In one tiny fourth-storey room overlooking the road leading to the castle sat Syalin. She gazed out of the narrow glassless window at the castle drawbridge, lowered as it was over the circular
ditch dug around the castle atop its hill. She had spent most of the day either watching the comings and goings in and out of the castle or killing the bugs and cockroaches that found her room far
more agreeable than she did. Northern cities, she had concluded, were all mud, dirt and smells and that was just its people. Doing the job quickly and getting home as soon as she could had never
seemed a more attractive proposition.
Except this was a difficult job, one of the most difficult she had faced.
She cast her mind back days – no, weeks – reflecting on recent events. She had dispatched the first mark and spent the night watching the bridges burn and hearing
the triumphant army storm the abandoned camp of the enemy. The following day saw a bridge hastily rebuilt and that strutting peacock of a king cross it in his golden armour. His knights and foot
soldiers then led the way up the hill to the rocky little town perched atop it.
So that was where she needed to go.
She gave it a couple of hours to let them settle, then rowed across the river and climbed the hill on foot where she was stopped by guards at its gate. She remembered the looks of cold suspicion
that they gave her.
‘What by the names of all the Gods are you?’
She smiled back at them, all sweetness and charm. ‘Go tell your king that Syalin is here to see him and that she has a ring he might like to see.’
‘Are you one of his whores?’
‘Do I look like one?’ She opened her cloak slightly, showing him the daggers in her belt and strapped to her thigh and boot. The guard looked her up and down even more hostilely than
before.
‘Wait here.’
She did just that, leaning languidly against a tree, while someone went to deliver her message. She shut her eyes listening to the birds; a song thrush was close by, its voice clear and pure. It
felt that she was alone there, just her and that divine singing. She felt her muscles relax, her whole body being bathed in a warm balm of peaceful serenity.
‘His Majesty will see you now.’
Irked at being forcibly yanked from her contemplative state, Syalin followed the man through the gates. It was a small town, hemmed in and claustrophobic, with a depressed and desperate
atmosphere so typical of places traumatised by war. Evidence for this could be seen as she walked through the square. The rain had washed clean most of the cobbles but still pools had accumulated
in depressions on the ground, Syalin noticed that they were coloured with dirt and blood. The head of the town’s latest victim stood on a spear in the square’s centre. The rest of the
body, clad in shabby red, lay near by; a barely congealed pool of blood had spilled from the stump of a neck. Obviously, this execution had taken place after the recent rains; she wondered how many
cycles of bloody retribution had taken place here. The square was empty apart from groups of soldiers huddled here and there, holding flagons and chatting idly with each other, the euphoria of
victory still animating them. At the town’s flagpole some men were raising the yellow flag of the victors. A cheer broke out once it was flying high over the city, billowing in the stiff
breeze.
She followed the guard into the largest building off the square. Inside, it was a wreck, looted and stripped of anything that could be carried. In the main hall the great table still remained
along with the heavy wooden seats, though they had all been scored and burned in many places. This was where the guard left her, standing in the doorway.
Five men sat at the table. The King was at its head. He had thankfully discarded his golden armour and now wore robes of green and purple silk expensive enough to buy the whole town. His
chamberlain sat on his right-hand side, his lips pursed in distaste. The other three men were all of a military mien – no, not entirely. One wore full plate armour but carried himself like a
man born to privilege; he had the haughty air often borne by the lower ranks of Kozean nobility. Another wore armour of close-fitting shining metallic scales, Chiran style, though his were not
lime-washed like the Chiran soldiers’ were. The final one was a man mountain, the archetypal professional soldier, his eyes glittering like brazier coals on his scarred face.
The King stood when he saw her and opened his arms in greeting.
‘Ah, so you have arrived at last. What do you think of the latest addition to my kingdom?’
‘It smells like a latrine, without the slaves to clean it,’ she said archly.
He laughed. He was obviously in good spirits; why would he not be?
‘As charming as ever, I see. Tell me, are the rumours true? Is the Baron dead?’
She threw him the ring which he caught cleanly and passed to the armoured fop sitting near by.
