Assassin's Rise (9 page)

“You ask too many
questions,” said Roland, watching Jeklor from underneath
half-closed eyelids.

“Just making
conversation, my good man,” he said and shrugged. “You have near
spoke no word since you got here. I was interested in hearing what
you have to say.”

*

Altmoor rushed from the
guardhouse. He blinked his eyes a few times once he stepped into
the brilliant sunlight.

“Innocently locked away
in the dark to protect appearances,” he said, and cursed loudly. A
passer-by looked up as he swore, but looked down again quickly once
he recognised Altmoor’s robes. Altmoor shook his head. He, also,
was part of the problem. Too used to command respect, to have those
of common blood obeying him; it was an open sore on the city.

As a young man in the
war, he had had no such illusions, fighting side by side with his
blood brothers, men with no claim to noble blood. He had sat around
the fire with them, sharing meals and swapping tales. But, as an
old man, the only friend he had left was Oldon. Without him
noticing, as the years had passed, he had moved along with the
assuming vision of noble-blood grandeur. No, he did notice – he had
ignored it.

He ran into the street,
his robes lifted high as he took wide strides, his bony, white legs
near reflecting the sun light. He stepped in front of a donkey
cart, holding his hands out in front of him. The driver pulled back
on the reins, cursing.

“Whoreson, what in the
–” he started, and then bit his tongue as he noted the robes. “What
is the problem, Lord?” he said, red-faced.

Altmoor walked around
the cart and jumped onto the back. His foot tangled in the hem of
his robes and he landed face first. He heard people laughing but he
did not care. He decided that today marked the day where he would
discard the overblown nobles pride and dignity. He waved at the
laughing crowd. They tried to hide their faces from being
recognised.

Digging in a pouch
hanging by his side, he handed the surprised driver a handful of
silver. “Take me to Academia Amlor,” he said.

The man’s eyes widened
as he counted the small fortune. He whipped the reins, urging the
donkey into action, eager to move before the crazy old noble
changed his mind.

*

The cell door opened
and Altmoor stepped inside, the guard closing the door behind him.
He held a burning candle in front of him, his one hand curled
around the back of the flame, blocking most of the glare. Roland
and Jeklor squinted their eyes. Altmoor placed the candle on the
floor, keeping his hand in place.

“Thank you, but we will
be fine,” said Roland. Altmoor nodded and lifted his hand.

The two prisoners sat
and stared at the candle, their eyes getting used to the light,
while Altmoor arranged the writing instruments on the floor. He
laid four sheaves of slightly, yellowish parchment on a clean
cloth, a bottle of ink and a quill placed next to it. A stub of red
wax went next to the candle.

“Will you be able to
write or should I?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine,’ said
Roland and moved to the cloth. ‘Thank you, you have been a great
help.”

“It’s the least I can
do,” said Altmoor, ashamed, seething inside thinking of what his
noble peers were doing.

Roland sat cross-legged
in front of the cloth, took the quill and dipped it into the ink.
He only paused for a moment before he started writing, the quill
rasping across the parchment. He finished two letters and blew on
the ink to keep it from smudging. He rolled the parchments up and
wrote down the destinations. He proceeded to hold the stub of wax
to the candles flame before sealing each letter with a portion of
melted wax. He waited for the wax to harden before handing the two
letters to Altmoor.

“These two letters are
to go to my village, Seven Streams. They are for my Mother and my
Master, Apothecary Pelron. I’ve told them that I’ve passed the
exam, and that I will be going to the east for five years, learning
about their healing techniques. I trust you to keep the truth from
them.”

Altmoor accepted the
letters, a puzzled look on his face. “I can understand why you
wrote that, but what will you do after five years, lad? You can’t
hide it forever.”

“I can, and I will.
You’ve said yourself that there is no news in the city over what
has happened. The crime is hidden to protect a noble, and no one
knows my name. In five years, I will have a sick house in the poor
quarter of Darma, free to visit for all commoners. At that time I
will bring my Mother and Master to Darma and show it to them.”
Roland spoke with a single-minded determination, his eyes never
wavering in the slightest.

