The young man walked uneasily down the street, limping badly. He looked about him as passers-by glanced at the bruises that flowered his face, the crutch under his left arm, the other arm in a splint and sling. Shame and humiliation burned beneath the bruises.
The door of “Leaf and Dye”, a small, dim herbalist’s shop, was stiff; it took him a moment to balance himself properly on the crutch to push it open. Within was a small dusty space, dusty shelves lined with dusty jars and dusty bins and bundles, a potbellied dusty proprietor who watched him sleepily and a thin, dusty assistant, who was crushing something in a mortar and trying not to sneeze. They wore simple, homespun brown robes. The smell of the place was overpowering with dust and spice.
“May I help you” sir?” the proprietor asked.
The young man looked around, fearfully. “I...”
“Ah yes, discretion. Eithin, take that in the back room, please?”
The young assistant picked up his mortar and pestle. The pestle spun in his hand and vanished up one sleeve, unseen by the customer; but the proprietor darted out an equally invisible kick that landed on the assistant’s ankle, and the assistant hopped into the back room awkwardly. A sneeze resounded from the darkness beyond.
The proprietor smiled wearily at his customer. “Now then, what can I get you, hmm? Ointment for piles? Something to cure the pox?” He glanced at the customer’s numerous bruises and welts. “Something for pain and swelling, I’m certain.”
“Something for pain,” the customer said, his voice bitter. He stared down at the dusty floor. He was shaking. “And something... I have a... problem. With a... with rats. Lots of them. Do you... do you carry... poisons?”
There was silence. The customer, fearing his question had aroused suspicion, looked up-- and jerked as he saw the proprietor’s gentle, somnolent face only inches from his own. The man pressed a wrapped paper packet into his shaking, free hand.
“Brew a tea from two spoonfuls of this, drink it as you need it, but don’t ride a horse or drive a cart under it’s influence. That will help the pain.”
He drew back, his eyes becoming disapproving. “And as for poisons. No. I do not sell such things. They are dangerous. If you have a rat problem, I recommend the ratter’s in Gamlin Way.” He shook his head sadly. “Poisons. There are those who say that this fair city hides darker things than any other... that even Death has a street address. It’s a disgrace. I won’t be part of it.” He turned away. ”Five stellin for the medicine, sir. And be sure not to let it steep too long.”
"Thanks," said the customer, paying out the coins. His expression was thoughtful as he walked out of the shop.
Fradagar shook his head and scratched irritably at the strap that held his fake potbelly. He stepped into the back and without looking up, caught the wrist of the overhand swing of his assistant, and twisted. The pestle dropped from nerveless fingers as the younger man was yanked from his hiding place by the door. He twisted in Fradagar’s grip but the older man simply used the momentum to send his assistant stumbling. Fradagar bent the captured arm behind the younger man’s back and shoved the lad’s head deep into an open sack of powdery ground chilies. He held him there, and casually brushed the powder away from the ears so the younger man could hear him.
He sighed. “I’m so disappointed, Sam. You’d been doing so well! But you keep acting without thinking. Waiting just inside the door... that’s so -predictable-, boy! What do you have to say for yourself?”
He waited, but no answer was forthcoming. Of course, Sam didn’t dare breathe, with his head buried in superfine powdered chilies. Fradagar shifted his position a bit, so that he could lean comfortably against the sack while still keeping the younger assassin pinned. “This must be your rebellious adolescence, I suppose. You’re what, fourteen?”
“MRN-hrn" Sam managed, from his spasming throat, without breathing.
“Sixteen," agreed Fradagar, who knew perfectly well. Assuming the boy had been five when he’d found him, when he’d brought him back to the Guild. Few had approved. Fradagar had had to kill two of his own compatriots to keep the boy; fortunately, Miffer had had his back.
“And now you think you know it all. How many assignments, Sam?”
“Mru!”
“Yes, that’s right. Two. And not even permanents. Two people you’ve killed for us. Think it’s fun, do you? Think you’re one of Azal’s own now, do you?” The arm twisted up painfully.
“Mm!"
“You mean, "No, SIR!’" snapped Fradagar, thumping him on the back.
“Mm, HR!"
Fradagar relaxed his grip somewhat, though still not releasing it or the younger assassin. “I don’t know, Sam. I just don’t know. If you really think you’re that good... maybe I should send you off to one of the branch offices. Natodik or somewhere. You like sand?”
“Mrn-nrn! HR!” The branch offices were too often a death sentence. Away from the Guild, assassins got competitive... and had ways to eliminate their competition.
