The Assassin's Twisted Path Read online

  “Then I would think you should file a complaint with the magistrate.”

  “Don’t give us that.”

  “Perhaps your missing man took them,” the being said.

  The overseer drew a knife.

  The individual in the golden robe screamed. The entire party, along with the rentboys and girls, drew back.

  From the bar, the innkeeper lifted a cleaver. “You want a drink, or you want to be moving along.”

  The entire tavern held their breath and waited to see what would happen.

  The human overseers left, huffing, slamming the wooden door behind them hard enough that it bounced on its squeaky hinges.

  The beings’ party went on with nervous laughter and twittering as the innkeeper brought another carafe.

  Byronia noticed a rash covering a rentboy’s bare arms. Had it been there when she arrived? She couldn’t remember.

  Their party went on long into the night. They seemed to be a merry sort of folk, laughing and singing songs which Byronia did not know.

  She was glad; it gave her plenty of time to draw and make notes of her observations. She hoped her uncle and the other House Masters would be pleased.

  •

  Port Welliver in the Realm of Dynion

  Established on a peninsula, Port Welliver was home to a small human population, but like many of the ports on the North Sea, the elfkin and other species of the Seven Realms were not unknown. Byronia would not blend in with the populous, but she wouldn’t stand out either. From the outside, it looked like a quaint and cozy fishing village, but as she approached the gate, it was easy to spot half-rotten rooftops. Vines had taken over some structures, coating them in green. These vines made ladders for the rats and other vermin. No one, not even the poorest, came near the road for alms.

  Around the wall, townspeople scratched at their blemish- and welt-covered skin. They stood in long lines towards the gate where one man and two women were armed and on their feet. They handed metal bowls of soup to those who came.

  “Hey, ho,” Byronia called.

  “Milady, ride from here. Come no closer,” the older of the two women said.

  “What is this sickness?” she asked.

  “Something the sailors brought.”

  “Which sailors?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I supposed not. Have you seen any strange folk?” she asked.

  “Well, you,” the older woman said.

  “Welliver knows the elfkin. And I know a remedy man in Denwort. I could beg for help.”

  “We know we will die. Our healthy children have already abandoned us. We tend to those who come to the gate. The rest starve in their beds.”

  “I seek an elfkin slave boy of twelve. His name is Rataen. He would’ve been brought here by a merchant Grayhook. I wish to buy him back.”

  “Grayhook’s dead as are his two servants. We already burnt the bodies,” the man called. “One was an elf boy, never knew his name.”

  She thanked them for the information.

  Byronia rode until she made it upstream several miles away. She constructed a large fire and boiled all of her clothing and gear. She washed Joy and bathed in the creek, then smeared lanoline on them both.

  Everything she had on her person was made clean before she wrote the bad news to Alana and sent the information on to The Guild Masters.

  •

  Chapter 7

  Outskirts of City of Cheripol in the Realm of Cannik

  Under the watchful eyes of ancient stone Water Gods of the Vodnik long covered with green moss, Roark awaited Kajsa’s signal. However, in the filtered light of the dense canopy of spruce and moss, he could not find peace. Mountain sparrows swooped at insects and fluttered away with their kills. This was to be a poisoning with a complicated delivery. The carved cave shelter was simply furnished with a tiny fireplace and a few cots, but Roark found it claustrophobic to be inside for too long. It was better to sit in the shade of the trees and be close to all the living things of the forests.

  It would be a few days before his part would be needed, but he kept his eyes on the fort in the river valley below in case something went wrong. Stacked river rock and hardwood beams held the fort’s wooden structure which was topped with the Vodnik’s customary limestone dome. Roark couldn’t quite make out how many were inside through the dirty, leaded windows, but several commoners were outside the fort working. It would be easy to destroy the fort and all within with limited Guild explosives, but that wasn’t the job—especially now that Kajsa, Doriel and their entourage were inside.

