The Killing Grounds: Assassin Series #1

One

‘Du Preeze! We have business!’

Alara brushed her fringe from her eyes as she looked up from the heavy tome that she’d hauled to her lord’s study from the storage library deep in the bowels of the Arbitrators Guild house. ‘I’m ready, sire.’ She slammed the book shut and secreted the half-chewed pencil into the leather band that held her auburn hair in a tight ponytail.

‘Quickly, girl, we have little time before the sun rises,’ he called as she heard the familiar tap of his thick whitewood cane.

‘Yes, sire.’ She brushed herself down and stood up straight as the bulbous Meister hobbled into the cramped room. She ducked as the cane swished through the air above her head.

‘It’s going to be a busy day, girl. I have meetings planned with the Senior Council, so block out anything from ten bells onwards.’

‘Even the meeting with the Artists Guild, sire?’

‘Without a doubt. Those damn magic users will have to wait. The Senior Council is much more important.’

Alara felt her left eye twitch as she bit back a response.

‘Do you have something to say, girl?’

‘No, sire. I will send messengers forthwith.’

‘Good.’ He shuffled around to the other side of the desk and collapsed into an overstuffed chair, which groaned under his immense weight. The diamond-encrusted stone of office hung from the gilded chains that draped around his neck, resting on his chest, slowly rising and falling under the immense effort it took the man to breathe after the short journey from his bedroom.

His gaze fell onto the book as a frown creased his brow. ‘Aren’t you finished with that yet?’

‘No, sire.’

‘Well, you’d better learn to read faster or you’ll be back on the streets,’ he said, sniffed, and then swallowed, ‘where you probably belong.’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘Now, down to business. They require six spotters.’

‘The Assassins?’

‘Who else? Stupid girl. And you’d better make sure they get there on time. In fact, drive them yourself.’

Alara looked away as the man grunted and then shifted to one side while he passed wind.

‘I’ll make sure that they’re on time, sire.’

‘You’d better – because he’ll be there.’ The words spilt from his lips with such disdain that Alara cringed. If an Assassin ever heard him use that tone, they would surely lay a bounty and have him killed.

‘Lord Osari?’

‘You make him sound like a hero; he’s a stone-cold killer. He’s no more lord than a guttersnipe.’

‘Yes, sire,’ she replied as her mind fought her tongue into submission.

His left eyebrow rose as he stared down his heavily pitted nose. ‘Do not put the Assassins on a pedestal, girl.’

‘No, sire, of course not. Do we know about the bounties?’

‘They each have three, except for Osari, who has six. Trust him to be more difficult than the others.’

‘Of course, sire. We have to ensure consistency.’

‘The bounty system is a joke!’ He coughed aloud and spat onto the floor next to his chair. ‘But we’ll take the gold. No spotter, no signature. No signature, no payment. Ensure that payment is received. That is your job, Du Preeze.’

She grimaced. She’d be the one cleaning that up later while he filled his stomach in the hall with the other senior members of the Guild. ‘Yes, sire. Your will be done.’

‘It better be done, or else I’ll come looking for you. Now leave me to my breakfast and rally the boys.’

You couldn’t catch me if you tried, you fat old . . . ‘I’ll keep you informed, Meister Haddard.’

Orange moonlight crept through the cracks in the windows, illuminating the damp stone steps that led down to the counting rooms and offices on the first floor of the Guild house. Alara ran on carelessly. One slip and she’d be nursing a broken leg, if not worse. There was no time to waste. He would be waiting, and you never kept an Assassin waiting, not if you valued your life.

She skidded to a stop at the entrance to the Hall of Contemplation, then hurried on, keeping to the shadows, and trying not to be heard by the other Meisters who were already up and studying at their desks. To Alara, all they ever did was sit in their comfortable cubicles, reading books, and shouting at the odd boy that would appear to deliver a message.

Several of them coughed and spluttered as they drank their early morning coffee or tucked into yet another plateful of breakfast meats and cheeses. Thankfully, none called her to their side.

She hurried on through the narrow walkway between the workstations, eyes down, head bowed, toward the far end of the hall, where the only working lift in the building offered sanctuary from their beck and call.

