In The Cards

A master assassin can slip past hordes of armed guards unnoticed, scale the steepest walls and enter rooms guarded by deadly traps, then cut your throat so discreetly that you barely notice it yourself before you fall dead to the floor. An inept amateur has to be considered extremely lucky if he does not accidentally stab himself on his first mission. There is no such thing as a clumsy assassin. At least not for very long.

Excerpt from 'Interview With An Assassin'

"Five gold," Zaerini muttered to herself. "Gee, whatever am I to do with my suddenly increased wealth?" She slipped the coins into her money pouch, still shaking her flame-red head. "Rats", she said. "I'm a rat-killer. A slayer of dangerous killer rats. An erraticator. Scourge of rodents everywhere." It still didn't sound very impressive, but at least it was a start. Maybe if I changed them to giant rats the size of horses it might make a better story, Zaerini thought. Preferably fire-breathing too.

The young half-elf was getting a little impatient, and as always her mood suffered from it. The fact that she had no idea what her foster father was planning didn't help. Gorion had told her little enough, simply that there was some kind of danger coming, and that they had to leave as soon as she had equipped herself with whatever weapons and armor she wished to purchase at Winthrop's Inn. Leave! Leave Candlekeep, the only home she could remember having. The thought should have been an immensely frightening one. It still was, in a way, but the excitement at getting to see a bit more of the world overshadowed all.

I am supposed to become a bard, after all, Zaerini thought. And bards need to go out into the world, to experience things. Not just sit around a library reading about them, even if I do like books. I want to be able to tell my own stories.

She had bought herself a bow and arrows, as well as a plain but well-crafted sword. Briefly she had considered the suits of leather armor hanging off a rack at the back of the inn, then decided against it. She wanted freedom of movement. And there was also the fact of her magic. Gorion had started teaching her a few minor cantrips lately. Not much, but they might still be useful as long as she had no armor to hinder her. She hadn't spent all that much money, but she figured that earning a little extra couldn't harm. Gorion had told her that they wouldn't leave until evening anyway. Something about wanting to travel under the cover of darkness, a comment that really had Zaerini worried. She'd never known her foster father to be that apprehensive of anything, and the fact that he wouldn't tell her what was going on didn't help.

She had almost enjoyed throwing herself into the mundane and everyday tasks of running errands. Fetching mislaid scrolls and books, running around the keep after potion bottles, crossbow bolts and rusty old swords, and all for the benefit of people who were well equipped in the leg department and certainly capable of keeping track of their own belongings. Except perhaps for poor old Phlydia, an elderly mage who had somehow managed to forget one of her books in a haystack. Still, Rini hadn't really minded the errands all that much today. They gave her something to occupy her mind with, and tomorrow she would be gone anyway. The old dwarf Reevor's mission of clearing a storage room of rats had struck her as singularly ridiculous, since the cats were already on the job. And I bet nobody ever used a longsword to kill rats before, Zaerini thought. Poor little things. And five gold pieces! Reevor is so cheap. I should have thought to get paid in advance, I suppose. I'm sure Reevor wouldn't dare treat a professional hired killer like that.

The girl sighed, squinting at the sun with eyes the color of golden amber. Evening was approaching, but the courtyard of Candlekeep was still unpleasantly hot and dusty. The faint voices of the chanters drifted towards her from the Keep gardens, as usual so intermingled that she was hard pressed to recognize any individual words. She could hear Alaundo mentioned, but that was hardly a surprise seeing that the man had been the founder of Candlekeep. For some reason the chanting bothered her today, the inaudible words buzzing around her head like gnats. She needed to get away, just for a minute. To get inside, somewhere cool and quiet and get a moment's peace before returning to her father. The priest quarters were close by, she saw. That should be perfect. Relieved, she pulled the creaking old door open and went inside.

The small house was dark and sparsely furnished, low of roof. There were a few beds and chairs, a table and not much more. That is, except for the man rifling through the contents of a dresser. Zaerini didn't recognize him, but she was willing to bet her hard-earned five goldpieces that whoever he was he wasn't a priest. Priests usually didn't smell that strongly of sweat, both horse and human. All in all the horse smell was much preferable to the human one. Priests also usually didn't wear clothes stained with wine and other, more unsavory things, and they certainly didn't wear edged weapons like the dagger she spotted hanging from the man's belt.

"Oh goodie goodie!" the man exclaimed, actually rubbing his hands. "I've gone and found ye first! You are the ward of Gorion, no doubt?"

