Kwo Sha claimed to be a bastard born to the favourite concubine of some Far Western merchant king. His mother, having fallen pregnant thanks to a forbidden tryst with a minor courtier, had fled the palace to raise him in a secret mountain hideaway. Kwo was fond of recalling his early years in the mountains where he received the fruits of his mother’s excellent education in languages and mathematics. However, the merchant king’s reach was long and his desire for vengeance implacable. As his soldiers drew ever nearer Kwo Sha’s mother grew resigned to her own fate. At best she would be permitted to commit suicide and at worst subjected to an inventive form of torture involving a thousand scorpions and a bed of rusty nails. However, her love for her son was fierce and she contrived to spirit him to the coast and thence onto a vessel which would carry him far away to a small, damp land beyond the vengeance of the Merchant King. Abandoned as an infant on the Varinshold dockside, Kwo Sha had been forced to make his own way. Thanks to his mother’s tutelage he quickly carved out a place in the spice trade and in time became something akin to a minor merchant king himself. His success was ostensibly rooted in the lucrative contracts he agreed with ships plying the spice routes to Alpira and beyond. However, his true source of wealth lay in his role as intermediary between those at the top of Varinshold society who wished to make use of the various services only those at the bottom could offer.
“Tell me something, Kwo,” Derla said, poking a toe through the detritus littering the floor of the trader’s shop, “is any of it true?”
Kwo Sha looked up at her from amidst a pile of shattered glass and pottery. Blood leaked from his rapidly swelling nose, staining the fine silks he wore. At her instruction Gallis and the others had kept the beating brief, but possessed of sufficient bone breaking force to leave no doubt as to their intent tonight. Kwo Sha had been wise in employing a trio of bodyguards, but unwise in not employing more. They lay about the ruined shop in various states of bloodied unconsciousness as Derla’s new employees helped themselves to whatever trinkets or stock took their fancy. There were five besides Gallis, all willing to work for just one gold apiece, another mark of Livera’s popularity.
“Your fascinating life story, I mean to say,” Derla said, moving to crouch at Kwo Sha’s side. She smiled, angling her head and raising an eyebrow. “It’s not, is it? Your mother wasn’t some tragic heroine saving her darling little bastard from the evil king. Most likely she was a sea-whore who dumped you on the orphanage steps before climbing back on whatever bilge-tub brought her here. I’m guessing you never even knew her. It’s your accent, y’see? Pure Varinshold under all the soft vowels and occasional memorised phrases spoken in a language you don’t really know. I’m right, aren’t I?”
She reached behind her back and drew her knife, Kwo Sha’s eyes widening considerably at the sight of the curved gutting blade. “Your mother was a whore,” Derla said, placing the edge of the blade against his cheek, “just like me, and Livera.”
He tried to speak, producing a bubbling froth of blood and spit instead. Derla let him sputter on until he achieved a modicum of articulation. “I didn’t… know.”
“How unusually ignorant of you.” Derla turned the blade a little, pressing the edge into the flesh of his face, just enough for a small line of blood to colour the steel.
“The client…” Kwo Sha spoke in a rapid, wet babble. “Wanted an Alpiran girl… Sweet natured he said. He was new to the city. I couldn’t know his habits…”
“You’re a surprisingly poor liar, Kwo.” She turned the blade, more blood welling on the edge. “He had help. Locals who knew the best place to dump her. Where’d he find them, if not thanks to you?”
“He had his own people…” Kwo Sha choked off into a pained squeal as Derla added pressure to the blade. “Meldeneans,” he went on quickly. “Pirates by the look of them. They know this city as well as any local.”
Derla glanced over at Gallis, standing close by with his bloodied cudgel at the ready. “Could be,” he said with a shrug. “But pirates would’ve been more likely to finish me off. Meldeneans ain’t known for their merciful customs.”
“Killing you would’ve left them with another body to deal with,” she said. “And I’d guess they were in a hurry.”
Derla returned her gaze to Kwo Sha, watching the relief flood his eyes as she lifted the knife from his cheek, then flood back in again as she pressed it to his throat. “I know discretion is the foundation stone of your business,” she told him, “so I would like to propose a transaction of such profitability as to overcome your admirable scruples. Tell me the client’s name and where I can find him and I won’t pull your tongue out through the hole I’m about to carve in your throat.”