‘Yes, that is Felmere’s ring,’ he said. ‘There is only one way she would get this.’
‘Things are getting better and better,’ said the king. ‘Now it is time for introductions, I feel. These gentlemen are called Fenchard and Trask, long in my pay and now finally
declared for Arshuma. This other fellow is my new elite general, Terze, hero of Wolf Plain. I have been keeping you a secret, my dear, but the time for such concealment has passed, at least for
those here. This, gentlemen, is Koze’s latest gift to us. Her name is Syalin, one of the Emperor’s bodyguards and the reason Baron Felmere no longer troubles us.’
‘Koze?’ General Terze sounded shocked. ‘With all due respect, Your Majesty, why was I not told of this?’
‘Because until yesterday I could not fully trust you. Her involvement is still a secret to all but ourselves and it should remain so. We don’t want any Chiran ambassadors getting
wind of this, after all.’
‘She is the killer you mentioned?’ Trask’s voice suited his appearance.
‘Indeed, she has been tasked with two missions, one of which still needs to be given to her. I rather thought the Baron in the south would be a deserving cause; he has been most
troublesome of late.’
‘Very well,’ said Syalin ‘Give me the details and I will leave in the morning. Have a room provided; I need some rest.’ She made to leave them.
‘Wait, just one minute.’ Fenchard raised a hand. ‘Your Majesty, can we at least wait until we find out who Felmere’s replacement is? It is I who have betrayed my country,
after all; surely I should have some say as to this ... creature’s next target.’
Syalin looked at him balefully. If only
he
could be her second mark – she would enjoy the job immensely.
‘Very well,’ said the King resignedly. ‘That means we are all trapped here for a couple of days until we know. The second this is decided, though, I am off to Roshythe until I
receive news from the Grand Duke. He will rebuff my offer of peace on my terms, of course, but if we keep turning the vice he will have to listen in the end. So, gentlemen, you have received enough
of mine and Koze’s money in the past, so keep turning.’
Trask broke in; he obviously had little regard for rank. ‘May I just clarify that all conquered lands west of the Broken River now belong to Fenchard and that he will hold the status of
your client king, while having full sovereignty over these lands. These lands are his, yes? I have no interest in following the orders of some puppet baron.’
Aganosticlan smiled beatifically. ‘As far as I am concerned, you are looking at King Fenchard I of West Arshuma, my closest ally, and one I shall back until his realm is fully established.
Now give me what passes for wine here; we should have some drink to celebrate the crushing of the armies of Tanaren.’
Syalin left them at this point and found a room upstairs of her own accord. She had a mind to keep her own company until the next mark was finalised; the men here were so uncouth for all their
airs and so she had no desire to socialise with any of them. And this was how it was. For two days she spoke to no one and did nothing. She took some extra blackroot to see the stars all the better
but got the dose slightly wrong, ending up having several hours of wild hallucinations in which she grew to a giant’s size and plucked the stars from the sky, fashioning them into a necklace
which she wore to the Emperor’s grand reception. And she was not a bodyguard, but an important guest clad in shimmering silk and gauze and wearing an amethyst headdress, her eyes lined with
kohl, her hair long and fine and tied back with filigreed silver. She danced with everyone – every subject king, every noble, every wealthy merchant and finally the emperor himself, who
remarked on her great beauty. As she watched him in return, though, he changed – his head became that of a crocodile, its yellow teeth dripping spittle, its eyes hungry and devouring, its maw
wide and cavernous. It happened with all the other guests, too. They became jackals, hyenas, hunting dogs, ettins, bears, Agathi beasts, vultures, eagles and snakes. As one they howled, a
high-piercing scream that shattered her eardrums and shredded her brain. Blood flowed from her ears, dark-red blood. She was in a small confined room now and the blood rose higher and higher. She
saw a door and pulled at it to escape. Her nails came off as she tried but it would not open. Then she was drowning, drowning in her own blood, unable to swim through it, trapped, unable to breath,
unable to scream. Things got darker and darker, she tasted the copper in her mouth and choked and choked as life left her...
Then she came to, on stale sweaty sheets, in her tiny room, with the light of the moon shining on her panicked face.