Altmoor dropped his
gaze and stared into the candle flame. He could almost believe it
when Roland spoke like that, but he knew that it would not be that
easy. To even get to the stage of opening a sick house – and that
while in a dark cell wrongfully accused – would be an unbelievable
accomplishment. To make it free for all commoners would require a
wealth that Roland would not be able to gather in his lifetime. But
as long as you dreamed, no matter how impossible it was, it meant
you could still face tomorrow. He just hoped the truth would not
break Roland.

“I will do as you ask,”
he said.

Roland took much longer
to write the third letter. He addressed and sealed it, handing it
to Altmoor. “This letter is for Captain Rage of the Swallow. I am
sorry to ask this of you, but you will have to wait at the harbour
for his ship to come in. I don’t know when that will be.” He
reached into his pocket and held out Carla’s brooch. “Tell him that
this was a gift Carla made for me, and that I entrust it to his
care.”

Altmoor could see the
struggle on Roland’s face as he held out the brooch, and Altmoor
accepted the brooch with shaking hands. “It will be done,” he said,
his voice trembling. If he were only twenty years younger, he would
call his old comrades and burn Vanderman from his estate. “You are
too old for dreams, you old fool,” he chided himself softly.

Roland sat with his
head bowed, his right hand resting on the remaining sheave of
parchment. Altmoor and Jeklor watched him in silence.

“The knife please,
Altmoor,” he said and held his hand out.

Altmoor hesitated for a
moment, then reached into the fold of his robes and handed Roland a
small knife. Roland was no coward; he could trust him with it, even
if the lad’s spirits were low.

It looked like a
skinning knife, the blade curved and razor sharp. Roland placed the
blade on his left palm and pulled it back. The blood was dark and
hot flowing down his arm. It pooled in the crook of his elbow
before spilling over. As the heavy droplets struck the stone floor,
the sound sang loud in the silent, cold room.

“What are you doing?”
Altmoor asked, startled. His eyes followed the crimson tears path
through the air, watching as the blood mixed with filth on the
stone floor.

Roland’s eyes narrowed,
a vortex of loss and anger enveloping him. “The final letter will
be written in blood,” he said.

Jeklor shifted
uncomfortable against the wall; Roland’s expression reminded him of
a wild beast hunting his prey.

Roland wiped the ink
from the quill and dipped it in his blood. He wrote slowly,
deliberately, often wetting the quill in the cut on his palm. He
finished the letter and wrapped the cloth around his bleeding hand.
He sat holding his hand in his lap, reading over what he had
written several times, his eyes cold.

Know that the moment
you put your hands on the girl, your life was forfeit.

Know that I swear by my
blood to visit you within three years.

Know that each breath
of every moment is a breath closer to my oath.

Know that you are
already dead, and that I am the reaper of your soul.

“I swear,” he said and
sealed the letter. He handed it to Altmoor. The old man’s eyes grew
wide as he read to whom it was intended for.

“Do not deliver the
letter yourself. It should not, under any circumstances be known
that you’ve had any dealings with me. There are many urchins in the
city, and they are well organised and nimble of foot. Pay one of
them to hand the letter to a servant of the Vanderman household and
then to run,” said Roland.

“Are you sure about
this?” said Altmoor carefully. “What did you write?”

“The time leading up to
my meeting with Sirol Vanderman will have him consumed with fear,
always looking over his shoulder, never resting without nightmares.
He will know remorse for what he has done.”

“And then? What do you
plan on doing, lad?” asked Altmoor, his expression troubled.

Roland lifted his
wrapped hand, clenching it so dark stains seeped through the white
cloth, his face hard and unforgiving. “I will learn to move
diagonally,” he said.

T
he guard stepped into the cell and
pulled a bolt from the wooden shackle he carried, lifting the top
clear. “Hands out,” he said.

The guard who remained
in the doorway grinned.

Roland placed his
wrists into the curves carved into the bottom of the shackle. The
guard slammed the top over his wrists, sealing his hands within the
wooden block. He dropped the bolt back into the hole bored through
the centre of the shackle, and slipped a pin through a tiny hole in
the end of the bolt as it emerged from underneath.

