The night was still young when Lana elected to leave the lady Adelphine’s party. There was no particular reason for her early departure, nothing about the dining guests or their attendants at least. The evening had passed smoothly until that point, although it had not been particularly eventful either. Aside from spreading the rumors Galier wanted and poking about for any new information, she had little to do and her best lead had already been followed. Just that morning, before Galier awoke, Lana had set out into the city with little more than a name to guide her way. The lord Kalagor had not been hard to find, to her relief. When she managed to stop a passer by long enough to exchange a few words, they often knew the way she had wanted to go. That had not been the hardest part of her morning, not by leagues. After arriving at the manor with its foreboding gates, flanked by armed men, her trials had truly begun.

The lord Vaeor Kalagor had seemed plenty willing to help the night before, he had invited her, but when she arrived at the manor, he did not seem to remember her one bit. It had taken Lana a long while and a near word for word recreation of her story, tears and all, to jog his memory. Perhaps he wanted to be sure of her motivations, perhaps he was truly that forgetful, but it had set Lana on edge well before anything of substance had been discussed.

An hour after that, Lana had found herself waiting in a hallway to be escorted from the manor by a pair of guards. She had not minded waiting after lord Kalagor told her what he meant to tell. It had been cryptic, she was not entirely sure she truly understood what he had said, but it was worrying nonetheless. He had asked what ties Lana’s “betrothed” had had before coming to the city and had been very interested until the point when Lana could provide no information. She did not think she knew enough about noble houses to fabricate a convincing lie there. He had gone on anyway, though more guarded. He spoke of plots and schemes that made Lana’s head spin, most of it she did not understand at all but one point was plain and clear. The assassinations had not been random. They had been targeted. Exactly why, he had not said. He seemed to assume that Lana would know why and she did not think it would have been wise to ask.

He had offered her little more of interest but as she was leaving, he had called for her to stop. She had begun to sweat then, she was convinced she had done something to make him suspicious but when she turned around, he looked conflicted, as if there was something he was debating in his head and had come to an undesirable conclusion. It had been written plainly on his scowling face. There was a meeting, he had said, planned for that very night. It had taken him a moment to divulge the location but he had, in the end. The meeting was not for several hours still, it was not why Lana left the party.

The sounds of the banquet followed Lana from the terrace where the party goers sat at ornate tables, drinking exotic wines and eating extravagant dishes that Lana could not recognize. The building belonged to the lady Adelphine or her family as far as Lana could tell and she could put no name to its function. The first level was squat and wide with stout doors and no windows. The exterior was rough wood much like the rest of the harborside buildings flanking it. The second level was where the party took place. Portions of the walls were removed, leaving pillars between wide windows that showed the decadence previously covered. While the exterior appeared as drab as its neighbors, anyone walking by that night would be able to see the luscious fabrics and woodwork within. Any would-be thieves would be deterred by the contingent of guards stationed around the building.

Nearly every guest that Lana had seen had brought with them at least a pair of armed guards, some had brought as many as ten, which made an odd sight in the streets, Lana thought. A woman flanked by two soldiers was one thing but when the throng of guards became louder with their clanking armor than the nearby waves, it was a different one altogether.

But the guards did not worry Lana as they once would have. They saw her and thought her just another lady in her silk dress and makeup, both of which were much more elaborate than the previous night’s. Galier had managed to have one of the more gaudy dresses altered to her measurements somehow. It was a lighter shade of blue than the other one, much prettier a color Lana thought, but the lace along its wide neckline and the embroidery on the bodice were more than eye-catching. It could be worse, she had to remind herself, some of the ladies she saw wore dresses of three or more colors, always with lace and embroidery to boot. She still only fit with the more lowly guests now, but she fit better. She was glad of that. She could truly disappear into those crowds now and listen in on their conversations without being seen. Even better, they would never recognize her if they saw her outside of the dress and makeup. Galier had worked wonders with those brushes of his and those odd little sponges. She did not think she would have recognized her own face on the street.

He had spent a goodly amount of time fussing over her, clucking disapprovingly the whole while. In the end, he was forced to let her go, not having done half of what he intended, or so he said. It was probably for the better as he had the most noticeable face of makeup at the party. With those metallic thorns on his cheek and heavily shadowed eyes, he could hardly be missed. Lana shook her head thinking of it. She was probably not far behind him with all that he had done to her face. But she did not complain. As strange as it felt to put on the noble trappings, it was more than worth it for the things she was able to see. The lavish parties were stunning, every minute detail was breathtaking.

Walking through the empty streets now, she was reminded of just how different things were. She had had little time to really absorb everything that had happened to her those last few days. One evening she went about her usual life, the jacket she had found was nothing more than another meal to her at first. Being swept into an alien world of silk and jewels still felt like a dream in some ways. Everything felt so ephemeral, like it was fraying at the edges, just out of reach.

