Mac
Anu has never seen a Calastian close up. He has been told from
various sources that they are angular, tall, lean. Their women
tend to be small breasted, and rarely give birth to more than
two children. Their men are wide in the shoulders, narrow at
the hips, with small foreheads and angular eyes.
Now that he is looking at one, the guy is dead. He supposes,
under the circumstances that this is a good thing.
He doesn't subscribe to the prejudice that all Calastians are
blood thirsty animals. But for a twist of fate, he could have
been born there, and this could be him, lying in a side yard,
with the blade of a dart separating his spine, from his skull,
having never seen the woman that killed him. This could be him.
It's not.
But it could be.
He has also heard it said that Calastia is not a purist race
country. That their armies employ, and promote halflings, and
half-orcs. That the only requirement for success in Calastia
is success. Show that you can do the job better than anyone
else, and the job is yours, no matter who your mother was.
Putting that against the outward hatred of outsiders exhibited
around Darakeene, and it is hard to say which is the more civilized
country.
The dart breached the man's spine and shot all the way through,
busting out his front teeth. He doubts the man felt his teeth
shatter. It is a brilliant shot. He stands and looks at the
fence bordering the yard. The slot through which the dart had
to be thrown is only six inches wide, four inches high.
Simply brilliant.
Killing is not what Mac Anu does, but he appreciates skill
and artistry when he sees it. He's never killed a man before.
He's fought them, and several Titan spawn, but in each case
he fought for his life. What that means to Mac Anu is he fought
until his life could be saved by running as fast as he could
away from the fight. Killing isn't what he does, surviving is
what he does. In fact, he hopes everyone goes home alive.
Naill however is from the street school that teaches 'dead
enemies are friends'. She isn't blood thirsty, but given the
choice, she would rather her enemies were dead.
*****
South,
across the city in the area where ten gold pieces on the table
is enough to tip a waiter for breakfast, high in the early morning
air, Sorlaya agrees with Naill. She leans against a stone gargoyle
and scans the streets, the roof tops and the city itself. Her
idea of protection is to insure the assassin isn't alive.
Few assassins have gotten past her line of defense. Those that
have, Heilan finished off before they ever saw Edrin's face.
She doesn't sit inside rooms, or outside doors waiting for the
assassin to make his move. She sits on roof tops, hundreds of
yards away, and kills them before they reach the building. She
kills them when they leave their own homes. She kills them when
they meet with their scouts. She kills them when they take the
money for the job.
Sorlaya is a hunter. She hunts assassins.
The city of Mithril was difficult to get use to when they first
arrived. The crowds, the smells, the walls. That huge mithril
golem standing on the hill. No matter where she went, she could
feel it up there, hovering.
Burok Torn was even more difficult. Living underground, the
tons of rock above her, made her skin crawl. She blessed the
day that Calastia laid siege to the city. She was out the north
gate as soon as the word came through. That night she killed
two generals, and three Battle Mages, running off the extreme
joy she felt to be in the woods again.
Prey comes in many forms.
Shelzar is the first city she has ever been to that she could
live comfortably in. It is a shame that Edrin doesn't like it.
The high towers, the citadels, the wide boulevards, the dancers
and the music. She has not been down on the street level yet,
but it could not be worst than Mithril, or Burok Torn. Besides,
with as many high areas and roof tops this city has, there is
no need to walk in the down below areas, except to find her
prey.
Of course, some prey could be seen from any height, like these
three geniuses.
If she knew nothing about the Sa'an Cartel, she would know
that these three with their black suits, white shirts and gray
gloves were Cartel members. If she could not read lips from
this height, she would still know that they were here to see
Edrin. Seeking to extort money or demand retribution for Heilan's
actions the night before. If she knew nothing about the type
of men they were, she would still know that they were not the
type to be sent away by an unanswered door.