"I do not recognize you," Zaerini said, her voice polite but tinged with suspicion. "Who are you and what are you doing here?" She gave the money pouch the man was holding a pointed look. "Little bit of burglary?" she asked. "No wait, don't tell me. You slipped and fell, and your hand just happened to wind up inside somebody else's drawer."

The man gave her a nasty grin, showing off a set of black and rotting teeth and a breath that could have stunned a black dragon. "Who I am is unimportant", he sneered, "but who YOU are is very much so. I apologize for this dirty bit of business, but I must seek your death. A pity, I know, but it would seem your head is worth an exceptional amount to me. I kill you myself and I need not share credit with anyone."

He drew his dagger and advanced on the half-elf, waving the weapon about in a theatrical way that even Zaerini, with her limited experience of actual combat, could tell was vastly inefficient. However, that didn't mean that she wanted to take any chances, since this madman was clearly out to kill her. She backed towards the door and had almost reached it when it was pulled forcibly open and a second man entered. He was a little bulkier than the first one, with a slightly more intelligent look in his eyes, but Zaerini still didn't expect him to start spouting philosophy or solving complex equations any time soon.

"You! Shank!" the second man cried out in a hoarse voice. "What do ya think you're doing? That's Gorion's little whelp, that is, unless I'm very much mistaken. Or am I?" He turned to Zaerini as he asked this. She hesitated a second or two before answering. This fellow didn't look any more trustworthy than the other one, but she might just be lucky. He could be a wandering knight in disguise or something. It would have to be a very good disguise, of course.

"I am his child, if that is what you mean", she said, keeping her voice steady. I am Gorion's child, she thought. In all the ways that matter. I don't care if old Ulraunt calls me a baseborn orphan.

The new arrival shook his head. "Foster child", he said. "Gotta keep it straight. He raised you as his own, but you are not of his blood. Your head ain't worth nothing if you're actually his child. Nah, I know you're the right one. My ticket out of the gutter, soon as I snuff your lights."

So much for the wandering knight theory, Zaerini thought. She struggled to draw her new sword, still awkward with it. Unfortunately it wouldn't come out of its sheath. She could feel the sweat trickling down her back and her hair was falling into her eyes. She was going to die. She just knew it. Die alone, killed by a couple of morons who probably didn't know which boot to put on which foot without carefully written instructions. Outside she could hear the voices of the Chanters, suddenly far too loud. She shouldn't have been able to pick up on the words, but suddenly they echoed through her mind, cold and clear like falling chips of ice.

The Lord of Murder shall perish…

Zaerini felt the logs of the wall against her back. Nowhere to turn. No way to run.

But in his doom he shall spawn a score of mortal progeny…

She was feeling hot, as if she had fire running through her veins rather than blood. Imoen sometimes jested about the flamboyant color of her hair, calling her Firehead. Imoen… She would probably never see her friend again.

Chaos will be sown from their passage…

She would never see Gorion again either. She was no brawny fighter to charge gleefully into battle. How could she possibly hope to take on two grown men, even if they did look like the offspring of a village idiot and a rabid gibberling.

So sayeth the wise Alaundo!

And that was it. The plan sprang into life inside her head, fully formed and functional, her mouth speaking the necessary words before she had time to think about it. "Well, I guess this is it", she said, not needing to fake the tremor in her voice. "I suppose I'm done for. Good luck splitting the blood money, you bastards."

The two would-be assassins froze, now regarding each other with narrowed eyes. "Splitting?" Shank said. "I'm not splitting with nobody!"

"Oh yeah?" the other man growled. "We'll just see about that! Nobody cheats Carbos and gets away with it!" Their prey now forgotten the two of them turned on each other, parrying and feinting with drawn daggers, now and then drawing blood. Shank grunted loudly as he lost the tip of his nose to a wild swing, Carbos was limping, his left leg bleeding profusely. And then his eyes rolled up into his head and he crumpled to the floor, dark blood trickling out of his nose and ears as a chair broke on his head. He gave a muted, gurgling sound, his breathing became wet and muffled. Then it stopped entirely. Shank stared at his rival in mute shock. He barely had time to turn around before a sword slipped into his guts, twisting and tearing. Before he died the would-be assassin just had time to see the girl he had come to kill stand over him. Her eyes burned hot and golden in her pale face, her mouth was twisted into a silent snarl. She didn't seem to notice the blood that had spattered onto her face and hands, her movements were graceful as she lifted the sword again and again. And as he died, for the first time in his mean and selfish life, Shank felt something akin to worship.