Lana fingered the silk of her dress as she walked down one lonely avenue. The fabric was softer than anything she had ever worn before. She had seen the stuff before, it was always good to be near nobility when one relied on their generosity for a meal, but wearing it was a different thing altogether. She could not help from grinning. She did not know whether it was because of fulfilled fantasies of privilege or the sheer absurdity of it all, but it did not matter. Walking down the same streets she knew so well from the shadows was different in the pale moonlight cast down the middle of the road. She was a different woman now. That girl cowering in the gutter was still there, somewhere.

Lana’s wistful thoughts were cut short when she turned a corner and found herself standing by a door she had not meant to come to. The shop was nothing out of the ordinary, another trader who would be selling supplies to the ships that came into harbor, nothing to make the plain, roughly hewn stone structure worthy of note. That was the idea. It was the shop she was supposed to go to that night, only in a few hours time. They would not like her appearing early, and besides, it appeared vacant. The door was closed, bolted most likely, and not a light shone from within. Standing out in front, the sea breeze finally bringing with it a little of an autumn chill, Lana was tempted to try the door anyway. It could not hurt to try, could it?

She was halfway to the door, fingers reaching for the bronze handle when she froze in place. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, quite the contrary in fact. In the dim light, all that Lana could see was the rough wooden door. But as the sea breeze died down and the bite of salt faded a little, she smelled something different. The thick, heavy scent of fresh blood. It was only there for a moment, the space of a heartbeat, then the breeze picked up again and it was gone, replaced by the smells of the sea.

Lana was transfixed, entirely unable to move, standing there in the night, arm stuck out rigidly towards the door. Her mind took too long to respond even as she pleaded for it to go faster. Her first thought was to go for her knife which was strapped safely to her thigh, but whatever had happened, one girl with a knife would not make the difference. Not against trained assassins. That was what it had to be, right? That was the fear that had brought her here, that was what tied all of these people together. She would fare no better than those whose blood she had smelled.

She turned to go, her footfalls sounding too loud on the cobbles. Again, she froze. Could whoever was still within have heard? Did it matter? She felt herself begin to shake, not from the suddenly cool breeze. Her feet itched to run and her spine was stiff as a board. Internally, she screamed at herself to do something, run or hide or barrel through the door. Her eyes swiveled wildly in their sockets, searching every corner in her view and the street before her that led back to the party. There was no sign of anyone hiding, nothing made a sound but the dull crash of waves from behind layers of buildings. Looking back down the street was what made her decision for her. Back there, at the party, there would be something.

She took off at a dead run, her hard soled shoes ringing deafeningly on the street, but she cared only for speed. Her pace was more sustained fall than run, always only a moment’s mistake from falling face first onto the smoothed stones. Footsteps bombarded her ears. She could not tell whose they were, the echoes of hers in the empty street or those of a pursuer intent on catching her. It mattered little either way. She could not stop, as much because she did not think she could keep herself from falling as out of fear.

The building where the party was held was not far, only a few streets away and she knew her way, but the longer she ran, the further it seemed. Her breath came ragged after the second turn she took, the back of her throat cried out in pain at the cool air sucked into it but she kept on, her breaths sounding like the moans of dead men. The skin on her back crawled with the feeling of unwanted eyes on her. She fought hard to hold back cries that would not help her now, she did not know if she succeeded or not.

Her hair had worked its way free of the entangling jewellery Galier had secured it with long since and her dress was beyond disheveled when she came upon the venue building, charging around a bend that put her directly in front of it. The guards by the door were visibly startled, they lowered their spears and peered out warily from their visored helms. She did not care, better to run headlong into a spear than to take a knife in the back. They were more than content to wait for her, spears braced on the ground, they would not hesitate to run her through.

***

Jormand was taking a much needed break from the party at a table below the main level when the guard burst in from outside crying out for lord Caerest. The party had become dull long since, the conversations bored Jormand, especially now that the politics involved did not apply to him. Below the main event, in the low ceilinged room where servants and guardsmen waited, another entire party was under way. More understated in every way but with real mirth. Genuine laughs and smiles passed between men and women who knew well that their masters were mortal enemies. Across a cup of ale, two soldiers would always be friends just as they would be enemies across a battlefield.

Jormand had retreated below only a few minutes prior, a half of an hour at most, and a good thing too. The rest of the party guests would not be enthused to have a common spearman rush in to bellow a summons for someone far above his station. Lucky too that the summons was for Galier.

Jormand strode over to the alarmed guard quickly but without animosity as soon as he heard the name he called for. Galier would not want to be disturbed. His machinations were more intricate than Jormand could grasp but they were fulfilling for the man, he would not want something to interrupt him. When the guard told him the message, Jormand immediately forgot about Galier and his politicking. He cleared the floor to the door in a few strides and was out before his own two guards had the chance to stand.

