Assassin's Rise (25 page)

“Fifty ... I don’t
understand?”

Soul clenched his
fists, pacing the room. “I have taken out a contract on Ralpston’s
head. After his death, you were supposed to be the new Duke! But
no, you prefer playing games at night ...”

The new Duke! If that
happened, he would never have to worry about persecution again. He
would be free! “We can still do it, Father,” said Sirol
eagerly.

“Word of your foolish
adventures has reached Ralpston’s ears. If he died now, all fingers
will point to me! They will believe I killed him to clear your
name, you idiot boy!”

Why did the heavens
curse me with such a foolish son, wondered Soul as he paced the
room. If Sirol had become Duke, then his own claim to the throne
would have been so much stronger.

“The next time you feel
like rutting with a peasant, you do it outside city walls, do you
understand me?” said Soul.

“Of course, Father,”
said Sirol quickly. He knew his father well. Talking about next
time meant that his father’s anger was starting to wane. “But what
of your plans?” he asked in a most concerned voice.

Soul waved his hand.
“It has been a setback, but in ten years time everyone will have
forgotten what you did. Just make sure you don’t remind them!”

There was a soft knock
on the door and Sirol said, “E- enter.”

“My Lord?” A stooped
man entered the room, his hair short cropped and silver grey.
“There is another mercenary looking for work. We already have
twenty five working for us ... what should I do?”

“Hire him immediately!”
yelled Sirol excitedly. Each new mercenary meant a life to
sacrifice for his own.

The old man looked up
at Soul for confirmation and he nodded curtly. “But this is the
last one, Corin. Twenty-six mercenaries are more than enough. They
don’t work for free, after all.”

“Yes, Lord,” said Corin
and backed from the room, bowing as he did.

*

Why all the
mercenaries, wondered Corin as he descended the winding staircase.
In all his thirty years serving the Vanderman family, the House
Guard were always deemed sufficient. Master Soul had only informed
him that the mercenaries were for added protection, but Corin did
not buy it. Why then did Sirol seclude himself in his room at all
times? And why did the boy seem to live in such fear?

Corin thought he knew
why; someone was after the young Lord’s life. Probably envious of
him, thought Corin. He had heard the rumours surrounding the boy,
but he did not believe it for a second. He had been with Lord Sirol
since he was but a small boy, and there was no malice in him.
Mischievous and sometimes misunderstood, but so were all boys.
Sirol would never harm innocent girls!

He better make sure
that this new mercenary was up to scratch, thought Corin,
increasing his pace. It was up to him to make sure that the young
Lord was well protected.

Corin stepped into the
entrance hall, his reflection shining from the polished floor as he
walked across it. He opened the Vandarman front door, his eyes
scrutinizing the new mercenary who waited outside. He had long,
flaming-red hair, tangled strands hanging past his shoulders. A
long, dark cloak hung from his shoulders, bunched up onto his back.
A dirty green tunic hung below his knees. He seemed oddly
potbellied and flushed at the sides, as if he had no hips or waist.
Corin sniffed; the man did not look build for fighting.

Don’t judge too
quickly, Corin reminded himself. The man could turn out to be an
excellent guard. The mercenary was olive skinned, his face looking
so smooth Corin wondered if he had ever needed to shave. A small
leather cup covered his left eye, thin leather bands tying it
behind his head. The mercenary smiled nervously as Corin stared at
him.

“What skills do you
have?” said Corin, wrinkling his nose as he caught a whiff of what
smelled like horse dung coming from the man.

The mercenary took a
few steps forward and Corin saw that he limped heavily; his right
foot bend to the side at an alarming angle.

Useless, thought
Corin.

“I have some skill with
the crossbow, Lord,” he said.

“I am not a Lord, man.
My name is Corin.”

“I am called Red, Lo
... Sir,” stammered Red.

“What happened to your
foot?” said Corin, not unkindly. At least the man had good manners
– but manners would not keep the young Lord safe.

“Run over by a wagon as
a boy, sir ... but I am really good with a crossbow, sir, even
though I am a bit slow with swords and such,” Red said quickly.

