Zoran Sable withdrew the knife slowly from the man’s jugular and took his time wiping it clean on the apron hanging over the nearby bench top. The gurgling of air and spurting blood from the man’s wound had long since stopped but Zoran was in no real hurry to leave the butcher’s workshop, though it reeked of old meat and rotting entrails.
He rose, throwing the stained apron unceremoniously over the corpse, and rummaged through the boxes and pewter jars on the shelves lining the walls. Most contained records of purchases from and to country farmers, some noted losses of stock due to damage or age but Zoran knew that none of the figures were correct. He scanned his eyes over the numbers, and though they added up to the recorded totals, it was impossible for his victim to have ever lived off such a meager income.
So as well as selling meat past the legal date, Zoran thought bitterly, you were paying less tax. Swindling the poor and the rich at the same time.
He studied a few more recent documents in detail and, nodding to himself, rolled them up. Replacing the others, he slid the selected papers securely into the leather-bound tube he had strung over his shoulder. He also emptied two jars of silver and bronze coins into this tube, pfenns as well as the southern tellam currency still used by the men of Esgarth, Gorran and Zennor. There was a considerable amount of coin by the end of his hunt through his victim’s belongings and he might have continued his search had the first rays of sunlight not appeared on the horizon and the first of the butcher’s customers knocked at the door.
Zoran cursed under his breath and headed for the stairs leading to the dead man’s private apartment above the workshop. He had entered the building by the front door, masquerading as a potential buyer, and stayed for hours, encouraging the butcher to drink the cheap wine Zoran had brought with him. Mug after mug, the man had begun to spill the secrets of his work and the assassin had listened intently.
“How many people were you catering for again? I’ll have to get started with the preparation soon if you want them done for supper,” the butcher had said, swaying a little on his feet as he had risen from the bench.
“A dozen.”
“Beef?” he asked, draining his mug for the tenth time.
“Oh, whatever you’ve got that isn’t infested with maggots.”
This comment had not gone down well with the inebriated butcher, but Zoran had stilled his vicious tongue and fists with a quick jab of his knee to the man’s groin and then a heavy whack with both fists to the back of his head. Sprawled unconscious on the floor, he had been easy to dispatch.
The customer knocked on the door again just as Zoran reached the second floor. He headed down the corridor, past the dead butcher’s rooms, and threw open the shutters of the window at the end. He swung his legs over the sill and looked down. The drop was little more than seven or eight feet but the customer was directly beneath him. He looked skyward, glancing at the wall above and beside him for any foothold that might give him easy passage to the roof. Taking to the streets now would draw too much attention to himself, sprayed with blood as he was.
Spotting a wooden support jutting out from the wall, he quickly positioned himself on the sill, one hand grasping the window frame and the other outstretched to grab his quarry. He waited, his heart beating fiercely in his ears, waiting for the unexpected visitor to knock once more. It seemed an impossibly long time.
“Hey, Terner, get up!” the customer shouted, pounding on the door. “You promised me an order this morning!”
Zoran leaped, his fingers catching the exposed beam. He hauled himself up. Turning to view the visitor, he overbalanced and slipped. But his was an iron grip and he did not let go, even when he felt his wrist begin to burn as he twisted in the air. He bit back the pain from his straining muscles and used the grip of his soft leather boots on the crumbling plaster wall to heave himself up once more.
He found the roof on his second attempt and brushed himself down. Zoran paused for a moment, checking that his tube was still firmly closed and secure. The man below continued to pound on the door and, using the ruckus to muffle his footsteps, Zoran skimmed across the cracked tiles and began his rooftop dash to the warehouse where the band of mercenary blades, thieves and ruffians lived with their master, and Zoran’s friend, Hjorta. Though there was a ground floor entrance to Hjorta’s hideout, Zoran always preferred to enter from above, testing himself over and over again across the rooftops.
The town hall bell in the high tower rang out six times to signal the sun’s arrival. Gradually, sounds of life began to rise from the city below him as he ran and leaped to clear the distances over streets and alleyways. Some early risers were caught off-guard as he flew over their heads and he laughed at their cries of surprise.
