a mound of the thick, leathery leaves from the early jungle biome in Can’Z’aas. I flick my head towards its direction, which gets a raised eyebrow from Illy, but she catches my drift and we proceed there en masse. I settle my inner circle down in a carefully jumbled pile of limbs telekinetically, and Lucky lays next to the pile of leaves, with his head resting near their feet.
Illy gulps, and scratches the back of her head as she tries to announce, “I, uh, I mean, other than hatchlings, I’ve never, um, this is more people than I thought would—. I kinda thought we’d be alone.”
Realization dawns on Illy as she mutters, “Oh, that’s kinda selfish though, isn’t it? You guys have been together for years, and been apart for—. And I know it’s not like you’re going to try anything. Uh, sorry, ignore that. What I mean by that is I trust you.” In softer tones, she queries, “Sch— Reggie. Are you all—? Um, like that?”
I nod, knowing what Illy’s referring to. She can’t help herself as she whistles an incredibly quiet low note of appreciation, barely more than forming a moue and letting breath pass by. Illy glances at the pile of bodies, at Lucky lazily resting just barely near enough to absorb some of their warmth, and at me. Her gaze drifts to a spot in the pile of leaves with the most space, and her brow queries almost pleadingly. I flash her a smile and nod. We lay together, with me buttressing Iylynila from the pile of bodies just behind me.
Illy presses firmly into the little spoon position, despite being taller by quite a bit, and knowing it won’t get quite the reaction she might want. She grumbles to herself, slightly angry at herself for it. I struggle not to laugh, because it’s cute in a fashion. Levitating a bolt of cloth, I unroll it so that it blankets us and my inner circle. It also lightly covers Lucky’s snout. I also telekinetically fold several of the leaves into firmer, thicker pillows for the two of us.
As we’re drifting off to sleep, I can hear her grumble a command, “Better come back alive.”
Alive, right. This was stupid. Seated in this tavern, I find myself rolling my eyes in incredulity at this job. This isn’t the type of thing you contact the “Veils” for. Of course everyone else turned it down, because it’s a hassle, and could get really ugly. No one hires anyone from the Vale for a target to remain alive unless it’s just spying. Except this family apparently. I continue shaking my head in disbelief at my own stupidity for signing up for what I know is going to amount to a load of trouble. I have to sleep at some point, so it might as well be here, and it might as well be as soon as a room frees up in this seedy tavern in this hellhole wayside town.
The man with the purple jerkin and slacks, with quite the paunch, sitting next to me at the bar, in his pompous feathered cap, is the local robber baron, Marlon Stole. He founded the town with ill gotten gains from when he’d actually been a highway man. By all accounts he’s a trash human being, and he’s trying to chat me up like we’re buddy buddy, because I kill for a living, and he’s taken a lot of lives.
Death might be my business, but I take no pleasure in it. It’s a bloody business, but it’s the only thing I’m good for, at least as far as I figure. It’d be a bit late to back out now anyway. Still, you sometimes meet shmucks like this, that can tell you’re from Vale Valley, and they romanticize the idea of the town of assassins. They get thrilled when talking about the lives they’ve taken, like they’re proud of it, like that alone would make them suited to become an assassin. It couldn’t be further from the truth.
Worse, he’s drunk off his ass, and trying to get me to share his drink, trying to get me to taste his top shelf hooch to butter me up. The hell does he take me for? I’m not a recruiter. Besides, the only reason it’s top shelf is because he sets all the prices, and murders anyone who disagrees with how he runs the place. I keep pushing it aside, and handing it back to him every time he offers it.
If I didn’t have the precious bounty in that abandoned barn nearby, and if it weren’t what it was, I’d just go mudcamping. I’d sleep in the acid rain rather than put up with this if I had to. I can’t though, because the target would run off again, and I can’t sleep out in the barn as well, because I’d murder anyone I caught doing the same for the implications.
Wait, is that blood? Hell’s bells. Marlon’s gagging up blood like he’s got a razor caught in his throat. Of course I’m going to be implicated. If I stand to flee now, I’ll be hunted down, his goons assured of my guilt. Ugh, that’s a gruesome way to go, the desperate gasps through the sound of burbles and sucking pops as he has to suck down lungfulls of blood to breathe is unpleasant to say the least. I wince as he paws at my arm, but I avoid eye contact, having no need to see the pleading eyes of a dying man. I’ve seen it enough times in my life already, when I was the culprit. No need to add another burden on my soul.
It’s not like anyone else is rushing to help either. It’s uneasy in the eerie silence broken only by Marlon’s gasps and gurgles. As he finally gasps his last, I can feel the intensity of the stares that were directed at his death throes gaze my way. I could probably kill my way out of this, but some of these people are just trying to get by, and I’d have to leave no witnesses. I shake my head slowly at myself. No. I won’t do that to people who’ve already had it tough enough as it is.
Everyone says I’m too soft for the job, and they’re right. I don’t want to harden though. I’d rather feel the sorrow and guilt than feel nothing at all. Still, this one isn’t on me, and I’m not exactly a smooth criminal as far as talking my way out of things, so I’m trying to piece together my options, and coming up blank. If I’d brought Eights in, maybe I’d just have him growl, and they would all pretend they hadn’t seen anything. Something about a dog protecting a person makes people look the other way a bit more often. Says they can trust them, or something like that anyway, I suppose.
Here it comes, biggest of the goons stepping this way to check on his boss. As if the almost sulfurous stench wasn’t already proof enough of his death. The big fella reaches for my shoulder, but thinks wisely enough to keep from laying hands upon me. He contemplates for a moment, perhaps being a bit smarter than I’d have given his brutish form credit for.
The head lunk, wearing his vest and flannels orders, “You, me, private booth, now.”