  Perhaps, he thought, I’m worried because Alana can no longer step in if I sard up. His aim and timing needed to be perfect, but he did not fear for his aim and timing. He never felt like this before. Roark killed in protection of others or for the good of the Fairsinge people. Collateral damage never sat well with him. He’d never slaughtered an innocent and had no wish to start. That’s why he ended his apprenticeship before he became a War Ender. An assassin’s marks were never innocent.

  Roark wandered to the edge of headlands and beheld an overview of the situation. He stood upon a narrow channel of nearly vertical rock as he gazed northwards and memorized the scene. How much the dossier told him, and yet how little. His mark was a Vodnik nobleman who craved war and soon would be survived by a wife and three children. The wife would be named Regent, and Kajsa’s silver tongue would smooth over his people’s tattered feelings. One death instead of many. From his perch, Roark witnessed his mark leave the fort astride his horse with two guards riding behind him. The Vodnik were a handsome people, their skin colored by the high percentage of copper in their blood in every shade of green from the palest sea mist to the darkest olive. Their hair, which started white and darkened to black as they aged, was worn in large braids entwined with metal ribbons which denoted their principality and rank. His mark had deep green skin and gray hair intertwined with gold and silver.

  He had not received the signal to kill him yet. Roark opened his mind and felt the bloodlust in their veins. He understood Kajsa’s choice. Duplicity was a risk when hiring the Guild.

  He couldn’t stop them, but he knew that around the bend, an elderly Vodnik woman washed laundry in the stream. Her black braids had no ornamentation.

  Roark wished he could signal the laundress in some way and tell her to run before the mark saw her. He yearned to come up with a plan. His mind went blank. Why hadn’t I studied strategy with more dedication?

  Moments later, it was too late. The men laughed as soon as they discovered her.

  Roark would enjoy killing him; his hands itched to do it. Instead, he observed the nobleman order one of his soldiers to trample the old woman.

  The soldier did so. They rode away cheering.

  Knowing he must not be seen either by his mark or Kajsa’s team, Roark crept to the dying woman. Tawny-colored blood dripped out of her mouth and frothed as it hit the ground. Roark had seen many Vodnik die over the years; still, he might learn something before her body liquefied.

  “Why am I worthy of life and this woman worthy of death?” Roark whispered. “I spit on random chance.”

  She moaned and gestured towards him, before spitting more blood.

  In Vodnici, Roark whispered, “I can offer you a quick death.”

  She might have nodded or shuddered in pain.

  He cut her throat.

  Within seconds, her green eyes softened to the color of milk. He cut off her hand and opened her chest. He allowed one of his older blades to chop through her ribs and removed the heart. He let the tawny blood drip into a vial before covering it with a tarred sack.

  Feeling inspired, Roark crossed to the rocky embankment staying low to the ground. He took a sample of the local river water to compare it to the coppery blood of the Vodnik in Edar’s lab.

  He labeled each specimen, wrapped them in an old undertunic, and placed them in a tarred sack which he stuffed deep into his knapsack. He wanted to gather more,
but carrying several bundles of body parts might be noticed.

  •

  Four days later, Kajsa’s crow flew in the air and landed inside the cave shelter. It was time.

  He hurried back to the headlands and placed himself in the channel. Below, outside the fort, the area filled with Vodnici citizenry and a small contingent of dwarves. Doriel wore a crown and indigo velvets; Kajsa dressed as his queen. Several “counselors” were beside them.

  Roark aimed his sling armed with a capsule containing a fly coated in a fast-acting poison for the mark’s mouth as he orated about the coming war with the humans who were creating new illegal technology.

  Once Roark captured the rhythm of his mark’s words, he took his shot.

  The nobleman choked as the capsule flew into his mouth.

  He coughed and spit out what looked like a simple fly with a laugh. He opened his mouth to speak again, then grasped upon his throat. He coughed. Clutching at his neck, the mark’s throat swelled, cutting off his primary breathing route. Guards surrounded him and carried him out of the room away.

