Assassin's Crossroads

Assassin's Crossroads

by Jackson James

Smashwords Edition

Cover by Jae Bell

Copyright 2013 Jackson James

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Prelude

Long Ago

The throne was his.

His great-great-uncle's throne. In his honor, he would assume the name, Duke Conrad Cithauer the Second, Duke of Crossroads, Protector of the Bridge and the Golden Bay.

The ducal throne was the seat of power for the City-State of Crossroads, the main route of trade between the kingdoms on the Western side of the great river and the empire on the Eastern Side. This trade was its source of wealth and power and the source of wealth and power for the Duke.

There had been no duke in almost a century. Duke Conrad Cithauer the First had died leaving no clear declaration of succession, sparking a war for the throne between his three sons, two brothers and a half dozen nephews. During that time the City Council had ruled the city while the candidates traded influence for support from the guilds that kept the great city running.

With no Duke to oversee the council, they had voted themselves greater power and wealth, usurping as much of the authority the city charter vested in the Duke as possible. That would now change, all of it. His first act as Duke would be to restore the city charter to its previous state, his second act to name a proper line of succession to avoid what led to the current state happening again.

The city had become sick. The poor forced from their homes and underground into sewers and basements converted into habitations, the Undercity they called it, where no one could see them. Old service roads combined with new construction beneath the feet of the rich and powerful to give the displaced worker class space to live. More people were displaced daily, banks foreclosing on houses at the behest of rich neighbors who wanted to expand their estates. The guilds, whose power had increased more than anyone's during the fighting, forced families into the streets either by legal maneuvering or threats of violence.

He would end all of that.

It was thirty-two steps to the platform on which the throne sat. He had counted them yesterday and the day before and the day before. Walked the path everyday since his relatives had all agreed that he would be the new Duke and that it was time to end the fighting that had ripped his family apart for three generations.

There were few members of his family left. Most had succumbed to old age, renounced their claim, or been murdered in their sleep. As it was, he was not a young man, and his health was not at its best. But he was strong of mind and will, and he wanted to see his city prosper for all its citizens, not just the plutocrats, politicians, and guilds.

That was another thing he would do, he thought as the coronation ceremony began and he advanced at a stately pace while the trumpets and drums played the city's march along the thirty-two steps to the throne. The City Council, obviously under the influence of the guilds, had passed a resolution to grant the guilds positions on the council, giving them the right to help make law and recognize other organizations' charters. It was a cheap power grab. No cheap was not the right word. It was obviously an expensive power grab on behalf of the guilds, buying two-thirds of the council's votes the creation of new seats would require would have come at a huge expense, but it would pay off in the long term. The guilds could then set their own rules and reject any new groups they felt were a threat to them.

By city charter, the Duke had thirty and one days to veto any provision the council passed. He had ten days left after his coronation to reject the new law. Maybe that should be his first act, he thought, now halfway to the throne. All attending were on their feet and their eyes on him and his robes of office, embroidered with the seal of the City of Crossroads, the bridge and star logo all the guards and soldiers wore upon their tabards and shields, the heraldry that was proudly displayed on tapestries and banners hanging around the great hall that held the throne.

The high priest stood next to the throne and held the silver crown in his elderly hands. He was the oldest priest in the city, the longest serving, and the honor had fallen to him to crown the new Duke. The crown was silver, gold was for kings and emperors, silver for lesser nobility. It was a simple crown, a band of silver to sit upon his head with a single green jewel on a diamond-shaped plate at the front. The new Duke had touched it before, felt its weight. Heavy, but not matching the weight of the responsibility about to be placed on his shoulders.

Yes, thought the soon-to-be Duke, my responsibility. I will veto the guilds' seating on the council first, then I will restore the charter and set succession into law. He thought this as he placed his foot on the first step of the raised platform that held the ducal throne. It was his last thought.

The bolt from an unseen crossbow pierced the back of his head and exited through his mouth, the uncrowned Duke dead before he hit the ground. The crowd gasped and screamed, guards fought through the chaos to find the assassin, but it was hopeless. The area was secured, but a culprit was never found, no one claimed responsibility.

The guilds had what they desired, their seats upon the council and no one man able to stop the expansion of their power.

