Assassin's Way

/

Chapter One

Y ou’re joking…right? Maen’s voice was a study in horrified fascination.

Alshandiel kept silent. She had already explained her situation, her reasoning, yet volatile, stubborn Maen was having none of it.

Irritated, she made a point of focusing on a ball game at the far end of the playing field. The wide, low campus of the university stretched around her, the buildings mostly white and squat, their pale walls glowing in the sun. Behind her, a fountain’s bowl tipped running water from one sculpted cup to another before disappearing into a circular bed of prismatic grey crystals. The water made a tinkling sound as it fell.

It was summer and a warm fifteen degrees. The grass was thick and soft to sit on and the fragrance of leaves and flowers filled the air. If it were possible, Alshandiel would have lived within this one moment—one of calm and predictable cycles, the fountain’s musical tones occasionally joined by sounds of player limbs hitting rubber, carried faintly across the field.

Maen sat cross-legged next to her, his long gangling limbs untidy despite their compact folds. His dark eyes were characteristic pools of cynicism, a rough contrast to the paleness of his skin and mohawk of banded black-and-fawn hair that adorned his head. His family came from the north of the planet. Southerners didn’t have manes of such dramatic colour contrasts.

Vintel, who had been trudging across the library lawn all this time, reached the duo and flung himself down beside them.

What’s the matter? he asked, picking up on the tension. Who did something wrong this time?

Vintel was shorter than Maen but still topped two metres in height. His fair, bright gaze—matched by unusual hair of only a single, light hue—darted between them in enquiry.

Maen’s hand jerked towards his university companion. Our friend here. She just told me she’s thinking of joining DOM.

DOM? Vintel’s voice was as incredulous as Maen’s. Silence reigned again for a few minutes while he appeared to digest the information.

DOM’s got to be big, he finally said in a calmer tone of voice, if only because it covers a wider range of issues than just Agriculture or even Defence. Could be there are some nice jobs going there.

That may be, Maen shot back in a tone of voice one normally used on a moron, "but how would anybody find out about them, considering DOM is a black hole?"

True. Vintel picked at a blade of grass, shredding it with his fingers.

Even your father, the mighty Yellow Magnate Enermas, drew a blank when he tried to get that Comprehensive Inquiry set up into DOM’s affairs last year.

Very true. Vintel put the tiny fragments into the palm of his hand and blew them into the wind. They soared briefly…then flew straight back into his face. Alshandiel tried not to smile.

"And their annual budget figures are never itemised. Shastof! I wouldn’t be surprised if what’s published is only half of their real budget."

Got a point. Vintel dusted the little rust-coloured flecks off his loose-fitting shirt.

"And our dear sixth-year student of Capital Considerations here wants to hurl herself into that bureaucratic abyss? Forgive me if I don’t regard it as one of the most cogent thoughts she’s ever had."

So what’s in DOM? Is she thinking of joining as an administrator... he lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper, or something more dangerous?

The thought is already madness, Vin. Maen looked close to apoplexy. "You want degrees?"

Let’s ask her. Alshandiel saw Vin’s gaze dart to her. At the worst, all she can do is answer us.

His friend shrugged—a starburst pattern with his hands; whatever you say—and laid back on the grass.

So I’m actually being asked my opinion now? Alshandiel pinned Maen with a withering gaze. We’ve finished with our tantrum, have we?

For now, Vin said quickly. So, is Maen imagining things? Jumping to conclusions? Forgive him, it’s the only exercise he gets.

There was a slight pause before Alshandiel was forced to reply. No.

Vintel creased his forehead. "So you are considering a life in DOM?"

She nodded slowly. Maybe.

And are you aware that whoever disappears into that black hole, as Maen puts it, never returns?

Now it was Vintel’s turn to suffer Alshandiel’s contemptuous look.

Don’t you think I’ve given this any thought at all, Vin?

His answer was interrupted by a sharp shout, followed by the bouncing trajectory of a small ball. Vintel neatly intercepted the rubber sphere, holding it while he watched another student approach. The tall rangy male skidded to a halt beside them, panting from exertion.

Maen looked up at the interloper—an eighth-year acquaintance—with his usual indifference. How goes study, Lamnen? he asked.

Well enough, the student identified as Lamnen puffed.

Out of breath, I see, Maen said. Maybe your cardiovascular system could do with another spirit-quest to the Usandrai Desert?