A long painful-sounding wheeze echoed around the hall as the doors slid apart and a younger Meister she knew as Tradle stepped out and stretched.

‘Another wonderful day in the Guild!’ he called out.

When no one replied, he looked at her and said, ‘Ah, young Du Preeze, maybe you could—’

‘I’m sorry, I have an errand to run,’ she whispered as she ducked past him and slipped through the doors that groaned as they closed behind her.

She stood with her back to the rear wall and shook her head. What am I doing here? These people are ridiculous. I don’t want to end up like one of them.

A cold breeze blew in between her bare skin and the rough cotton shirt that all Guild students were forced to wear. She shivered. The sensation reminded her of her life on the streets. She shivered again, this time for a different reason. Anything here is better than another night on the cobbles, or in the arms of a . . . it’s best to forget. Keep your head down. This could be much worse.

The lift doors slid apart, and she stepped out into the main hallway leading to the front door. Her eyes lingered on the thick chains that embraced the metal cage surrounding the only entrance to the ground floor. Padlocks the size of her head linked the chains to four metal rings, each fastened to the wall by screws with heads as wide as one of the chef’s famous meat pies. Paranoia was rife. It always was in the Guild of the Lawmakers. Those locks wouldn’t keep him out.

She hurried along the corridor and into the stairwell that led down to the kitchens where the warm stove fires and the promise of a full stomach awaited her.

She was greeted by a saucepan that spun past her head as a student scuttled around her and up the stairs.

‘Well met, Chef Anderson!’ she called out.

‘Keep your boys’ hands out of my pantry, Du Preeze.’

‘Yes, Chef.’ The man was constantly in a foul mood, but he wasn’t like the Meisters, and as long as she kept herself to herself, he didn’t seem to mind her company. She took a strip of kitchen paper from the huge spool bolted onto the stone wall, retrieved the pencil, and sat down at the long wooden bench to ponder her options.

The first spotter through the door looking for a quick meal was the youngest: Spanning.

‘Come here, boy,’ she called out as he gingerly stepped closer to the chef’s workstation while the man’s back was turned.

He hustled over to her, looking excited. ‘Am I going?’

‘Not today, but soon, I promise.’

His chin dropped to his chest. ‘You’re never going to send me, are you?’

‘When you grow some. Look at you, you’re all skin and bones. You need to get stronger and faster. Then I’ll send you, I promise.’

He looked back into her eyes and smiled.

‘I need you to go get them.’

‘All of them?’

‘Yes, tell them first five here get to work . . . and tell them that Lord Osari’s name is on the cards.’

‘Lord Osari himself!’

‘Yes, the deadliest Assassin in all the city-state. And tell them six.’

‘Six bounties? In a single day?’

‘And you know what that means.’

‘Gold for the Guild . . . food for us!’

‘Good, now run and tell them, quickly, off you go.’

The boy hustled out of the kitchen like a puppy with a lump of coal tied to its tail.

‘Now it’s up to the fates to decide.’

It was less than a few moments before the first boy showed his face.

Alara sighed in relief. ‘Abbot. It’s all yours if you want it?’

He ran over to her and lent on the table. ‘Is it true Osari’s name is on the cards?’

‘One and the same.’ She smiled, even though her gut was telling her otherwise.

‘Yes!’ he shouted as he stood and punched the air. ‘Six bounties, right?’

‘Six. Abbot, stay focused today, please.’

‘I’m the best spotter in the Guild!’

‘Shut the hell up!’ the chef yelled as Abbot sat down quickly.

One by one, the others filed into the kitchen. Damn, the rest are first-timers. The other Meisters aren’t as fat and slow as Haddard, and now I’m left with these. She sighed. I suppose they will have to do.

The clock in the mews ticked over to half past the hour as the doors slowly creaked open like an old man rising from a long sleep. She braced herself for the rush of freezing wind and pulled her collar high, feigning the need for protection. She was proficient enough to be able to conjure a magical shield to cover her entire body, keeping her warm and protected from the elements, but she’d been careful to keep her skills hidden. Being an Artist came with dangers. People were always looking for a capable magic user to enslave and do their bidding. However, guilt always nagged at her that she couldn’t do more to help the boys that huddled for warmth in the buggy. All of them were mundane and would be close to freezing. The Guild offered very little in the way of clothing for the spotters and messengers, so they wore whatever they could find in the Guild’s bins or from the city dumps.

