Assassin's Rise (22 page)

O
ldon’s prediction came true and
Jeklor slept until late morning. Roland woke after only a few hours
sleep though, and he sat bolt upright in bed, a resolute and
anticipating glint in his eyes.

He washed his face in a
bronze bowl filled with icy water, watching his warped reflection
as the surface smoothed out. His dark hair hung past his shoulders,
almost to the middle of his back, and he tied it behind his head
using a rawhide string. His hair pulled back, he covered his left
eye with one hand, intently staring at his face in the clear water.
He was clean-shaven and he tried remembering what he looked like
with a beard. Seemingly lost in thought, he covered different parts
of his face with his hands, and then he muttered to himself, his
lip curling in a half-smile, half-sneer.

He pulled on a pair of
soft doeskin trousers and a green woollen tunic (courtesy of Dragon
East Apparel) that hung past his knees. He tied a brown, hooded
cloak to his shoulders and lifted the hood over his head. It
covered most of his face and it would be difficult to recognise
him. He left the leather harness and crossbow hidden beneath the
straw mattress, and slipped a throwing knife into the sides of each
brown-leather boot. He slipped the zhutou underneath the tunic
along the small of his back, but it felt uncomfortable, and he
would not be able to pull it free at speed, so he decided to leave
it behind also. He did not want to draw attention to himself
searching Beggars’ Hope; Li Ho’s outfit was perfect for hiding
weapons and blending into the dark, but during the day, it stuck
out like a sore thumb.

Throughout the morning,
Roland spent much time with the serving girls, and Oldon and
Altmoor watched him with amused looks. They could not hear what
Roland was saying, but the girls blushed prettily ever so often,
and the two old men sat with heads together, discussing the new
development good-naturedly.

Jeklor came down soon
after, a new spring in his step, and he and Roland had a quick
breakfast. Jeklor had selected the best of Dragon’s wares and the
bundle he lifted to his back was much smaller. He waved goodbye and
set off in search of merchants willing to place orders with Dragon
East Apparel.

Roland called one of
the serving girls over and they whispered together for a moment
before he slipped her a few silver coins.

“You don’t need to pay
Ailith, lad,” said Oldon as the girl left.

“Of course I do,” said
Roland, nonplussed.

Oldon and Altmoor
shared a mutual understanding look and then Oldon said, “She’s been
making doe eyes at you since last night. You have learned much of
fighting, but of woman –” he shook his head kindly, “– you have no
experience. Passing her coin will only serve to anger her, and the
next thing you know, she will spurn your every advance ... and you
will be left wondering what in the blazes happened.”

Altmoor nodded sagely
as Oldon spoke, and they looked at Roland with something akin to
pity. Roland stared at them in puzzlement, and then he grasped what
the two old coots were thinking. “Ailith is going to find me
certain items that won’t draw attention when purchased by the
fairer sex,” he said, grinning, and stood up, heading for the
tavern door. “I’ll leave you two to your boyhood fantasies
then.”

Roland chuckled as he
left the tavern, while Altmoor and Oldon quickly started discussing
the best strategy for playing Manoeuvres.

*

Beggars’ Hope had no
clear borders defining it in the western quarter, but Roland could
feel the atmosphere changing as he walked the dirty streets. Tough
looking men leaned in doorways, hands absentmindedly brushing
dagger hilts, and beggars sat in the shadows with hard glints in
their eyes; Roland had the feeling that few of them were truly
begging. The city urchins kept clear of the area and the few folk
that Roland saw, kept throwing furtive glances around them, as if
they expected something to jump them at any moment. Buildings were
clustered close together, derelict looking and in dire need of
repair, and the smell drifting through the narrow streets assaulted
Roland’s senses. The area was home to the Tanners, and their stink
mixed with slop buckets thrown from windows had his eyes
watering.

Roland wandered
aimlessly, thinking of the best way to start his search for the
guild, when he saw a large wooden building with a tarred roof, the
area around it clear of other constructs. A wooden board on a
frayed string hung above the warped door. It read ‘DARK REST’, the
crudely hand-drawn motif a dagger punched through a dirt-stained
pillow. Upon closer inspection, Roland realised that the stain was
supposed to be blood, and he thought that clientele must be on the
slow side, but so far, it was the most promising place he had
found.

