Assassin's Rise (24 page)

“I don’t know,” said
Roland honestly.

Mills seemed pleased.
“If you spend enough time down here, you gain a sense of where
these tunnels lead to, but not after just one time.”

What felt to Roland
like a day later, Mills suddenly halted and slipped the torch into
an iron bracket on the sewer wall. The flames glinted off an iron
rung, the metal caked with moss and rust. “We’re here,” he said and
placed his foot on the rung, pushing upwards and disappearing up
into the dark. It appeared to Roland as if Mills floated up into
the air. Roland climbed up after him, gripping the slimy ladder
tightly, the metal groaning alarmingly as he climbed.

He heard thuds coming
from above him, and he realised that Mills was banging against wood
– probably a trapdoor, he thought.

Light suddenly streamed
down the ladder and he saw Mills’s feet disappearing from view.

*

Roland heaved himself
through the hole. He was in a small room, the walls naked except
for a wooden door at the opposite end of the room. Mills closed the
trapdoor behind him, the edges of the door perfectly disguised
inside the plank floor. Three more men were inside the room,
glinting daggers hanging from their hips and padded leather armour
covering their chests. One of them opened the door and held it open
for Roland to step through.

“One word of advice,”
said Mills as Roland walked over to the door. “Honesty.”

Roland nodded and
stepped over the threshold, the door closing behind him. The next
room was very similar to the previous one. The walls and floor were
completely bare, and another wooden door stood at the opposite end.
The only difference was a table in the middle of the room, a bald
man with a thin moustache sitting behind the table. His clothes
were of an expensive cut, his shirt maroon with golden lapels, and
a small, silver ring hung from his one ear. The skin of his head
and neck were bronzed from the sun, and his fingers carried an
assortment of silver and golden rings. Visible underneath the table
was a pair of pointed black boots, the toecaps gleaming with oil,
and the cuffs of puffed, black trousers. Roland noted that there
was no chair for him.

He also thought it very
strange that no one had searched him for weapons. Hidden beneath
his cloak he was fully armed, carrying zhutou, crossbow and
throwing knives. Either the guild was not what Roland had expected,
or they did not deem it necessary to take his weapons. His eyes
drifted across the room, searching for the unseen, and a small
smile appeared underneath his black scarf. He now understood why
they didn’t bother to search him.

The man sitting behind
the table stared at Roland unblinking, and then he said, “You wish
to keep your face hidden?” His voice was soft and musical.

“I do,” said
Roland.

“And why is that?”

“I would first like to
know if you are the person I am seeking.”

“Of course,” said the
man, his unblinking stare appraising Roland. “You wish to know my
secrets, yet you hide behind a disguise? Do you not trust the
guild?”

“I do not,” said
Roland, his voice even.

“And you should not,”
said the man, a thin smile stretching across his lips. “I am
impressed. I do not like dealing with fools and it seems that you
will not disappoint. Now, if you are seeking to do business with
the Assassins Guild, you have found the right place. But pray tell
me, why not use Mills? He is an excellent agent, I can assure
you.”

“Are you the head of
the guild?” countered Roland.

The man chuckled
softly. “Heavens no. Do you truly expect our leader to reveal
himself so easily? But have confidence that I will carefully
considerer everything you have to say.” His voice carried just a
touch of annoyance, sprinkled with winter snow, and Roland thought
that despite his flamboyant dress sense, this was not a man to
cross.

“I wish to work for the
guild,” said Roland.

“Ah,” said the man,
pressing his fingertips together and leaning forward slightly. “Now
we get to the crux of the matter ...” He stared at Roland in
silence. Only his fingers moved as he pressed the tips against each
other, never at the same time, one after the other; it made Roland
think of a snake swaying its head from side to side, trying to
intimidate its prey. Roland ignored the rippling fingers and stared
back evenly, not moving in the slightest, his eyes as unblinking as
the man’s who was trying to cow him.

A small smile curled
the man’s lips and he said, “First, tell me why I did not have you
searched for weapons?”