Fradagar looked at the cobwebbed ceiling and thought a moment. “Hmm. Still, you’ll never get any better if you don’t practice. Why don’t you sit box duty this week?”
“mm..” Sam was close to passing out.
“Yes, I think that’s a good plan,” decided Fradagar, and hauled his apprentice out of the chilies. Sam gave a spasmodic gasp of air and got a fist in the gut that sent it whooshing out again.
“Breathe QUIETLY!” Fradagar insisted. “I swear it’s as if I’ve taught you nothing in all these years!”
Sam gulped silently and inhaled again, soundlessly now, as he wiped chili dust from his face. His eyes were streaming from the hot spice, but he grinned through the pain. “Box duty? Really? You think that fellow...”
“It could be,” Fradagar said, offering a hand to help him stand. Sam was ready this time, and as he took it, he used the man’s attempted throw to bring him lightly to his feet, and then twisted his hand out of the grip. Fradagar nodded, pleased.
Even Death has a street address... pondered the battered young man, looking over an old map of the city. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he hoped he’d know it when he saw it. And then he saw it.
Executioner’s Alley. Once it had been a side street that had led to a public courtyard, where hangings had been performed. The gibbet was long-gone, and fire and rebuilding had narrowed and twisted the street and lined it with blocks of small, cramped, multi-storied dwellings. In this day and age, it was another nameless slum. The young man thought of those dwellings, boarded and shuttered and rat-infested, dark even in the daylight. If there are any assassins left, that’s where they would hide, he thought to himself, with a shiver.
Of course, they didn’t. They lived wherever they wanted to, and worked where they’d been assigned; the Leaf and Dye, the Pale Horse Pub, the Ratcatcher in Gamlin Way, the Barber&Surgeon’s, The Cutting Edge Cutlery, other small establishments all owned by the Guild. The actual Guild Building was the Red Masque Theater, its thick walls concealing a myriad of small dark wood-paneled rooms, its vast basements opening into large training areas and meeting halls.
The only thing in Executioner’s Alley owned by the Guild was a small room in one of the ground floors. It was square and small and dark, and the assassins called it the ’box'.
The young man limped down the alley. It was night, and dark, beggars watched him from the shadows, and a few pleaded with him for a few coins, but he averted his gaze. None approached him; no thieves hunted in Executioner’s Alley.
He looked at the doors as he walked along. There was no light save that of the stars, in the dimness and in his fear, he thought at first that what he saw must have been a hallucination.
A door, with a cast-iron knocker on it, in the shape of a skull.
He averted his gaze and walked down to the end of the street, but all the other doors, frail and in some cases missing, seemed real and poor. There were the sounds of children crying, distant arguments, dogs barking. The smell of bad cooking and worse hygiene. He made his way back to the skull-marked door.
Whatever the skull’s teeth had clenched for a knocker was missing. But as he raised his hand to the door, it swung open silently before him.
He almost turned and ran then, as fast as his limp would allow... but shame and anger steeled his nerves, and he stepped in. The door slowly shut behind him.
Here there was a hallway, lit by tiny oil lamps. And at the end, another door, slightly open. Blackness beyond.
He walked slowly down the hall, his footsteps creaking on the rough wood. Pushed open the door. The blackness seemed to swallow the light of the oil lamps. Leaving the door wide open, so as to allow as much of the light as possible, he entered. In the faint light of the hallway, he could see the room; small, rough wood walls. Empty.
The door swung silently shut behind him, and locked itself. He turned and gave a faint cry. It was pitch black now, not a shadow or a twinkle could be seen. And, he noticed, not a sound could be heard from the busy world outside; nothing but the pound of his pulse in his ears and the wheeze of his breathing. There was a smell, of dust and old wood, and mildew. And chili powder.
He steeled himself, and shut his eyes. It didn’t make any difference, but it made him feel better.
A voice, disembodied in the darkness. A hissing whisper of a voice.
“What brings the living to the house of Death?”
He swallowed hard. “Someone needs to die.”
"All things die.” Another voice, from behind him this time.
"I...” What did one say? What was the proper way to do this? he wondered in terror. He knew about ordering servants around, and how to conduct trade with merchants, but how to request to have someone killed? What if they decided to kill him?
“Do not waste our time. State your business.” A third voice, and in front of him, so close he took a step back, before recalling the voice behind him. He froze. The room must be full of them! Yet all was silent.