  Kajsa stood beside the nobleman’s wife. She whispered into her ear and handed her a parchment. The wife gripped the paper so tightly it creased. Then she took her husband’s place and spoke.

  Roark couldn’t stay to hear what she had to say though he understood it was a quick speech about not giving into fear and hate, and prioritizing her citizenry’s needs over a war with humans. One death had blocked the war for a decade, maybe longer.

  He hurried down the tree line, running parallel to the open valley until dawn, and crossed backcountry to the unseen place deep within the Earth where he would meet Kajsa, who would bring him on to the Guild House.

  •

  Chapter 8

  Port Denwort in the Realm of Dynion

  Byronia followed the finely dressed being who drunkenly moved down long, uneven steps. Uncle and other Guild House Masters believed this might be an Eighth Realm creature though they had not confirmed that. It had been several centuries since any new intelligent people had been discovered, and no one wanted to spread rumors though everyone at the Salty Eel and Golden Sea were talking about the strangers.

  The sound of footfalls disappeared; she slowed, straining to hear them. Darkness was all around her; the only light was a single torch from a window in the distance. A baby or young child screamed. She scanned the horizon and spotted a child in the distance, its distorted limbs circled towards the sky. As she grew closer, she observed he was a boy. His mouth hung open as if his jaw was broken. Lesions surrounded by a rash encircled his flushed cheeks. He made one more wheezing cry and died.

  Byronia inspected the body. The disease in Port Welliver is here!

  Hoping she hadn’t fated her ivory skin to pox, she bundled the child into a sack and hurried to Edar’s cottage.

  “My lady, what can I do for you?”

  “I need to speak with you and Roark.”

  “Roark left for a job.”

  Byronia frowned. “Then please listen. Port Welliver is gone. They’re burning the bodies. And I found an abandoned child covered in lesions. I brought you the body so you could see the rash.”

  “A rash? I’ve treated several rashes of late, but you say Port Welliver is burning bodies?”

  “Yes. There were only a few healthy adults when I was there.”

  “Come to my laboratory, if you would.”

  She unbundled the child’s corpse on the centermost table as Edar lit his lanterns. Other than the pile of body parts in the corner, the laboratory reminded her of a Guild surgeon’s examination theater. Edgar grabbed some heavy paper cards which had spots marked in ink. He found the pattern and nodded.

  “Yes, the rash is in the familiar configuration, but I’ve not seen these lesions before.”

  He created a new card. Under the drawing of the rash, he wrote: Phase 2?

  “Bring me that stacked lens. Be gentle with it.”

  She did so.

  “This rash is strange.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s almost as if the pore was punctured by needles instead of something raising the skin from underneath. Take a look.”

  The mark was raised like a flat plateau with a small hole in the center. “It almost looks like hives from a bee sting.”

  “Indeed.” Edar labeled a specimen jar and poured alcohol over the corpse.

  “I must report this,” Byronia said.

  Edar placed his hand on Byronia’s hand. “And my activities?”

  “You have provided me with protection on occasion. I simply do not see anything out of the ordinary here. Can I have the corpse?”

  “Of course. After you finish handling it, wash up good. I’d hate for your pretty face to waste away.”

  “I wouldn’t want that either,” Byronia said.

  •

  Chapter 9

  Guild House of Olentir in the Realm of Fairhdel

  Roark’s old fear of the wrinkled House Master Corwin set in immediately upon entering the darkened chambers. He almost kneeled but remembered he was a Journeyman and bowed.

  He brought forth the recipes and set them upon Corwin’s counting table. “This is the potion that made Alana young.” He repeated what Edar told him about the donor.

  “When was the last time you donated blood?”

  “Before I left for Kajsa’s job. Candlewick gave me kidneys to strengthen me.”

  “How often does your master take your blood?”

  “This is the first time. He wants to look alive, not young. His ultimate goal is to transmutate into another body.”

  “Interesting. I have something for you.”

  Corwin led Roark through the darkness until he came to a case of books.