Roland pushed the door
open and stepped inside. The tavern was gloomy and smoke filled, a
dying fireplace smouldering in one corner. He walked to the counter
where a potbellied man wearing a sleeveless shirt eyed him
darkly.

“Wine,” said
Roland.

The barkeeper grunted
and filled a dusty mug with red wine, slamming it on the counter,
the thin wooden planks shuddering as he did. “Three coppers,” he
said, his small eyes scanning Roland’s face, as if trying to
memorise Roland’s every feature, but Roland’s hood hid much.

Roland took a sip of
the sour wine and nodded appreciatively, as if it was the best
drink he had ever had, and selected a seat toward the rear of the
tavern that was close to a window, where he sat facing the door.
The potbellied man soon lost interest in Roland as he served
patrons as they came and went. Roland studied each patron closely,
but none so far had the ‘right’ look, and he nursed his mug
throughout the morning. Many of the men seemed to be regulars, the
barkeeper handing drinks without orders being placed, but not once
did a smile or word of greeting crossed his lips.

Beggars’ Hope did
indeed not hold much ‘hope’, thought Roland. A particularly
dishevelled man stumbled into the tavern, his bare feet caked with
mud and his eyes red rimmed. He swayed from side to side as he
walked, his steps unsure. Then he stumbled on empty air and fell
against a chair, a confused look on his face. He pushed himself
upright, his eyes looking empty as his gaze swept across Roland
without seeing him.

In a surprising show of
agility, the potbellied man jumped over his counter, grabbed the
confused man by the scuff of his neck and heaved him out the door.
He dusted his hands and gave Roland a look that said, “You’ll be
next.”

He filled a mug with
wine and walked over to Roland, slamming it before him. “Can’t sit
here for free,” he grunted, his small eyes challenging Roland to
complain. Roland returned the stare evenly and handed the barkeeper
his coin, whispering, loud enough for just the potbellied man to
hear, “Do that again and I’ll kill you.”

A smirk crossed the
barkeepers face but he said nothing and returned to his post,
wiping an empty mug with a dirty rag.

Roland was
uncomfortably aware that he only had two small knives with him, and
he vowed that it would be the last time. He had only needed to pull
the long tunic over Li Ho’s outfit, but in his haste to start his
search, he had overlooked such a simple solution.

Morning turned to
afternoon, and afternoon to twilight, yet the barkeeper did not
approach Roland with more wine. As the last light faded from the
crooked windows, the barkeeper rekindled the fireplace and lit the
two lanterns that hung on either side of the tavern walls. There
was just enough light to break the gloom, but Roland did not mind.
He preferred being hidden in the shadows; he might not be able to
see clearly, but neither could anyone else.

As the sun disappeared,
the tavern slowly filled up, the patrons looking grim-faced and
unwashed. Yet, even with many of the tables filled, the only noise
was a low murmur as men spoke with heads together.

The barkeeper leaned
over his counter and spoke a few words into the ear of a man,
jerking his head in Roland’s direction. The man nodded and walked
towards Roland. He moved easily, his hand never straying far from
the hilt of a long knife at his hip. As he walked, Roland had the
feeling that this man had the ‘right’ look to him. His eyes never
kept still, continuously taking in his surroundings, and he moved
economically; there were no exaggerated gestures, a sure sign that
he was ready to strike with eye-blinking quickness should the need
arise. As he reached Roland’s table, Roland pointed at the empty
chair across from him. The man sat down, his hands lightly resting
on the table.

Roland sat relaxed,
calmly studying the man. He was dressed in loose fitting clothes,
dark in colour, his brown hair cropped short and his eyes as dark
as Roland’s own. Roland was sure that there were many hidden
weapons on his body – the knife on his hip was only for show.

“So, the barkeeper did
not like my little warning?” said Roland softly, one of the
throwing knifes already pulled from his boot and hidden in his
sleeve. His voice carried just enough edge to warn the man not to
move too suddenly.