“I... he stole her from me. Stole her love! With his money, his parents, his house," he stammered, face flushing with fury at the memory. ”Had his guards beat me up when I tried to talk to her. He’s going to marry her! I can’t let him have her! He has to die!”
"Name the target.” This voice seemed to come from above him, and he jerked.
"Adrew Felspot,” he said, his voice twanging with hate at pronouncing the name.
"The Mayor’s son." A statement, not a question. From the voice behind him.
"Yes,” he managed.
“Is he to die a permanent death?” (Sam, walking slowly and silently around the shivering figure and practicing his voices, hoped not. He wasn’t allowed to do permanents yet.)
"What?” The prospective client didn’t understand.
“For a death from which he may return, with the grace of the *other* gods...” Sam put a twitch of venom in his voice, for effect, “You shall pay us...” (his mind raced as he recalled the current going rates.)
The voice in the darkness named a figure, and then, as the young man flinched at the number, added, “Should you wish to send him beyond the hope of any light... the price will be five times that.”
"Fi---” and then the customer fell silent. “I can afford the first. Not the second,” he said at last. “I didn’t know... only brought this,” he said, fumbling for a pouch that chinked with coin. It was lifted from his fingers as though a breeze had taken it.
“It will do for a deposit,” said the voice smoothly. “When the deed is done, you will return here, with the balance.”
"Yes,” whispered the customer. ”But he marries her the day after tomorrow. You've got to do it before he marries her!”
“It shall be done.”
“And... and make sure he suffers!” he managed to stammer bitterly.
The room seemed to drop in degrees, and he felt icy chills up his spine. There was a long moment of silence, and his ears were ringing with it.
“We shall make sure he dies. Nothing more.” The voice was cold.
“Tha-- That’s fine. Fine. Sorry.”
“Leave.” There was a click and a creak, and then the faint outline of the door appeared. He reached for it, drew it open: the dim light was still enough to make him squint, and lit the room; the simple, empty room. He left as fast as he could, the iron-skull marked door slamming hard behind him.
Sam came out from behind one of the many secret doors, and extinguished the oil lamps.
The Mayor himself usually lived in a well-appointed house near the center of town, but Sam quickly learned that the wedding was to be held at the family’s holdings, a slightly-crumbling stone manor a few miles outside town. There was more room for the numerous guests, better scenery, and a small chapel where the ceremony itself could be performed.
Sam had approached in the late afternoon, keeping to the cover provided by the shelter of the Mayor’s hunting preserve, a small dense woods crackling with pheasants. He wore his leaf-cloak and went unseen, up to the high wall surrounding the gardens. From time to time he would have to fling himself flat in the underbrush, as yet another ornate carriage of wedding guests came trotting up the long tree- lined drive.
The building was square, with an open courtyard, and outlying stables and servants’ quarters. Three floors high, made of weathered stone. The windows were small and paned with glass. He paced slowly around the bordering wall as the day faded into darkness. The night was full of soft sounds, of small creatures, safe to ignore.
Elsewhere in the rustling darkness... whispered voices.
“Na then--- ’ere, what was that? Aress, that you?”
“Nosir!”
“Right, own up, who gurgled?”
“It was Elsie, sir,” Wubble said, pointing.
“Oh you liar!” Elsie glared from under his mask.
“Right, Wubble, I kin smell ye from ’ere. Drop it.”
A flask thudded to the leafmould. “Just a drop for me nerves, sir, I always works better with a snort,” he pleaded.
“Nae grog on the job, ye ken that, Wubbleyoogee. Rid yeself or take a 'I’ fer the semester. Bloody idiot.”
Arcie shook his head as the youngest of the class sulkily went behind a shrub to vomit. He glanced back up at the lighted windows of the manor.
“As I were sayin’, class, we ’as some a the finest folk in the country 'ere, all in one place, with some o’ their finest fineries. All a-drinkin’ and dancin’ and carryin’ on.” Wubble returned silently, wiping his mouth on his grubby mottled sleeve. Arcie glanced at him, and continued, “Iffen we can we pull this off, there’ll be grog fer all. Now hark t’me...”
Sam knew the target’s face, but had not seen it in the windows yet. He would have to get closer.
The wall was laughable. Sam went over it without slowing down, and low-ran up to the house itself, hidden by the shadow of a chimney. He climbed again, fast, and then flattened himself out on the slates of the roof, to catch his breath. He considered his tactics and his points.