“I would like you to
prove it to me, Red,” said Corin. He was not a cruel man, and the
cripple at least deserved a chance to prove himself.

“As you can see, I am
unarmed, sir. Can the house lend me a bow per chance?”

“Wait here,” snapped
Corin irritably and disappeared back into the mansion, his attempt
at kindness forgotten. Red could hear the old man’s muffled yells
through the closed door and he reappeared moments later carrying a
huge crossbow and a quiver of bolts. He handed it to Red.

“Shoot that tree over
there,” said Corin, pointing at a birch about forty paces away. He
would never find his mark, but at least Corin would have showed his
compassion, but Red surprised him by asking, “Which part, sir?”

“What do you mean which
part? The trunk of course!”

“The trunk is too big
and it will not be a good test, sir,” said Red. “See that crooked
branch shaped like a lightning bolt ... I’ll shoot that, sir,” and
before Corin could reply he lifted the crossbow and pulled the
trigger. A bolt slammed into the branch, leaves shaking at its tip.
Corin caught himself just in time – he had almost clapped his
hands. It was very fine shooting and he immediately changed his
mind about Red.

“Walk with me,” said
Corin and slowly walked across the mansion grounds, Red limping
alongside him. “During the day we leave the protection of the
Vanderman family to the House Guard. From sunset to sunrise, we
have hired men who patrol the grounds. You will be paid fifteen
bronze for every night – that is four and a halve silvers per
week.” He smiled kindly at Red; it must seem a fortune to him.

“Does that mean I can
work for you, sir?” asked Red, his eye misting over. Corin was
touched.

“It is not easy work,
Red. You should be prepared to give your life in exchange for the
family.”

“Of course, sir. I
would do nothing less!”

“Very good. You should
come back tonight then – but do not open the gate yourself, there
are vicious dogs that will first need to get used to your
smell.”

“Thank you very much,
sir,” said Red solemnly.

*

Red returned promptly
at sunset, limping across the grounds while the dog handler allowed
his dogs to sniff the crippled man. The dogs barked once, and then
ignored Red – he was not the enemy. Corin watched Red with a
pleased expression. No intruder would be able to get past Red’s
good shooting. It just showed him not to judge a man by how he
appeared.

Red spend the first few
hours limping around, his crossbow held in both hands, but after a
while his leg hurt so much that he retreated to the back of the
grounds. The grounds ended sharply at a cliffs edge, and he leaned
against a tree there, massaging his knee. The ocean was below the
cliff, waves lapping against the steep side, and the air smelled of
salt and seaweed. The rear of the mansion stood against the cliff,
and there was just enough space between mansion wall and abyss to
manoeuvre around the building.

After a while, Red
resumed his patrol, but his limp grew heavier, and he returned to
rest at the cliff’s edge more frequently. The other mercenaries did
not mind Red taking frequent breaks. It looked very painful as Red
walked, and he was, after all, trying his best.

*

It was late at night,
and the windows of the Vanderman mansion had turned dark, the
household sleeping. Red again went for one of his frequent breaks,
and anyone watching could see that his leg was paining him
immensely. He leaned against the mansion wall, breathing in the
cool air, and then he swung himself around the corner, so he stood
on the ledge separating mansion and ocean. Standing with his back
pressed against the rear wall, he dropped the crossbow into the
ocean below. He could not hear the splash as it struck the water.
He untied his cloak and dropped it at his feet, stepping onto it.
He pulled his green tunic over his head, and it followed the
crossbow. He chuckled as he flung the leather cup covering his left
eye over the edge. A thin rope was thickly wrapped around his body,
from stomach to chest and again around the shoulders. Just a glint
of silver flashed from under the rope, but otherwise the coils of
rope hid everything from view. He stooped and picked up the cloak,
flinging it over his shoulders. The bunched up look disappeared as
he wrapped it around his body. He kicked his boots off, and
barefoot, he turned to face the rugged wall, his fingers searching
across the wall for holds. His toes dug into a cleft in the wall,
and he pushed himself up, fingers hooking around protruding stones.
The balcony above him was a mere fifty feet away, and behind the
large window, Sirol turned in his sleep, a smile on his face
...

He was dreaming of his
new Dukedom.

