Assassin's Rise (5 page)

Roland sighed and
handed back the statue, wondering if he would come to regret the
decision. “Can you tell me where to find the Seek‘n Find?” he asked
once more.

“Go down that alley on
the right,” the merchant grunted.

As Roland walked away,
he heard the merchant cornering a new customer. “This holy beast,
Almakanonason, will guarantee you to live to at least a hundred and
fifty, and that for only nine silvers ...”

Roland chuckled to
himself. Maybe he had good luck after all.

*

The Seek‘n Find had a
merry feel to it. Two young girls with long, braided hair moved
between the tables, serving food and drink. Customers talked loudly
and laughed frequently, foaming mugs of ale washing away their
troubles of the day.

Roland walked up to the
serving counter. Behind it stood a man with a round, kind face, a
white cloth hanging over his shoulder. As Roland approached, he
wiped the top of the counter and the cloth returned to his
shoulder. “Welcome to the Seek‘n Find. Name’s Alfeer,” he
greeted.

“I’m looking for the
owner.”

“The old man at the
back,” he said, pointing to a small table at the rear of the
tavern.

Roland edged between
the tables, nodding at the people in greeting. The atmosphere
reminded him of the village feast.

“Pardon me,” said
Roland once he reached the small table. An old man sat hunched over
the table, devouring a plate filled with raw vegetables and a thick
piece of meat.

“Expect you want to
know my secret,” said the old man and raised his head. He had the
same piercing blue eyes as Altmoor. “You look like a good sort, so
I’ll tell you.” He spread his arms over the table. “It’s what you
see before you, laddie ... it’s Meat. And not those fish and bird
things they fool you into calling meat, but real meat. Red meat.
The thicker the better, the rawer the better. And vegetables. Raw
vegetables. The more vibrant the colour, the better. The secret’s
in the soil, you see. You must take –”

“Altmoor send me,”
Roland said quickly. It seemed as though the old man would not stop
once he got going.

“Altmoor? Is that old
coot still alive? It’s about high time I visit the Assassins Guild
and take out a contract on his name. The secret’s in approaching
them from the sewers. Unpleasant, I know, but you won’t find any
better killers. But, with that old coot even an assassin might
fail. You cut his head off, and chances are it will grow back.”

“Stop acting like a
fool, dad,” said Alfeer, handing him a mug of ale.

“You might call it
foolish, but stories need spice.” The old man lifted the mug and
drained it. “So what can I do for you, lad?” he asked Roland.

“I need a room for
eight nights,” he said, looking from the old man to Alfeer. Maybe
he had made a mistake in coming here.

“Eight nights ... that
will cost you fourteen silvers – and that’s cheap. You look like a
country folk so you probably can’t afford it.” He chuckled at a
private joke. “Tell you what, lad,” he went on before Roland could
reply. “You work for me for the next week, and your board and food
is free.” He smiled broadly. “Show him to his room, Alfeer,” he
told his son, returning his attention to the plate of food.

Alfeer led the confused
Roland up a set of rickety, wooden stairs. “Don’t let it bother
you,” he said seeing Roland’s expression. “He gets carried away
sometimes, but my dad’s a good man. His name’s Oldon. You’ll
probably clean once we close at night and help set up in the
morning. It won’t be hard work. Well, here we are.” He opened a
warped door and Roland automatically stepped inside.

“Tonight’s on the
house. Come down for food when you’re ready.” He closed the door
and Roland heard footsteps going back down the stairs.

The room was a small
one, containing only a bed with a straw filled mattress. Roland
stepped to the window and looked outside. Half his view was blocked
by a building and the other half looked over the market square. It
was early evening and the merchants were busy packing up. Roland
dropped onto the bed, sending up a small puff of dust.

What a strange bunch,
he thought, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

C
arla gently turned the wax figure
over in her hands. It was modelled into a brooch, the motif a round
shield with a leaf in the centre. The wax had been taking shape in
her mind since the events on the Swallow and she had finally
finished it three days ago.

