Imperial Assassin (10 page)

‘This way, Reynik,’ Femke ordered, striding off through the corridors of the Imperial Palace as if she owned the place.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked, jogging for a moment to catch up.

‘Firstly to find some civilian clothes for you to wear; then to find a man who can teach you to use a sword.’

‘But I can already fight with a sword,’ Reynik protested. ‘I admit I’m not the best swordsman around, but I can hold my own.’

Femke stopped abruptly. Reynik tottered slightly as he fought to stop and maintain his balance. She gave him a hard stare and when she spoke it was in a low voice that would not be
overheard.

‘You walk like a soldier. You talk like a soldier. As far as I know, you probably fart and swear like a soldier! We have three weeks to beat that out of you, Reynik, or the Guild will see
right through you. I don’t want to think about what they would do to you then. I’m starting with the obvious. You will need to handle a sword differently. You will also need to acquire
other less usual weapons skills. We’ll not be able to hide your military training entirely in such a short time, but we should be able to build you an identity as a military drop-out. I see
you as a disaffected soldier who has turned to killing for a fee. The trick to making this persona convincing will be to eliminate some of your military habits and style, but leave evidence of your
past.’

‘That makes sense.’

‘Of course it does, so please don’t question my judgement. Do as you’re told like a good little soldier and things will be fine. I’ll conduct some of your training
myself, but for those things that I can’t teach you, I’ll find those who can. I happen to know of an expert swordsman who could do with a paying job right now. If anyone can teach you
how to use a sword effectively, it’ll be this man.’

Femke had a word with one of the Imperial Palace staff, and Reynik was given access to the guest wardrobes. Stores of clothing suitable for most sizes were kept in order to save visitors
embarrassment in the event of their arriving during poor weather, or after a difficult journey, with nothing suitable to wear around the Palace. Reynik did not take long to find something in his
size. An off-white tunic, black leggings, calf-length riding boots and a mid-blue jacket with silver decorative stitching suited him well.

They bundled his uniform into a bag and dropped it off at Femke’s quarters. Femke took the opportunity to change into nondescript clothing before they set off again, heading out of the
Palace towards the south west quarter of the city. It took a while to reach their destination. The streets were busy with the bustle of daily life. The smells of cooking meat wafted on the air, as
food vendors began utilising the tantalising scents to lure in custom. Traders called out to them, extolling the virtues of their wares, and young boys tried to cajole them into inns and shops,
undoubtedly looking to gain a commission for bringing the proprietors custom. Femke ignored them all with a single-minded intensity, leaving Reynik to deflect interest onto other potential
customers.

Reynik had not spent much time in the commercial areas of the city when he was growing up, so he felt awkward about ignoring people. His upbringing had instilled certain manners in him that he
found difficult to shake off. Surely it was common courtesy to at least shake one’s head, or to wave a negative, when someone called out to you? Not even acknowledging someone’s
presence seemed the height of ignorance and bad manners.

It suddenly occurred to Reynik that if he were having problems with the simple matter of manners, then how much harder would it be to change more critical inbuilt habits? Femke was right, he
decided. He would need a lot of help to make his disguise believable.

When they arrived at Femke’s chosen destination, Reynik was thrown off guard again. The house that they approached was not at all what he was expecting. Femke’s assertion that the
swordsman he was to meet was in need of work did not fit with the large, plush-looking residence at which they were knocking. The house could not belong to a poor man.

A servant answered and Femke spoke to him in such hushed tones that Reynik could not make out what they said. The servant did not look happy, but after a moment of indecision, he ushered them
inside. The hallway to the house was spacious and grand in appearance. A polished marble floor boasted a complex mosaic depicting two fighters locked in combat, and there were several wall hangings
and beautiful paintings with similar themes. A life-sized statue of a swordsman in arena style protective gear stood menacingly on guard to the left of the sweeping staircase that climbed in a
majestic arc to the upper floor. The wrought iron banisters were beautifully crafted with many swirling patterns, gleaming black against the creamy marble.

‘This way, my Lady. Sir.’ The servant did not look to see them follow. He simply set off across the hall to one of several impressive solid oak doors set again with wrought iron
hinges and handles. The room they entered was a large living area; tastefully decorated, but again with the underlying tones of someone obsessed with fighting. Even the little drinks tables had
legs in the shape of swords, embedded point down into small spheres of iron.

They did not stop in the living room, but crossed to another door that opened into the strangest room Reynik had ever seen. It was about ten paces square, with no furnishings or decorations
other than two walls that were covered with mirrored glass. In the centre of the room was a man whose gaunt face seemed hauntingly familiar. He was aware of them the moment they entered, but
continued in his pose for a few seconds before relaxing and turning to greet them.

‘What’s this, Aneki? Did I not tell you I wasn’t to be disturbed?’

‘Yes, Master, but the Lady here has a proposition that I think you would be interested to hear.’

‘Indeed. Well, let us retire back into the lounge then. Bring us some drinks, please, Aneki. Would you good people prefer dahl or water? I’m afraid I don’t keep any stronger
beverages in the house. I find that removing temptation makes it easier to resist its draw.’

‘Two glasses of water would be wonderful, thank you,’ Femke assured him. Aneki bowed and withdrew to fetch the drinks.

‘Please excuse me changing my shirt, but it will quickly become uncomfortable if I do not,’ the man apologised, indicating his sweat-soaked garment. He crossed the room to a small
cupboard and removed a clean white shirt. As he raised the garment he was wearing over his head, Reynik gave a gasp of shock at the horrific wound in the man’s back that glared at him like an
accusing red eye. He turned, and to Reynik’s further shock, there was a matching wound in the man’s stomach. Someone had run this man through with a sword.

