Beneath Ceaseless Skies #128 Read online

  “I agree,” said Klint. “But what to do about it?”

  Mere seconds had passed, but Otranto had taken the measure of his enemy, and though he knew he didn’t show it, would never show it, he was uncertain. He had been the death of many, many men. But this one? Was he capable?

  Apprehension was useless. So was doubt. Speculation—that was more worthwhile. Jofus Klint was indeed his opposite, his greatest of rivals; the only man alive he had cause to fear or to respect. What forces could had brought them together in this place? And did Klint’s presence explain those others, so curiously accoutered, whom he’d met on the way here?

  Of course. The woman had been from the Cat House—likely Cleo Thelasis. The man was almost certainly the one known as the Skeleton, head assassin of the tiny but esteemed splinter calling itself the Downward Ladder. Fine craftsman both; he’d been lucky to survive either encounter, let alone both.

  A convocation of killers. What could explain such a thing?

  Not what.

  Who.

  Not knowing quite where his thoughts were leading him, Otranto nevertheless called out ringingly, “You may reveal yourself. I’m not killing anyone else tonight without an explanation, even though it cost me my life.”

  At first there was no response except Klint’s enquiring stare. Then a noise drew their notice, stone grinding against stone. When Otranto looked to his right, he was mildly astonished to see one of the huge paving stones of the courtyard rising from its place. The cobble hovered at a hand’s height above its brethren, rotated forty-five degrees and slid forward. It was followed by fingers, an arm, a head and shoulders, all rising spectrally out of the ground.

  A maintenance area, Otranto thought, for the fountain. Likely there were many such caverns beneath the pleasure gardens, subterranean stores and potting sheds and who knew what else. However, the man now clambering up from the depths was no gardener, engineer, or other such base functionary. He was smartly dressed in a uniform of blue and gold; his grey-shot beard was neatly maintained, and the ornamental sword and scabbard at his hip bore jewels and fine metals enough to purchase a small galleon.

  This time, recognition inspired in Otranto only the barest hint of surprise. “Grand Constable Fex,” he said. “What unusual circumstances in which to meet a man of the law.”

  “Do you think so?” said Fex, brushing dust from either sleeve. “Well, perhaps I’d have agreed until recently.”

  “Our occupation is perfectly legal under the ordinances of the city,” put in Klint. “You have no dominion here, and no grounds to interfere.”

  “Nor would I dream of it,” replied Fex. “Who do you think hired you?”

  Otranto and Klint shared a glance, each trying to gauge the other’s reaction. Then both turned their attention back to Fex, for it was clear he had more to add.

  “Do you have any idea,” he said, “of the damage you hireling murderers have done to Cold Harbor? For those who merely want to live a quiet life, for those who wish to pursue a business that doesn’t involve killing or being killed? The common, decent citizenry grow poorer every day. Most of the wealthy have departed to cities where they needn’t incessantly fear death. You are a cancer eating Cold Harbor. So I have plotted a means to thin your numbers once and forever.”

  Otranto remembered his own earlier contemplation. “The cream of the guilds set against each other,” he said softly. “A gauntlet of assassins.”

  “Precisely. The first and most spectacular of many I have planned. Six months from now, your surviving associates will be run to ground, fearful to take even the most innocuous-seeming contract lest it turn out to be a trap. In any case, once word of what’s happened tonight gets out, the guilds will be at each other’s throats. The best part is that, assuming both of your reputations can be believed, it will be a miracle if either of you survive your duel—so that the entire affair will be settled without a stress on the city’s coffers.”

  Otranto recognized in Klint a man preparing himself for violence; all of the tension had returned to his body as he said, “I must commend you, Grand Constable. I consider myself a man of versatile morality, but even I could never have conceived so diabolical a plot.”

  Otranto felt a drop of sweat start at his brow. He’d never faced death before, not truly, and if only half of Klint’s repute was true then the man was death incarnate. Otranto had already calculated the time that separated each of his own hands from their nearest blades, found the results too long. What did that leave him but to keep talking?