They
leave their enclosed black coach, drawn by heavy horses, and
walk up the white stone stairs to the entrance of the Estaphan,
one of the city's finest hotels. A circular building, seven
floors high, each floor with eight large suites. Gold inlayed
in marble across the floor. A wondrous fountain in the lobby,
whose water flows with colored light. Ceramic vases on pedestals,
gardens of orchids and rare flowers hang from the marble columns
in gilded gold wire planters. She has never seen such a place
before.
They are important men. They want to be heard. They won't take
no for an answer.
She smiles. It was lucky for them that they would not see Edrin.
She was much more merciful.
Sorlaya removes four arrows from her quiver, and checks them.
Each is perfect in balance, weight and strength. She brushes
the fletching of the first against her lips, and notches it
on the silver wire of her bow. The others she keeps in her fingers.
Timing is everything.
With men like these it is not enough to simply kill them. Killing
them only invites another attack. Her job is to insure that
the Prince is safe. The Prince is not safe in a state of constant
threat and assault.
Her eyes scan the roof tops. Morning colors the Eastern sky
with purple, and the winds from the sea are soft and clean.
She watches the light silk curtains shiver in the wind from
the open double doors of Edrin's suite. Another thing she loves
about this city. The architecture is so open to the world. Not
enclosed and walled like Mithril. She has a clear shot from
her vantage point to the door of the room, where soon the three
important men will force their way in. A shot of one hundred
yards.
She has been told her methods are cruel. What would be cruel
is to let these men reach Edrin's bedroom. She is merciful;
she will stop them before they enter the outer room, before
they are able to come through that door.
Sean, the house boy that she found, moves through the outer
room, the public greeting room of the suite. He has a decanter
of wine, which he uses to fill a glass sitting on a low table.
The men are pounding on the door. His instructions are to fill
the glass with wine if someone demands entry, and then to hide
behind the couch. Stay low. Don't run.
Sean is six years old, and she thinks he looks stunning in
the white pants and light green shirt she bought him. He is
a street rat. His skin is deep brown, his hair is dark almost
black. He is determined to live. She likes that in him. She
wishes she could insure his life, but life is not sure. He knows
how to survive. He will hide, and stay low.
He pours the wine, and hides behind the couch. He is low, but
he is watching. Shivering. Some how she doesn't think it is
with fear. Children are gruesome creatures at times.
The door is kicked in. The three men want to be heard, not
turned away. They demand an audience. She lets the first arrow
go. She counts 'one' adjusts her aim and sends the next, and
then the third a breath later. The shafts whistle slightly through
the morning air; cutting through the light cross wind, pass
the silk curtains. Nothing can stop them. Except meat, and death.
Vaunge "Hammer" Terison enjoys his job. Especially
when is job entails roughing up men who think they are powerful,
and forcing them to pay the Sa'an. He simply can't believe the
Cartel pays him to do this. He would do it for free. To see
these Dukes and Barons and Princes all huddle down and shake
like leaves is payment enough. They shake and leaves of gold
and diamonds fall into his hands. The Cartel pays him a great
deal, because the people he visits pay. They always pay.
The first arrow hits Vaunge in the groin. His hands grab for
the shaft in his crotch as he bends over in sudden pain, and
opens his mouth wide to scream. He doesn't scream. The second
arrow slams into the back of his throat through his open mouth,
lifting him up and back. He staggers one step backwards, off
balance. The third arrow slams him in the throat, driving him
back out into the hallway, stapling him to the wall.
Timing is everything.
Sorlaya has the fourth arrow ready. She knows she won't need
it. The other two are followers, not leaders. She waits. The
door is closed. It won't lock any longer, but the two men close
it as best they can.
She watches, ready for the unexpected. Only the expected happens.
In minutes the two others have abandoned their comrade and run
back down the white stone steps of the Estaphan to the waiting
carriage.
She watches them. They holler at the driver, and pile inside.
The carriage rocks with their weight. The driver is already
whipping the horses to life. The carriage moves off, down the
flagstone boulevard. Sorlaya rubs the fletching of her arrow
across her lips. She watches the rocking of the carriage, the
stride of the horses, the whipping of the driver. She notches
the arrow. Pulls the silver bowstring past her right ear. She
breaths out. The carriage reaches the corner, and begins to
turn. She lets fly.
