Assassin's Rise (23 page)

“And Dragon? Will he
happily keep making more clothes?”

“I’ve wondered about
that myself,” said Jeklor, pushing a piece of bread around his
plate. “I’ll need to find more people so Dragon can teach them ...
but I don’t think he’s the teaching type ... Maybe I should get Li
Ho to teach folks?”

Roland snorted. “He’ll
stab you before you finish asking.”

“I thought so, too.
Maybe I should just get one, or two more persons. I’m sure Dragon
and I will manage somehow ...” Jeklor finished his bacon and leaned
back, giving a hearty belch. “So, what’s happening with you and
Ailith?” he asked innocently as the girl brought Roland a plate
heaped with bacon, bread and fried eggs. She curtsied and
disappeared back into the kitchen.

“What do you mean?”
said Roland, attacking his food. Once the smell hit him he realised
he was starving.

“Eda told me that
Ailith spent some time in your room last night – a disappointingly
short time, though, she told me,” said Jeklor mischievously.

“She only explained how
to use something to me,” said Roland, ignoring the look on Jeklor’s
face and swallowing an egg whole.

“Now that is
disappointing,” said Jeklor and pushed his chair back. “Well, I’m
off.”

“Good luck,” said
Roland as Jeklor left the tavern, and then he gave his food his
full attention. When Ailith came to fetch the empty plate, Roland
gave her his best smile, which did not seem to impress her much. He
sighed, pushed thoughts of women from his mind, and started running
through possible scenarios again.

Altmoor had left the
day before, saying that there were patients waiting for him at
home. Roland thought that Altmoor’s new way of life suited him much
better; he was quicker to laugh and he spoke easier, more carefree.
Roland spent the morning playing Manoeuvres with Oldon, loosing on
purpose twice when the old man’s face withered after he had
suffered a spectacular defeat, after which Roland retreated to his
room for the afternoon, hoping to get some sleep before the night’s
activities.

*

Roland pulled on a pair
of coal-black leather trousers and settled his feet into soft
leather boots. He lifted the fine chain-mesh over his head, the
mesh covering him from neck to groin, his arms bare. He slipped his
arms through a sleeveless black shirt, wrapping the thick cloth
around his body and securing it at the waist with a black sash.
Next, Roland hooked the leather harness over his shoulders,
tightening the belt along the buckle on his stomach until the
harness fitted snug and would not shift as he moved around. A
short, diamond-shaped throwing knife went into a sheath on the
broad leather band running diagonally across his front. He tested
the edge of each blade with his thumb before slipping it into one
of the six sheathes. After inspecting the crossbow bolts he hooked
the flat quiver over his left breast, where he could easily reach a
fresh bolt with his right hand. He hooked the small crossbow onto
the sheath across his lower back, and slipped the zhutou through
the sash on his left side. Carla’s brooch went on the sash at his
right. He pulled on black leather gloves that covered his hands and
forearms up to the elbows – a purchase he had made after the zhutou
had slipped in his sweating hand while training. Then Roland
slipped the long cloak Li Ho had given him over his head and tied
it to his shoulders; the cloak completely covering him from front
to back and neck to feet. A black hood and a black silk scarf was
laid on the bed – the final gifts Li Ho had given him before he had
left Drifters’ Hell. Roland pulled the hood over his head, the hood
covering his head, sides of face and his neck. Next, he placed the
silk scarf over his mouth and nose, pulled it tight and tied it at
the back of his head. The only part of Roland now visible was his
eyes, which burned as bright as stars on a moonless night.

Sticking to the shadows
Roland headed north, darting from building to building, avoiding
those that had burning torches at the corners. Two patrolling
guards headed in Roland’s direction, the sound of their iron boots
clanging on the cobbled street announcing their arrival long before
they came into sight, and Roland moved down a side street, smiling
underneath the scarf. He walked quickly, and before long, the
Duke’s palace came into sight. He gave it a wide birth; he thought
that patrolling guards would be concentrated around the palace and
he was right. He could hear occasional grunts and the sound of
spear butts dragging across stone as guards shifted spears from
hand to hand, but he had no trouble passing; none of the guards
expected trouble and their vigilance was lax. That was until Roland
had passed the palace and almost crashed into the back of a guard
that was hidden in the shadows where he leaned against a tree.
Roland froze in mid-step, waiting for the guard to turn around or
shout alarm. But the moment passed and nothing happened. The guard
was sleeping.