He was working on short notice, which was worth some extra points. He could have dressed up as a servant or guest, and attempted to get to his target that way, but that always meant a risk of his face being remembered and identified. It was also worth fewer points. So instead he was “going in black”; wearing his full uniform, and, for maximum points, not allowing himself to be seen. Once the target was sighted, he’d have the option of “making it look like an accident” (worth more points) or making a “signature kill” (fewer points, but much more dramatic).
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There were no actual numbers involved in scoring; it was merely a measure of difficulty and skill, and the only result would be the amount of pride he could take in the kill, and, the degree of pride that his mentors, Fradagar and Miffer, could take in him.
Moving slowly on all fours, keeping to the shadow of the roof, he made his way slowly across the building, stopping often to listen.
The servant’s wing was deserted; everyone was helping with the festivities. The back door was still locked, though, and Arcie brought Elsie forward to work it, setting Aress and Wubble to scout. They came back to report as the lock clicked open; the area was empty. The thieves flowed silently into the building.
A rapid stealthy search revealed the stairway to the loft rooms; unlocked. And then up into the attic space, which ran round the entire building. They scattered like shadows into the stuffy, creaking space.
Sam’s exploration found a small bolted hatch, next to the chimney; its purpose unknown. The latch was rusted stiff, but a few minutes patient pressure slowly slid it back. Sam waited a moment, then jerked it open and dove in, hanging by one hand as he dropped the heavy trapdoor. It fell, as intended, onto his fingers; they silenced the sound. He stretched out his legs then and found the floor, and slowly eased his weight onto it so that it did not creak. Only then did he ease his fingers free. And then a voice, no louder than a mouse’s sneeze, came out of the darkness next to him.
“Aress? That you? Did you find anything yet?”
Panic shocked him and he lashed out, finding flesh and a neck and the equally startled person in the darkness crumpled to the floor with a soft grunt; not dead, only unconscious. Sam took a moment to calm himself, and in the darkness made a quick search of the fallen stranger, to try to ascertain who he might be. Cheap clothing, with something wadded up into it; pillowcases? And his breath smelled
of whiskey and vomit. Maybe he was a servant, sneaking a quiet drink in the attic? Still, unimportant. The adrenaline quickened the fire in Sam’s blood; somewhere, there was a life to end. He left the servant where he lay, and went on.
Through cracks in the floors and the edge of the roof he found his way to the wing over the bedrooms, and then, through a collection of old portraits and trunks of abandoned children’s toys, a trapdoor access down.
A few guests were about in the halls, but most briskly making their way either to or from their own rooms. Sam avoided them and made his way instead to the rooms of the family, and to the room of the target.
It was a well-appointed room, large and carpeted, with bed, dresser, desk, chairs, and a large window. A door led into a small adjoining bathroom. There were plenty of places to hide, and Sam decided he’d take it easy here, simply hide and wait for the target to stagger in, helpless after his bachelor party, and then inflict him with a lethal pair of close-set stiletto stab wounds; the signature kill of the Viper (who was currently Miffer, but some day, Sam hoped to claim the title himself) Dramatic and gory, yes, but the servant in the attic had already been aware of him, so an “accident” was out. A good exit route would be in order, though, in case something went wrong. He went to the window, pushed it open, and looked outside for a trellis or pipe or anything else to soften the three-story drop. The only thing that presented itself was a startled face, looking right up at him. He jumped on it.
Arcie finished filling a pillowcase with nice things from the Mayor’s room, and opened the window to toss it down. Elsie should be slowly roving around the base of the building, collecting the parcels as they dropped and stashing them over the wall. He should not, and Arcie was sure he’d gone over this earlier in the semester, be in a vicious scuffle with some indistinct figure. He was also not supposed to be screaming, though he was, though sounding muffled. Arcie swore to himself and grabbed the first heavy thing that came to hand, some kind of glass paperweight, and flung it. It clocked Elsie’s attacker smartly.
Sam had just maneuvered into a suitable position for a neck-break on the witness when something exploded on the back of his skull. He fell on top of his intended victim, stars and blackness filling his vision. But he remembered his training, took a deep breath, and let the fire take him, the roar of sudden flames burning away the blackness and pain, seeking a target, any target---
Elsie passed out, probably from the pain of having his broken leg folded underneath him by the stumbling fall of his attacker. But then the attacker shook his head, looked up, and saw Arcie. In the patch of light from the window Arcie could now see him; a young man with dark hair, and clothed only in black. An assassin. They were legendary; insane killers, demon worshippers, rabid jackals in human form.