Marcus Merchant, step forward, a commanding voice ordered from the high podium near the front of the court. Marcus Merchant was not an old man, but time and stress had aged him. His shoulders hunched and his steps slow, he slid along the pews and reached the aisle. A court attendant met him and led him forward, opening the swinging gate in the low wall that separated the spectator area from the floor. He took his position behind the defendant's stand and waited.

Normally, the court would be filled with spectators, petitioners, defendants and plaintiffs. Today it was almost emptied. This was strictly cases of crimes committed by guild members against the guild. The Industrious Society took these cases very seriously, and conducted the hearings quietly, privately, and quickly.

I'm here, your grace, Marcus said, smoothing his dull, thin hair back against his skull.

And the prosecution, Mr. Davis? asked the judge.

Here, your grace, a tall, lean man in black robe stood in the front row of pews and allowed himself to be escorted to the plaintiff’s stand opposite of Mr. Merchant.

Besides the three of them, a pair of attendants, and the four guards, there were only a handful of people sitting in the spectator gallery, others with upcoming cases or witness for one side or the other.

I have reviewed the files. Do you have anything to add, Mr. Davis? asked the judge.

Not at this time, your grace.

Mr. Merchant, the guild has brought evidence before it showing that you have embezzled funds valued at over forty thousand Sovereigns from the guild and sought to conceal your crime. Do you have anything to say in your defense?

Your grace, I am innocent, Mr. Merchant said, trying to put strength into his weary voice, a strength he did not feel as he leaned heavily on the railing in front of him, his arms locked out to keep him upright.

Your grace, said Mr. Davis, All of the accounts involved are under Mr. Merchant's supervision. He is the only person with access to all of the accounts.

I didn't do it, your grace, Mr. Merchant said. I discovered the the theft, but I didn't do it.

Why did you not bring the embezzlement to the guild's attention? Asked Mr. Davis.

I thought...I thought I could find out who did it. It took me too long. I...it...it took me a week to piece together how they were doing it. I'm still...I'm still working on it, your grace, he said. His voice was weak and hesitant, he was tired. He had been arrested yesterday, in front of his daughter and wife. He spent a sleepless night in a jail cell, cold and hungry, fearing what was to come.

Explain it to me, ordered the judge.

Your grace, Mr. Merchant's voice grew stronger as he started. An order comes down to purchasing for merchandise that needs to be bought on the market. Once the merchandise is in the guild's possession, it is then transferred to sales, where it is sold on the market, usually a week later. It is sold for half the price the guild paid for it, and it is sold back to the merchant who the guild purchased it from. I identified four different merchants involved in this, and it occurred from six different divisions within the guild.

How was this discovered? asked the judge.

The guild sold an item twice, your grace. A portable anvil from a craftsman in the Iron Foundry district. He stamps and numbers each item he makes. Even simple tools he crafts fetch a high price because of their quality. We bought, then sold one of his anvils, then bought and sold the exact same anvil again. It was after I saw the records of the second sale that I started looking into this.

Your grace, everything is as Mr. Merchant says, but he is the only one with access to all the accounts. He signs off on the purchase requests and then reviews the sales. He is the only one who could do this, said Mr. Davis.

Your grace, I didn't do it.

Then who did, Mr. Merchant? asked the judge.

Someone had the items between their purchase and sale, your grace. I saw part of the transfer of custody forms, but most of the records had been lost, or destroyed, I don't know, Mr. Merchant said. I believe whoever that was is responsible.

And you have proof of this?

I have a journal, your grace. I have been reconstructing the movements of all of the items and money, and keeping a journal of it. I believe I am very close.

Mr. Davis seemed surprise at the revelation. His face showed his shock, briefly, before resuming its previous businesslike demeanor.

Where is this journal, Mr. Merchant?

I have it hidden, your grace. I wanted to keep it safe.

Your grace, said Mr. Davis, producing an envelope, sealed with a dob of red wax. Before this proceeds any further, I believe you need to read this.

Approach, Mr. Davis.

Mr. Davis came from around his stand and presented the envelope to the judge, who examined the seal before cracking it open and extracting a single sheet from inside. The judge read it over quickly.

Is this really signed by him? he asked. Mr. Davis nodded. The judge read the sheet again, folded it and handed it back to Mr. Davis.