The spiteful comment was delivered in a bored tone Maen had taken years to perfect.

Maybe. But instead of taking offence, the proffered ball, and heading back to his compatriots, Lamnen tarried, bending over double to catch his breath.

It must be hard on him, Alshandiel thought, watching as the back of his head bobbed up and down. Lamnen was too old to fit comfortably into the mainstream student groups, but not old enough to socialise with the Matures, and that was even without taking into account the fame of his younger sister.

And as for the Usandrai Desert! Only fools and religious extremists braved the barren wind-scraped wilderness that encircled the northern pole. There was a steady stream of people who ventured there every year, in search of either untold mineral riches or spiritual enlightenment. They usually came back missing frostbitten extremities. Or didn’t come back at all. With that in mind, rumour of Lamnen’s religious quest into the frigid Usandrai wilderness four years ago was bound to scare off any sane-thinking, not-very-spiritual colleague. Which, when one was talking about the Second Southern University, included almost its entire population, including the Theology Department.

A not-quite-young-enough, not-quite-old-enough, ultra-spiritual-nut student with no friends and a celebrity sibling. And she thought she had problems. Well, she did. Hence, DOM.

You three look pretty serious, Lamnen said, looking to make conversation while waiting for his heart rate to reach equilibrium.

Vintel began making a dismissive gesture but Maen jumped in with both feet.

You’d be serious too, if one of your friends decided to dive into the Department of Other Matters.

Lamnen’s dark eyes darted between Vintel and Alshandiel before resting on her.

How did he know?

That’s a big move. He leaned back and stretched his back.

"Shastof! You think so?" Maen’s tone was vitriolic.

The older man didn’t reply, but took the ball from Vin’s upheld hand, gave the group a quick nod, then jogged back to the rest of the players.

Thick as rock, Maen said to nobody in particular, although he seemed pleased with the level of insults he managed to impart.

What does Mica think of this? Vintel asked, bringing the conversation back to the topic at hand.

Alshandiel shrugged. He doesn’t know.

"Doesn’t know? Don’t you think you should tell him? DOM’s a big step, Shandi. Even if half of what they say isn’t true, it’s still terrifying to contemplate. What do you know about them? About their work? Once DOM accepts someone, that someone can say goodbye to their friends and family. She’ll never see them again. We’d never see you again."

That doesn’t happen to everyone, Alshandiel countered, but her voice faltered. My family socialises with a DOM Director from time to time. Da knows him through work.

Nols Lazeet was the director’s name. He had only ever been to her parents’ house on a handful of occasions, each time to talk business. Strictly speaking, they didn’t quite socialise, but her father spoke of him often enough.

Vintel snorted. One person out of how many thousand? And what about those stationed offplanet with the diplomatic arm? What would you do out there, all alone? What can you do offplanet that you can’t do on Qolar? Maybe your director friend escaped, but I’ve heard my own da talk. Joining DOM is a living-death sentence.

Alshandiel made a resigned starburst with her hands and said nothing.

And what about Mica? Vin pursued in a gentle voice. You still haven’t answered that question. What about your future together?

"There is no future together. She met Vin’s frown with a grimace. She had meant to tell them earlier, really she had. Mica and I agreed to go our separate ways."

What? This from Maen, who hurriedly sat up. When did this happen?

Four days ago. It was all very, she smiled without humour, amicable. Her gaze flicked over the stunned expressions of both of her friends.

I know what you’re thinking, she said. You’re thinking that this sudden interest in DOM has something to do with Mica and the fact that our relationship ended. That’s. Not. True. I submitted an initial query to DOM a month ago. The fact is, I’m still waiting for their answer.

They may never answer. There was a hint of optimism in Vintel’s voice.

Starburst. In which case I continue my life outside DOM.

Shalon’s teeth, what would she do then?

And if they do? This from Maen, the eternal angry pessimist.

Then I consider continuing my life inside DOM.

You’ve thought this through, haven’t you? Vintel asked, his voice grave.

Alshandiel was reduced to honesty under the weight of his eyes. I think so.

Later, when she was at home, ensconced safely in the security of her room, Alshandiel would wonder about that. She would also wonder about her world and her place within it. What was it that made it so easy for her to contemplate a life with the Department of Other Matters? It might have been her parents, who appeared so friendly and personable to strangers, yet were filled with a disconcerting mix of anger and apathy at home. Or Mica, with whom she thought she shared common dreams and a joint future. A Mica who turned out not to have any thoughts beyond career-climbing ambition and which region they’d live in once they’d finished their Quadracy.