I wordlessly stand and head the direction he points, not offering any reason for the tavern’s occupants to form a lynch mob. Like I said, some of these people are darn-near innocent, struggling to get by. Sitting on the wooden-slat bench of the booth, I heave a sigh, not letting on how disturbed I am at the course of events.
Fenthorp apparently, demands with every ounce of authority he can lend his voice, almost growling, “Name’s Fenthorp, and I’d like to politely request you place your weapons on the table.”
I almost laugh at the juxtaposition between words and sounds, but thankfully I’ve still enough wits about me to refrain. It takes me a moment, but I set an entire bandolier worth of throwing knives, my damascus dagger, a dart blowgun, the darts, my sling, and a piano-wire filament upon the table.
Fenthorp sits across from me and says, “Hood down,” so I comply, extremely uncomfortable, but this is the one time I’ve brought a mask along, so I’m not entirely exposed, not yet.
Of course the ass orders, “Mask off.”
I refuse, “That’s not going to happen.”
Fenthorp states, “I can’t be sure you don’t have razorblades hidden under it or something.”
I quip, “Then you’re just going to have to take that gamble, because I wasn’t the one who killed the man, and I’m currently unarmed.”
Fenthorp contemplates for a moment, not sure if he can sweep all of my weapons away before I get my hands on one if he were to piss me off. He decides to play it safe for now, asking, “You’d like me to believe that you get handed a drink by Marlon Stole, a man that anyone would gladly off, you hand it back, he dies from something in that drink, and it wasn’t you?”
Thankfully, Fenthorp can’t see me rolling my eyes behind my mask as I respond, “Yes, because I don’t kill outside of my targets, you know very well our code, and Marlon Stole was not on any list, yet. My particular target is trussed up, alive, nearby.”
At this, Fenthorp balks and asks, “Alive, why?”
Grimacing, I answer, “That was the job.”
Fenthorp interrogates me a bit more thoroughly than I’d like as he leans close to study my features while declaring, “I’ll have to see this for myself. Nearby where?”
I bite my tongue momentarily after mouthing off, “I’d really rather you didn’t.”
Thankfully, he seems more confused than pissed as he queries, “Oh, why is that?”
Heaving a sigh, I offer, “Because the noble brat might run off again. I’d like to get her home safely, without incident. My dog is guarding her, and she’s loosely bound. She could free herself, but I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t risk trying to flee from Eights, unless he was distracted, by say, a nosy — Lawman.”
Fenthorp mulls over my response, because it’s plausible, and he’d rather not get in trouble with the Vale. It also happens to be the truth, and he can understand why I’m in here, and she’s out there. I was not going to share a room with, or be woken up lying anywhere near, a bound young lass. The implications would sentence me worse since she’s a noble.
The “Lawman” decides that discretion is the better part of valor for the both of us, and decides to drop the inquiry. He suggests, “You’d better leave town while we sort this out, Vale code or no, it’s too clean to pin this on you, and the townies would rather have quick and clean, than true and just.”
I keep my groan to myself, knowing this means I have to mudcamp with the brat even more times, sheltering her from the constant rains of pain that never leave the Rayileklian skies. I collect my weapons carefully, slowly, methodically putting them away. I’m happy to warm my bones for the extra few moments before traveling, mudcamping just off the roads in acid rain again.
Should a carriage happen to take a break nearby, and its occupants wander close enough—. I do not enjoy the implications. How she managed to get this far away is almost beyond me, but she’s apparently fit enough to cling to the bottom and backs of carriages, and light enough to strap herself to them while she sleeps. Precocious little brat.
Still, I steal away from the tavern, and return to the barn, wanting to put as much distance between me and Marlon’s death as possible, agreeing with Fenthorp’s suggestion. Oddly, as I enter the loft of the barn, the brat is staring curiously at Eights, unafraid, the hood of the cloak I’d gotten her down. She isn’t making use of the sleeping bag, nor is she upset at my return.
There’s a sternness to her gaze when she looks at me, trying to find my eyes beneath my hood and behind my mask. I’m grateful I’d worn one for once. Generally our targets aren’t supposed to remain living, so it doesn’t matter as much if they glimpse me in the eyes during the mission.
I carefully order, “Come on, let’s go. Jump in the bag. It’s a long walk to the next town.”
She shakes her head, but it isn’t in defiance as she scooches towards the sleeping bag. Instead, she states, “I didn’t think they cared *this* much that I attend and finish their bullcrap refinement finishing school shiz.”
I blink several times, taken aback as she works to comply with my order. I ask, “Pardon? You’re running away from some nobility school?”
She groans and makes a face as if she’d sucked on a lemon before responding, “Blech, yeah. I’d rather be, I dunno, a pirate or something, anything other than a *lady.*”
The way she spits the word lady with disdain is almost endearing. I can’t say I’d disagree with the sentiment in her shoes. I offer, “Alright, fair, but so that I don’t get hired to chase you down again, you’re going to need to be able to support yourself, and change your name.”
I add, explaining, “To even get to that point, take advantage of the money you come from, get someone to hire you a tutor for a skill, something you can ply to earn a living if you run, maybe a few skills if you’ve got the time, and talent. You should have the time, waiting til you’re old enough to earn a wage. You’ll also have to change your hair. Wearing the family style with that bright red hair is a dead giveaway.”
There’s a petite, “Hmf,” from my target as she finishes sealing herself in the sleeping bag. I honestly don’t care what she does, but it’s less trouble for me if she makes the trouble at home, and stays there til she’s old enough to strike out on her own. Huff, like I said, it’s a long walk to the next town. Eights and I will take turns carrying her, protecting her from the ceaseless acid rainfall, and barely sleeping a wink in whatever shrubbery we can find.