The Westlocal was beautiful. Some might even argue its radiant nature rivaled that of the Capital itself. Fields of barley spreading out as far as the eye could see painted the horizon in a golden glow that was highlighted by the noon day sun. Vineyards, lush with green leaves and pregnant with succulent berries were tended to by throngs of workers, harvesting and pressing and fermenting. Birds flocked in the sky, their cries drowned out by the steady plucking of the strings of several lutes in the two story tavern where Masutap sat at the topmost floor, half a mug of ale before her.
The Eastlocal had whores, the Westlocal had brew. People came to the west of Binorian to drink their woes away just as they went to the east to quench their desires for flesh. Surprisingly though, the Westlocal was of a higher class compared to the East. Where one would expect drunkards to riddle the streets and ditches, vomit to line the pavements and insensate bodies to cluster in alleyways, the town had spotless streets, a meticulous sense of propriety when it comes to the upkeep of the Westlocal had ensured the flourishing of the Local under the youngest Highlord, Highlord Kemi.
Kemi had command of a larger fragment of guards than any Highlord, and he put them to work, ensuring his Local carried itself as more of a place for business than a place to lounge under the haze of inebriation. People did drink, but the fines for disorderly conduct were high, ensuring the drinking didn't go beyond the control of the drinker. Majority of those who owned plots in the Local run breweries for Highlord Kemi or farmed the fields stretching west for the benefit of Highlord Kemi. Every coin given and every coin taken must pass the hands of Kemi. And the neighboring Remu seeking market for their goods and purchase of the brew paid hefty fees for the pleasure of entering Binoria. Kemi was rich, Kemi was powerful.
Kemi must die. Masutap decided.
The top floor part of the tavern had twelve tables with six chairs each. Clusters of men dressed in fine silk swarmed most of the tables but kept a wide berth of the table where Masutap sat alone. A waitress dressed in an embroidered dress that would humble a noble woman and clung to her waist hence highlighting her posterior, weaved amongst the tables, expertly handling a tray filled with mugs and a jug of ale. The men's eyes darted towards her curves as she passed each table and when she came to a stop before Masutap she offered a white toothed grin. "Can I fill your mug?" She asked while batting her eyelashes.
Masutap held out her empty mug and as the woman poured from the jug Masutap studied her. Order, a thing that brought itself out once the mind was set to a task, revealed its threads upon the woman's features as she expertly did the same repetitive task that entailed the key part of her work. Masutap was able to see a whisker of what traversed the woman's mind and upon further concentration she was able to see a glimpse of what her emotions were. And through emotions could one gleam thoughts more clearly, each image formed in the mind mirrored an emotion welling from within. And the woman whispered the same thought in her mind over and over. My mother's name is Clera, my father's name is lost, while the ale runs so do I have feed. My mother's name is Clera, my father's name is lost, while the ale runs so do I have feed. My mother's name is Clera... Over and over the woman repeated the same thought, a mantra of sorts that brought an image of her mother to mind and the emotion associated with love, an image of a dead man burning in a pyre to represent her father accompanied by the emotion of sorrow, then ale and food which brought a feeling of gratitude. It was impossible for Masutap to traverse deeper into the woman's psyche, her supposed way of thought acted as a shield that was near impenetrable, it was almost as if the woman knew who Masutap was ... What she was... What she could do.
The mug filled with ale, the woman smiled at her, flashing a crescent glow of small white teeth. Masutap moved to talk to her but a man took the chair opposite her. Something she had not seen coming. Normally she could tell the approach of someone, their thoughts and emotions making their intentions known, but the man who sat opposite her, her sole uninvited companion at her table, gave off absolutely no strand of order. It was as if all that constituted his being was masked beneath a blanket of discontinuity. As if every one of his thoughts was smothered before it formed a chain, and the only emotion that acted as the foundation to said uncompleted and uniformed thoughts was one of nonchalance. He simply did not care.
He had brown eyes but his pallid white skin marked him as a Binorian having had a touch of Remu ancestry. His shortly trimmed beard was a unique rust color that had definitely been dyed and the hair on top of his head spoke of its true pigmentation with dark strands neatly pressed to his scalp. He looked like a scribe, or a book keeper or someone who had mastered a particular trade. His hands, fingers long and palms tender spoke of the trade's soft disposition as he gripped the mug of ale placed before him by the waitress who slowly made her way from Masutap's table to the other tables.
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"Hello." The man said. His voice smooth velvet. He didn't smile but there was a hint of humor to the edge of his eyes. He lifted his mug to his lips and took a sip all the while observing Masutap. She did not raise her mug to mimic his gesture neither did she answer him.
