The Assassin's Tale (2 page)

Over the centuries she had gathered the Red Family about her, training them as killers, as worshippers of the orcish blood god Mhor, unleashing them in exchange for payment. Most of the Family believed that the Matriarch was a follower of Mhor, that she had trained them as assassins to harvest blood for Mhor’s kingdom. Mara knew better. The Matriarch did not believe in Mhor or God or any gods, only in her own power. 

Legends surrounded the lair of the Red Family. Most of the realm believed that the Red Family was a grisly story and nothing more. Those who did believe whispered of a secret temple built of skulls around a pool of blood. Others claimed the Red Family laired in a tower with no doors that could only be entered with the spilled blood of an innocent, or in a hidden crypt deep beneath the city’s catacombs. 

Currently the Matriarch lived in an opulent domus not far from the heart of the city, attended by human and halfling servants sworn to secrecy. There was no hidden lair. The best hiding place, the Matriarch always said, was in plain sight. If someone even suspected the existence of her hiding place, she simply killed all the witnesses and moved to a new location. 

The strategy worked. The Matriarch had lurked in Cintarra for nearly five hundred years…and most of the lords of Andomhaim still thought her a myth.

Those who had not hired her services, at any rate.

The guards at the door looked like unremarkable footmen, but they were Brothers, and they admitted her without question. That was heartening. Had the Matriarch ordered it, they would have killed her without question. 

Inside the domus was silent. Mara climbed the stairs to the solar at the back of the house. The door swung open at her approach, revealing a glass-walled room with a fine view of the gardens of the inner courtyard. Two Red Brothers stood in the room, both wearing their formal blood-colored leather armor. One was middle-aged, with a narrow face beneath a tangle of graying yellow hair, his eyes hard and predatory as they considered Mara. The second was about Mara’s age, shorter than the older man, but heavy with muscle, his black hair and beard close-cropped. 

The Matriarch herself sat between them, and Mara felt the power surrounding the ancient dark elf. 

She was pale, her black hair piled in an elaborate crown upon her head, silver earrings glinting in her long, pointed ears and upon her slender fingers. She wore a voluminous blue robe trimmed in black, woven of the finest material. Her eyes were black, solid black, like windows into an endless void. Those empty eyes turned to Mara, and she felt the weight and power of them like a physical blow.

She knelt at once.

“Rise, my daughter,” said the Matriarch, her voice more musical and resonant than any human voice. Mara stood, and the Matriarch regarded her for a moment. “You have failed, I see.”

“Yes, Matriarch,” said Mara. “The target realized who I was, and spotted the poison before I could put it into his wine.”

“Were you exposed?” said the Matriarch.

“No, Matriarch,” said Mara, wondering if she was about to die. “The witnesses thought Jager was trying to seduce me.” His amber eyes and mocking smile flashed through her mind. “Once it became clear that he knew the truth, I fled, concealed myself until the way was clear, and made my way here to report my failure.”

“For you have indeed failed,” said Matriarch. She looked at the older of the two Red Brothers. “Rotherius. What shall we do next?”

Rotherius shrugged. He bore Mara no ill will, but if the Matriarch commanded it, he would kill her without hesitation. “Sometimes our plans are simply foiled by ill fortune, Matriarch. Let Mara try again. That shall determine if she is a worthy servant of Mhor or not.”

The Matriarch looked at the younger assassin. “And you, Cassius? What is your counsel?”

“Kill her at once,” said Cassius, his dark eyes cold and hard. After the Matriarch had first recruited Mara into the Red Family, Cassius had tried to lure her into his bed. She had rebuffed him as politely as she could, and when that failed, she had drawn on the shadows and resorted to force. He had never forgiven her for the humiliation, and would kill her if he ever had the chance. “She has failed you, Matriarch, and she had failed Mhor. Let her blood fall as a guilt offering to Mhor.”

“And you, Mara?” said the Matriarch. “You chose to employ the poison sphere, far too simple a stratagem against so cunning a target as Jager. Why did you choose that, might I ask?”

“He is a simple merchant, rich and arrogant,” said Mara. “I have used the poison sphere against such men before. I did not think he would see the danger.”

The Matriarch tapped her thin fingers together. “You did not think a man as notorious as the Master Thief of Cintarra would exercise caution?”

