The Shadow-man Read online

  I stood beside the bed, watching the sleeping man. The regular rise and fall of his chest, the gentle sounds of sleep coming from his half-open mouth, the slight fluttering of his eyelids—all bore testimony to the life within. He looked healthy, though he was not a young man. The elixir, Corvyn had said, would stop his heart.

  There was no way to do this peacefully, as I would have to get him to swallow the entire contents of the phial. To do that, I would have to stop his mouth and nose after pouring the elixir in. He would have no choice but to swallow it. I readied myself, knowing I would be in for at least a brief struggle, as I took the cork from the phial.

  Who is this man? Why does he deserve to die?

  I shook my head, trying to banish such thoughts, as I could not afford them. A shadow-man does not ask questions. I must trust the King…Good King Darius, the man I owe my life to, though I have never seen him. If not for him, we would have been lost…lost to the Moon Man and the other mindless, superstitious monsters who burned my brother alive.

  I looked at the sleeping man, imagining the face of one of the villagers who had no doubt lit many a pyre—the torchlight had revealed his insanity...his stupid, unreasonable fear. Without another thought, I grabbed the man’s jaw and poured the elixir into his mouth, then sat astride his chest, pinching his nostrils shut and covering his mouth with a grey-gloved hand as he struggled awake.

  I ignored the terror in his eyes as he bucked and heaved underneath me. I stopped looking at his face when his eyes rolled back in his head and he went limp. Unfortunately, at that moment, someone knocked at the door. Get out of there. Don’t wait…

  I wanted to check my victim for a heart-beat, but there wasn’t time. I flew to the window, unlocked it, and eased myself outside. Despite Corvyn’s instructions, I wanted to make sure—to follow the kill until there was no doubt of it—and so I waited. I heard someone unlock the chamber door. Then I heard that someone trying to rouse the minister. Cautiously, I peered inside.

  Eldric the Traitor lay where I had left him, but someone had drawn a cloth over his face. I knew what that meant—I had succeeded. I had become a shadow-man.

  ***

  I returned to my chamber to find Corvyn waiting for me. “You didn’t tell me he would struggle so hard,” I said. “Still, the deed is done. I killed him. Next time, I’d rather use a less painful method, even if he was a traitor.”

  “The struggle was necessary,” said Corvyn. “I had to test you thoroughly. You have to be willing not only to kill a stranger, but to cause him pain. Congratulations. I must say, though…your diversion was more than a little clumsy. I’m not sure why you needed one, anyway. You got into Pascal’s chamber…why didn’t you just spirit yourself up to the third level without setting the place on fire? It wouldn’t do to burn the Tower down.”

  “There was little risk of that,” I said, though I couldn’t look Corvyn in the eye at that point. He was right, as usual.

  “Wasn’t there?”

  “No one will suspect wrong-doing. The wife has a problem with drink. I heard the guard say so.”

  “Actually, Pascal has more of a drinking problem than the wife does, and you should know the guard works for me,” said Corvyn. “Those words were spoken for your benefit. Eldric, who is not a traitor, was in on the test, too. I hope you didn’t actually damage him during the struggle.”

  I just stood with my mouth open.

  “You didn’t think we would entrust such a vital task to an untested assassin, would you? Our work is far too important to risk in the hands of an apprentice. The elixir I gave you was of excellent quality, but not lethal in any way. Eldric is a fine actor, don’t you agree?”

  I stood before him, clenching and unclenching my hands, wanting to throttle him.

  “Don’t be angry, Beltran. We are all tested this way. Some people just can’t take a life no matter how much you train them. When the time comes, their courage deserts them. I’m pleased that you passed my last test.”

  “I told you I had killed a man already,” I said through clenched teeth.

  “Yes, a man who was about to attack you and your sister. You told me all about it. This time wasn’t so easy, was it? Eldric wasn’t threatening you. He had no power over you—he was asleep in his bed. That was a much greater test of your resolve, don’t you think? Now, it’s nearly dawn, so get some rest. Tonight we’ll go and meet Eldric. I want to get his evaluation of your performance in his untimely demise.”