“Bugger me sideways with a number seven tumbler- tickler,” Arcie swore, and jerked back as the assassin lunged, even though forty feet of fresh air separated them. He ran out the door as the scrabble of feet and hands sounded outside the window; slammed the door behind himself as he looked frantically around the empty hallway. Another door; he yanked it open, ducked inside and through the next one -- into a bathroom, sink, dresser, toilet and tub, with no other exits. His face set, he drew his small knife and braced himself behind the half-open door. As the flicker of motion showed the arrival of the assassin, he threw himself against the door with all the strength in his short, sturdy frame.
The door was heavy; solid oak and old, and Arcie, though short, was substantial. The door crushed the assassin between itself and the frame, making him stagger. He spun around it to avoid Arcie’s knife thrust, and grabbed Arcie by the neck with one hand and by the knife with the other; Arcie kicked him in the balls, and they both crashed against the door, slamming it shut with a shuddering crunch.
Arcie struggled, but the grip was like iron. Death was inevitable... but where was it? He twisted to look at his captor. The assassin was doubled over, wheezing silently. Though he still had Arcie’s neck and wrist clamped tight, he didn’t seem able to do anything else at the moment. Arcie decided it was worth trying to talk his way out; always his preferred means of combat.
“See you, mister, don’t kill me, look, they pays ye to kill people, I’ll pay ye not to, how’s be that? Eh? What’s yer askin’ price?”
“Witness,” hissed the assassin, still not looking at him, still not letting go.
“Nay! Not ’tal! And mister, I’ll have you know I’m Thieves’ Guild, me; Senior instructor, no less! The Guildmaster’s a close friend o’ mine, he won’t care for it if he finds one of you black buzzards have offed me. Ye want a Guild war on your hands, mister?” Arcie squirmed in the grip; the assassin seemed to be recovering.
“Thieves’ guild?” he asked, glancing at Arcie; and Arcie noticed that the eyes had lost their dilated, furious look, and now only looked pained.
“Aye! It’s a robbery, and you killin’ me students!? That ain’t allowed!”
“Oh bloody Tharzak,” the assassin swore reproachfully to himself. “You’re right.”
Animosity and competition between Guilds had caused a lot of trouble in the past. The Thieves and Assassins had been at odds in the past; both involved in breaking, entering, and taking things that people didn’t want taken. Fights had broken out, and worse troubles; the Assassins were more dangerous as individuals, but few in number, while the Thieves were numerous and worked in groups. At last, truces had been called, boundaries and rules established. Thieves were not allowed to kill for money, assassins not allowed to steal, and neither was permitted to interfere in the other’s activities. Sam could have gotten himself, and his Guild, into a lot of trouble.
“Truce? As it ought to be?” demanded Arcie.
“Right, sorry. Truce,” agreed the assassin, releasing him with bad grace. He started to do a strange hopping exercise, apparently trying to get his privates back into order. “You kicked me in the... I haven’t finished training how to block that pain yet,” he grumped, by way of embarrassed explanation. “Otherwise you’d be dead.”
“None of your snide bragging, death’s boy,” snorted Arcie. “Ye already owe me for one o’ my boys.”
“Two,” grunted the assassin, straightening up. “But they aren’t dead.”
“I bet they ain’t walkin’, though,” snapped Arcie. The assassin shrugged. Now that the danger was gone, Arcie was surprised at how young the boy was; sixteen at most, tall, thin but with a broadness in the chest and shoulders that hinted at strength, with short hair the exact color of Number 18 Natural Walnut Brown Dye. His black clothing looked mended and handed-down. Arcie, a teacher for many years, could tell a student when he saw one; but, he knew, you can’t tell them much.
Sam, in turn, actually recognized the short Barigan; he’d seen the man around town, and gathered he was a merchant of some kind. Certainly he’d always had plenty of money; stout in build though without the pudginess that would follow later in life. He’d always dressed well, too, though at the moment he was wearing nondescript clothing of mottled grays and browns and a battered felt hat, shadow- friendly yet easy enough to pass off as poor servant’s clothing, unlike Sam’s stark black garb.
“Aren’t you Mr. Mirtin?” Sam asked, suspiciously. The Barigan smirked, a grin of white teeth. He tipped his hat.
“Names be like hats, boy, ye wear them when you need to. You can call me as we thieves do, by initials; R.C.”
"Arcie. I’m --" Sam wondered what to call himself: 'the Viper’? Somehow it sounded too pretentious; and his full, real name was too embarrassing. He gave up. “Sam."
“Sam?" Before the disbelief in Arcie’s voice could turn into mockery, however, Sam turned to the door and tugged at it.