“Nice place,” Gallis commented, a small glimmer of greed lighting his gaze as he surveyed the mansion. Derla supposed it was too much to ask for him to forgo his thief’s instincts for one night. She had to admit it was an impressive house, standing three stories high with numerous windows of glass rather than shutters. It lay just to the north of where the Brinewash deepened and curved back on itself for a short stretch, creating a teardrop shaped bulge where many of the city’s merchants made their homes. The depth and course of the river insulated these worthies from Varinshold’s less desirable precincts whilst remaining within a reasonable carriage ride of the docks.
They had crossed the river just after the tenth bell tolled, making use of a somewhat leaky boat procured by a bargeman of Gallis’s acquaintance. Once ashore they hid themselves in the deep shadows of the house’s exterior wall, Gallis peering through the railings to gauge the best way in.
“Plenty of pickings to be had in a house like that,” he went on, Derla detecting an obvious question in his tone.
“Get me where I need to be,” she said, “then the place is yours.”
“Kwo said he’s got a wife and two daughters.”
Derla met his gaze, seeing another, weightier question there. “Not my concern,” she said, “or yours,” she added, raising her voice to address their five compatriots. “Tie them up and gag them. That’s all.”
“And the pirates?”
“That’s your score to settle. Just don’t be too quick about it.”
“Right then.” He settled the coiled rope over his shoulder and reached up to grasp the railings, pausing for a second before hauling himself up. “You know you should’ve killed Kwo, right?” he asked Derla.
She ignored the question and gave an impatient flick of her hand. Get on with it. Gallis pulled on a leather mask that covered the upper side of his face, flashed her a brief grin and leapt, gripping the top of the railings and vaulting over in an effortless display of his art. He landed softly, took a second to scan the surrounding flower beds then made a beckoning gesture to the rest of the crew. They duly clambered over the railings to crouch at Gallis’s side whereupon he led them towards the house in a straight sprint across the lawn. Derla lost sight of them as they rounded the mansion’s north facing wall. Now she could only wait.
Her eyes flicked from one dim window to another, ears alive for the sound of alarm as the seconds stretched to minutes. She knew Gallis would be climbing the rear of the house, searching for an unsecured window or other useful entry point. Once inside he would toss the rope to his crew and the night’s business would begin in earnest. She found her hands trembling a little as the minutes dragged by, and frowned in puzzlement at the sweat dampening her palms. Since viewing Livera’s corpse she had felt little save an unwavering sense of purpose, yet now the fear chose to make itself known.
Is it fear? she wondered, smoothing her palms over her skirt. Or anticipation?
The signal came a short while later, a single oil lamp flaring to life in one of the front facing windows, unnerving in its suddenness as she hadn’t detected a single sound during her vigil. Derla rose from her hiding place and made her way to the front gate. It stood closed but unlocked, one of several misjudgements made by the mansion’s owner.
Gallis opened the front door with a florid bow, stepping aside to allow her entry to a marble floored lobby from which a curving staircase ascended to the first floor. Four people lay on the floor, servants by their dress, each with their hands bound behind their backs and gags securely wedged in their mouths. Gallis’s crew stood behind them, a few already sporting silver candlesticks and sundry other valuables.
“Where’s your mask?” Gallis asked, casting a wary glance at the servants who stared up at Derla with bright, wet eyes.
“Won’t be needing one,” she said.
Gallis muttered a curse and ordered the servants to close their eyes. “Keep ‘em shut tight, y’arse licking fuckers,” he growled. “Else I’ll forget how nice I’m s’posed to be tonight.”
Derla moved to the foot of the staircase where a body lay sprawled across the lower steps. He was a tall, broad shouldered fellow with a face that might have been handsome but for the fresh scar running from his nose to his chin. Blood leaked from the numerous stab wounds visible through his torn shirt.
“Too quick for my liking,” Gallis said, coming to her side. “Still, it was rightly satisfying.” He hesitated. “We didn’t get ‘em all. The other two pirates ran for the cellar. Got one as he was climbing up the coal chute, the other’s gone though.”
“The wife and daughters?” Derla asked.
“Trussed up in one of the bedrooms, like you said. The merchant’s in his study, up the stairs on the left.”
“You and the others had better grab what you can and take yourselves off. It’s a fair bet the pirate will bring the Guard, or run off to tell someone who will.”
“Reckon we’ve got a half hour or so before they show up. I don’t mind waiting.”
“I mind.” Derla started up the stairs then paused and untied the purse from her belt, tossing it to him. “Payment. Make sure everyone gets their share.”
He looked at the purse in his hand, heavy with double the coin she had promised. When he looked up at her once more his gaze was dark with understanding. “Ain’t no use nor point to you dyin’ tonight,” he said.