  After Corvyn had left, my thoughts turned back to the murder I thought I had committed. It hadn’t been all that difficult, really…not once I had talked myself into it. I knew I could do it again, and this time I wouldn’t ask questions. I would trust King Darius to know when and where he needed my services, and I would provide those services. I knew I could practice the art of killing, and that I would refine it with each life taken. As long as I could wall off the part of my soul that worried about whether it was right or wrong, I would be fine.

  ***

  Corvyn and I made our way to the Boar’s Head tavern later that night. Sure enough, there was Eldric sitting in a corner booth—our booth. One could see everyone who came in the front door (and the back door) from that shadowy corner. It was always dark in the Boar’s Head, but I could see that Eldric had already ordered a huge platter of corn-battered onions fried in lard. As usual, the whole place smelled of onions and stale beer. I loved it.

  Corvyn clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re looking remarkably hale for a dead man.”

  “No thanks to you,” said Eldric with a rather jaundiced look in my direction. “Your protégé nearly smothered the life out of me.”

  Corvyn shrugged. “Hazard of the job. Besides, Abiel was there to make sure things didn’t go too far. We wouldn’t have let him kill you…not really.”

  “Well, this is the last time, I hope,” said Eldric. “What if he had decided to break my neck instead?”

  “He’s smarter than that,” said Corvyn.

  “What say we stop talking about him as if he isn’t here?” I said, somewhat annoyed at having been cast in the role of “the-only-one-who-didn’t-know-what-was-going-on.”

  “At least your elixir was of a better vintage than the last,” said Eldric.

  “Wine?” I muttered. “You had me risk my life to pour wine down his throat? Wine?”

  “Yes, and very fine wine, too,” said Eldric. “Though it wasn’t really worth the bruise you put on my chin when you held me down.” He turned back to Corvyn. “I was almost worried there for a moment.”

  Corvyn leaned in, picked up the lone candle from the center of the scarred mahogany table, and held it near Eldric’s face. “You did leave a bruise, though it’s a small one and likely would not have aroused suspicion. You must do better the next time. For now, though, let’s drink to your success. What say you, Eldric? Did he pass?”

  “I suppose so. He definitely would have killed me had your elixir been genuine.” He lifted his hardwood tankard in my direction and took a long swallow, foam bubbling in his grey mustache. “Here’s to your apprentice, Corvyn. I hope to never meet up with him again…at least not anywhere but here.”

  A full tankard was placed at my elbow, and I drank it down in my own honor. “Don’t be too impressed with yourself,” said Corvyn. “The next time you’re called upon, you’ll be on your own, and it will be real.”

  ***

  I went to the tavern nearly every night after that, and the proprietor, a rather smallish, rat-faced man named Hakim, made certain I could sit in my usual corner. Sometimes I envied him—he had what I considered to be an ideal profession, though I suspected it would neither be challenging enough nor profitable enough to suit me.

  As a shadow-man, I was treated very well. I had women whenever I asked for them, though never the same one twice, and I was given every comfort—spending money, food, drink, and fine clothes. My whip-thin, sinewy frame and raven-black hair might be considered handsome, and some folk thought me qu
ite dashing, especially when I dressed up in tailored leathers, silks, and velvets. I must admit that I soon became very impressed with myself in general, though I always wore old clothes to the tavern. When asked how I made my living, I merely replied that I was a part of the King’s personal guard. That was true enough.

  “And how did you merit such an honor?” snarled one of the other regulars.

  “Apparently, the King values my skills,” I said, demonstrating by casting one of my throwing-knives just past his ear to stick in the wall with a solid thunk. “Now, I would suggest you not question me again.”

  The man shrugged. “Fair enough. Still, you must have seen the King, eh? Tell me…what’s he like?”

  “Kingly,” I replied, downing a small jolt of strong spirits. “If he wanted you to know more, he would tell you himself.”

  Even as I said the words, I wondered. I had never seen King Darius, and neither had anyone else of my acquaintance. He didn’t appear to address his subjects—his words were read by the First Minister, always emphasizing how much the King loved his people and how every law, every edict, was made for their protection and prosperity. Why did he not appear? What did he fear? Sometimes I wondered whether he existed at all.