“You know, I’d love to stay in the toilet and debate names with you all evening, but I have someone to kill, I’m sure you have things that need stealing, so why don’t you unlock this damn door and let’s get on with never crossing paths again,” he said.
Arcie chuckled and stepped to the door, but a moment later gave a frown. “The lock mechanism musta been frunched when ye smashed the door back,” he muttered, poking with a lockpick at the twisted bits of iron and brass inside the door. "It’s jammed fast."
They both tried yanking at the door, then shoving it, to no avail. There were no windows, no way out.
“Lovely," Sam groaned, sitting on the edge of the tub. ”Stuck here until the Mayor decides to let us out. Maybe he’ll invite us to the wedding.“
“You think that if a problem don’t have a jugular you can’t do anything about it,” scoffed Arcie. “There’s always a way.“ And he pointed.
Sam stared. “You’ve got to be kidding me.“
“Squeamish, eh? Black won’t show the muck, boy,” Arcie said, peering down the hole of the toilet. Like most old houses, the building did not have proper toilets, but rather wooden seats, holes to the outside world, and servants with buckets of scented water.
“That’s not what I mean,” Sam said, looking down the hole. “I can’t fit down that!”
Arcie looked, and reluctantly conceded that the assassin was probably right. “Aye, you’re too tall. Ye’d never be able to fold enough to fit around that bit of a bend there.” Arcie, small of spine though solid of build, trained in thief’s ways of flexibility, could maneuver through the cramped spaces, while the assassin’s height and muscle became a disadvantage.
“I’m not going to try, and risk getting stuck; I’d die of embarrassment before they’d get a chance to kill me.” Sam started hacking quietly at the lock with a dagger.
“Tell you what... you owe me as it is for my boys ye hurt, so, if I get ye out, will ye help me get them home? On your word of honor, or pain o’ death, or whatever you things swear by.” Arcie raised the seat.
Sam gave a fatalistic sigh. “All right. I swear by... um, by my word of honor.”
“Good enough. Ye ken I’ll have your hide by the wrath of your Guild if ye fail me,” Arcie said, and dived down the hole. There was a muffled grunt. “Give us a push, eh?”
Sam picked up a mop from a corner and plungered the Barigan down, until the booted feet vanished into the pungent gloom.
Arcie shoved himself through the slick, stinking length, until at last a long slide dumped him out on an unpleasant pile. Slipping back by way of the ornamental pond in the garden let him be damp but more presentable to the common nose, and then he crept back to the window where Elsie had collapsed with his leg broken.
Sure, he had intended to find his damaged students and, if able, get them away from the place without bothering to get the assassin free. But as he came around that corner of the manor house, he had to duck back into the plantings as a group of muttering servants came by, carrying with them Elsie’s limp and battered form. From within the house, on the ground levels, shouts and music and smells and light came to indicate the festivities were well under way, and Arcie saw Elsie being carried towards them.
Back up at the son's bedroom room, on the other side of the lock, it took him only a few minutes to pry the bits of metal back into shape, and yank the door open. Sam stalked out, glaring around and trying to rearrange his dignity.
“Took you long enough; you find something to your liking down there?” he grumbled.
“Nae time fer that, they’ve got Elsie and takin’ him down to the party,” Arcie retorted. ’And I don’t think they’re wanting him to be the best man.”
“Elsie? Is this a man or a woman?” Sam asked, as they made their stealthy way out.
“Initials, L.C., the one whose leg yer broke. Excessive,” Arcie whispered. “I’ve a mind tae complain to yer Guild anyway.”
“That was an accident, when I jumped from the window on him,” Sam whispered back.
“Most people have the courtesy o’ breaking their -own- legs jumpin’ out windows.”
The party had divided into several parties; the adults, drinking and talking and gossiping; the bride and her friends, whispering and being demure, the small children, running everywhere and screaming, and the groom and his friends, drinking, talking, drinking, shouting, drinking, and laughing and drinking. The servants carrying Elsie glanced at his general age, and, despite his poor clothing, brought him up to the groom’s party.
“Sir, we found this... gentleman, obviously hurt, perhaps fallen from a window?” coughed one of them, managing to get the attention of the groom and a couple of his friends. “We thought he might be a friend of yours, though he may be but a beggarly peasant...”
Elsie groaned, “Bugger you and beggarly peasants yer rich stinking brandy-basted bastards.” This was not really the best thing to say, and the groom seemed to think so as well.