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The waitress set the tray onto the tavern counter, the tavern keep's eyes darted to her and he gave a slight nod. Imperceptible to anyone other than her. He was Rank 137 of the Royal Black Guard and his approval meant the world to her. She had done as Rank one, Orgeeg, had instructed. Set the poisoned ale before the traitor's table. While reciting the mantra that had been drilled into her for the past two weeks to ensure Masutap didn't read her mind or know of the plan to incapacitate her.
Clera, a name that had been fashioned together with the image of a woman she did not know had been fabricated to bring about a feeling of love that masked the fear within her. She'd trained for hours to associate the image of Clera as that of her mother and the love she felt for her actual mother to that of Clera and nothing more. If she thought of her actual mother, a chain of thought would have formed that would have trailed into the present where her mission dominated her mind. So Clera, a false thought tied to no actual memories but linked with genuine love had been the first part of a three part lock to her mind.
The next had been the image of her father on a pyre, a true image, a true thought, something that actually happened. The sorrow was easy to bring to the forefront of her mind, it always had been. The first lock had been a false thought with a true emotion, the second lock was a true thought with a true emotion.
The third lock was the image of ale and food, she'd gone hungry for four days straight then her main diet for the next ten days for breakfast, lunch and supper had been ale and a variety of foods earned from her waitressing until she came to associate the food and ale with a feeling of gratitude brought about by the first bite to ward off the pangs of hunger that had assailed her for four days. The image and its accompanied emotion solidified her position as a waitress to Masutap's red eye. The third lock, one of a trained thought and a trained emotion, something that was once false but made true through repeated action. It enabled her to pour the poison into Masutap's mug without thinking of it as poison.
Hump rat's curse. A fluid secreted from the desert rat's hump that rendered anyone who ingested it immobile, their limbs locking up, their breath becoming shallow and heartbeat slowing to an almost imperceptible rhythm. A large enough dose can kill and the waitress, who was in fact the newly appointed Rank 49 of the Royal Black Guard, had put a double dose in Masutap's mug of ale.
The Queen had instructed them as to when Masutap would be arriving at the Westlocal to carry out an assassination on the Highlord Kemi. Where Masutap would reside, where she would visit and when she would carry out her plan had been unknown to them. But they were the Royal Black Guard, they'd set up advertisements of the tavern where Masutap currently sat, rumoring it to be the most frequented by the Highlord Kemi. Give the rat the poisoned block of cheese where they won't expect it to be but would be delighted to find. And Masutap, had taken the bait. At noon she'd wandered into the tavern and the Royal Black Guard had been in position, waiting for days.
The Fifty Royal Black Guard on mission were either newly appointed to their rank or had undergone significant changes to ensure Masutap, who had once been the Rank One, would not recognize them. Rank 69 conversed with Rank 48, 72 and 39 at one table. The lower tavern held twenty of the Royal Black Guard. The rest were with Orgeeg at an unknown location and everybody else at the two storey tavern was a Red Guard of Highlord Kemi, disguised in silk or worker attire to blend in with the posh tavern that was mostly frequented by the upper Binorian class.
All of them had trained on how to manage their thoughts and feelings to mask their intentions. But none as much as the man who sat at Masutap's table. A man whom she knew close to nothing of besides the fact that Orgeeg had sought his assistance personally. A man who had never been seen within the palace or amongst the Royal Black Guard or in Binoria in general and clearly wasn't an adept at combat judging by his lanky build, modest brown robes hanging off his boney frame. He was probably a master of the Form of Empathy and the Form of Intent and if there's one thing Rank 137 had come to learn was how dangerous those two forms were.
She stole glances in his direction where he sat, sprawled in his chair as if before a hearth and not before one of the most powerful murderers in the realm. His task was to ensure she drunk the ale, she wondered if he could do it. He talked to Masutap, his words imperceptible from where Rank 137 stood but Masutap's gaze did not swerve from him or dart across the room as it had been doing. No, she paid attention to the man and his words, as if trying to figure out a puzzle. All the while the mug of poisoned ale lay cupped between her hands with no intention to lift it to her lips.
Come on! Drink it! The Waitress urged. Masutap's eyes suddenly broke free of the man to glare directly at her, the waitress smothered her distress at the sudden intensity behind those eyes, she turned away slowly, grabbing a dust cloth and wiping at the counter with practiced motions. All the while her thoughts recited the same mantra. My mother's name is Clera, my father's name is lost, while the ale runs so do I have feed. My mother's name is Clera, my father's name is lost, while the ale runs so do I have feed. My mother's name is Clera...
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