Outside, lit by the pitiful moonlight in the street, was Lana, wringing her hands and looking about feverishly. The guard had said she had come barrelling around a corner just a few moments ago screaming about assassins and breathing like she had run for miles. Jormand had seen her leave not long before but had thought nothing of it. He expected that she might be overwhelmed. If she had not been before, she certainly was now.

Lana did indeed look as if she had been running for a long distance. Her hair was in complete disarray, shoulder length pale blonde strands scattered about her head like an alley cat. She still breathed in heaving gasps, testing the limits of her tight bodice. Her eyes were wild in the night, reflecting what little light there was in a fearful stare.

Jormand was immediately on edge, she looked like she had seen a ghost and more. As soon as he left the door, she rushed forward, babbling in a near whisper. He did not catch it all, but a few words stood out. The guard was right, she spoke of assassins and death.

Jormand did not wait to question her. Her urgency was palpable and bleak enough that he did not want to know any answers. Elyas and Guthred, his two guards, had joined him now, already in their armor and carrying spear and shield. Elyas handed Jormand his side sword, a short, broad piece of plain bronze. A good blade. Whatever assassin Lana had seen would soon be tested against the best Maerin had to offer.

Lana did not wait for discussion, as soon as the armed men were outside, she turned and sprinted back the way she had come, towards a closed shop at a nearby intersection. In her hand glinted that knife she always had, Jormand had not noticed it before.

Their small group of four ran noisily down the streets, the three men just barely keeping up with Lana. It was a wonder she could run at all in those stiff soled shoes she wore but she managed to keep ahead of the three of them. Jormand did not pay attention to where they were going, he scanned the street ahead but he saw no threats and did not see the shops and warehouses they passed at all.

They ran deeper into the city, away from the water, but not far away. Jormand could still hear the crashing of waves in the otherwise quiet night when they came to a halt before a bolted shop just like any other they had passed. Nothing marked it as out of the ordinary but Lana was sure it was the one.

As it turned out, the door was not locked, Jormand burst in with sword at the ready, into an empty room. It was the front room of a shop, wares still sat on shelves and on barrels used for makeshift tables holding ropes, lanterns, and sacks of undisclosed contents. Nothing strange for a harborside general store. Except for the smell. Jormand knew it well, the metallic, sharp but heavy, smell of blood and viscera. The hairs on his arms stood on end as he inhaled nosefulls of the distinct smell of carnage. It triggered something in him. His hand gripped the sword tighter and he stalked forward into the room on agile feet. He saw nothing that could be the source of the smell, nothing out of place.

Elyas and Guthred fanned out to his sides, holding their spears farther along the shaft in the tight space, they saw nothing either. Then Lana ducked between them and, without seeming to stop to study the room at all, she darted behind the counter. Jormand followed and found her heaving up a trapdoor well disguised as floorboards. He had no idea how she had managed to spot it but he had no time to question, nor the mind to.

The smell came stronger now, emanating from the door in the floorboards. From below came a dim glow from lanterns not too far away. There was a ladder leading down and Lana did not hesitate to take it, throwing herself down the passage as quickly as possible, Jormand thought she would surely fall but she scurried down as surely as a squirrel down a tree.

Jormand followed a moment later with his two guardsmen not far behind him. By the time he was down the ladder, Lana had already bolted down the short passageway found there. Jormand cursed under his breath and charged after her. If she ran ahead like that, she was going to get herself killed.

The passageway was narrow as well as short, Jormand hunched his shoulders forward to keep his head from brushing the ceiling. It looked to be carved into the dirt and rock and they passed occasional wooden supports that he doubted were really strong enough to hold up the building above.

Jormand finally caught up to Lana at the end of the tunnel where it was blocked by a door of solid planks bound with bronze. It stood closed but it opened easily by Lana’s hand even as Jormand arrived. Behind was a scene grisly enough to even give Jormand pause. The floor looked more red than brown even though he saw the floorboards, and around a squat table in the middle lay a low pile of bodies. Most wore rough tunics and trousers, a few carried weapons. Rich weapons, iron as often as bronze and the vast majority were blooded. Jormand did not stop to look at the corpses though. In the middle of the room, on that table were set a pair of lanterns atop a map strewn with other, smaller papers but that was not what caught his eyes. It was the bloody smear over the thing that ended at the other side of the table. He stepped into the room, pushing passed Lana who gave no resistance. She stood with mouth and eyes agape, staring.

The subterranean room was low like the tunnel but not so low that Jormand could not stand up straight. After his first few steps he came to a halt. In the room, there were three people standing across the table where that crimson smear ended, all with their backs facing Jormand but as he stepped in, they heard and turned.

