Blade sat at the back of the Beggar's Purse, his latest haunt, and scanned the room for potential customers. So far, he had waited at the Grumpy Grannie, the Herder's Son, the Golden Goose and the Merchant's Paradise. This place was no better than the rest, all similar in their gloom, dirty floors and much-repaired furnishings, as well as the sour wine and bitter ale they served. Polished brass pots hung over the fireplace on the far side of the room, where a ragged boy turned a spitted pig slowly, yawning. The redolence of roasting meat mingled with pipe smoke and the rancid aroma of alcohol. Muttering groups of patrons, mostly men, filled the shabby tables, and the occasional clank of tankards broke the deep-voiced hum.
Six moons had passed, and still he had not been hired again. Apparently his youth was a greater problem than even Talon realised, and at this rate he would soon be destitute. Sherin gave him room and board, so all he required was a few coppers each night for a cup of wine, which he nursed for the evening. Even so, the five silvers and golden were almost gone, and he wondered what happened to assassins who could find no work.
Now he displayed his mark in open invitation, which earned him many hard looks and a lot of furtive spitting. A smiling serving maid approached, swinging her hips. At all his previous haunts, the serving wenches had soon grown accustomed to his one cup of wine per night policy, but this girl seemed particularly dense. She glanced at his half full cup and sighed, striking a pose.
“You don't drink very fast, do you?”
“I try not to.”
“I hope you're going to leave me a nice tip tonight.”
“Why would I do that?”
She pouted. “If you do, I might sit with you and keep you company.”
“I don't want any company.”
“Then why do you come here?”
“None of your business.”
The girl placed her tray on the table and leant over it, displaying a handsome cleavage. “Maybe if you tell me, I can help.”
“Really. Why do you think I come here, then?”
“I think you want a woman.”
He smiled, and she blushed. “If I did, I'd go to a brothel, don't you think?”
“Maybe you don't want a dirty whore.”
“Indeed. Why would I want a sluttish serving wench, then?”
She recoiled as if he had slapped her, frowning. “I'm not a slut!”
“If you're offering to sleep with me, you are.”
“I wasn't!”
“Good. In that case, bugger off.”
The wench glared at him, then flounced away with a toss of her head. Blade sighed and drained his wine, deciding to call it an evening, since it was quite late. As he headed for the door, he noticed the girl talking to two burly men, who watched him pass with glinting eyes. His scalp prickled, and he strode up the street rather more quickly than he would normally. Halfway back to Sherin's house, the tramp of boots came from behind, and he walked faster.
Turning a corner, he almost collided with a man who stepped out in front of him, and sidestepped with a curse. The man grabbed Blade's shoulder, but he twisted free and jumped back when the man lunged at him. The thug swore as Blade turned to run, and another man stepped into the street ahead, blocking his escape. Blade swung to face the first thug again, then made a dash for the nearest wall as the cutthroats closed in. He found a gutter and hauled himself up it, but one of the roughnecks grabbed his leg and yanked, breaking his grip.
Blade fell with a grunt, banging his head on the wall, and looked up at the men who stood over him, smirking and sniggering. One reached down and gripped the front of Blade's jacket, hauling him to his feet.
“So, you want to bed Mella, hey?”
Blade rubbed the back of his head. “Who? Oh. No, not particularly.”
“That's not what she said. She said you did, and cursed her when she refused.”
“She's lying. She was flirting with me, and I told her to leave me alone.”
The thug cocked his head. “Now why would you do that? She's a comely wench. I think you're the one who's lying.”
The assassin considered. It certainly would seem odd for a man to refuse the blandishments of a young serving girl, so the truth would not suffice. He nodded. “You're right. Who wouldn't want to bed a tasty strumpet like Mella? But I didn't curse her.”
The man glanced at his companion, frowning. “Why would she say you did then?”
Blade fingered the lump on his head again and winced. Clearly these two roughnecks were the girl's admirers, and would take a dim view of any aspersions on her character. “I was cursing myself for making such a foolish blunder with a fine girl like Mella. She must have misheard what I said.”
The cutthroat glanced at his cohort again, looking confused, and the other man shrugged, also clearly at a loss. If Blade was telling the truth, their reason for beating him had evaporated. Or at least, he hoped it had. The men, however, were not so easily dissuaded, and apparently itching for a fight. The ruffian thrust his face closer, his expression hostile.