“I died already.” She turned away and resumed her ascent. “Might as well make it official.”
“You should have been more careful,” Derla told the merchant, setting her heavily stained knife down on his desk. “And more honest in your dealings with Kwo Sha. Had you told him your true purpose I’m sure he would have kept you supplied with suitable victims for years, and you and I would never have crossed paths.”
She moved away, tracing a gore covered finger over the well stocked bookshelves in his library. Some volumes were clearly for show, the classics every Realm subject of appreciable wealth felt obliged to keep in their home. They were easily distinguished by the uncreased spines and perfect lettering, whilst others showed signs of frequent reading. She paused at one particular tome, a thick book with the title ‘Legends and Myths of the Alpiran Empire’ embossed in faded gold letters on the spine.
“Ahh,” she said, plucking the book from the shelf. “Lord Al Avern’s much acclaimed first foray into the scholarly realm, I believe. Clearly you’re a man of some taste, sir.”
She opened the book, leafing through the pages which, she found, had been defaced by numerous notations in a spidery, almost unreadable script. Words were underlined and passages encircled, the margins crammed with dense scribblings which made little sense to Derla, although the words ‘beauty’ and ‘blood’ appeared with the greatest frequency. Keeping hold of the book she moved to sit in the chair positioned opposite the merchant’s desk, turning page after page decorated with feverishly inscribed gibberish. Eventually she paused at the title page to the final chapter; ‘The Paths of Revenna’. Here the scribblings became so intense they obscured much of the text, the jagged hand-wrought letters overlapping and entwining in an indecipherable melange, although she noted that the word ‘DARK’ was now most often repeated.
“Alpiran legends, Alpiran victims,” she mused, regarding the merchant over the top of the book. “And an obsession with the Dark. What a curiously mad bastard you are.”
Derla closed the book and tossed it aside, reclining in her seat to stare into the empty eye sockets of the man behind the desk. “Did you talk to her first?” she asked him. “I’m sure you would have found her conversation fascinating. She knew many an old legend from her homeland, though to her they weren’t legends and she’d get awful huffy if I ever suggested otherwise. ‘The histories of the gods are not to be made light of,’ she’d tell me. Livera tended to laugh off most things in life, except any suggestion of insult to her gods even though they’d never been especially kind to her. Father run off after her mother died bringing her brother into the world and him taken by the fever before reaching his tenth year. She never told me the truth of why she left the empire, the story would change. First it was to escape a vicious pimp, then she claimed she made the mistake of marrying a client and stowed away on a ship to the Realm to escape him. Not because he was a bad man, just boring. She could never abide boredom.”
Derla felt something on her cheeks, a new wetness beyond the sticky spray left by the merchant’s opened veins. “Oh, how embarrassing,” she said, touching a finger to the tears. “You’ll have to forgive me, sir. Surely I am not fit for such fine company.”
Her gaze slipped from the merchant’s ravaged eyes to his bare chest, punctured by forty eight precisely placed stab wounds. Derla had always been good with numbers and her occupation gave her a reasonable understanding of anatomy, so it hadn’t been too difficult to keep him alive for the last two blows. Given the man’s beastly habits Derla had expected more of him, some measure of malevolent defiance at least, or perhaps an insight into his evidently diseased mind. But he had acted as any other man might upon finding himself tied to a chair to be slowly tormented to death by a vengeful whore. Even after she stabbed out his eyes he lingered for a while, gibbering slurred pleas to spare his family until, finally, his head slumped to his chest and he left the world with a small, almost wistful sigh. Derla’s numbness had lingered throughout it all, her heart maintaining a steady rhythm, untroubled by either enjoyment or pity. Except now it was done there were tears.
A loud thud echoed from downstairs, quickly followed by two more and the sound of splintering wood. Derla got to her feet, her gaze shifting to the knife lying on the desk. If she had it in hand when the Guard entered the room it would save a lot of tedious rigmarole.
No, the voice whispered in her mind as she reached for the knife. It was Livera’s voice, as clear and real as if she stood at her shoulder. Derla froze, an icy chill vying with joy in her breast.
“You’re not here,” Derla groaned in grim realisation. “There are no whispers on the wind. I just wanted to hear your voice once more. You died. I died.”
No, Livera’s voice told her, rich in the sweet kindness that had killed her. You didn’t.
Derla found herself withdrawing her hand, letting it fall to her side. She turned as the first Guardsman burst into the room, a bearded sergeant with a drawn sword who drew up in shock at the sight that greeted him.
“Took you fuckers long enough to get here,” Derla told him, putting her hands on her hips.