Roland stifled a
ridiculous urge to burst out laughing and he retreated silently,
moving around the guard in a wide arch, keeping pressed against the
side of a building.

The Vandermans’ mansion
stood against the backdrop of the ocean. It was an immense
building, the size of a small castle. Torches flared brightly
around the mansion and, beyond the surrounding wall, Roland could
see moving shadows as men patrolled the grounds. Slowly Roland
circled the building, staying well clear from torch glare, the wall
surrounding the mansion keeping him well hidden. All the guards
(mercenaries, Roland reminded himself) were concentrated inside the
grounds, and none patrolled the outside of the wall. The rear of
the mansion stood on a cliffs edge, and an almost vertical drop
fell to the churning ocean below. There were several trees and
bushes at the rear (Vanderman only kept up appearances in the
front, thought Roland) and he climbed a tree that towered high over
the mansion wall. He swung his legs over a thick branch near the
top, and settled his back against the trunk, looking over the
grounds and one side of the mansion. The mansion was of similar
design to Academia Amlor, but was twice as long and again twice as
high. It seemed much older, though. The walls were made of large,
rough looking stones, shadows dancing between the stones as
torchlight flickered. The rear wall overlooked the ocean, and red
clay-tiles covered the arching roof. Two doors with broad brass
handles led from the side of the building to the grounds. There
were very few trees, but several flowerbeds, fountains and stone
benches were visible to Roland. From where he sat, the entrance of
the mansion was out off view, hidden past the corner of the
mansion’s front.

For a long time Roland
stared at the mansion windows, wondering behind which one Sirol was
hidden, rage steadily welling up in him. The rage was an almost
welcome feeling by now, like an old friend visiting him.

He had stopped counting
the mercenaries patrolling the grounds. He could not distinguish
between their features from where he sat, and if they were changing
watches, he would never get an accurate count. He assumed that
there were about twenty men, and he saw several dogs being led
around the grounds. This was not the security of a man protecting
his home; this was of a man living in fear.

Roland felt a savage
satisfaction at the thought ... and then Sirol spoke next to him
and Roland’s heart lurched in shock.

No, not next to him,
but so close that it sounded like it. At the rear of the mansion,
overlooking the ocean and cliff, a window had opened and Sirol
leaned from it, shouting into the night. Roland’s heart thumped
loudly in his chest, and he breathed quickly, sweat rolling down
his face and dampening the scarf. He squinted his eyes as he tried
to pierce the darkness, but he could not see Sirol’s face in the
gloom. He did not need to though; he would never forget that
hateful voice.

“Is there anyone there?
I can feel him coming closer! WHO IS OUT THERE!” Sirol yelled over
the ocean, his voice sounding thin and fearful. Light flared up
behind Sirol and he was pulled back into the room. The window
closed with a thud.

Roland could hear the
men below chuckling and heard phrases like ‘madder than a sewer
rat’ and ‘courage can’t be bought’ drifting up to him. It seemed
that they were used to Sirol’s outbursts.

Roland slowly opened
his hands, his fingers cramping. He had not realised how tightly he
had clenched his hands shut, and he sat still for several moments
with eyes shut, regulating his breathing and calming himself.

It was about fifty
paces from the wall to the mansion, and as Roland tried calculating
the distance he needed to travel over the grounds to reach the
building, he realised that he would never be able to cross it
without alerting the dogs. From the cliff’s edge to Sirol’s window
was about fifty feet – it would be a long climb, but not
impossible, thought Roland, especially since the climb would be
hidden from view. He would be able to choose his holds with care,
taking his time – but if he slipped, he could look forward to a
hundred foot plunge into the churning ocean below. For a moment, he
contemplated doing it tonight. If he started at the bottom of the
cliff, climbing from there to Sirol’s window, neither guard nor dog
would be alerted to his presence ... but he quickly discarded the
idea. Starting at the bottom, he would first have to swim to reach
a foot or handhold, and cold and wet from the ocean, he would not
have the strength to make the long climb. No, he had already
anticipated this; he must not get impatient and change his
plans.