“Well, we're still going to teach you a lesson for even thinking that Mella would bed a dirty assassin.”
Blade raised a finger. “I'd like to point out that, as a dirty assassin, I'm not a good man to pick a fight with.”
“Oh, so you think you're better than the pair of us, do you?”
“Well, let's just say that if you want your throats slit, you've come to the right man. I sell death, remember?”
The thug smiled. “Oh, I remember. You deserve a beating even if you didn't insult Mella, and we're going to give it to you.”
“I -”
The man's fist cracked into Blade's jaw, made him stagger back and ripped his jacket from the ruffian's grasp. He shook his head as stars flashed in his eyes, and the cutthroat came after him, his cohort closing in from the side. Blade ducked under their grasping hands and made a dash for freedom, but one of the men grabbed Blade's collar and yanked, sending him sprawling on his back and banging his head on the cobbles. The thugs loomed over him, and a boot thudded into his ribs. Blade yanked two daggers from his belt and slashed at the men's legs. They jumped back, cursing, and one drew a knife.
“So, you want to play with knives, eh?” he said.
The young assassin climbed to his feet, brandishing his weapons. “Leave me alone, and I won't hurt you.”
The men sniggered, and the taller one said, “Hark at him! He thinks he can scare us, Drumal!”
Drumal snorted. “He's got another think coming, don't he?”
“I reckon he does.”
Blade backed away, and the cutthroats followed. A wall stopped the assassin's retreat, and he sidled along it, seeking a way around the men. They sniggered and feinted at him, their expressions scornful.
“Cowardly assassin,” Drumal sneered.
“He's as yeller as a dog,” the other man scoffed. “Look at him! He's almost pissing in his britches! I'll wager he's chicken kin!”
“I'll not take that wager, Argot, I reckon you're right!”
“I reckon he needs to learn a lesson!”
Argot lunged, and his knife sliced across Blade's ribs as the assassin swayed aside. Blade stabbed the thug in the side of the neck, and the man recoiled with a howl, dropping his weapon to clasp his throat. Drumal gaped at Blade, then scooped up the knife and slashed at him. The assassin jumped back and stabbed the man in the arm. He grunted and dropped the knife. Argot fell to his knees, his eyes wide as he strived to stem the bleeding. Blade's stomach churned at the sight of it, and he thrust past Drumal and ran.
By the time Blade reached Sherin's house, blood soaked his trousers and his head spun. Sherin always left a lamp on in the kitchen for him to use when he went up to his room, and he took out the box of medicines. Finding a clean cloth, he filled a basin with water, sat at the table and stripped off his jacket, shirt and vest to inspect the wound in his flank. Although shallow, it bled profusely, and bile stung his throat. Digging in the box, he found a roll of bandages and the bottle of salve. Reaching the injury was awkward, and hurt, making him curse and grit his teeth.
The creak of the stairs made him glance around. Sherin entered the kitchen, and hurried to his side with a cry of dismay.
“What happened?”
He frowned and dropped the soaked cloth in the basin. “Louts.”
“You were attacked?”
“No, I cut myself shaving. Of course I was attacked!”
She shrank from his venom. “You're angry. Are you drunk?”
“I'm not your bloody husband, Sherin!”
She shook her head. “I'm sorry. Let me help you.”
“I can do it myself.”
“No, you can't.” She put her lamp on the table beside his and rinsed the cloth, then knelt to wipe the blood away with extreme gentleness. Blade glared across the room, uncomfortably aware of his state of undress. She dabbed at the wound timidly, but he hissed, even so, and she shot him a worried glance.
“It's not too bad. I don't think it needs stitches.”
“Good. Just bandage it then.”
“I'll put salve on it first, so it doesn't fester.”
Blade grunted, then hissed when she dabbed the stinging ointment on the wound, and she shot him another worried glance, her hand trembling.
Her timid attentions annoyed him, and he said, “For God's sake, woman, quit dithering and get on with it. I'm not going to bite you.”
“I'm sorry.”
Sherin dabbed the wound, then put away the salve and picked up the bandages, eyeing him. “It would be easier if you stood up.”