She blinked and the gleam from her flaming blue eyes momentarily faded, then flared as she opened her eyes again. It was a dead giveaway of her heritage, and one that she couldn’t hide, no matter how much she wished she could. People were always wary of Arians, especially the gifted Arians. She lifted her chin as she felt the glow warm her face. I don’t need to hide who I am, she reminded herself, but the tug in her stomach told a different story. Hiding was instinctual to a street kid and a skill quickly learned.

The reins gently slapped the horse’s hindquarters, urging the grey beast into a slow walk from the building. ‘Okay, August, I don’t need any trouble today. Just get us to the Killing Grounds and back again. No theatrics, even if one of the Highborn cars passes by. Just stay the course and we’ll all be fine,’ she whispered to the horse as it snorted warm breath into the freezing air. ‘That’s it, my boy, now, walk on.’

The sun’s rays were starting to spear through the thick cloud cover as it stretched out across the straight and over the White Island that separated the mainland from whatever lay beyond.

‘Aria,’ she whispered, staring southward. ‘I wonder if I’ll ever get to see my homeland?’

She was snapped out of her daydream by the roar of an engine and raised her hand to shield her eyes from the piercingly bright headlights of an approaching car as it sped toward them, the driver seeming not to care. Damn Highborns!

‘Easy, boy.’ She spoke louder over the approaching engine. ‘Let them have their fun in their petrol-fuelled monster. Nothing can beat real horsepower. Just go steady.’

Slush sprayed up the side of the buggy as the long black car passed by and Alara cursed her luck. She’d be the one cleaning it down. That wasn’t how she’d planned her morning. ‘Highborns!’ The crest on the side of the car was well known. ‘Millhaven! I see you.’

The horse whinnied and threatened to bolt as she pulled on the reins and whispered soft words of encouragement until the beast calmed and trotted on along the promenade toward the Killing Grounds two miles away in the distance.

She inhaled sharply and breathed out a mist of water vapour. The boys will be freezing. That’s not how she wanted them to meet their lords for the day’s business. Especially Abbot. I hope I chose right. She gripped the reins between her knees and cast a shield to protect the entire buggy from winter’s embrace. They wouldn’t notice, but they’d be slightly warmer.

As the buggy neared the Killing Grounds, Alara’s stomach lurched. Standing beneath the streetlight, at the bottom of the steps leading up to the ancient hotel lobby, stood a figure. His back was as straight as a broom, his posture immaculate, and his clothes were the midnight black of all Assassins.

‘That’s him,’ she whispered as she leaned down and banged on the wooden board between her legs to warn the boys.

She quickly dropped the shield. Everyone in the city knew that the Senior Lord hated the Arts. He would never accept a spotter with such skills, and she didn’t want to bring any attention to herself.

August let out a long snort as he came to a stop and Alara pulled her jacket high around her ears and looked directly ahead, not wanting to invite conversation.

A slight smile curled her lip as the town clock struck the hour and the boys started to disembark. It never paid to be late.

Do your job and move on. Don’t look and if you do, do not stare.

‘Do I offend you, driver?’ His tone was low and threatening, each of his words enunciated as sharp as the blades secreted about his person.

She closed her eyes for a second, hoping he was addressing one of the boys, but knowing that he wasn’t. Then she dared to look down.

His gaze caught hers, not with magic or any magical aid, but with a will so strong that she couldn’t look away.

‘No, my lord.’

‘Perhaps you are better than me? Are you from a Highborn family travelling in disguise after a night revelling in the city?’

‘No, my lord,’ she stammered.

‘Then why do you not greet me? Are we not performing a business transaction?’

‘Yes, my lord. I apologise, my lord. It won’t happen again.’

‘Really? So why is it that you have still not returned my greeting?’

By this time, the boys were lined up on the pavement, shivering in the stiff ocean breeze and the early morning flurries of snow that covered the buggy’s roof and backplate.