The shaft rides the light breeze coming off the ocean, past
the street banners, and tavern flags, over a young couple coming
home from Bone's Dicing House, wishing past the view of an old
man drinking his morning coffee on the balcony of his rented
room. The steel tip slices through the lacquered wood of the
carriage, like a nail driven through a coffin. It pierces the
head of Marcus, second cousin of Domonar. An important man,
who wouldn't take no for an answer.
The carriage rounds the corner, and disappears from her view.
Come back soon.
She looks back at Edrin's room. An old dwarf, wearing the blue
and silver robes of his clerical order is looking at the door.
Sean is standing beside him. Edberk is telling Sean something.
The boy smiles and laughs, he pulls a woven rope beside the
door, calling for the service staff.
Sorlaya leans against the stone gargoyle, feeling the chill
of the morning breeze, watching the banners and flags dance,
the sky raring with purple light. She is content.
*****
"I
said to leave them alone." Mazat says over his morning
coffee. It is a good drink. He loves the smell, the texture,
the way it brightens his mood. Its discovery in Termana is one
of those simple wonders. The kind of discovery that shapes a
culture, or changes a nation. He knows that soon, control of
the coffee market will mean the control of many other things
to come. Unfortunately House Asuras has come to the same conclusion.
He should have moved faster. Now it is a small war.
He sets his coffee down, and looks at his agenda. Nothing on
the list mentions cleaning up the mess three buffoons caused
at the Estaphan during the early morning hours. Yet it is the
first thing this surviving buffoon brings to his attention.
He checks the list again. No, it is not there. In fact, he recalls
specifically giving orders yesterday to leave it be. Let the
death go unanswered. For now.
"It was Marcus, he said he had a blood right." Fevren
offers as an explanation, and knows it is a weak one.
"Where is Marcus now?" Mazat asks. It's rhetorical,
he knows where he is. "He is dead, and so is my best collector.
He should have at least had the decency to die alone. I didn't
need him anyway. Vaunge however was needed. He was an earner."
Fevren holds his tongue. He had to report the event to Mazat,
the Shadow of Shelzar, head boss of the Sa'an Cartel. Letting
him find out on his own would have meant death. He is still
not certain he is going to live through this encounter. He tries
to get a read on a man wrapped in bandages, hidden under a cowl
of gray silk.
"What did you think was going to happen? You were just
going to break in the door of a Prince of the Tera Vi? A man
in line for the ruling throne of one of the ten houses. Just
burst in and demand he pay for the death of someone who attacked
one of his royal guards?" He looks at Fevren and wonders
how on the man survives in this city.
In fact that's just what Fevren thought. Just what Marcus thought
as well. How many Barons, Dukes and Princes had Vaunge did just
that to? Why would this little elf prince be any different?
"I should kill you for tarnishing the clout of the Sa'an,
and not following my orders. However. I want to hear every detail
of the attack. List everything, everything you remember. If
you divulge some interesting fact, or detail I can use at a
later date, I'll let you live. Sit down, have some coffee, think
it through."
We will put out on the street that it was a peace envoy. That
the Sa'an accepts responsibility for the unprovoked attack on
a royal guard of the Tera Vi. That the Prince acted rashly.
They will make a donation to the Temple in the Prince's name,
since approaching such a rash, and misguided person is obviously
only invoking more hostility. Mazat smiles behind his bandages
and cowl. We will then wait, and deal with this at another time.
It is not as if he is going to die before another chance arrives
to even the books on this Prince, or his line.
"If it is any consolation," Mazat says to Fevren,
his voice friendly, commiserating, as he picks up his own cup,
"from what I hear you were lucky you didn't get into the
chamber."
Fevren sits down. He takes the offered coffee. He tries not
to notice the guard by the door drawing her sword.