Blade rose to his feet, and she wound the bandage around his waist, which forced her to embrace him in order to pass it behind him. Her proximity discomfited him, but she seemed to enjoy it. Her fingers lingered rather too long on his skin, and she shot him a coy look that increased his unease. When she had tied the bandage, she rummaged in a cupboard and brought a bottle of wine to the table, pouring two cups.
“You look like you need this.”
Blade gulped the wine, and Sherin sipped hers, gazing at him in a way that made him frown in suspicion.
“You didn't find any work?” she asked.
“No.”
“What will you do for money?”
He shrugged. “I don't need much.”
“I... I was hoping you would be able to pay for your lodgings,” she said in a rush.
“You offered it for free.”
“Yes, I know. But... I have little money left.”
“You've been living on savings?”
She nodded. “What else can I do?”
“Find a job.”
“As what? I've only ever been a wife. I was wed at sixteen.”
“Don't you have a family?”
She shook her head. “My father's dead, and I only have three sisters.”
“What about your husband's family?”
Sherin shook her head again. “They won't help me. They'll take his children, but they don't want me.”
“And this house?”
“Rented.”
Blade refilled his cup. “So, you thought you'd live off me, once I found work?”
“I hoped that you would help me.”
“How disappointed you must be.”
“Why can't you find work?”
He scowled at her. “Even if I do, I'm not supporting you and your brats.”
“I'll send them to their grandparents. Just me. Please, Blade. What else am I to do? I've helped you, and I'll take good care of you. In every way.”
He snorted. “I'm not interested. And I can take of myself.”
“What will I do?” Her eyes filled with tears.
“Why don't you have a good cry? That will help matters, I'm sure.”
“You'll have to rent a room when you leave here. I'll cook and clean for you, wash your clothes... whatever you want.” She rose and came around to kneel beside him, but Blade jumped up and moved away.
“I don't need a bloody housekeeper.”
“I'll be more than a housekeeper. I'll make it worth your while, I swear.”
“No.”
She stood up. “What am I to do?”
“Do what any woman in your situation would do. Become a whore.”
Her face twisted. “I don't want to sell myself.”
“Except to me.”
“That wouldn't make me a whore.”
“Of course it would, and a cheap one.”
Tears ran down her cheeks. “How can you be so cruel?”
“You know nothing of cruelty. Find yourself another husband then, or work as a taproom wench, I don't care. But you're not staying with me.”
She approached him, her eyes filled with desperate pleading. “Most men would jump at my offer.”
“I'm not most men. You'd better start looking for a new husband. I'm going to bed.”
Blade headed for the stairs, his head aching and his ribs smarting. The following morning, he pondered the problem of his failure to find work, and the reason for it. He could make himself look older with a disguise, but that would require its constant renewal each day, an unwelcome chore, not to mention expense. What he needed, he mused, was some sort of agent, a man who looked like a fearsome assassin, to find the work for him. As long as Blade was the one who performed the assassinations, he saw no reason for the Guild to object.
With this in mind, he set off to the marketplace to find a suitable candidate for the job. The poor quarter's cobbled marketplace bustled with hurrying housewives, sweaty labourers and vendors who shouted their wares. Cages of chickens and ducks were piled around merchants' stalls, and the men slaughtered the hapless beasts as they sold them. Stray dogs fought over the offal that the butchers threw into the gutter, and urchins ran between the stalls, pilfering fruit and sweetmeats. Run-down houses and dilapidated shops surrounded the marketplace, which reeked of urine and excrement, most of it animal.
Braziers provided cooking fires for barrow-hags to roast their spitted chunks of meat, probably dog, while others stirred pots of bubbling rat stew, which they spooned into hollowed-out loaves of bread. An occasional whore strutted her stuff, her skirts hitched up to reveal pale thighs and her breasts almost popping out of a too-tight bodice. The childish shrieks of urchins mingled with braying, barking, clucking and shouting in an unholy din.
Blade soon spotted a likely looking man; a tall, muscular labourer whose saturnine face had an ugly scar across it. When the man sat down on a bag of grain to eat his midday meal, the assassin approached him. The labourer glanced up at him suspiciously, and Blade smiled.
“How would you like to make some extra money?”
The man shrugged. “I wouldn't object. What's the job?”
“You sit in a taproom and drink wine. When a man approaches you and offers to hire you as an assassin, you take his money and ask him five questions.”
“Right, and get my throat slit by the Assassin's Guild. No thanks.”