When he reached the warehouse, his boots gripped tightly to the slanted wooden roof and his fingers found the edges of the trap door.
“Ah, back at last,” Hjorta said, rising from his table when Zoran sauntered into his office. “I expected you back hours ago. I hope nothing went wrong.”
“Worried for me, were you?” Zoran asked and chuckled. “Afraid the bastard got me with his cleaver?”
“Well, it’d be better meat than his usual stock. I don’t suppose I have to ask you how it went, then?”
Zoran handed over the heavy tube, hearing the pleasant tinkle of coins as Hjorta clasped it in his bony hands. The old man’s eyes lit up.
“Sounds like quite a hoard.”
“But not nearly enough to compensate those he’s wronged. Two dozen children and a handful of grown men dead. Well, he won’t be doing any more harm. Your watchman will be happy with the documents I found.” He sat on a bench against the wall and stretched out his long legs. “He’ll rest easier tonight, knowing the butcher won’t be able to bribe any more judges.”
“You’re in a good mood, Zoran.”
“And why not? It was a good night for a kill.”
“There’s grave news from up north.”
“There’s always grave news from up north,” Zoran said dismissively.
“Aye, but I hear the Ayons are on the verge of marching south.”
“Well, they’ve been saying that in the taverns around here for months. Not heard any real news to back it, so it’s none of our concern.”
“But this information came from a messenger.”
“And messengers don’t like to talk? Hjorta, they’re as good as court jesters and bards for making up stories.”
“Normally I’d dismiss something like this but one of my boys said he saw Ronnesians marching north when he went to visit his ma.”
“The Ronnesians are recruiting, so what?”
“So that gives credit to the possibility that the Ayons are, in fact, readying for an invasion, and you know as well as I how weak the Ronnesian forces are at the moment.”
“We’re not supposed to know,” Zoran said, folding his arms and sitting up. “No official comment has been made. Besides, the Ayons will never get as far south as this. They just want the Ronnesian Empire under their control. They couldn’t care less about the elven lands. I’d put money on the Ronnesians wanting to expand this far south before the Ayons do.”
Hjorta grumbled to himself and began to examine the documents from the tube. Next, he counted the money, separating the silver from the bronze and the pfenns from the tellams. It totaled two hundred and three pfenns and three hundred and forty-five tellams. Hjorta counted off a portion and slid it across the table.
“You are nervous about this news, aren’t you, friend?” Zoran said, sliding the coins into his purse.
Hjorta sighed and began to divide the remaining coins into small pouches. When the man did not reply for a long while, Zoran stood up and moved around the table, slipping his purse into the hidden pocket at his thigh.
“Hey,” he said, clicking his fingers in front of Hjorta’s face. “What’s on your mind, old man?”
Hjorta raised his eyes and chuckled. “Don’t rub it in, Zoran.”
“But you are troubled by something. What is it?”
Hjorta sighed again, wearily. Or was it sadly?
“The last time you left us was just over forty years ago – the last time the two empires were involved in a major clash. I can’t help but wonder whether it’ll be the same again.”
“That was a coincidence,” Zoran said dismissively. “Galawyn and his lackeys jumped me in the street and left me for dead. That’s why I left.”
“Aye, I’ll never forget the state we found you in.”
“Neither will I.” He clenched his fists, which still bore the scars, as did the rest of his body, of that and many other confrontations. Even after so many years, he could still feel the echoes of the pain those men had inflicted upon him. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said resolutely. “I’m not going to leave this city for anyone. It’s – it’s the only place I’ve been able to call home since my people ostracized me.”
Hjorta looked a little happier and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “You are like a son to me,” he said, rising from his chair. “I hope you know that.”
“I remember when we were like brothers.”
“These eyes were much younger then.”
Zoran smiled and drew his friend into a strong embrace. In the many years he had been in exile, he had known no man dearer to him than Hjorta and no city friendlier than Caervyn.
“I don’t want to lose another son, Zoran…”
“You won’t,” the assassin said, shaking his head. “This battle between the northern empires has nothing to do with us. I won’t be going anywhere.”