  “So you hid to hear the result of your machinations?” he asked, addressing himself to Fex without taking his eyes from Klint. He understood now that this was the insight his instincts had gifted him before: anyone who would go to so much trouble would not want to miss witnessing the results.

  Fex smiled a ghastly smile. “I wanted to make certain I received value for my money. I was content to listen if that was all I could do. Now that the opportunity to watch the two greatest assassins in the world battle to their deaths has arisen, however, I’m more than prepared to savor it.”

  Otranto nodded. So there it was. He had been lured here by this drab, dull bureaucrat, and now he must fight a man he had no quarrel with, indeed felt nothing but admiration for. That it was a fight he could in no way be assured of winning seemed, just then, the least of his worries.

  “Master Otranto,” Klint said. “Since I have a weapon to hand and you have not, I will give you one half of a second’s start. Because I respect you...” He nodded towards where Fex was standing. “And this, I respect not at all.”

  Half a second. Otranto’s lightning mind roved through new calculations; considered angles, vectors, speeds. He might arm himself. He might move—just so. A wound, maybe. But a kill—and then to walk away unscathed? Doubtful.

  “Is this how assassins fight?” asked Fex, with contempt. “Hurry, won’t you, there are those of us here with beds to go to.”

  “He has a point,” agreed Klint. “We have a job to do, however distasteful. You know my terms; make your move, please, and let’s be done.”

  The sweat drop roved down Otranto’s cheek. Though there was no hand he’d rather see his life end by, the possibility still galled him. Yet what was the alternative? More even than a killer, Otranto was a servant of his word—and his word had been given, in contract sealed by blood.

  Go to the fountain.

  Slay the one you find there....

  Slowly, casually, Otranto wiped the drop of sweat aside before it could stain his collar and indicated the closest moondial. “Master Klint, what time do you make it?”

  Klint’s eyes didn’t so much as flicker from Otranto’s face. “We are men of deeds,” he said. “Prevarication isn’t for the likes of us.”

  “We are also men of honor,” pointed out Otranto. “After our own definition of the word, at any rate. And a contract is a contract, is it not?”

  For an instant, Klint looked puzzled. Then realization dawned across his hard-lined features, and he too considered the nearest moondial. “That’s true. That’s certainly true. So to answer your question, I would have to say... a little after midnight.”

  “And when,” asked Otranto, “in your judgment, did we both arrive?”

  “Ten minutes ago,” said Klint, with certainty. “No less.”

  “This is absurd,” put in Fex. “Get on with your business!” An edge of worry had erased some of the pomposity from his tone.

  Otranto ignored the interruption. “One final question, master Klint: when would you judge that the grand constable here made his appearance?”

  Klint made a great show of considering before he replied, “I’d say midnight precisely. Now that I think, I remember hearing the toll of the temple bell.”

  “Ridiculous!” cried Fex. “I heard no bell. Everyone knows the priests are drunkards who forget their campanology more often than they remember it.” Now he was sounding distinctly nervous.

  Otranto gave the Grand Co
nstable a hard stare, as if disgruntled by this slur against a blameless priesthood. “Go to the fountain at the center of the pleasure gardens,” he quoted, “and slay the one you find there at precisely the hour of midnight. Well, as I said, a contract is a contract.”

  “As I think we are all agreed,” put in Klint.

  “This is lunacy,” Fex squealed. “Anyway, if you kill me, who’ll pay you? Do you propose to loot my corpse like common thieves? I know your orders forbid you to steal, or indulge in your work for free!”

  Otranto gave this consideration. Then he reached around his neck, careful of the bruised patch where the dart had struck, and drew off the chain of finely wrought silver he wore inside his shirt. It ended in a pendant, a bear’s tooth set with studs of iron. “Master Klint, I wonder, would you accept this trinket in lieu of your expected payment? An object more of sentimental than commercial value, but I doubt the commission will cause you much difficulty.”