Blade shook his head. “You won't be performing the assassination, just finding the work.”
The man eyed him. “For you? You're an assassin?”
“That's right.”
“You sure don't look like one. You're just a boy.”
Blade nodded. “That's the problem.”
“So all I have to do is drink wine and wait for someone to hire me? And I won't get into trouble with the Guild?”
“That's it.”
The labourer looked thoughtful, and chewed a mouthful of his rather pungent fish stew. “Are you any good?”
“What does that matter to you?”
“Because if you can't do the job, the customer will come after me, not you.”
Blade inclined his head. “I'm good.”
“You don't look good, you look like a boy.”
“Like I said -”
“Yes, I know. That's the problem.” The man considered again. “Who pays for the wine?”
“I will, but you only get one cup, and make it last. You can't get drunk. I'll cut you in for twenty per cent of the work you bring in.”
“Fair enough.” The labourer wiped his hand on his trousers and held it out. “It's a deal.”
Blade hesitated, glancing at the man's dirty hand, then shook it. “Good. You'll start tonight. Wear dark clothes, preferably black.”
“Don't I need a mark?”
“I'll see to that. Meet me at the Hangman's Noose, at dusk. Have you a name?”
The man nodded. “Permal.”
Blade returned to Sherin's house, purchasing a pot of black ink and a brush on the way with one of his remaining coppers. He was well pleased with his new employee, who appeared to be well spoken and intelligent. For the remainder of the day he rested, in case Permal found him employment that evening.
At dusk, he made his way to the Hangman's Noose, where he found Permal seated at the back of the taproom. Sliding onto the bench opposite, he glanced around to ensure that none of the patrons were watching them. The night was young, and the taproom had not started to fill yet.
Blade ordered two cups of wine from the serving maid and studied Permal's dark brown jacket and black trousers. In the gloom, the jacket appeared almost black. Taking out the pot and brush, he sat beside Permal and painted a dagger at the base of his throat, which was good enough, in his opinion, to fool an ordinary man, though not another assassin. When the ink had dried, he instructed the labourer to button his collar to hide it, then returned to his seat opposite.
“When someone approaches and offers to hire you, they'll ask to see your mark. If they ask for your name, it's Blade. You ask them for the name of the target, what he looks like, his address, whether they want his death to be quick or slow, and what kind of familiar he has, understand?”
Permal nodded. “That's all?”
“Yes. You ask for four goldens. If they say it's too much, negotiate. If they want a slow death, don't negotiate. Can you do that?”
“Of course. What's the least I can charge?”
“Five silvers.”
“That's cheap.”
Blade inclined his head, and glanced around as the serving wench placed two cups of wine on the table. When she left, he turned to Permal again.
“It's enough.”
Permal sipped the wine. “So you reckon I look like an assassin?”
“Yes.”
“More than you do, at any rate.”
Blade hid his irritation with a grim smile and left Permal to his lonely vigil, choosing an even darker corner in which to secret himself. It was a little unusual for two assassins to occupy a taproom, but not unheard-of. There were a few alehouses where several assassins could be found, but, while such places drew more customers, the competition made finding work there just as hard.
For two nights, no potential customers approached Permal, and Blade's remaining funds dwindled. On the third night, a beefy merchant sat down at the labourer's table and engaged him in a furtive discussion, glancing around often with the guilty air that all those who hired assassins used when doing the deed. Blade was out of earshot, but the merchant nodded and dropped a golden into Permal's palm. The labourer smiled and thrust out a hand, which the merchant eyed for a moment before leaving without shaking it.
When the labourer joined Blade, the assassin frowned and leant forward to mutter, “You never offer to shake their bloody hand.”
“So it would seem. He looked like I had offered him a rotten fish.”
“He'd have been more willing to shake that.” Blade took the golden Permal placed on the table and tucked it away.
“When do I get my share?”
“You want twenty per cent of one golden, or two?”
“Two.”
“Then you'll get it when the job's done.”
Permal nodded. “You're supposed to kill a man named Darjan, who lives in the east quarter, Fifteen Coalwood Street. He's a merchant, a portly man with brown hair and grey eyes, and his familiar is a toad.”
“Good. It should take me about three days to do it, by which time I hope you'll have found more work.” Blade dropped his last three coppers on the table. “For wine.”