Roland motioned toward
the ceiling with his head. “There is a room above us; I assume that
we are in a basement. There is no light in the room above, hiding
the fact that there are several holes in the ceiling – small enough
to go unnoticed, but big enough to allow the flight of a bolt or
arrow. The door behind you is the same. Where the frame meets the
wall, there are several gaps hidden in the shadows. I did not
notice it in the room behind me, but if I turn around, it would not
surprise me to see an arrow aimed at my head. When you give the
sign, I’ll be dead before I know it. And the sewer conveniently
runs below us. By tomorrow, my body will be drifting into the
harbour.” Roland left out the part that he was quick enough to kill
the man seated behind the table before the men waiting upstairs or
behind the doors could move, but there was no need to frighten the
man – not yet.

The man rubbed his
hands together, rings clinking as they touched. “Impressive
observation,” he said. “You may call me The Ambassador. Now, will
you kindly show me what weapons you carry?”

Roland did not like it,
but he would have to give the man something before he could gain
his trust. He pushed his hands from under his cloak and flung the
heavy material backwards, the cloak flaring wide and then settling
behind his shoulders, revealing the front of his body.

“An unusual weapon,”
said The Ambassador, his eyes flicking from the knives to the
zhutou. “I see a quiver with bolts, but no crossbow?”

Roland pulled the cloak
away, revealing the butt of his crossbow. “Excellent,” said The
Ambassador and then he held his hands out, motioning toward the
zhutou. “May I?”

Roland stepped toward
the table and slowly pulled the zhutou from his sash, reversing it
and handing it over hilt first. The Ambassador weighed it in his
hand, running his fingers along the two prongs, following the
curves, and then down the tapered shaft, testing the sharp point
with his thumb. A drop of blood immediately squeezed from under his
skin. “I see,” he said, staring at the drop of blood. “Heavy.
Unyielding. You will have no difficulty driving this straight
through a man’s skull. He will never have a chance to make even a
sound. Interesting ....” He reversed the weapon and handed it back.
Roland slipped the zhutou between sash and waist, once more pulling
the cloak around him, arms and weapons disappearing from view.

“We know each other a
little better now, wont you say?” said The Ambassador and leaned
back in his chair, his fingertips resuming their snakelike
rippling. “Will you divulge me your name?”

Roland had feared that
this would happen, but no matter what, he did not want to reveal
his identity. Instead, he said, “My name is a matter that goes
beyond trust. Accepting me into the guild, would benefit the guild,
no matter what I am called. By night I will complete contracts, but
the day is my own.”

“Let’s put that aside
for the moment then, and I’ll tell you a little about how the guild
operates,” said The Ambassador, his fingers now lightly drumming on
the table. “A prospective client approaches one of our many Agents
with the wish to have someone killed. The agent then relays the
wish to the guild, which will first investigate both client and
target ... you see, even in death there are rules.

“Rule number one: You
are not allowed to place a contract on a business rival’s head. If
we accepted such requests, the whole of Calvana would be left with
only a single merchant.

“Rule number two: You
are not allowed to place a contract on your cheating spouse, or the
one pleasuring your spouse in ways that you can not. Once again, if
we accepted such requests, Calvana is in danger of being devoid of
population.

“Rule number three: You
are not allowed to place a contract on the King or his immediate
family ... for obvious reasons, of course.

“Rule number four: The
previous rules are not set in iron – enough gold carries the weight
to bend the most stubborn of rules. The standard price for a head
is three thousand gold pieces, of which the King taxes takes four
tenths, and the guild and the assassin who made the kill shares the
remainder ... Yes, we pay taxes, and the King is fully aware of how
the guild operates – how else do you think we can exist? The price
of a head can more than triple depending on whom you want killed.
It is not unknown for the price to reach up to twenty thousand gold
pieces – and if you happened to make the kill, your share would be
a glorious six thousand gold coins.