  “Master Onsario,” said Klint. “It would be an honor and a pleasure both to be hired by you. And now it occurs to me that I too have a little task that needs taking care of.” He reached into a pouch and drew out a single tiny coin—likely kept there not for its monetary value but for causing distractions like the one that had drawn Otranto into the courtyard. Klint held it out and said, “One copper eye is poor payment for an artist of your caliber, but I believe the task is one you’ll find to your liking.” He flicked the coin into the air.

  Otranto caught it; slid it into a pocket. “Well then. Our contract can be honored, and all is well.”

  Fex had backed against the wall now—and it was unfortunate for him that he’d arrived on the farthest side from the entrance. His fingertips hung on the hilt of his sword, but he’d made no attempt to draw it. Even through his terror, he must have understood that it would do him no good.

  Otranto didn’t believe in revenge, or in notions of brotherhood. Nevertheless, it rankled that so much talent had been snuffed out in a single night—and that he would receive no adequate payment for his part in that extinguishing.

  He spared a glance for Klint, who was working his way around the other side of the fountain, without hurry.

  Fex had pushed himself into a corner. While he’d raised both hands to cover his face, Otranto could see that he was peeking between his fingers.

  Otranto rested his own hand upon his belt, let his own fingers march around its circumference without any conscious thought to guide them, and started walking. By the time he had reached Fex, his undirected digits had made their decision. They had drawn the number sixteen blade, kept out of the way near the small of his back because he so rarely used it. Though extraordinarily sharp, it was little more than a scalpel and so inappropriate for most work.

  Otranto allowed himself the smallest sigh.

  He was not by nature a sadist. But the mark of any true artisan was knowing the right tool for the job.

  Copyright © 2013 David Tallerman

  Read Comments on this Story on the BCS Website

  David Tallerman is the author of the comic fantasy novels Giant Thief and Crown Thief, which are to be followed by a second sequel, Prince Thief, in late 2013. The first volume of his absurdist steampunk comic book series, Endangered Weapon B: Mechanimal Science, was also recently released. David’s short fantasy, horror and science fiction has appeared in over fifty markets, including Lightspeed, Bull Spec, and Nightmare. He can be found online at davidtallerman.net and davidtallerman.blogspot.com.

  Read more Beneath Ceaseless Skies

  THE CLAY FARIMA

  by Henry Szabranski

  My brain is a sandstone rock, my heart a cold quartz stone. I am made of my dead mother’s love, I am made of my dead mother’s hate—all mixed up with blood and magic, dirt and clay.

  My father does not know this. My father does not care. He is much more interested in the glistening patterns of blood that adorn the walls of the slain wizard’s spell chamber.

  “Free magic did this.” Father’s scowl is dark. “The very worst kind.”

  I survey the murder scene. The acrid stink of chemicals and freshly spilled blood permeates the room. Slivers of glass poke from between the tumbled books and smashed alchemical paraphernalia, the remains of a once-extensive laboratory. Rays from the setting sun angle through the narrow window and highlight the jagged edges.

  Carefully stepping over the debris, I stare up at the victim. He hangs in mid-air, waxy face twisted in pain. Elongated flowers of solidified blood sprout from his broken body. Blackened eyes stare down at me, full of accusation.

  “Farima! Away from him.”

  I can tell from Father’s compressed lips and furrowed brow that he disapproves of my attention to the corpse.

  I move away. Father must be obeyed at all times and in all things, Mother said. Those are The Rules. If I follow them, he will never suspect my true nature: that I am not his daughter. That I am not even really alive.

  “Father.” I attempt a look of childlike incomprehension. “Who would do a thing like this?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know.” He leans down and examines the smashed remnants of a writing desk. It has been badly damaged by the flames and violence that scoured the room. “More importantly, I do not know why they would do such a thing.” He utters a quick incantation, and a previously concealed compartment in the desk springs open. Pages of densely scribbled notes spill out. Father grunts and picks through the scorched sheets.