“The what?” said Mara, puzzled. “He is a merchant, Matriarch. Or so I believed.” 

Rotherius looked at Cassius and let out a nasty laugh, and the younger man shifted. 

“You truly do not know?” said the Matriarch. “Cassius, I am disappointed in you. I instructed you to tell Mara of her target. Did you disobey me?”

“Of course not, Matriarch,” said Cassius, a faint sheen of sweat appearing on his brow. For an assassin, the man could not keep a straight face. “I went to tell her of your instructions, but she had already left the domus, and by then…”

Mara understood. The Matriarch enjoyed playing little games with the Red Family, setting them against each other in petty feuds that often turned bloody. She claimed it kept them vigilant and strong in their service to Mhor. Mara suspected the Matriarch simply enjoyed the spectacle. 

“Do not lie to me, Cassius,” said the Matriarch. “You disobeyed my command, no doubt in hopes of seeing Mara fail and die. Disappointing. Only the strong and the clever prosper in the service of Mhor. I had expected better of you.” 

“Matriarch,” said Cassius, more sweat appearing on his face, “I must…”

“Silence,” said the Matriarch, turning back to Mara. “This halfling Jager is no mere merchant. That is simply the cover identity he uses to mask the source of his great wealth. He is in fact the man known as the Master Thief of Cintarra.”

“Him?” said Mara. “The Master Thief is real?” 

She had heard the tales, of course. The mysterious Master Thief of Cintarra, who had robbed the Prince’s Castra and the domi of a score of prominent comites and knights. The Master Thief who had broken into the High King’s citadel in Tarlion and made off with some of the treasury’s jewels.

“He is quite real,” said the Matriarch, “and the tales about him have only been slightly exaggerated. Quite an audacious little rodent. As you can imagine, such a bold thief gains powerful enemies, and those enemies made an offering to Mhor to have the Red Family exterminate him. It took a great deal of potent sorcery to uncover his identity, and once I had, I sent one of my most skillful assassins to kill him.” Her bottomless black eyes turned to Cassius. “Until another of my children managed to bungle the affair.” 

“Forgive me, Matriarch,” said Cassius. “Let me kill the Master Thief. Let me prove myself worthy.”

“No,” said the Matriarch. “Mara had incomplete information. Therefore the task is hers. My daughter, you shall find Jager and you shall kill him. And if you fail…”

“My life is forfeit,” said Mara.

“Not at all,” said the Matriarch. “You do not believe the word of Mhor, but instead choose to believe in the Dominus Christus and the feeble superstitions of the church.” Cassius scowled at that, and even Rotherius’s mouth thinned. They believed in the word of Mhor as Mara did not, but the Matriarch kept Mara because she was useful. “Why bother to kill you? What a waste that would be.” She smiled her cruel smile. “Instead I shall simply reclaim your bracelet, and you can serve me for all eternity. Is that not fair?” 

Mara felt a chill, her right hand straying to the jade bracelet around her left wrist.

The Matriarch did not need the threat of death to keep Mara under control. The Matriarch could do far worse things to Mara than kill her.

Mara’s dark elven blood granted her the ability to command the shadows, but it also carried a curse. Sooner or later it would overwhelm her, would spin out of her control. And after it consumed her, she would transform into one of the monsters of the dark elves, the war beasts they used against their foes. The lesser beasts, the urvaalgs and the ursaars and the others, were made from animals. But the more powerful creatures of dark magic, urshanes and urvuuls and worse things, were created when the dark elves mixed their blood with that of other kindreds. Mara’s father had intended that fate for her, had she not escaped with her mother.

And the Matriarch would do the same to Mara if she was no longer useful. 

Mara closed her eyes. “It will be done, Matriarch. He will die.”

“Good,” said the Matriarch. “I expected no less of you, my child. I have always prized your service. For you will serve me, one way or another.” 

###

Four days later, Mara stood outside of Jager’s domus.

It was rather more opulent than the Matriarch’s lair. A small garden encircled the domus proper, its walls of crisp red brick. Liveried footmen stood watch at the gate. Mara walked past the garden wall, noting the position of the windows and the doors. This time she wore the clothing of a common maid, a bundle of rolled washing under her arm, and the footmen paid her no notice. She kept walking, leaving the wealthier districts of Cintarra, and came to a tavern overlooking the river. Mara had rented a room there, to use as a base as she plotted Jager’s death. 