Each figure was clad in dark linen and wool covering legs and bodies and sturdy gloves and boots on hands and feet. Two held swords that shone grey in the lantern light. Iron. Those swords were each worth a fortune. Seeing that made Jormand think back to what his father had said only hours before. If the Monarch was behind the assassins, the iron blades made sense. These would be no ordinary cutthroats.

Even as Jormand gave a moment’s pause, the two holding swords dropped into fighting stances and stepped around the table, careful to avoid the unsure footing in pools of blood and on the corpses that produced them. Jormand fell into a stance to match and was surprised to see Lana do the same at his side, her knife held in a sure grip and her eyes set. Jormand could hear the guards in the tunnel behind but he did not have time to wait for them. The assassins were upon them, iron blades darting forward like vipers’ tongues.

Jormand did not have time to check on Lana as he engaged his attacker. All of his attention was focused on keeping that blade away from his heart. He had to rely on Lana to protect his back. There was no way he could take the two of them, not unarmored and under armed as he was.

The one that he fought was as good as that iron sword suggested. She used the surprisingly long, thin blade like an extension of her arm, always darting forward with quick jabs and jumping back to avoid his swings. She was prepared to fight in the tight conditions of the room. Jormand was not. He kept finding himself having to pull his swings back as a wall was in the way or lest he hit the ceiling and leave himself open to counterattack. They exchanged a few quick blows and parries, seemingly evenly matched. Jormand’s opponent’s expression never changed, calm and confident, even when he rammed his sword through her chest, grinding against ribs.

Jormand was actually shocked for a second, staring down at the body. She had seemed too confident and too capable, but he did not look for long. His sword was lodged well in her chest and he did not waste the time to pull it free. He grabbed hers from the floor, his fingers picking up blood that was not hers in the process. Then he turned to Lana who was still fending off the second attacker and the third who had found a sword somewhere. Elyas and Guthred had engaged now but the three of them only held their own against the two assassins. Jormand did not want to take any chances so he strode over, thin blade at the ready.

Jormand’s heart still beat viciously as his sword sought the flesh of his new targets, now from behind. No block came against his blade. It impacted and cleaved flesh easily, letting loose a spurt of blood from the first as he collapsed. Jormand turned to the other and felled him just as easily with a blow to the neck that left him gurgling on the floor, blood dripping down his chin. He kicked the bodies aside and turned about the table to the other side where the three had been standing.

There on the floor, slumped against the wall were more bodies. These are better dressed, though not ostentatiously so. Jormand looked over them all but only one kept his eyes. A serious expression behind a greying, short, beard. The body wore a sensible coat of dark wool, well made and sturdy, though now drenched in blood from a gash splitting the neck down to the bone where Jormand could see the white peeking through flesh done bleeding. He kept his eyes away from the face. He could not look at it. Those staring eyes that looked too much like his own. But he also could not look away. There was no question as to whose body it was. Even if there were, the ring on the third finger of its right hand was more than enough of a confirmation. The silver antlers holding a faint gem aloft that could have been a copy of the one Jormand wore under his gloves.

The stern expression Martim Derran wore, even in death, made a knot form in Jormand’s gut, only it did not lessen. Even when Jormand screwed his eyes shut to purge the sight from his mind, he could not make it go away. It only became worse, cramping and making him heave. The other corpses were familiar now. The men he had seen his father meeting with before, not men he knew but their gaunt, bloodless faces were still recognizable. Each bore the wounds of battle and weapons lay not far from their hands in pools of blood on the floor.

Jormand looked up to the ceiling, the sight of the butchery on the floor overcame him as it never had before. He had seen bodies before, made them, taken the life from more than lay dead in this room but no matter where he looked, the slack faces of the dead pushed against his stomach, threatening his tenuous hold over himself. He wanted to double over, curl into a ball on the floor, only he could not take the idea of the congealing blood that lay around him. So he stared blankly towards the ceiling. It was wondrously pristine, only old wood planks dusted with dirt and grime. But it did little good. The smell of it all invaded his nostrils, he could not forget it. It was impossible.

Dimly he heard the clang of metal falling to the floor but he did not turn to look where it came from. He could feel himself shaking, convulsing as he squeezed his eyes shut. He had to look away. What he saw was not possible. But when he opened his eyes again, it was unchanged. He was bent double, his face thrust down towards the floor, bare inches away from that corpse that looked all too like his father.

No.

It was different. It had to be. There was some fault in the disguise that Jormand simply could not see. His mind struggled to find it. He could not.

He felt a touch on his back, an ungloved hand, Lana. He heard voices but they said nothing at all.

He felt his breath coming fast. Too fast. His heart refused to calm. Spots of black danced in his vision, widening. At least they covered the sight of the room.

He was aware as he fell to his knees on the floor but by the time his head fell to meet them, consciousness was far from his grasp.