  I embraced my new profession, though I was rarely called upon at first. My shadow fell across only three souls the first year, and I looked forward to each challenge knowing I was eliminating an enemy of the Crown. My assignments always arrived with a meal, usually hidden beneath the cap of my wine-bottle. Bottles containing messages were always dipped in red wax…an uncommon practice in the city. To this day, I shy away from bottles like that. I was told why each “mark” had been selected for my attentions. For example, a message would read: Trask, a traitor who has plotted to poison the King’s wine. We could not catch him red-handed, and thus cannot accuse him openly, but we are certain of his guilt. The shadow must fall upon him. I was told where and when Trask could be found. Then I would burn the message.

  I told myself that each killing was justified, though it really didn’t matter. A shadow-man doesn’t ask questions. Today I wonder how much of those justifications were true. Was Trask really a traitor? Did the woman named Bint Falina really conspire to murder Darius’s favorite consort? At one point it seemed I was called upon to eliminate the leading members of a certain religious sect. When I asked Corvyn about it, he dismissed it as coincidence. In Orovar, anyone breaking the law was supposed to be put on trial in the City Court. Though they were usually then found guilty, I’m quite certain none of my victims were ever granted such a courtesy.

  Sometimes I was sent to the neighboring guild-villages to practice the shadow-man’s very special way of settling disputes over taxes, labor conditions, and duties owed to the Crown, though, naturally, I was told otherwise. My victims were always described as the worst sort of conspirators, always on the verge of major rebellion that would plunge Orovar into chaos. I was generally content with my lot in life, and therefore I did what I was told without investigating the truth of it. My father would have wept at what I had become, but I hadn’t thought of him in a long, long time. I couldn’t even remember what he looked like—at least not while he was alive.

  As the years passed, and I was called upon more and more often, I began to wonder. For one thing, the assignments had been reduced to a simple name and location, with no explanation or justification provided. I had perfected the technique of stupefying my victims with moon-flower and then suffocating them, but I wondered how much longer things could go on before people began to wonder why so many of Darius’ enemies died in their beds.

  Though I still trained and disciplined myself in order to stay strong and hardy, my relatively easy life had lost much of its appeal. I began to entertain thoughts of pursuing a different way of earning a living. I was still a relatively young man, and I grew tired of keeping to myself all the time. Fine food and female company only provide so much personal fulfillment. I remember looking at my unshaven face in the glass in my quarters. Who was that bored, hard-eyed man staring back at me?

  I started taking risks for no good reason, and it’s a miracle I wasn’t caught. The only other exciting moments in my life came during my nightly visits to the Boar’s Head, where I could find a few hours of companionship and mayhem with the few people I had come to know. They called me “El-morah,” which refers to a water-hole that looks good but is undrinkable, as if they knew there was something unsavory beneath the fair surface. I believe they were pointing out that, while I called myself a “King’s Man,” I was generally worthless.

  Since I always had plenty of money and wasn’t shy about spreading it around, no one objected too much—not even Jamar, who had taken to coming in on a regular basis. I noticed he had working man’s hands and the beginnings of a gut hanging over his belt. It was obvious that he was no longer in the military, and I wondered what he had done to bring dishonor on himself. He wisely avoided me.

  I had achieved status while my old enemy had been humbled, and that realization re-kindled my appreciation of the life I had chosen. Fueled by pride, I carried out two more executions before my day of reckoning finally came.

  ***

  The message hidden beneath the red wax cork of the wine bottle simply read “Martell the Wise. Scholars’ Keep, Lore-master’s quarters.” I stared at it for a moment. I had actually met Martell—he was one of the King’s closest and most trusted advisors, the Chief Lore-master in Orovar. This would be a very high-level assassination involving one of the highest-ranking citizens. Martell had seemed very kind, gentle, almost grandfatherly, though I heard he could be quite caustic if you were apprenticed to him. He would not suffer a fool.