Suddenly, Reynik recognised the reason for the familiarity of the man’s face. The man was a legend – a gladiator who had built his reputation in the arena as the deadliest swordsman
alive. He had killed dozens of men during his rise through the ranking system. The killing was his trademark. Gladiators normally fought until one yielded. Not so with this man. With him, every
fight was to the death. During his three years in the arena, he had never left an opponent alive to face him a second time. It was said that he had faced up to five trained gladiators
simultaneously in a single confrontation, and not one had survived to fight another day. At least, none had done so until his final bout.

The man watched with amusement as recognition dawned in Reynik’s eyes, together with a look of disbelief. ‘Serrius!’ Reynik mouthed silently.

Serrius gave a small nod of admission and then turned to Femke. ‘I take it this young fellow didn’t know you were bringing him to see me today,’ he observed casually.
‘It’s good to know that you’re not spreading word of my survival all over the city, Femke. Now, what brings you here today to disturb my recovery?’

‘Serrius, this is Reynik. I want you to train him in some of the more advanced arts of swordplay.’

‘You know I don’t teach. Why would I teach a man the skills he might one day use to kill me?’

‘So you intend to return to the arena then? I thought you would quit after . . .’

‘After I was run through by that young Thrandorian?’ he finished. Serrius laughed aloud, his mirth looking strange on his normally impassive face. ‘Your thinking is correct. I
have quit. I would be a fool to return to the arena now; I would be diced on my first bout. My former skill and fitness levels are gone for ever; the Thrandorian’s blade through my gut
ensured that, but it does not do to have too many men who can better you with a sword when you have spent your life killing others in order to prove you are the best.’

Aneki entered the room with three tall glasses of water, which they each took from the tray with polite words of thanks. Reynik took a long draught, but despite sweating profusely, Serrius was
more restrained. He took only small sips from his glass, unconsciously demonstrating his control over the thirst Reynik felt sure the gladiator must feel. The servant left again, bowing as he
exited the room.

‘Reynik has never been a gladiator and has no intentions of becoming one. What makes you think he might one day wish to kill you?’ Femke asked curiously.

Serrius laughed again. ‘Don’t try to play your games with me, Femke. I’ve observed men: their posture, their movement and their fighting styles, for years. I knew the moment
you entered that Reynik was a Legionnaire. His whole bearing screams “military”. So why do you want me to teach him, and what makes you think I will do for him what I have steadfastly
refused to do for any other?’

‘You didn’t answer my question, but I suppose it is only fair to give you an explanation. The Emperor needs him to possess certain skills for a mission he is to undertake. One of
those skills is to wield a sword in a credible fashion. His military training has been adequate. He knows the basics, but he will need to be better than average if he is to complete his mission. If
all goes well, he should not have to wield a sword in anger, but if called upon to demonstrate sword play, then it’s essential that his fighting style be different from that of a regular
soldier.’

Serrius fell silent for a moment, looking first at Femke, then at Reynik and finally back to Femke again. Reynik held his breath. To be taught sword skills by the deadliest gladiator the
Shandrim arena had ever seen was a dream that many young swordsmen harboured. It would be an amazing opportunity.

‘I sense there’s much that you’re not telling me here, Femke. Your secrecy does you no favours. I feel no more inclined to teach him than I have any other who has approached
me. What makes you think I’ll teach now, when I’ve always refused to teach in the past?’

‘You’ll do it because you need a reason to exist, Serrius. If you don’t take this job, or another like it, the temptation to return to the arena will be too great. You’ll
go back and you will die at the hands of some unknown fighter, who will gain brief status by killing you. Someone more skilled will then kill him, further reducing the perception of your ability.
The legend you created will die. Strangely, your reputation was dented little by your loss to the Thrandorian fighter. The fact that you ran each other through was viewed by most as an honourable
draw. He only “won” because he remained standing longer than you did. The public have seen nothing of either of you since that day. Most think you both died after the bout, but if you
were to go out in public, then you would be seen as the survivor. The official announcement that the Thrandorian had died was necessary to hide his disappearance. Any public appearance by you would
cause your reputation to soar once more.’

‘You don’t pull any punches, do you?’ Serrius said with a sad smile. ‘Your words ring with a truth I cannot deny. It’s madness, but the draw is already growing in
me to return to the arena. Despite knowing I would die there, and telling myself over and over that it would be sheer folly to return, I can feel the pull strengthening in my heart. If I accept
your proposal, how long will I have to work with Reynik?’

‘Three weeks.’

‘Three weeks! That’s preposterous! Nobody could learn to be a swordsman in that time.’

‘I’m not asking you to make a swordsman of him. I simply want you to change his fighting style sufficiently that it does not instantly brand him as military. Also, you won’t
have him all day, every day, as he will have other lessons to attend.’

Serrius sighed. ‘Perhaps it is good that it’s only three weeks. I should know by then whether I’m up to this change. There is a suitable fee, I presume?’

‘I will ensure the Imperial Treasury is generous,’ Femke replied, allowing none of her inner elation to show. ‘The mission is important, so the Emperor will be sure to throw
resources at it.’

‘Very well. We had better begin then, Reynik. Come with me.’ Serrius beckoned Reynik towards the door to the empty, mirrored room.

‘I’ll collect him at the second bell this afternoon, Serrius. I’ll then bring him back again at the seventh bell for another session. Is that all right?’