Mr. Merchant, said the judge. In light of what I have just read, I have no choice but to suspend you from the guild, pending a continued investigation in the embezzlement. You have until six bells tomorrow evening to have vacated guild territory until such time as the investigation is finalized. This court is adjourned. The judge banged his gavel against the sounding block.

Chapter 1

The air was heavy with sweat and the breath of the dying. The Underworld lay behind him as he moved along the tunnel towards the Undercity many feet above him. Like most tunnels into the Underworld, this was not well maintained. A mish mash of bricks, tiles, and old wood covered the gently curving walls to support the arched ceiling a few inches above his head. Occasionally, he was forced to step around an impromptu support for a collapsed section of roof or wall, a support meant to be temporary, but many showed signs of having become permanent. Just as often he had to step over bodies, some dead, most not, along the same path.

It was the 215th year of this particular War of Assassins, and to his mind, it would continue on to year 216 and beyond. The Old Duke was the only one who could keep the Guilds in line, and with his death a succession war had started amongst his sons, nephews, and brother. It had carried on to their children, their children’s children, and so on. The various workers’ guilds, major and minor, applied influence here and there, supported this candidate for a while, then this one. Eventually, the guilds began to snipe at each other to increase their own power.

That ended the guild system, and started the Guilds. With the bricklayers no longer willing to work with the architects and the merchants willing to sell to neither, and so on, each guild had to become self-sufficient. This upset everyone when it ended monopolies on specialized work. Since public displays were bad for business, the Guilds started making hidden alliances, escalated to sabotage, elevated to assassination, and then it resulted in a war by proxy. Eventually, there were no more heirs to the ducal throne, yet the Guilds were still fighting. The war was currently cold. There was no open aggression, but the endless spying continued, and there were calls from all groups to regularly eliminate targets from opposing factions. No side was willing to call for peace, yet all wanted to sit on the City Council that governed.

He was a member of The Body of Crossroads, or just The Body. It started its existence as The Society for the Body of Laws for the City-State of Crossroads. Members were the lawyers, judges, jurors, and some politicians for the city-state. It was the second oldest guild and wrote the legislation that created the original guild system, under the guidance of the first Duke. It was also the first to turn to assassins, of which he was one.

The Body took its name into organizational practice as well. Its branches were named after body parts that denoted their function. At the top was the Head. It made the decisions for The Body and managed legal affairs. The Eyes were the spies for the guild and reported directly to the Head. The Chest was responsible for keeping The Body healthy by organizing labor, day to day activities, and resource distribution. The Legs were responsible for transportation of goods, services and diplomatic interaction. The Legs broke down into Feet, each Foot responsible for a different aspect of the Legs' work, and each Foot had Toes, groups of individuals responsible for very specific tasks. His mother was a prostitute working in the Pleasures Toe of the Services Foot.

The Arms acted as the military for the guild. The Right Arm was the overt military, with each section of Crossroads under a different Hand, and each element within that Hand a Finger. The Left Arm was covert action, each Hand specialized in a different type of activity, and each operative was a Finger. He was a Finger of the Assassination Hand for the Left Arm.

He had this position not because he was particularly skilled, he knew the twelve vital strikes with a blade and to strangle with garrote and empty hand, but he was unexceptional amongst the Fingers. He held this position because he would not be missed. His mother a whore, and his father had paid a crown for the privilege of releasing his seed. Being a Finger of the Assassination Hand was considered a death sentence for most. In all likelihood, he would eventually be asked to perform a suicide assassination if he wasn’t caught and killed in an earlier mission. With no ties elsewhere in the guild, his body would be dumped for the flesh eaters in the deepest parts of the Underworld or sold to the cannibals to eat or to the doctors for practice.

He had only seen sixteen summers, not that he had actually seen a summer in years, having only been to the City proper a handful of times. The past two were spent as a Finger, with the one before that in training. He’d killed three on assignment and many more getting to the assignment. He was on his way to the fourth. He took no joy in this; it was what it was. Doing this would allow him to continue to receive his pay, of which a good portion would go to his mother, who had never been promoted above the rank of an alleyway whore and was not even considered fit to work in a proper cathouse or brothel. She was now considered too old and worn to command more than a few pennies from any but the poorest and most desperate clients. Besides this,