She tried to smile, but she could feel her bottom lip tremble. ‘Good morning, my lord.’

‘Well met, driver. And what do you bring me today?’

‘Spotters, my lord.’

‘And are they capable?’

‘I picked them myself.’ She bit her tongue and cursed her overactive mouth.

‘Ah, so now I know who to call on if one fails me?’

‘No, my lord,’ she responded quickly. ‘That would be my sire, my lord.’

‘He passes on his responsibility? Even when dealing with me? How very interesting.’

She was trapped, and she knew it. It was a losing fight, so she sat still and waited for his next move.

‘Go well this day.’

‘Yes, Lord Osari.’

He looked at the line-up on the pavement before him, and then back at her. ‘What is your name, driver?’

‘Du Preeze, my lord.’

‘Not just an Artist, but a bona fide Arian.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Then go well, Arian,’ he said, stepping aside.

‘And you, my lord,’ she replied as she urged the horse to hurry on.

Two

By the time her sire was eating lunch and boasting of his triumphs, Alara had counted five boys returned to the Guild. Each looked like they’d aged ten years. Spending the day with an Assassin never ended well, especially with the younger ones.

Each had reported success and then retreated to their room to contemplate what they had witnessed.

Only Abbot was still unaccounted for.

Mid-afternoon came and went and there was still no sign of the spotter, and no word from the others she’d sent to find out what was happening. The mews had never been so quiet.

The only thing to keep her company was the whinnying of August as she brushed him down and cleaned out his stall.

‘What would you do, August?’

The chestnut mare threw its head to the side, then turned its back on her and opened its bowels.

‘That’s about the size of it,’ she said as she leant on the brush while she waited for August to finish its business.

The breeze whispered, ‘Where’s the boy?’

She spun around. ‘What? Who was that?’

A shadow stepped out of the darkness. ‘I asked you to tell me where the boy is.’

She lifted the broom and aimed the handle at the man.

‘What do we have here? A fighter in the guise of a stable girl?’

‘Stay away from me . . . I have a knife.’

‘I have many.’

‘I’m not scared of you.’ Her tone betrayed her threat.

‘But you should be.’

‘We have guards, you know.’

‘Do you think that would make a difference to me?’

She lowered the tip of the broom handle to the ground but kept it in hand. ‘What is it you want, Assassin?’

‘The boy, if you would be so kind?’

‘What boy?’ she asked instinctively, knowing exactly what boy the killer asked after.

‘Abbot.’

‘Why would you be looking for him when he is already with Lord Osari?’

‘Is he now?’

Damn, this isn’t good. ‘He sent you?’

He pulled a blade from behind his back and asked slowly, ‘Where is the boy?’

‘I haven’t seen him, I swear.’

‘I have two bounties from my lord. I was instructed to collect on the boy first. Should I change the order?’

‘You’re lying,’ she snapped back before she could stop herself.

He reached into his shirt and produced two scrolls of paper, then waved them at her. ‘Believe me now?’

She swallowed hard, but held his stare. ‘I swear I don’t know where Abbot is.’

‘I believe you.’

‘Then do your worst, Assassin,’ she replied, lifting the tip of the broom toward him.

‘Do my worst? Are you hoping that I am so bad at my job that I would fail to execute my duty to the Guild? Or are you simply poorly educated?’

‘I am Alara Du Preeze. If my name is on that bounty, then bring your blade and be quick; if not, be gone.’

‘So very brave.’

‘You can only kill me if it’s my name you hold.’

‘Is that right?’

Gods, I hope so.

He hummed as he opened the first scroll. ‘Du Preeze . . . hmmm, not this one.’ He swapped scrolls and slowly read the contents. ‘Perhaps it’s this one?’

‘Are you always so . . .’

‘So what?’ He rolled the scroll up and secreted it back into his shirt.

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Doesn’t it?’

‘You are rather annoying.’

‘And you are very lucky,’ he replied, and then stepped back into the shadows.

The broom fell from her trembling fingers and clattered to the floor as she bent double and lost her lunch to the straw.

She’d met death and stood her ground. ‘Am I insane?’

She wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her shirt, closed her eyes, and let her second sight wander around the barn, but there was no sign of the man. Either he was toying with her, or he was gone.

A thought startled her into action. Abbot! He’s here for Abbot. What the hell happened? I have to find him first.

She rushed into the main building and headed to the kitchen where three of the boys sat staring into the open fire.

‘Where’s Abbot?’ she shouted. But none of them turned toward her. ‘Hey, you lot, get your heads out of your asses and talk to me.’

As they turned, she saw the black tear stains running down each face. She raised a finger and pointed at them accusingly. There was no time for niceties. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourselves and thank your lucky stars that we’ll be fed tonight. Now answer me, where is Abbot?’

‘Not back yet.’

‘Damn it! Are you sure?’

All three nodded.

She looked to the chef, who stood thumping a thick metal ladle into the palm of his hand as he watched her. ‘He would have gone back to the docks.’

She nodded and ran to the mews where August stood with his head hanging over the half door, chewing on something he’d found in his stable. There was no time to hitch a saddle. The Assassin was already moving and it wouldn’t be long before he also came to the same conclusion and headed to the sweatshops and trader stands.

Her only hope to beat him there was the bicycle the boys sometimes used to deliver the Guild accounts. She pulled it from within the grips of the shed and banged it down onto the cobblestones, shaking off as much grime as possible. Then she pointed the rust-bucket west and jumped aboard.

Alara knew the layout of the docks as well as any street urchin. It was the one place you could come to and occasionally find work, or scavenge a free meal. She’d checked everywhere, but found nothing. Abbot was in the winds.

Why did I send him? It’s my fault. Maybe the Assassin didn’t make the connection and he’ll be safe until . . . until what? What am I supposed to do?

She wandered from stall to stall asking about him, but all she received were frowns and shaken heads.

The city clock struck six bells as she finished another circuit. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe he headed elsewhere. Maybe he’s back at the mews. ‘Why is this happening to me?’

‘It’s not.’

She spun around and then froze on the spot. ‘Lord Osari.’

‘Well met, Arian.’

‘I’m sorry, my lord, for whatever happened. I am sorry and take—’

‘Come with me,’ he said, cutting her off as he walked past her.

Even though he couldn’t see her, she nodded and fell in three steps behind him, as was the protocol at the Arbitrators Guild.

‘I asked you to walk with me, not behind me like a slave.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

He led her to the quayside and down onto a jetty between two large container ships, then stopped at the side and stared into the dark murky depths below.

She stood at his side. Motionless. Awaiting the hand that would hold her head beneath the water.

‘This is worth more gold than I care to mention,’ he whispered as he pulled a long black blade from its scabbard.

Her eyes darted to the blade and then quickly back to the water.

‘It is one of a set. Perfectly balanced. The edge is sharper than Lord Black’s tongue. It is mundane, as you would refer to it. I have another just like it that is buried in a man’s back. That man is down there. Do you know why?’

Abbot’s error. She nodded.

‘You do?’

‘It was your spotter’s mistake.’

‘It was.’

‘Does he have to die for that?’

‘No.’

She let out a soft sigh.

‘He is to be retired because that was his third error. He failed to witness two previous retirements, and then this.’ He pointed the tip to the water, then replaced the blade and stepped back.

She closed her eyes and readied herself for the push.

‘Come, we have more to see here.’

‘It wasn’t his fault, my lord.’

‘We had a deal, yes?’

She nodded. Solemnly. ‘Yes, my lord.’

‘I needed a spotter for six retirements, and I paid good money upfront.’

‘I’m sorry, my lord.’

‘Why?’

‘Why am I sorry? The conditions were breached and the agreement broken. I take full responsibility.’

‘You do?’

‘Yes.’ The rules were clear. She had failed. If she were lucky, then she would be beaten. If she were unlucky, she would be tried and face beheading for bringing the Guild into disrepute and failing a senior member.

‘Your Guild has no honour.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘You agree with me?’

She bit her tongue, but the word spilt from her lips. ‘Yes.’

He stopped at the southernmost watchtower and ascended the ladder to the viewing platform, then stood watching inland.

She slowly climbed up and stood next to him.

