It dawned on Fredrak that he was about to be assassinated.

And it had been such a pleasant evening. The tavern crowd was just full enough to not feel lonely without tipping over into feeling packed, the place had a live pianist, and the berries in his drink were as fresh as possible.

He held his mug in one hand, rested his other elbow on the bar table, and feigned a look of soulful introspection as he twisted the container in his grip. Conventional wisdom was that someone in his line of work ought to sit with their back to a wall, but as far as he was concerned that was just the problem: People would be expecting that from him.

So he just sat like any carefree fellow would, and put faith in his own alertness.

Fredrak moved the mug subtly to the right. The man by the top of the stairs was still there, reflected in the shiny aluminium mug. Just standing and waiting, seemingly focusing on nothing.

He moved the mug slightly to the left. The woman at the one-person table was also very much focusing on nothing.

They’d arrived about a minute apart. The man blocked his way both up and down, and to reach the bathroom Fredrak would have to pass right by the woman. They both wore dark, nondescript, hooded ponchos; entirely appropriate for the pounding rain outside, but the garments would also let them blend into any crowd they chose to run into after the deed was done.

Just another unsolved murder in a city full of them.

He pursed his lips and let out a slow breath.

“Tough day?” the bartender asked him in an affable fashion.

The man had slicked-back hair, and wore a nice black vest over a nice black shirt; an impeccably dressed man in an establishment that was ultimately lower middle-class if anything.

“Oh...”

Fredrak had himself a little sip, and let one of the lakberries enter his mouth.

“... just the lack of a day, I suppose. It’s been a while since we had any sun.”

He bit down on that wonderfully sweet berry, and placed the mug neatly on the table, giving him a glimpse of each assassin at once.

“That’s just the way it is here,” the man said with a smile. “And it means we appreciate it all the more when it does shine through.”

“I know,” Fredrak said. “I know.”

It can’t always rain, as the locals said. Though it sure was raining now.

He briefly considered fighting. One had to mind every option, after all. But he was at a disadvantage here, and while tales might be told of boldness they were told by those who knew when to walk away.

Someone laughed heartily over in a corner. One thing he’d come to understand about this planet was that the residents savoured every chance to defy its gloom. And if he were to die here from a subtle jab of poison, those present would take it as a sign to appreciate their own blessings.

Of course, if this was to be a quick, dirty kill by knife or gun, followed by bolting down the stairs, that might actually put a cramp in the mood.

Let’s find out, Fredrak thought, and steeled himself.

He started by taking a tenner from his pocket and sliding it over the table.

“The lady at the piano... does she know ‘Dirty Steps’?”

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The bartender took the money with that professional smile of his.

“Of course.”

The man walked off, and Fredrak took his hat off his knee. There was a stand at the entrance, of course, but leaving articles of clothing lying around wasn’t a good move in his profession. He put it on, and the piano player changed songs as he took his first step.

If this went poorly, then at least he’d have an old favourite in his ears.

Fredrak walked as if he had four drinks in him instead of just one and a half, and moved at a natural, casual pace that had long since become second nature to him, regardless of circumstances. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the woman mutter something under her breath.

He took it to mean there was at least a third person involved in this.

Between him and the balcony was a set of panelled doors, painted in that dark-brown wood pattern so strangely popular on a planet that didn’t have any actual woods. The multi-coloured lights outside warped and shifted in all the rainwater that was cascading down the outside of the glass. It wasn’t as reflective as his mug, but he did glimpse the woman getting up.

Fredrak plopped his hat on and pushed the door to the side.

It was entirely possible that the unseen third person was a sniper waiting in one of the buildings across, but everything he did was a gamble of some sort, so he stepped outside.

The din of rain, that chorus of water moving about in various ways, filled his ears. The city lighting was as sparse in this neighbourhood as it was in most of them, so the locals fought the gloom as best they could by hanging lanterns from apartment windows and laying out strings of bulbs. It all sufficed for him to make out the foot traffic three stories below; a thin river of hoods and hats, rather than a flood.

Through the din, the piano and the glass he closed behind him, Fredrak heard approaching feet. He had one last sip, then made his move.

He put one hand on the railing and vaulted over it. He fell down one-third of the way, before his feet stopped on top of the glowing, vertical sign advertising the tavern. He managed to soften the landing just enough to not hurt himself significantly, then leapt again before gravity could pitch him forwards or backwards.

There was a shout up above as his fingertips caught the top edge of the sign, then he let himself drop the rest of the way.

His landing was a bit harsher this time, but nothing broke, and he only jostled a nearby person, as opposed to using one as a cushion. There was an irate reaction in a language he didn’t speak, and the sound of rushed feet on wet stone behind him.

Fredrak whipped around, his body shifting into a combat pose, as someone in a hooded poncho came at him out of the gloom.

A nearby red light caught on a knife, and instinct sent him darting back. He slammed into another pedestrian, and had no further to retreat as the assassin pressed the attack. Fredrak parried with his left forearm, and the hardened brace under the sleeve stopped the blade. He tried to grab at the man and turn this one-sided fencing match into a grapple, but the assassin reacted with speed and skill, and Fredrak only narrowly stopped the next thrust.

He saw the feint that came next for what it was, and managed to stop the strike at his gut that came in its place. He followed with a jab. The man evaded it, but now slammed into an older woman who couldn’t get out of the way. Now Fredrak caught his wrist and swung the man around. The assassin’s hip smacked into a little snack booth, and he couldn’t stop his arm from being locked.

Fredrak forced his shoulder down and the man bent over forwards. He tried to break the wrist but realised the man was wearing a brace of his own. He settled for a kick at a defenceless knee, and the man fell down on it. Next he kicked him in the face, and that was when the woman dropped down from the sign.

He thought he saw a gun in her hand, but he wasn’t about to have it confirmed. Fredrak turned and ran.

Awareness of the fight was spreading gradually, like ripples in thick gravy, but the narrow streets nestled between the towering buildings made getting away from it an equally slow process. Fredrak darted past the nearest person, then past the next, putting obstacles between himself and the assassins.

A combination of his training and well-established familiarity with these streets took over, guiding him through narrow gaps between people, letting him predict their movements at a glance.

He passed this area’s notoriously long alleys between apartment buildings, and they tempted him with their utter blackness. But they held dangers all their own. Right now the public was his best defence.

Fredrak kept on going, brushing up against more and more people as the crowd thickened. He slowed down upon reaching the local artery. There were no wide streets in the neighbourhood but this one did allow two cars to hover side-by-side, and given the cluster of people that was enough.

He let himself meld into the crowd, going along at the same pace as everyone else, and was soon enough completely cut off from everyone he’d offended with his rush.

The first order of business was to touch his face and neck, followed by patting his torso underneath the coat in search of blood. There was no pain, and as a car up above conveniently shone its light down he looked at both palms. They were clean.

He hadn’t been hit.

The second order was to make gradual progress towards one of the markets. His hat had come off at some point, and while the night wasn’t all that cold, bareheaded people got noticed.