“Not much,” said the
man, studying Roland in turn, keeping perfectly still. “Personally,
I couldn’t care less of you kill the sack of dung. I am more
interested in why you have been sitting here throughout the day.
There are many better taverns for you to visit.”

“And what business is
it of yours where I chose to spend my time?”

“No man in his right
mind would spend so much time in this hole. My business is finding
such people and hearing their reasons ...”

“Drink?” enquired
Roland, ignoring the question for now.

“In this place? Not if
you paid me,” grinned the man.

Roland slowly lifted
the untouched mug of wine and emptied it on the floor. “I agree,”
he said. He could see the barkeeper’s jowls quivering as he spilled
the wine, and he took a childish pleasure in the unpleasant man’s
anger.

The man across from him
chuckled and then he said, “Now that we understand one another, why
are you here?”

“I’m looking for a
certain guild,” said Roland, keeping as still as the man across
from him. The man carried the same warning in his eyes as Roland
did, and Roland was pleased; he was easy to understand, and thus
they could avoid unnecessary bloodshed.

“What kind of
guild?”

“The kind that make
folks disappear.”

“Ah,” said the man.
“And why do you seek such a dangerous guild?”

“My business is my own,
but I’ll say that such a dangerous guild would benefit from my
meeting them.”

“Taking out a contract
means that you will work through one of the agents employed by the
guild ... you do not meet with the guild in person.”

“And are you such an
agent?” said Roland, already knowing the answer.

“Depending on your
business, I might be,” he countered.

“Watching you move I
thought you might be one of them, but I never guessed the name used
will be ‘Agent’,” said Roland, slipping the small knife from his
sleeve and placing it on the table.

“I can say the same
about you,” said the man, slipping a short, feathered dart from a
leather sheath hidden inside his sleeve onto the table, taking care
not to touch the glittering end.

Poison, thought Roland,
not surprised.

“You can call me Mills,
and an agent is not what you think, although we could be if we
wanted to.”

“And I am not looking
to take out a contract,” said Roland. “I am looking for a meeting
with the guild.”

Mills hesitated,
closely watching Roland but apparently not able to make up his
mind; the face hidden inside the shadow filled hood unnerved him.
Roland gave him a few moments time and then he said, “If my meeting
displeases them, or if I have hidden motives, killing me would be
quite simple. I will be at the guilds mercy, after all. One against
what I assume are many.”

“I will have to inform
my superiors,” Mills finally said. “Meet me in two days time at the
harbour when the moon is at its highest.”

“I shall be there,”
said Roland calmly, his insides cheering. Things had finally been
set in motion.

R
oland slept little during the
night. Scenario after scenario kept spinning through his mind. He
rejected ideas, formulated new ones, and by the time the sun rose,
he felt bleary-eyed and thick-headed. His meeting with Mills was
scheduled for the following night, but that did not mean he could
sleep during the coming night – he would use that time to scout the
Vanderman mansion

Roland tried ignoring
the rising sun, hoping against hope he would fall asleep, but after
a while spent tossing and turning he gave up and washed his face.
Next to the bronze bowl were several stinking vials and powders
that Ailith had left for him the previous night. She had explained
how to use it, and he had a newfound respect for the lengths women
went to, but for now he could ignore the vials – it would still be
a while before he needed it.

Jeklor was already
eating breakfast when Roland came down. “Morning,” he called as
Roland took a seat next to him, a piece of bacon clamped between
his teeth. “Any luck yesterday?”

Roland nodded. “It
seems so, and you?”

“Oho, glad you asked,
old horse,” said Jeklor, clearly having waited for the moment. “I
had to haggle the prices a bit, but I completely sold out
yesterday. Today I’m going to take even more stock with,” he said,
patting a bundle twice the size of the day before.

“Are you setting up
stall?” asked Roland, massaging his eyes.

“No, I’m selling to
merchants. Want to establish the name Dragon East first, you see.
If Dragon’s wares sell – and they will – the merchants will place
orders, and then we can take the business to new levels.”