‘Look.’ He pointed to three warehouses, each locked up for the night and shrouded in the shadows of the slowly setting sun.

‘I see nothing, my lord.’

‘You have a gift, so use it.’

She reached out with her mind and slowly searched the area. Then she felt it. A void in the ether that her scan was gently forced around. ‘I see a blank.’

‘A blank?’

‘It’s a term we use for a ward that hides something.’

‘I wonder what it’s hiding?’

‘Abbot is mundane, my lord.’

‘Indeed. Continue your search.’

She reached out again, this time further afield – and then felt him. ‘Abbot!’ She turned to run, but strong bony fingers grasped her shoulder and squeezed. There was no pain, but her legs felt as if they were no longer her own and she had to lean into the thin handrail to stop herself from collapsing.

‘This is an experiment in telling the truth, Arian.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘If I release you, will you run?’

‘No, my lord.’

He let go. ‘What’s happening at the blank spot?’

She reached out once again. ‘It’s gone.’

‘Can you track it?’

She took a deep breath and sampled the spell scent left by all Artists. If the person cast again, she would know it in an instant.

She searched desperately for any signs of the spell scent, but whoever was hiding behind it was now using stealth of another kind, the kind only Assassins knew about.

As the boy drew closer, she focused on him. She could sense his paranoia and hated herself for not calling out to warn him. She clenched her jaw as she felt her bruised shoulder pulsate to the beat of her heart.

And then she sensed it, a slight change in the ether. It was sly, like a wisp of campfire smoke on a summer’s eve. ‘There.’ She pointed to a shadow ten steps in front of Abbot.

‘And you are sure?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘And do you sense anyone else?’

‘No, my lord.’

‘Is that a problem?’

She thought for a moment, then said, ‘He has no spotter?’

‘Correct. How do you feel about that?’

‘It’s against the laws. He cannot collect on the bounty.’

‘This is Guild business. We never use a spotter for that. However, since you are here.’ He reached inside his shirt and pulled forth a scroll. ‘Do you know what to do with a bounty?’

‘Of course, my lord.’

‘Then read the name.’

She opened the scroll and read aloud. ‘Sylian Thomas? I don’t know who that is, my lord.’

‘Watch now, Abbot approaches.’ He pointed at the forlorn boy, who stared back over his shoulder before taking his last step.

Alara swallowed hard as Abbot dropped to the floor. A blade stuck out from his neck like the snapped rung of an abandoned ladder.

The Assassin stepped into the light to retrieve his blade.

‘It’s him.’

‘Indeed, it is. His name is the one on the bounty. He has worked for me for five years. Yet I employ no magic users.’

‘I see.’

‘Do you now?’

‘He is a liar.’

‘Yes, but why?’

‘He reports to someone else.’

‘And yet he happily takes my gold. Tell me, what would you do with such a person?’

She looked at the bounty and then back at him. ‘Are you asking if I agree with this?’

‘No. That makes little difference to this tale. I am asking what you would do with someone that you thought you could trust and then discovered that they were working against you.’

‘I don’t know,’ she admitted as the Assassin collected his blade from the corpse and slipped back into the shadows of the warehouse.

‘Du Preeze,’ Lord Osari mused as he produced a blade from his belt. ‘Sylian Thomas had two bounties, one for the boy and one for—’

‘All I ask is that when you end my life, you do it quickly, my lord.’

‘Hush . . .’

She dared not move as Lord Osari lifted his arm and let the blade fly. There was no sound. Not even his shirt sleeve brushing against his chest. Not the crack of a wrist or snap of a finger. Nothing. Yet it was the deadliest sound she had ever heard.

‘Come.’ He climbed down the ladder and waited for her at the bottom.

She followed, even though her legs were unsteady and her heartbeat erratic.

‘Do you have a writing implement about you?’ he asked.

She pulled the partially chewed pencil from her hairband and held the bounty out.

‘You need that,’ he said, walking toward the short stubby bushes that separated the path from the rear wall of a workshop.

‘Yes, my lord.’

She followed him over to the hedge where she heard a slight whimper.

Osari drew another blade and bent down. ‘Come closer, Arian.’

She dared to climb over the hedge.