H
ands curled around the balcony
edge and Roland pulled himself over the side, landing catlike on
the balcony floor. He remained crouched, waiting for his breathing
to return to normal.

He loosened the rope
coiled around him, his eyes fixed on the window; heavy curtains
hung unmoving behind it. The rope ended in a small, iron claw,
which he hooked around the balcony railing, dropping the rest of
the rope over the side so it hung past the cliff’s edge. Sliding
down the rope would be far quicker and easier than climbing back
down the wall, and the claw would allow him to retrieve the rope
once he reached the ledge.

Heart beating wildly,
he tried prying the window open. It would not budge; it must be
locked from the inside. Feeling along the edges, he found a large
wooden hinge. Pressing the point of the zhutou underneath the
hinge, he slowly forced the securing pin out, and he caught the
window just in time as it toppled toward him.

Roland pushed the heavy
curtain to the side, peering into the room beyond. There was a low
fire burning in a hearth in one corner, and after his climb in the
dark, his eyes were well adjusted and the firelight was enough to
make out details in the room. Thick looking carpets covered the
floor, and richly upholstered chairs and couches surrounded a table
in the middle of the room. Portraits hung on the walls, and a tall
silver mirror stood next to a large desk filled with parchments and
writing tools. Sirol lay sleeping in a massive bed close to the
fire. Silk drapes hung from the ceiling and fell over his bed.

Roland climbed through
the window, the carpet soft under his bare feet. Silently he walked
to Sirol’s bed, firelight dancing madly in his eyes.

He stood next to the
bed, looking down on the sleeping man, his expression unreadable.
From his sash, Roland pulled a small silver vial. Holding it
between thumb and finger, he studied it in the firelight. He pulled
the small stopper from the vial, and liberally spilled the contents
onto the zhutous tapered end. The empty vial disappeared back under
his sash, and the zhutou pricked Sirol’s throat.

Sirol’s eyes shot open,
rolling madly, but his body did not move. His eyes focused on
Roland’s face, grew wide, but he made no sound.

Roland leaned close to
Sirol, and whispered, “Two years, four months and five days ago,
there was a girl and a boy sitting in a park. She gave the boy a
gift, smiling and alive, her hair like the setting sun. Do you
remember what you did to her, Sirol Vanderman?”

Sirol could only stare,
his eyes bulging from his head.

“You raped and killed
her, Sirol. You took everything from her, and you stole her from
the boy. You thought you had killed the boy as well, but he was
still alive, carrying the scars you gave him on his face and more
... but I guess you don’t recognise him, do you?”

Roland pulled his
fingers down his face, and for one horrible moment, it looked as if
he was peeling off his skin. Light brown flakes fell from his face,
revealing the long jagged scar on his cheek. “Face paint,” said
Roland conversationally, showing Sirol his palms which were covered
in what looked like clay. “Women are clever, don’t you think? They
took war paint and made it their own, like real skin. And the hair
–” he brushed a strand of red hair from his eyes, “– a foul
smelling concoction used to change the colour. Underneath the red,
my hair is dark, black, like you will be once buried.”

Roland pulled the thick
quilt from Sirol’s body, smirking at the silk nightgown he wore
beneath the covers. The hilt of a dagger showed from under the
pillow, and Roland shook his head sympathetically. Roland grabbed
the nightgown by the hem and pulled it up to Sirol’s chest. From
his sash, he pulled a short, rusted knife, the blade pitted and
wickedly curved. He rested the edge of the blade against Sirol’s
soft flesh, smiling down at him kindly.

“I won’t use the
weapons Li Ho gave me on you, but I think that this knife will
suffice.”

Unhurriedly, Roland
sliced the knife up and down while tears steamed from Sirol’s eyes,
and sweat rolled down his face. Roland balanced the limp, useless
organ on the width of the blade and then flicked it into the fire
contemptuously. It sizzled and shrivelled, the smell of burning
hair wafting from the coals. Blood poured from between Sirol’s
legs, pooling onto the expensive sheets.

“I have a letter that I
have taken the liberty to write in your name,” said Roland, taking
a parchment from the fold of his dark shirt.