Roland opened and
closed his hands. The shackle was a tight fit but it did not
restrict his circulation overly much. His arms grew tired and his
hands dropped to his thighs; the shackle was surprisingly heavy.
The guard grabbed him by the shoulder, shoving him to the cell
door.

“Not so fast, old
horse,” called Jeklor. “I think I will be joining the good man on
his excursion.”

Roland swung his head
around and shouted, “What are you thinking!”

“Your will and passion
has spoken to me. Besides, I still have a year left to rot in this
hole – show me that you are not just talk.”

“Your name is not on
the list,” said the guard, his voice bored. Why anyone would
willingly go to The Tomb was beyond him. “The mines are for the
worst kind of scum. You are only a failed horse thief.”

“Oh?”

Jeklor stepped toward
the guard and nimbly leapt into the air. His foot cracked against
the guard’s head, his iron helmet spinning through the air. It
struck the stone wall with a sharp clang. “I guess I can go now?”
he said standing over the dazed man. The guard in the doorway
turned pale.

“Prison break!” he
screamed, and footsteps thundered down the hallway.

“Now you’ve done it,”
said Roland, shaking his head.

“It should be fun,”
replied Jeklor, and sagely held his hands out ready.

*

After two months of
travel by wagon and ship, Roland and Jeklor together with the other
nominated prisoners were unceremoniously dragged from the wooden
cage resting on top of the flatbed wagon.

Roland picked himself
up, the crisp wind of the northern mountains cutting straight
through his tattered clothes. He shook his head, trying to clear
his eyes from stubborn hair hanging over his brow. His dark hair
was long and greasy, hanging below his shoulders. “The Tomb,” he
muttered, looking up at the immense fort that seemed to be an
extension of the mountainside. The walls were of large, grey
stones, the towers cracked and weathered. Vegetation crept up the
walls, disappearing inside the abandoned turrets.

“It’s probably the
entrance to the mines,” whispered Jeklor, his usually jaunty voice
sounding oddly deflated – almost scared.

The fort opened, chains
rattling as an iron-reinforced gate lifted up. From inside marched
five men, aiming for the prisoners. They wore no armour, instead
wearing thick, woollen cloaks and sheepskin moccasins, but as they
drew closer, the guards flanking the prisoners saluted sharply.

The man in the centre
lazily returned the salute. He was at least two heads taller than
the average man, a thick, black beard covering his face. His eyes
were small and dark, reminding Roland of tunnels burrowed into the
earth.

“Six new bodies – and
just in time,” he said, his voice sounding oddly high coming from
such a large frame. “We are running behind schedule. Well done,
Captain,” he greeted the guard who had stepped forward upon his
approach.

“Thank you, Lord,” said
the Captain and smartly about turned, facing the prisoners. “This
is Lord Alsoner. He will be your new master for as long as you draw
breath,” he told the bedraggled men. “You have been removed from
society. You are deemed unworthy to live among Calvanians. You
should be hanged and quartered, but the Duke of Darma in his
infinite wisdom has seen it fit to put your lives to use for the
greater good.”

Jeklor snorted and said
dryly, “You mean he uses us to make himself richer still.”

The Captain’s face
turned purple but Alsoner placed a restraining hand on his
shoulder. He nodded to a man at his side who wore a woollen cloak
similar to his. The man reversed his spear and slammed the but-end
into Jeklor’s stomach. Jeklor fell to his knees, dry-heaving, sweat
running down his face despite the chill.

Roland stood his
ground; only his narrowed eyes and his clenched jaw showed his
anger. Jeklor was stupid. He was drawing attention. He was also
angry that Jeklor had insisted on accompanying him – he now felt
responsible for the fair-haired man’s life.

“As the Captain said,”
continued Alsoner in a smooth voice, ignoring the kneeling Jeklor,
“your miserable lives are finally put to good use. Trust is put
into your unworthy selves to provide Calvana with her silver. This
is an honour and should I deem you ungrateful – I will simply kill
you.” He kept his voice conversational, but his eyes were cold as
he swept his gaze across the prisoners.