As for her two best friends, Maen was emotionally unapproachable, still wrapped in grief over a tragedy years old. And Vintel, with his enormously influential father, was grooming himself for a role on Qolar’s faction-riven political stage.

If she felt she had a true confidant somewhere, a solid anchor mooring her to Qolar, she might not have considered running away to join DOM.

DOM.

Even the word itself sounded dark and ponderous, building on the department’s image of secrecy and concealment. The average Qolari didn’t want to think of anything beyond his or her immediate planetary sphere of influence, and was quite happy to have a separate, often ignored organisation set up to handle distasteful interactions with other species.

Department of Other Matters.

Could any other species come up with such a euphemistic name? Other Matters. As if even acknowledging the existence of other species within the galaxy would somehow pollute Qolar. Alshandiel was sick of it. Sick of the pretence, sick of the xenophobia, sick of the closed-mindedness.

No, neither Maen, Vintel nor Mica understood. Alshandiel was suffocating on the world they were so comfortable with. And she had to escape.

The invitation arrived in the afternoon two days later, delivered by personal courier. That was enough to start the servants’ tongues wagging. It comprised an envelope of expensive reed paper, still redolent of the sea, with Alshandiel Dolrahn on the front. Handwritten. In opaque ink. It kept everyone twittering for the rest of the day.

Always aware of appearances—her parents had trained her well—Alshandiel took the note from the maid without saying a word, without betraying any emotion, and slipped upstairs to her room. Was it bad news? If so, how to camouflage it? She sat at her favourite perch, the broad window sill overlooking the garden, and cut the knotted tie, unfolding the parchment with careful movements. How she hated surprises.

Skelante Lamnen requests the company of yourself and your friends at an Autumn Soiree to be held in two weeks’ time.

Skelante Lamnen? Alshandiel quickly checked the name on the other side of the parchment, to make sure it was addressed to her, that the courier hadn’t mistaken the destination. His skin wouldn’t be worth the leather if he had made a mistake. But the name and address (her name, her address) were correct.

Skelante Lamnen. The social butterfly-cum-party autocrat of the city, a role made all the more extraordinary because she was a Black.

Just a Black, Alshandiel murmured to herself with a hint of irony. People whose social standing depended on whom they had cocktails with the night before were desperate to kill for an invitation like the one she now held in her hands. An appearance at one of Skelante’s infamous parties could turn an inept rag into a walking silk tapestry—shining and desirable. The only problem was, she didn’t know the woman. In fact, she had never met her. They didn’t move in the same circles.

Alshandiel read further.

The invitation gave the party venue as Skelante’s townhouse. Her own private residence. Not a large gathering, then. Intimate. Well, intimate for Skelante, which meant, say, only one hundred and fifty attendees rather than the usual thousand.

In the Northeast district. Very exclusive. Well-patrolled streets, leafy sidewalks, pavement a person could eat off. A citizen normally had to produce a four-sun credit rating just to walk there.

Dress: as appropriate

Please inform my staff if you will not be attending

Thereby assuming that nobody in their right mind would turn down such an invitation. It sounded arrogant enough to be authentic. Alshandiel rubbed the heavy, textured paper between her fingers. Skelante Lamnen was sister to Lamnen, the spirit-quest nut. The invitation couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?

Alshandiel? A voice called up to her, imperious in its command, the one word holding a thornball of questions.

What are you up to? What was that parchment you were carrying? Who is it from? I’d better like your answers.

Coming, she said, making her voice sound light and carefree even as she grimaced.

Nothing. Just something innocent. Somebody I’m sure you’d approve of. Of course.

She tripped down the stairs.

Her father eyed her intently as she entered the sitting room, his pale eyes heavy with mistrust. Always under suspicion, she thought to herself. She was sure even imprisoned murderers were afforded more latitude.

I was told you received something by courier, he said, laying aside the daily news. That was one of her problems, the fact that—via their staff—her parents received notifications of her movements the way a geosynchronous satellite received rainfall data.

Yes. An invitation, would you believe? She curved her mouth into a smile.

To what?

An autumn party. In the Northeast district. The Republic enclave. There, that should mollify the hypocritical bastard.

He brightened for a moment before frowning again. "I’m