  I prepared everything I would need…moon-flower, the special mask I used for smothering people, and all the tools I would need to break into the Scholars’ Keep. As it turned out, I didn’t need them. Scholars, apparently, didn’t bother to lock their doors at night. The underground vault containing the City’s library, however, was locked, as was the Lore-master’s quarters. As it was locked from the inside, and I had no way of getting in other than through the door, I would need to wait a while.

  Each evening I made my way to the Keep, hoping that someone would decide to visit Martell and give me an opportunity. Finally, on the third evening of lurking, a robed, hooded apprentice appeared with a tray of food and wine. He knocked softly at the heavy oaken door.

  “Master…I have brought a late supper as you requested.”

  I heard a voice from within the chamber, though not clearly. Then the rattling of the lock…the turning of the key. “Come in, my son,” said a kindly voice. “Pray take some supper with a lonely old man.” The apprentice entered the room, but he left the door ajar—the opportunity I had been waiting for.

  Now just relax and get into some discussion about something or other, I thought. Take your attentions elsewhere for a few moments—that’s all I need. I slipped into the chamber and hid beneath the cloth covering one of Martell’s study-tables as the two scholars—young and old—shared the food and wine on the tray.

  When they had finished, Martell drew out a carved wooden pipe, filled it with leaf, and touched it to the candle-flame. Soon he was puffing away, though the smoke made him cough rather alarmingly. I could not see the apprentice clearly, as he was still hooded, but he rose and moved to pat Martell on the back to help him stop coughing. Martell waved him away.

  From the sound of it, you’ll need a lot more than a pat on the back, I thought. But soon it won’t matter anyway. Enjoy your pipe, old man.

  At last, the apprentice gathered up the tray. “Goodnight, Master. Sleep well,” he said, and left me alone with Martell.

  It was a good thing Martell had drunk as much wine as he had, or he might never have gone to sleep at all. I knew that Lore-masters often loved to work far into the night, and that old men sometimes don’t seem to need to sleep much, but I was hoping to complete my task and get back to my quarters. Staying absolutely quiet and moti
onless for such a long time tired me out like nothing else could…in fact, I doubt I could do it today. Whether Martell needed sleep or not, I most certainly would.

  At last he stretched, yawned, and moved to his bed-chamber. A moment later, the lamp went out. I waited a few more moments, and crept quietly in. The room was so dark I could barely see Martell, as there were no windows and precious little light from the study-chamber, but back then I had cat’s eyes. I moved unerringly to the bedside, the phial of moon-flower in my hand. I had crouched beside the bed and was preparing to administer the elixir—just a few drops would do the trick—when I heard the old man speak.

  “I’ve been wondering when Darius would decide to include me in his unending list of enemies.”

  This had never happened to me in all my years. I had never been anticipated before, at least, not as far as I knew. What could I do now? I knew I could overpower Martell, but not without leaving evidence.

  “Well, get on with it. I know who you are, and why you’ve come. You will make it painless, won’t you?”

  I didn’t know what to say. When I tried to speak, my words came out rough and halting, as though I hadn’t used my voice in a long time. “I…I can make it so you will not suffer,” I said. “But why do you give in so easily? Why not fight for your life? Is it worth so little to you?”

  “On the contrary. My life is worth a great deal to me,” said Martell, reaching over to the bedside table. “Light that candle, will you? In my opinion, you should at least do me the one small courtesy of looking me in the eye before you kill me.”

  I obliged him…what else could I do? I looked into his watery blue eyes—the eyes of a Northerner—as he peered back at me. “Drat. It’s so difficult to see without lenses,” he said. “Never mind…you asked me why I don’t fight. Do you still want to know? Well, of course you do. I’ll wager you’ve never had one of your targets speak for itself before.” He drew a deep, resigned sigh. “I don’t fight because there’s no point. I’ve spent most of my life in Orovar, serving the City. When Darius came, I served him as well…I have been there for him through all of his difficulties, and I have kept his secrets. If he has sent you after me, I can do nothing more to aid him. That means my life is over, whether by your hand or someone else’s.”