There was a balcony
around window Sirol had shouted from, and Roland made it his goal.
Once he reached the balcony, no matter what happened after, Sirol
would finally be at his mercy.

Roland’s dark eyes
glittered and he softly said, “Found you.”

R
oland stood in the shadows, his
breath hot against the silk scarf. He looked up into the night sky,
gauging the moon that was a thin, almost invisible curve. Stars
filled the heavens, shining brighter than the moon did.

From where he waited,
he had a good view over the harbour. He had hoped to see the
Swallow, but she was not there. The sea was calm, small waves
sloshing against the stone pier, and then Roland saw a figure at
the edge of the harbour, standing where several large rocks
separated the pier from the ocean. Silently, he walked towards the
figure, keeping to the shadows. As he neared, he saw that it was
Mills, and he said softly, “I am here.”

Mills swung around,
blade in hand, eyes squinted.

“Calm down,” said
Roland. “It’s me.”

Mills lowered the blade
slowly, a scowl on his face. “Not wise to sneak up on me, and why
are you hidden like that?” he said, looking Roland up and down.

“I prefer keeping
unseen,” said Roland, his dark cloak silently rustling as he moved
closer to Mills. “Am I to meet your heads?”

Mills nodded curtly.
“Can’t say they’ll be happy with you covered up like that, but it’s
not for me to decide. Come,” he said, and disappeared between the
rocks, Roland following him.

Behind the rocks, a set
of stone steps led down to the water, the steps black and cleverly
hidden between large rocks. They descended and walked onto a narrow
ledge. A perfectly round hole, wide and tall enough for Roland and
Mills to walk side by side and upright, disappeared inside the
stone pier.

“One of the many
entrances to the sewers,” said Mills and stepped inside. A broad
canal ran down the centre of the sewer, and on either side were
narrow ledges. Mills led Roland into the sewer, keeping to a ledge.
The water running down the canal was murky, and discarded objects
floated towards the ocean. A few paces into the sewer it turned
pitch black, and Roland could not see his hands in front of his
eyes. He halted, straining his ears to locate Mills. There was a
flash of sparks, and Mills lifted a burning torch above his head,
the flames revealing a grin on his face.

“Darkness like you’ve
never known awaits you in the sewers,” he said, his lips curling
back.

Roland only nodded. He
did not think that there was a place darker than The Tomb, but
there was no reason to share that with Mills. The smallest piece of
information had the tendency to reveal much about a person, and
Roland thought it wise not to share his past experiences with a man
leading him to the Assassins Guild.

Mills’s grin faltered
at Roland’s lack of reaction and he stomped down the sewer, torch
held high. The further they walked, the dirtier the canal water
turned. Gaping tunnels at Roland’s side led further into Darma’s
bowels, the darkness inside thick and heavy. Shadows danced over
the sewer walls, and Roland saw several rats retreating from the
light, swimming across the canal and scampering onto the opposite
ledge, their eyes black and accusing. The smell also steadily
thickened, suspect objects bobbing in the water. Roland pressed his
hand over the scarf, trying to block the smells, but it did not
help much. The smell did not seem to bother Mills. Water dripped
from overhead, the sound sharp and distinct as the droplets hit
stone and water.

“You think it wise to
lead me straight to the guild?” said Roland, his voice muffled. He
had anticipated being blindfolded, but Mills had said nothing about
it.

“Unless you know the
path you will never find the guild,” said Mills, his grin
resurfacing. “How many turns you think I’ve led you down so
far?”

Roland looked back over
his shoulder, but only a mass of darkness loomed behind him. He had
been sure that their route was straight, but he realised that a
network of tunnels branched and interlinked around him, and the
meagre torchlight made it impossible to pick out landmarks.