“Shtinkin’ peasant’s what he ish,” Adrew Felspot slurred loudly, glaring in indignation at the thief. “Prob’ly a buggler too!”
“Not a burglar, me!” protested Elsie blearily, but Adrew’s friends agreed with Adrew.
“Heave him in the duckpond!”
“Call the guards and have him whipped!”
“Heck with the guards, we’ll whip him ourselves! Badgerin’ in on our Adrew’s wedding, eh?” “Yeah! How dare you?”
Sam and Arcie used the opportunity to maneuver around to two of the entrances to the room. Sam had his eyes fixed on Adrew, feeling the return of the fire, the thrill of the hunt and the drive to the kill as he stared at his target with the fixation of a cobra. But too many people, too many witnesses, a dagger thrown into the crowd would probably work, but the resulting confusion and hunt would ruin any chance Arcie would have of getting his students clear, and threaten Sam’s hope of escape as well. He forced himself to wait, even as the servants threw Elsie to the ground, making him give a strangled scream of pain. A few of the adult party-goers looked over in curiosity, but glanced away as they saw the young bloods preparing to deal with it.
They had decided to drag the miscreant outside, and beat him up, -then- throw him in the duckpond, -then- call the guards, when Arcie, from behind the cover of a hanging curtain, lobbed a fat cloth pouch into the fireplace. There was a loud BANG, and a tremendous cloud of thick black smoke roiled out into the room, to the shouts and screams of the party.
As the smoky darkness descended, Sam moved. Into the smoke, under the cover of smoke; milling guests bumped into him, but they were all bumping into each other anyway. The smoke stung the eyes, made it almost impossible to see, but Sam tripped over Elsie’s broken leg and knew it was him by the scream.
"Shutup!" he hissed, as he grabbed the thief in an awkward carry and ran on.
He reached the doorway where Arcie waited, and Arcie ran ahead of him; Sam was still half-blinded by the stinging in his eyes from the smoke, but followed the sound of fast soggy footsteps, until at last there was fresh cold air on his face.
“Where do you want him?” Sam demanded, throwing the feebly-protesting Elsie over his shoulder.
"C’mon!” hissed Arcie, running up to the base of the wall that surrounded the inner grounds. A rope ladder dangled in concealment behind a stand of cypress, and a voice in the shadows there hissed,
“Sir! I found Wubble in the attic, he was out cold, I couldn’t carry him--”
“Nevermine, Aress, we got some good things, right?” Arcie said, grabbing some of the many sacks of clinking things that had been gathered here.
“Aye, we did, but Wubb1e’s still up there and Elsie never showed on our side of the-- who the hell’s that?”
The apprentice thief had just noticed the almost- invisible figure of the assassin as he stepped out to drop Elsie among the sacks.
“You go make sure the way's clear for me to bring what’s-his-name, Wubby, out. Come on,” he demanded, and ran back to the manor house, which was starting to erupt with searching figures with lanterns.
Arcie watched him go, looked at the loot, looked at the wall, at the house, and at Aress and Elsie. Aress looked at the ladder.
Sam dodged the view of the flicking lanterns and ducked into the house through a ground-floor window. This was an area of the house he’d not been in before, but there were sounds of people, shouting voices coming closer. He found a stairway and ran as silently as he could up its long stone length, but the voices were too close; at the top of the stairs was a simple door; a worn rug in front of it indicated a well-used room. He ducked inside and shut the door.
It was a library and reading room, books on books on books and no place to hide. In mad hope Sam felt around on all the bookcases, hoping for a secret passage or revolving panel, such as every good library should have; but there was nothing. But on top of the bookcases, there might be just enough space for someone to hide, if they lay flat in the shadows. behind that ornamental scrollwork...
“How could the man run so fast?” wondered one of the groomsmen, as they climbed the stairs. “He looked like his leg was broken!”
“And that smoke! He musta been a wizard!” Adrew suggested, full of drunken confidence. “We ought to tell Mizzamir about him, my dad’s a close personal friend of him you know,” he added, to one of the bride’s friends who was following. along. She giggled.
“We’ll find him, and we’ll show him he can’t pull that kind of stuff on us,” said the best man. The elder members of the wedding party had repaired to another part of the manor, to relax their shattered nerves with more brandy; some retiring to their rooms. But the young men were helping the staff and guards to rout out the mysterious peasant burglar wizard that had threatened to ruin their evening.
They spread out, searching through the rooms; without success. Adrew and a couple of friends searched the library carefully, a couple of them pushing at the same suspicious knobs and panels Sam had tried.