She laid the wax brooch
on a soft cloth and lifted the clay mould. The mould was a round
ball, tightly wrapped with string and painted with resin. She had
prepared it as soon as she had finished shaping the wax brooch. She
had used a mixture of clay and cattle droppings as the combination
gave a smoother imprint and was less likely to crack when dry.
Using two soft pieces of the clay mixture, she had pressed it over
the wax brooch, leaving an indentation in the centre of the clay.
She had then waited for the clay to dry, smoothing out any
imperfections in the imprint. Once the clay had dried, she stuck
the two pieces together using a blend of boiled fish bones and tree
sap. Again, she waited for it to dry. A day later, she had wrapped
the mould with string and resin.

She felt her heartbeat
quicken. It was ready. Her uncle watched her with one eye squinted
shut. “Never seen you so worked up before, lass,” he said, his deep
voice resonating through the workshop.

She smiled at him and a
slight tint appeared high on her cheekbones. “I think it’s ready
for casting, Uncle.”

“Are you sure you want
to use silver?”

Carla nodded. “It has
to be silver. It fits the motif best.”

“You better be sure
your mould is ready.” He scratched his red beard, studying the
mould. “Silver melts at a higher temperature than bronze. The heat
can crack your mould like a rotten egg.”

“I know, Uncle, but
it’ll hold.”

“If you say so, lass.
Come to the furnace. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

Carla worked the
bellows, her green eyes fixed on the silver nuggets inside the
melting pot. Small droplets of sweat ran down her face as the
charcoal turned white hot. Her red hair caught the glare, and it
looked as if a blazing fire surrounded her head.

The melting pot turned
a fiery red, and the silver nuggets started falling in on
themselves, slowly filling the bottom of the crucible with flowing
silver.

“Careful now, you don’t
want to overheat the alloy,” warned her uncle, secretly pleased
with her work. She let go of the bellows, wiping the sweat from her
face. A smear of soot covered her cheek.

“Pour it now, lass –
quick!”

The clay mould rested
inside a bucket filled with sand to the side of the furnace. Carla
grabbed the long-steel tong, hooked its crescent jaw around the
crucible and clamped down. She lifted the melting pot and swung it
over to the mould. She tipped the beak toward the mould, trying to
balance speed with precision. The molten silver almost caught her
by surprise; it flowed far quicker than she had anticipated. The
silver spilled into the mould, tendrils of heat rising from the
clay.

“Please hold,” she
pleaded as the mould filled up.

*

Academia Amlor library
held a wealth of books and scrolls, and not only those with regard
on healing, but also on philosophy and theology.

Candle light flickered
as Roland paged through a leather bound volume. He was surprised to
learn that until recently, healing was the exclusive domain of
priests. Of the seven gods, Rivander was considered the deity of
healing and treatment consisted of prayer and fasting. Roland shook
his head. This was a mere century and a half ago. How could any
sick person in their right mind forgo food in order to heal? That
humans had managed to survive through such a period was a mystery,
although Roland realised that modern illnesses were uncommon that
long ago. It seemed to him that whenever people conglomerated, it
became a breeding pot for new diseases.

According to the volume
he read, healing techniques were in its infancy and progression was
slow. The author theorised that failure to break from age-old
traditions was the most likely culprit. Roland disagreed. Where
healing was first the exclusive domain of priests, it now turned
into a coin-gathering business for the nobles. He was but the sixth
commoner since Amlor’s founding allowed to attempt the entrance
exam. Did nobles really believe that their blood alone gave them
superior abilities?

The library held
several volumes theorising that blood could be transferred between
humans. If that were true, would it mean that noble blood was of a
different sort? Were they not human, also?

Roland closed the
volume and returned it to its shelf. He had three days left until
the entrance exam and he felt confident that he had covered all the
work. The first few days he had spend copying diagrams showing
human bones and organs. Since then he had been reading up on the
history of healing and even more so on predictions of possible
future techniques and cures.

The only light in the
library came from candle; the sun had set hours ago. Roland
hurriedly gathered his notes and left the academia. Oldon would
have his hide if he were to miss the tavern’s closing time.