A day or so later came a knock on her door. She rose to get it but the door opened anyway. Trask stood there, impassive as a cliff face.
‘We have news – your next mark is to be determined.’
She went to pass him but he put out his arm, grasping the door frame, blocking her way. For a moment she was surprised – no one did such things to her these days – but then her hand
went to the dagger at her belt.
‘No need for that,’ he said. There was menace in his every word. ‘Tell me, how old were you when you first killed?’
‘Fifteen, in your years,’ she said. ‘It is average, for my kind.’
‘Same here,’ he replied. ‘Bandits attacked my home, killed my family. They all paid the price. As one they begged for death before the end; their screams were the finest kind
of music after what they did to me.’
‘It is but a job to me. A knife in the heart, quick and quiet. I do it to serve the Emperor, no more, no less.
Trask spoke again, his voice disbelieving. ‘You are telling me that you derive no sense of satisfaction from a job well done? Was Felmere a quick kill?’
‘Yes. He died instantly.’
‘And how did you feel when he fell?’
‘Relief, I suppose, that there would be no fight...’
‘And?’
She nodded slowly. ‘Yes, there is pleasure in doing a job well, I grant you that. It is my purpose after all; fulfilling it correctly is to do the Emperor’s bidding.’
He smiled. ‘See, we are more alike than you think. There is no shame enjoying what you are good at. Clothe it with any high ideals you want if it makes you feel better, but you enjoy
killing. Other people are so much lesser than you; why should you not exercise your power over them, show them to be the cattle that they are?’
‘I give no thought to other people,’ she said tersely. ‘I just do what I must, and right now I need to find out my next target. Could you move your arm?’
Slowly, deliberately he did so. She squeezed past him, their bodies contacting for more than a lingering moment. He felt her, lean, taut and strong like a viper poised to strike a helpless foe,
then she was gone on her way to the main hall. He laughed out loud then and followed her, smiling all the way.
And that was that. She had gone to the main hall where Fenchard was cock-a-hoop – the new Baron was known and it was an old acquaintance. More than that, it was a commoner, a presumptuous
commoner who needed putting in his place. The King was still keen for her to go south but he was keener still to leave this place and go to Roshythe. So with a little reluctance he acceded to
Fenchard’s enthusiasm. Fenchard, a man she instinctively detested and who seemed to harbour similar feelings for her, gave her the details. She requested money and a peasant girl’s garb
and once she had these she was on her way.
Over the clustered rooftops sitting under the moon came a peal of church bells to signal the hour. It was what she had been waiting for. She used the room’s single candle
to glance in the grubby mirror and check that the powder she wore concealed her facial tattoo. She then checked the knives she concealed at her belt, in a boot and in a garter under her plain
homespun skirt. Then, stamping on a skittering bug that got in her way, she left the room to scale the rickety, treacherous stairway that led into the town.
Janther’s tavern looked friendly enough from the outside. Yellow lamp-light spilled through its heavily leaded windows on to the frosted cobbles, giving the impression of warmth and a
hearty welcome. Inside, though, the place was much more ill-favoured. The floor was filthy, as was the straw scattered over it. Much of its clientele were already close to insensibility and the
acrid smells of vomit, sour ale and sourer food pervaded the air, something that the poorly lit fire only encouraged. Bleary heads turned as one to look at Syalin as she entered; a tall imposing
woman exuding self-confidence was not a commonplace sight here. Ignoring them all, she headed to the bar where the landlord seemed to recognise her.
‘Is Merritt here?’ she asked. ‘We have arranged to meet.’
The man said nothing, merely nodding his head in the direction of one of the room’s darker corners. She acknowledged the man’s help and headed that way. There, sitting at a dark
table stained with old food and hard wax, was a bearded man shovelling some greasy soup into his mouth with enthusiasm. His beard was glistening where droplets of it had run down his chin. Either
side of him sat two burly knuckleheaded men who could only be hired muscle. The bearded man saw her and indicated that she could sit at the vacant chair opposite him. Gingerly, wondering when it
was last cleaned, she did so.