“Once contracts are
accepted by the guild, assassins then have the freedom to chose
which ones they want to partake in, and the method of killing is
entirely up to them – but, innocents are not to be involved.
Setting a target’s house on fire is not an acceptable
assassination, and the penalty for each unnecessary death is five
hundred gold pieces per head ... or death, if the guild so
feels.

“Now, any questions?”
He looked at Roland expectantly.

“Just one,” said
Roland. “Is there a contract on Sirol Vanderman’s head?”

“The Vanderman family?
But of course ... Sirol is the son of Soul Vanderman, if I remember
correctly, so the bounty will be around eight thousand gold pieces.
Most influential nobles have contracts on their heads, but they are
rarely assassinated and the contracts are left to gather dust. Most
assassins choose not to get involved with noble politics – and I
can’t say I blame them. Gold is precious, but life even more
so.

“And that brings us to
the end,” The Ambassador said, his voice suddenly turning cold, and
he lifted his hand above his head, his thumb and middle finger
pressed tightly together. “I will now ask for your name one last
time, stranger, and if you do not give me a satisfying answer ...”
His eyes flicked to his raised hand, and Roland understood that
once he snapped his fingers, bolts would come raining down.

“I will pay five
thousand gold coins to withhold my name,” said Roland calmly, but
underneath his cloak, both his hands held unseen throwing
knives.

“Oh,” said The
Ambassador, looking interested, but still not relaxing his fingers.
“Do you have such a fortune in your name?”

“Four tenths for the
King’s taxes,” said Roland. “That leaves you with five thousand
gold pieces from eight ...” The Ambassador’s eyes widened
slightly.

“... I will kill Sirol
Vanderman within five days, and I will do it for free.”

S
irol clutched the crumpled
parchment in his hands. The yellowish paper was stained and torn,
the texture like wrinkled skin from years of handling. He had
wanted to destroy it many times over, to burn it, but Sirol could
never quite bring himself to do so.

He read it again, and
again, his sunken eyes flickering across his spacious and handsome
room between every word, peering into each shadow. He flinched,
uttering a low moan, and then he realised he was staring into a
broad silver mirror, his reflection staring back at him. His usual
shining hair appeared lifeless, his skin pale and waxy. His
manservant still shaved and bathed him everyday, but where the thin
beard on his chin used to look dapper and bold, it now seemed
wholly out of place on his palled and jumpy face.

He had ridiculed the
letter when he had first received it, reading it out in a loud,
mocking tone, acting it out as if he was performing a play on
stage. But the first night after reading the letter he had dreamed:
an unknown man leaned over his bed, his face without features, like
a black moon, and then Sirol had felt a blade slipping into his eye
– slowly, unstoppable – and since then, each night was filled with
nightmares, ebbing away at his usual arrogance. The letter said
within three years ... but how much time was left? No, he was safe.
He must be! He was in the Vanderman mansion, his father had hired
guards for him ... nobody and nothing could find him here!

The door to his room
opened and Sirol jumped. “My brave and noble son,” drawled the
voice of his father and Soul walked into the room.

“Father!” cried Sirol
and hid the letter behind his back. Soul thought it a stain on his
name that his son could not even bring himself to destroy a letter.
But his father did not understood his fear. He never had anyone
warn him of death, vowing to kill him!

“Your idiocy has done
more damage to our name than any enemy ever did. Can you not at
least act the part of my son,” said Soul as Sirol hid his hands
behind his back.

“Any word of the
mercenaries? Has anyone tried to attack in the night?” said Sirol
and pulled himself upright, but he could not disguise the fear in
his voice. It was a pitiful attempt at appearing bold.

“You fool,” snapped
Soul. “All my plans have been ruined because you lap after peasant
girls like a dog smelling a heated bitch.”

Sirol recoiled as if
Soul had slapped him. Plans? He was worried about his foolish plans
while his son was at deaths door!

“I don’t think this is
–“

“No, you don’t think,”
Soul shouted over him. “You have cost me fifty thousand gold
pieces, boy. Do you have any concept of what that means?”