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As the Shadow in the chair clapped, time returned to normal, the moaning of the twins humming in the background.
“Now I see,” the Shadow in the chair said, still tapping its foot. The same voice from the room he’d been tied in. “At first, I thought luck was certainly the case,” it continued. “But no, it is plain to see you have talent. The way you move is mesmerising.”
Mara heaved. The taste of blood in his mouth was horrible. He covered his mouth as the puke filled his cheeks, then burst out between his fingers. He bent over and coughed up the rest, yellowy-brown. It burned his throat.
“No stomach for it, though, perhaps?” the Shadow said.
Mara still coughed, but nothing else came out, just a line of spit that ran from his mouth to the floor.
“Get cleaned up. A meal and a change of clothes will be brought to your room.” The Shadow stood. “As for you two, very disappointing.”
Mara jumped as a Shadow appeared at his side. It held a hand out toward the gate.
The pain in his foot came back as he walked. He’d forgotten all about it during the fight. Stupid bucket.
6
Silas wore a brown turban, a dirty white linen top and trousers, and old leather boots – typical attire of Bulov’s working-class. Pungent smells filled the air as he waited among the spice stalls. Bulov’s famous walled market was as busy as ever, a melting pot of classes and races squeezed together between the tight rows of stalls.
Silas enjoyed watching the pickpockets steal from the well-dressed high-class in their gold and silver gowns. Vendors shouted in multiple tongues to advertise their wares; fruits and vegetables, animals – dead or alive – exquisite rugs in all colours of the rainbow, ornaments, strange stones said to have magical properties, and fancy-looking weapons which strayed far over the line toward form over function.
The city itself, with its minarets and domed buildings built from sandstone, was said to have been crafted in the likeness of those found in Krebosta, a country far to the south of Winharm.
Silas’s assignment wasn’t a straightforward one, as they rarely were. His target was the Bulov controller, Thomkin Vanswick, the city’s tax collector. Most controllers were bent, but this one was as bent as they came.
The Shadows had sent Silas to meet with six disgruntled vendors who must have clubbed together several months takings to afford the Shadow’s services. Silas had expected to obtain the usual basic information; description, living arrangements, associates, known movements, or any vices the target might have. Most contacts, even if it was a group of them, had no interest in spending any more time than necessary talking business with a masked assassin. This lot hadn’t shut up. After they’d answered his questions, they’d continued to tell him what the bastard had been up to, and he felt for them. He really did.
“It’s not just breaking legs,” one of them had said. “He’s had his guards rape people in front of him for not paying a fee he makes up on the spot. Even had John’s wife raped while he made him watch. John killed himself after that. Then she did. Left behind a young ’un too. The bastard’s gotta go. We wanna do it ourselves… but… you know?”
Silas did know and would take pleasure in this one.
Two sweaty men – one golden clad, and the other in a dirty turban much like Silas’s –argued over the rich man’s purchase of an entire sack of beetle wing; a pungent local delicacy that was crushed and sprinkled over food. The vendor, with her hands full of the rich man’s coin, backed away smiling as the volume of the shouting increased. Many of those that passed by, chimed in with the opinion that it wasn’t fair for one man to buy all that was left. Silas wholeheartedly agreed, but the commotion had serious potential to set back his plan.
Thomkin, a low-ranking member of Bulov’s high-class, travelled with six armed guards at all times. Twice a week, he made his rounds through the market. The execution was to be carried out for all to see, a request that doubled the cost of an assassination.
Silas had followed Thomkin on his rounds for a month. The guards hadn’t left his side once and let nobody near him. Anyone not moving out of the way quick enough would be knocked to the ground at the very least, including the elderly. One man who’d stumbled into a guard hadn’t been able to get himself up afterwards. Silas would have to be fast. As much as he hated them, the guards were good.
The chilli powder found on many of the surrounding tables was Silas’s weapon of choice to get close to Thomkin. Killing him would be a simple matter, but he’d only get one chance, any more than a single stroke with his blade, and the guards would have time to react. Cages of chickens were piled high in the next row of stalls. Pulling them over on his exit would slow the heavy guards enough to make an easy escape.
The argument finished abruptly, and the rich man hurried away, his slave carrying the sack. In the opposite direction, the guards’ polished silver armour glinted in the sunlight. There was less than the width of a man between the front two, just enough to see Thomkin in his red velvet garments. That stupid moustache. Thomkin’s moustache was thick, grey, and curled at each end. The rear guards held the same width, a tight ship. Middle right guard, the weak link. Young and struggling to walk in the armour. The guard behind him – obviously upset with his comrade’s shortcomings – hit him on the shoulder each time he swayed out of formation. As they got closer, he could see the young guard, maybe eighteen years old, dripping with sweat. Chilli middle left, exit middle right. The formation stopped two stalls away.
Thomkin leafed through some papers. “Fifty gold.” His moustache bounced up and down when he talked.
“I don’t have fifty, my lord,” the vendor said. “I only have thirty-seven, a slow day, and I filled my spices only yesterday. I can pay what I owe next week, my lord.”
The front left guard eyed Silas and made an obvious move to grasp the hilt of his sword.
“Any work, ma’am?” Silas said to the vendor next to him. A dark-haired, pretty girl, if not for the brand on her cheek. Everyone is owned by someone in this shit-hole.
“Not today, need spices carried up from the gate on Friday, you come early,” the vendor said, in a heavy southern accent.
“Yes, ma’am. Before the sun.” Silas turned away.
The guard continued to scan the crowds.
“Hand over the thirty-seven. Next week, it will be one hundred. Perhaps then you will be sure to be ready with your taxes?”
There won’t be a next week if I can help it.