  A droplet of blood lands near my foot. I wrinkle my nose. “Perhaps he upset someone.”

  Father clenches his jaw, and for a moment I expect a rebuke, for Angry Father to surface, but instead he continues to stare at the soot-covered notes.

  There is a clatter of armor. The guards posted outside the entrance to the chamber scuttle aside. A familiar figure sweeps into the blood-drenched room.

  Father stands quickly and bows his head. “Your Highness.”

  Despite all his rich purple regalia, his tastefully slim golden crown, his oiled and scented locks of long grey hair, the King reminds me of nothing more than one of the poisonous rock toads that infest the derelict gardens of Cradlegate. His eyes bulge at Father. “What are you doing here?”

  “Zeffron was a colleague, Your Highness.” Father clears his throat and edges away from the collapsed writing desk. I notice he has tucked the notes out of sight. “I was to be his guest for dinner tonight. Instead, I found... this.”

  The King’s scowl matches Father’s. “Well, it’s a good thing you displayed your usual tardiness, Mevlish. Otherwise you might have ended up a victim yourself.”

  “That’s... possible, Your Highness.”

  “And have you found any sign of who did this?”

  Father shrugs. “Free-magic zealots, no doubt.”

  The King nods. He seems to notice me for the first time. “And what is little Farima doing here?”

  “She follows me, Your Highness. You know how’s she’s been since Kaffryn left.”

  “She looks pale.”

  “She always looks pale.”

  The King peers at me, and I can’t help but wonder if he suspects my secret. My false skin crawls beneath his gaze. “Well, make sure she doesn’t mention any of this to the scullery maids. It’s important we manage the announcement of this... development.”

  Father is the Royal High Wizard and Master of Dragons. He works for the King; dark, bloody work, most of it a mystery to me. Every time we fly on one of our dragons here to the great city of Proximus, Father spends most of his time huddled away in council with the King and his advisors. No doubt they discuss dark, bloody matters that only adults can understand.

  “Of course, Your Highness.” Father becomes hesitant. “Zeffron said he had made an important discovery. Something he needed to share with me.”

  The King gives Father a sharp glance. “Oh? And what was that?”

  Father shakes his head, and I wonder if he is more saddened by the loss of the unrevealed secret
than he is by the death of his colleague. “He never got a chance to tell me. I thought it might have had something to do with his research interests. We rarely spoke about anything else.”

  The King toes one of the half-burned books littering the floor. “Research? What research?”

  “I thought you must know, Your Highness. Zeffron studied the nature of magic itself. The field and the Source.”

  The King shrugs. “Do you know how many magicians in Proximus claim me as patron?”

  “Zeffron was an expert in field theory. Probably the best there ever was.” Father glances at the dangling body. The death spell is fading; the body’s stiffened limbs have begun to droop. “There’s no reason I can think of for the free magicians to target him, Your Highness. He was a pacifist; he never dirtied his hands in any of our campaigns in the Far Kingdoms. He was no threat to them at all.”

  “The free magicians are worse than animals, Mevlish.” The King’s tone is curt. “Don’t assume they think like us. And leave the investigation to my trained augurs. They will find the killers.”

  Father bows his head. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

  The King sweeps out of the chamber without a backward glance. “Clear this mess up!” he barks at the guards waiting outside.

  Before the armored men can clatter in, Father leans down and grabs the scorched papers from within the collapsed writing desk, shoving them deep inside his jacket. I automatically grasp hold of his hand as he stands and reaches towards me. He gives my fingers a gentle, conspiratorial squeeze.

  I squeeze back.

  It’s what The Rules say I should do.

  * * *

  Father’s love for me—if that is truly what it is, not just some dutiful mask of care—is based on a lie.

  I cannot love him back. My heart is a cold quartz stone. I cannot feel; Mother told me so. The Rules have no place for emotion, no quarter for passion or compassion. This is the rigid truth of my existence.