  “Alana informed me that Daena worked with Edar when they were young.” Corwin opened the case and removed a tome which he put on a wooden podium. “What do you see?”

  Roark skimmed what Daena called The Great Work. Halfway through the book, her light, near-calligraphic hand changed abruptly to a blocky printed style. The last entry in her original hand spoke of her trying a spell of transmutation. He hoped that was what the House Master wanted him to see.

  “Did you know Daena was nearly a century old when you met her?”

  “She looked and sounded to be a woman in her prime.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And you believe it was a transmutation?”

  “Yes. Most likely, she took one of the slaves from House Josel. No doubt the Empress didn’t even notice. And her lord consort wouldn’t have cared.”

  The horror settled within Roark’s chest. “We took the quartz.”

  “So you did.”

  He knew the answer but wanted it to be spoken and made real. “How did you get this book?”

  “I had Daena killed.” Corwin handed Roark a newer tome. “I copied it exactly, so Candlewick can’t recognize Daena’s writing. Take this to your master.”

  “But why?”

  “The Guild must know if the transmutation spell works as written. This is not a ritual for the faint-hearted.”

  It wasn’t. In fact, it was more violent than the spell which Edar had in his library.

  “But House Master, give me more time, please.”

  Corwin’s smile disappeared. He slapped the side of Roark’s head. “Show your master this spell. If he is as good as you think, he won’t do it. If he is not, then he will. Now, I would like to sample your blood before you go, and I want you to see into your, our, people’s future.”

  Roark lay on the velvet divan as Corwin reopened the cut on his arm, carefully measuring out the blood.

  “Go eight years from this day. Stay at the Guild House.”

  Closing his eyes, Roark thought of his future. Eight years from his moment, he would be twenty-six summers with two years left on his Guild Journey. Roark’s soul left his corporeal form, and he drifted into a misty reverie. Corwin’s voice resounded all around him to assist him in findi
ng his way. He walked through the dark mists until he found himself outside the Guild House on the eastern side between the fenced paddock where several Guild warhorses grazed with a few sheep, and a row of Guild Worker’s apartments.

  In the uppermost floor to the east, shutters were thrown open. Green smoke poured out the open window. Kian coughed and pressed an auburn-haired tot to his chest tightly.

  “No. No. I cold!” She fretted, shaking her head. Kian wrapped her in his jacket but didn’t leave the window until the air cleared. “Stop moving. You’ll fall.”

  Though he didn’t have his brother’s bulk, at twenty-one, the scrawny kid had grown into a wiry man whose eyes held boundless intelligence. There were too many signs of wealth for him to be a Guild Workman: his clothes were finely woven, his reddish-blond curls shined, and his beard was trimmed close to his face. Under his beard, a few blemishes marred an otherwise healthy complexion.

  Roark’s spirit floated to the window. Kian carried his child inside, set her into an improvised wooden fence where a thick wool blanket, a few blocks and a doll spread around her. She babbled to herself, or possibly to Kian. He sat in a leather chair, leaning over a great desk and made notes in his manuscript. Roark liked the quizzical smile the man wore. He briefly wondered how he would feel in Kian’s arms.

  That’s still Eohan’s little brother. And right now, he’s thirteen.

  Kian went to the exam table. Using the flat blade, he scraped the smoldering rat bits into a metal bucket. “Why didn’t that work?” he muttered to himself.

  Roark glanced at Kian’s desk where several manuscripts and scrolls lay. Fingerprints and half-scribbled notes surrounded a drawing of the Water of the Resurrection. Below, in his Aunt Alana’s three-step code, was a recipe entitled: Living Death.

  The child raised her arms to Roark. “Pick me up! Pick me up! Lord Fata!” She waved her tiny chubby fingers towards the ether. Though Roark knew he could not be hurt, he backed into the wall.

  “Your lord father isn’t here, and I’m busy, dearling, but if you’re good, you can have honey toast when I’m done,” Kian said without turning toward her.