"He’s not here," one of them said, kicking a lower panel in disgust. Even this failed to open a passageway.
“I told you, he was a wizard. Probably vanished in that first puff of smoke.” Adrew’s voice. Up on the top of the bookcase, Sam feit himself tensing, fire filling him; leap down now, kill the target, kill all the witnesses, kill everyone in the house!! No no no... control... control....
He gritted his teeth.
“Vanished with a sound like running feet! Come on, he’s probably out in the yard!” They began to file out.
Adrew hiccuped and turned to follow them. "Probably, yeah." Then they heard a distant scream, from the direction of the guests’ rooms.
“My room! My jewels! My money! Burglars! Thieves!”
“Mine too! We’ve been robbed!”
"Come on!" shouted one of the more sober of the groomsmen, and they ran out the door; none saw the sudden shadow that dropped behind them, and lunged for the retreating figure of Adrew, the last to leave. But Adrew in casual reflex had slammed the door behind him; it hit Sam in the nose, unfelt through the fire; the fire that had suddenly spurred him to move, to strike. Undaunted by the door, driven by something other than conscious thought, Sam grabbed the edge of the worn rug where it showed under the door, and yanked.
There was a gasp on the other side of the door, and then to counterpoint the sounds of running feet on the long stone staircase there was a slapping and thudding sound, repeated rapidly over and over, and sudden shouts and screams and cries. The thudding sound stopped but the shouts just got worse.
“Adrew! Adrew! Oh gods, he’s not breathing!”
“Somebody get a healer! Adrew fell down the stairs!”
“Look at his skull!”
“I’m gonna be sick!”
Sam smiled quietly in the darkness, warm in the afterglow.
Out the window and up to the roof again, and back to the trapdoor. There was the other thief, still unconscious, Sam poked him in a few select pressure points, and Wubble returned to consciousness.
“Huh wah? Mey!”
“Shut up. Arcie sent me, come on.”
Most of the manor’s population had gone back into the house, to confront the unfortunate fatal accident; Adrew, tripped on the stairs, too much to drink, what a tragedy, what shall we do, can we afford a cleric, etc. There was little room for chasing thieves, but with the discovery of the other losses there were still those searching. Wubble and Sam carefully avoided them, weaving back and forth in the darknessr Sam for concealment, Wubble having pulled out another flask and helped himself liberally.
At the cypress stand, the other thieves were gone, but the ladder remained; Wubble clambered over it, and Sam followed; and alighted at the bottom in a circle of steel.
The three thieves with long drawn blades regarded him. Even Elsie, sitting up but with a small crossbow now cocked amd pointed at Sam’s chest. Weary now with the end of an assignment, beginning to feel all the wounds and bashes and bruises that had been done to him, Sam spread his palms wide in a placating gesture--- but left them close to the dagger scabbards at his belt. Even so, he felt fear, looking at the calculating eyes of the thieves. No passion or fire there, only calm consideration; yes or no, live or die.
“Shall we kill ’im, sir?” Wubble asked Arcie. Arcie looked thoughtful.
“We do have the right; after all, he went after ye, and trompled all over our business, and assaulted me as well. And he knows us, and has seen us, and we’ve seen him. His Guild will just think the manorlies killed him, if we throw him back over their wall.”
“He helped us, though,” Wubble said, dubiously.
“Aye, lad, but while there may or may not be honor among thieves, there’s none between thieves and assassins.” said Arcie, with a gesture to Elsie. Elsie grunted in agreement, and took careful aim with the crossbow.
“And here I was thinking that, for a short weasely coward of a whoreson dishonorable thief, you weren’t so bad,” Sam said drily.
There was a pause, and then Arcie gave a soft laugh, and raised a hand.
“Well then... and for a raving lunatic hellspawn bastard murderer, ye have your good points.” He gestured, and Elsie grudgingly lowered the crossbow. “Perhaps ye can let me know if there’s a low space needs crawlin’ through.”
“And let me know if I can ever kill someone for you,” Sam replied in the same mocking tone, with a little bow.
Arcie gave a grin, the flash of white teeth in the darkness. “I’ll do that. ’Til we meet again, as they say. Ye ken better than to follow us. T’will be interesting to see you grow older, boy... if you live that long.”
“Thanks for the chance.” Sam leaned against the wall. He watched as the thieves melted into the darkness, Aress and Wubble helping Elsie along, Arcie leading them and carrying the stuffed sacks of loot. Then Sam set off in a different direction; east, towards the dawning sky and home.