A man lay on his side, a blade poking out from his gut, his blood mixing with the dirt and the scattered leaves of a harsh winter.

Osari spoke as if he were having a normal conversation with a colleague. ‘You shall see no resurrectionist.’

Blood spilt from the man’s lips as he replied, ‘Good. Your days are numbered . . . old man.’

Osari cut his throat and then yanked his first blade free, opening the wound and exposing his guts.

Death came quickly.

‘Why didn’t you ask him? I can still enter his mind and find out – if you would allow it.’

‘No.’

‘Then you know who sent him?’

‘No. Are you not bothered by his demise?’

She watched Syrian Thomas for a moment. His body still, his eyes open but dull. No, I am not, she thought without speaking the answer aloud. With the pencil between her lips, she opened the scroll and then recorded the death. Only then she offered an opinion. ‘A man once told me that what we have is a business transaction. Our business is concluded, my lord.’ She handed him the scroll and replaced the pencil.

‘What about the other bounty?’ He bent down and retrieved the two scrolls from Thomas’s shirt and handed her one. ‘While you’re thinking, you can witness Abbot’s demise.’

She opened it and filled in the details, then passed it back. ‘I am ready to die, my lord.’

‘Look at me.’

She lifted her chin and held his gaze.

‘Call for the corpse carts and make sure the cadavers are delivered to the resurrectionists. My people will take care of the rest.’

The Assassin would lose his head and be permanently retired, whereas Abbot would be resurrected and then sent to the chalk mines to work as a zombie-like slave until he, too, died for the last time. ‘Yes, my lord.’

‘You are to report to the Killing Grounds at 4:30 a.m. tomorrow. Give your name at the door and then come directly to my rooms. Do not talk to anyone. If you have belongings, you may bring them.’

‘I have a contract with the Arbitrators, my lord.’

‘If your sire questions your intentions, then present him with this.’

She took the last scroll and unrolled it. The name on the bounty read: Meister Portkin Haddard.

‘It’s not me?’ She looked up, but Lord Osari was already gone.

Three

The Meister dismissed her on the spot. She was given one hour to vacate the premises and then banished. Never would she be able to set foot in the Arbitrators Guild again. It didn’t bother her one iota.

Alara had encountered death, and yet she felt invigorated and energised.

The mews would afford her comfort for the night, and a bad-tempered August would be the only company she needed.

In the courtyard stood a rusty old tap that acted as a makeshift bath. The water was ice cold and the chill wind made her skin pimple and itch.

When she returned to the mews, a loaf of warm bread, a small wheel of cheese, and an apple awaited her.

‘Chef says you’ll sleep better with a full belly . . . and that he’ll miss you.’

‘Tell him I send my thanks, and that I wish him well,’ she replied to the small scullery girl who disappeared back into the darkness of the main house.

She ate and then settled into the straw and closed her eyes.

‘What a day,’ she whispered. She felt both sad and excited. The emotions clashed and ensured that her mind raced with both uncertainties and expectations.

When sleep finally came, it was a fitful affair. Her dreams were haunted with visions of death and sharp blades.

***

Before the sun brought warmth to the city, Alara stood at the bottom of the stone staircase that led up to the main entrance of the Killing Grounds. Two guards, one standing on either side of the double glass doors, eyed her suspiciously.

She glanced behind her and out over the common ground that separated the Assassins Guild house from the grey stone fort and beachfront. A corpse cart circled, as one always did. The pullers were waiting for an Assassin to leave and then they would do all they could to follow in the killer’s wake, hoping to make some money from the resurrectionists.

‘Carrion crows.’ That’s what they were known as on the streets. ‘Picking on corpses to feed their stomachs. Everyone has a place, I suppose,’ she reminded herself. ‘There is a reason for everything and everyone.’

She turned back around and slowly climbed the stairs, one by one, not daring to take her eyes off the two guards.

‘Name?’ the first asked.

‘Du Preeze.’

‘You are expected.’

She took another step forward.

Both Assassins drew a blade and took one step toward her. ‘This door is not for your use, Arian,’ the second said, a growl to his tone.

She quickly backpedalled and nearly toppled back down the stairs.

‘Use the side entrance.