*

Roland ran toward the
tavern, his footing sure. Nighttime in Darma meant the City Watch
lit torches found on the corners of buildings in the busiest areas,
and Roland had no trouble navigating the dark.

Upon reaching the
tavern, Roland entered through the backdoor and went up to his room
to stow his library notes. He had bought a new set of clothes for
when he visited the academia, which he also changed out off,
putting on his regular brown trousers and a grey woollen shirt.

As he entered the
tavern floor, the last patrons were leaving. Roland immediately
gathered the empty mugs and plates and passed it to the kitchen
where the serving girls were washing it, and set to wiping the
tables clean. Once done he moved the tables to the side of the
tavern and started sweeping the wooden floor.

Alfreed was busy behind
the counter, putting stoppers into open wine bottles and ale
barrels. That done he wiped his counter for the hundredth time,
watching Roland as he swept the floor.

“Did you get enough
time to study?”

Roland looked up. “More
than enough, I can take the exam anytime.”

He only really worked
in the early mornings and during closing times. Sometimes Oldon
sent him into the city to buy stock for the tavern, but on the
whole each day saw him with plenty of time to spare. If he failed
the exam, it would be due to his own lack of ability.

Alfeer grunted. “A
commoner becoming a Healer. What is the world coming to?”

“Learning new skills
has nothing to do with being common or noble. You’re a commoner
yourself; don’t you feel angry when nobles tell you you are
incapable of doing things simply because of your blood?”

Alfeer shrugged. “It
has always been so,” he replied. He was comfortable with the way
the world worked.

“Not so,” said Roland,
leaning against the broom. “Just over a century ago nobles had
nothing to do with healing. It was considered the domain of
priests. So how come nobles suddenly get to decide who does
what?”

“Well said, Roland,”
came Oldon’s voice as he stepped down the stairs. He wore a
battered old breastplate and an iron helmet covered his head. On
his right shoulder was a dented pouldron, and his bony legs carried
greaves. Under one arm he clutched a wooden board, the other hand
holding a bulging leather pouch. Roland had gotten used to the
eccentrics of the old man, but the look in his eyes together with
his battle armour was a new experience.

“Set up a table and two
chairs, my boy,” said Oldon. “The enemy should arrive soon.”

Roland looked at Alfeer
but he only rolled his eyes. As Roland dragged a table over there
was a knock on the tavern door. Alfeer went to open it while Oldon
waited with folded arms. “You finally show yourself,” he said as
Altmoor entered the tavern. He wore the same black robes he did
when Roland had first met him.

“Ready for another
beating, old man,” said Altmoor and marched up to Oldon. They
clasped each other by the wrist as a way of greeting.

“Educator Altmoor?”
said Roland, surprised.

“Just Altmoor, Roland.
How are your studies coming along? You should know that I expect
you to pass the exam.”

“Very well, uh, thank
you,” stammered Roland.

“Good. Well, ready to
loose, old man?”

Oldon’s reply was
vulgar, short, and to the point. He placed the wooden board on the
table while Altmoor chuckled. Altmoor removed his robes revealing a
breastplate of similar design to Oldon’s and took a seat. He untied
the leather pouch and emptied it on the board. Several wooden
pieces carved into the shape of soldiers fell from the pouch.

“Blue or red?” he asked
Oldon.

“I think it’s a good
day for red,” said Oldon. “Roland, you keep the ale flowing.”

Roland stood
open-mouthed as he watched the two men. Both wore old armour and
both had their arms exposed, revealing hundreds of fine white lines
criss-crossing around bicep and forearm. Roland knew what those
white lines represented: standing toe to toe with your enemy using
sword and shield, never showing your back, always pushing forward –
those were battle scars.

He headed to the
kitchen to find clean mugs, trying to picture the two old men
fighting in battle. He filled the mugs with foaming ale and
returned to the table. Altmoor and Oldon sat directly opposite each
other with the board between them, the wooden figures arranged on
top. Oldon’s side was red and Altmoor’s was blue.