It would not be much longer now. She had noted the position of his guards and doors, and with her skill at stealth and command over the shadows, she could enter his domus, kill him in his sleep, and escape before anyone noticed. The Matriarch wanted his death to look natural, and there were any number of ways to achieve that. 

Mara still thought it a pity as she climbed the rickety wooden stairs to her room. She had rather liked Jager with his boldness and quick wit.

She unlocked the door, stepped into the room, and froze.

“Greetings again.”

Jager sat in the room’s chair, his boots propped on the narrow bed. 

For a moment Mara stood motionless, her mind sorting through possible answers.

“It is inappropriate,” she said at last, “to enter a lady’s room without an invitation.”

Jager grinned. “You are no more a lady than I am a lord.” 

“You do not know that,” said Mara. “Perhaps I am the exiled daughter of a nobleman, making her way in a cold and hostile world as best she can.” That wasn’t completely divorced from the truth. Of course, if Jager knew that her father was a dark elven nobleman, the dreaded Traveler of Nightmane Forest, then he would try to kill her on the spot. 

Jager got to his feet, offered an elaborate bow, and again kissed the fingers of her right hand. “I can be utterly certain of that.”

“And just why is that, sir?” said Mara.

“Because,” said Jager, “you are far too polite to be a noblewoman of Andomhaim. You haven’t thrown a tantrum once yet.”

Despite herself, Mara laughed. God knew that most of the noblewomen she had met had hardly been paragons of virtue and sobriety. Some of them had hired the Red Family to dispose of their husbands. “Perhaps I simply locked myself in a closet and carried out my tantrum there.”

“Unlikely,” said Jager, “giving that you have been watching my domus for the last few days.” 

That displeased her. Had she been that obvious? “And it is peculiar for you to call me polite, given that I tried to kill you.”

“All the more proof that you are not a noblewoman of Andomhaim,” said Jager, “given that killing is honest work. Well.” He thought for a moment. “At least closer to honest work than a noblewoman would ever venture.” 

“As opposed to thieving?” said Mara. “Bold words from the Master Thief of Cintarra.”

Jager grinned. “I steal from the nobles and their pet merchants. God knows they deserve it.” He tilted his head to the side, thinking. “You…didn’t know, did you? The Red Family didn’t tell you? Oh, dear. You should find a different line of work, my lady Mara. Sooner or later they shall fail to give you information about a target far more formidable than me, and that will get you killed.”

“Everyone dies,” said Mara. Certainly worse potential fates awaited her than death. “Which I suspect I may find out sooner or later. Are you here to kill me, Master Thief?”

“Not at all,” said Jager. 

“Then to turn me over to the Prince’s magistrates, then?” said Mara.

“Actually, I wish to invite you to dinner,” said Jager. “It is growing late, and believe me, I know firsthand how all that sneaking about can fire the appetite.”

Mara blinked in astonishment. “You…are asking me to dinner?”

“I believe I just said that, yes,” said Jager.

“You are aware that I have been hired to kill you,” said Mara. “That is an important fact, and I hope it has not slipped your mind.” 

“It is hard to forget,” said Jager. “But if you are trying to kill me, I suppose we can do it in comfort, no?”

“Why?” said Mara, baffled. 

He offered a shrug. “Because you intrigue me. Because I dislike boredom. Because I don’t turn my back on risks. Because in chaos lies opportunity.” He flashed his grin. “And because I would enjoy the expression on the faces of the fat fools at the Sheathed Sword…and unless I miss my guess, I think you would too.” 

“Very well,” said Mara. She could always kill him at dinner, and the more she knew about him, the better the chance of accomplishing her mission. “Let me change and I shall join you.”

“Of course,” said Jager, leaning against the wall and folding his arms. 

She gave him an arch look. “You may wait in the hall.”

Jager grinned and swaggered out the door.

###

A short time later, they sat at a table in the Sheathed Sword. As Jager predicted, the surrounding merchants seemed surprised, which did amuse her. Still, if too many people realized that she was a member of the Red Family, her effectiveness would be limited, and she might even get killed.