*****
The body and the horse were a problem. A problem Mac Anu hopes
he solved. From the body he recovered a small pouch of coins,
and an emerald. Also a rather nice crossbow, with several bolts.
From the horse he took the saddle bags, which had a good cloak
inside, several incidentals, and a lock pick set, which was
better than the one he had.
He left the horse and its owner in an alley. He hoped he wasn't
followed or noticed as he walked his 'drunk' friend through
the northern area, down to the Old City wall. It was a long
walk however, and from what he has gathered about Shelzar, very
few things go unnoticed.
When he returns he circles the house, and then sits in the
living room for several hours, watching the street, listening
to the house, and the neighborhood. He is uneasy. They found
her quickly. Too quickly. Magic was involved. Sorcery. How can
you battle, or hide against such a power?
He wakes Naill near dawn, and lies down on the floor next to
the princesses bed. Naill looks like she is going to say something,
but doesn't.
His
dreams are fitful, and his rest unrefreshing. He wakes an hour
after dawn. The princesses is not in her bed. It is made, and
fresh.
Down stairs he finds her cooking. The aromas are wonderful
and strange. The children 'helping', all three of them. Hanging
on her words as she talks, listening as she sings softly to
them. She turns, her eyes open a little wider when she sees
him. Something turns in his chest.
"Good morning." she says, "Coffee?"
"What is coffee?" he asks.
"Something you drink. Helen tells me it is a morning drink,
and an evening drink. It is hot. Like tea."
"Sure." He says, and sits down at the table. He feels
he needs to wash. She pours dark liquid into a ceramic cup.
She adds a spoonful of crystallized honey, and then two spoons
of cream. She stirs the brew and sets it in front of him.
He tries it. The bitter sweet taste is horrid. He looks at
her expectant face and swallows. "I've never had this before."
It needs whisky he thinks.
"Helen says it is something from a place called Termana,
that the gnomes came over with it." She says, smiling,
and returns to her cooking. She is making biscuits, which include
as an ingredient, oranges.
"Gnomes?" Two new things before he's even had a chance
to shave. Today is going to be an exciting day.
"You don't know what gnomes are?" She asks.
"No." He says. He can't seem to quit thinking of
her as more than a child. He looks outside. He needs to wash
up.
"They are a small people, like halflings. They are inventors
and alchemists. They like to live in underground, but don't
mind living in cities. Where I come from, there is a large city
of them to the south. The dwarves like them." She looks
over her shoulder, a lock of hair catches the morning light,
"they also like to play practical jokes, and can be a nuisance
at times." Her eyes light up, she doesn't seem to think
they are a nuisance.
"Where is Helen?" he asks.
"She is with Naill, at the market again."
How many times do you have to shop? He looks at the three kids,
and thinks of four adults, and decides it is probably more than
he is use to.
He takes another swallow of the coffee. It's not really bad,
but it could still use whisky.
The biscuits however are wonderful, and so is the sausage.
The day goes by with little happening. He expects some word
from the temple in the afternoon, but no one comes. The street
outside has little traffic. The occasional fruit vendor, and
tinker man. All of them Helen knows, and checks off on. Nothing
unusual. Still, he expects someone after what happened the night
before.
Naill has purchased five dresses. It seems the plan to let
Elaine sew her own has been changed. They are very near the
same size, so Naill purchased them for her. She also purchased
a leather jacket and riding pants for Elaine, in case they have
to travel.
Elaine tries each of them on, swirling the skirt up as she
spins to show off the dress to full effect. Mac Anu nods his
approval and continues watching the street. She doesn't look
like a child in those dresses. When he unwrapped her, all he
felt was pity, and anger at those who did that too her. Now?
He doesn't want to think about now. He wants to think about
...
It is late when a knock comes at the door. The man standing
there is grizzled, and old. He asks for alms, but when he opens
his hand, there is an ingot of silver. The word Red, is plainly
visible. He looks at the man. "I don't have any money,
but I have some leftovers from diner, and a spot on the floor."
"Att would be gracious me friend, gracious indeed."
The man says, and steps inside.
