Doublecrossed

‘It's snowing in mid spring. That's odd,’ thought Manfred Archipalus, a moment before the crossbow bolt split the back of his skull.

That was the final thought Dane attributed to the late stone merchant, anyway. Snow in the middle of spring was, after all, odd. Dane sighed out a small puff of steam against the biting air, then lowered the crossbow. It was nothing personal.

Ol’ Manny had been a big fish in a small pond until a week ago. That solitary crossbow bolt had stopped the inevitable transition to a much larger body of water, where Manfred would no doubt have been torn to pieces by sharks. But not before divulging to those sharks a slew of unfortunate information.

Dane tossed the empty crossbow down onto the roof as he scanned the empty street. They wouldn’t find the weapon until long after he was out of town, if he was lucky. The white-dusted, weathered cobblestone of Tellian Way was flanked on either side by the well-sculpted stone facades and arching iron gates of its aristocratic occupants. Not a good place to be caught, but an excellent place to avoid suspicion. Opulence and murder were terms rarely spoken in the same breath in Albrisina, and while guard patrols were frequent, nobody expected an early morning execution here like they might in the slums.

Dane shimmied his way back and gave his egress rope a good hard tug. Still tight, and no witnesses. None of the rich folk were up this early most days, but the sun peaking gold over the horizon had given him just enough light to make the shot. Just before he slid down the rope, Dane checked the second, smaller crossbow beneath his coat sleeve, fastened just above his wrist. Still loaded, string still tight. Good. One never seemed to be enough.

As expected, Calum stopped him as he slunk back into the narrow alley that branched off of Tellian Way. Not wholly unpleasant, as alleys went. No dead bodies, or rabid dogs. Just a smirking shrew in a fine blue robe with pale green eyes that flicked lazily to Dane as he approached.

"It’s done?" she asked in what Dane supposed was meant to be a sultry tone. It didn’t suit her.

"Wouldn't be back here if it weren't."

"Well done."

"Well, done anyway. Not a hard job."

"And he's modest."

Dane’s eyes flickered to a darkened doorway to his right, where he caught a flicker of shadowed movement. Ah. that was unfortunate.

"Banter ain't your style,” Dane said, moving so he was between the doorway and Calum. “Be honest. None of this horseshit about 'checking up' on me for the boss. You wanna know who sent me, because your boss and mine aren’t the same.

Calum sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose in apparent frustration. "You weren't nearly this discerning in the tavern. Thought perhaps you'd let it slip then. An act, I presume?"

Dane shrugged. "If drinkin' and actin' share the same blood, then I s'pose you could say as much. But I've not got shit to tell you, ma’am. You got that pretentious reek on ya, like someone's got a Bond. I been 'round a-ways, but I don't fuck with no sorceresses. So clear on out and tell your employer that mine don't like bein' named, end of story."

Calum smirked, winding a brown strand of hair through dark fingers. An oddly innocent gesture, but in the context of Dane’s situation, likely a signal. Dane’s eyes flicked again to that doorway.

"Don't get cocky simply because you drank yourself stupid enough to keep a secret,” Calum said. “As you so astutely surmised, I'm Bonded. Not worth trying to run, and trying to resist should not even be a consideration. You should have let me coax you the easy way, back at the bar."

"I assume now you're going to tell me 'bout the Bond, and explain at length why I should be afraid of you," Dane replied with a shrug. "If not, then I got no reason to be, and I'll get on my way."

"Even for a hired thug, you're a fool," Calum replied. "With a touch, I could reduce you to a gibbering pile of flesh, clawing out your own eyes.”

“I liked you better when we were drinking.”

“You'll tell me everything, then beg me for death as your sanity begins to wane,” Calum said, ignoring him. “If you are forthright with me, I may even let you live. But you resist at your peril."

"Yeah, that's probably true. But you're over there, and I have a crossbow," Dane said, lifting his sleeve and exposing the arm-mounted weapon. Jerking his thumb forward to activate the trigger mechanism, Dane sent a thin steel-tipped missile whistling into his would-be interrogator's face. Calum let out a brief screech, then fell back into the barrel behind her, tumbling with it to the ground.

A grunt of enraged surprise to his right. Spinning, Dane thrust his knife toward the man behind him, the one who'd been hiding in the shadowed doorway. Seen the bastard the moment he'd first moved.

Only, Dane found that he’d misjudged. How a brute that large had managed to fit in the doorway at all was a mystery of its own. The man caught the tip of Dane’s dagger with his open palm, grunting in pain as the knife stabbed cleanly through his hand. Without giving Dane a moment to pull the blade free, the thug slammed his other fist into into Dane’s midsection. Dane wheezed, the breath leaving his lungs in a panicked gasp as the edges of his vision darkened.

It could have been worse, all things considered. The man was unarmed, likely because Calum had wanted Dane restrained, not immediately murdered. That punch had bruised ribs, but not broken anything vital as far as Dane knew. A winnable fight, if not an ideal one. Sometimes you had to thank the gods for the little things.

Dane let go of his knife then sidled back, clutching his diaphragm where the man struck him. As the thug moved in to finish what he’d started, Dane leapt forward off his back foot, slamming the heel of one steel-toed boot into his assailant’s knee. The thug gasped as his leg snapped backward at the joint, and he stumbled back away from Dane. Before he could let out a louder exclamation of pain, Dane’s second blade was in his hand, gleaming in the mid-morning light as he plunged it hilt-deep into the other man’s neck. Two knives, two crossbows, double the odds of catching your opponent off-guard.

The thug made a short gurgling sound and dropped, clutching a throat carved wide. Dane took a moment to catch his breath, glancing between the two corpses he’d just created. Perhaps that one had been a bit more personal. Dane had never liked sorcerers, and liked their arrogance even less. Not that his opinion was particularly relevant at this point; Jaskin wanted no questions asked. If someone had any, they were to be dealt with.

He'd been tasked with killing a man who'd caused the death of another man and in turn somebody had been sent to extract information and ultimately kill him. "I killed a guy who killed a guy who killed a guy, and two guys were sent to kill me". Dane grinned despite himself. It wasn’t much of a joking matter, but it also wasn't the first time. There was always another player, always new doublecrosses to contend with. When you dealt with the type of players Dane did, you never knew if the other side was watching, or even how many other sides there were.

Jaskin had said to meet him in a warehouse down south in the slums, just off Desrin Lane, the one shared by Pub Leon and The Draft Louse.

Dane made his way there, careful to keep his eyes open for any that might be trying to track his movements. Calum was probably just an agent sent by those out of the know who wanted to be in the know, but Archipalus’s death was likely to ruffle feathers in other places.

A quick scan of the early morning street showed no signs of pursuit. Dane made his way toward the slums, passing merchants setting up stalls and constables making their first torchless rounds. Aside from the beggars that occasionally raved in his direction in an effort to gain a spare coin or two, nobody looked his way. Dane’s breath misted the air as he tried to relax, taking slow, steady breaths while trying to calm his racing heart.

With the exception of Calum, this had gone more or less according to plan. Archipalus hadn’t talked, far as he knew. The man who had confided in him, a Ser Tebril, had mysteriously fallen ill with a deadly case of arrow-shaft-through-the-eye. His fellow conspirators had disavowed Tebril and the stone baron extraordinaire, and sent Dane to finish the job. So the secret died with Manfred, but lived on with his co-conspirators, Dane’s employers.

What that secret was though, Dane had no idea. Must be pretty bad to trim the widest branch of the wealthiest business tree in Albrisina. Less a case of branches, and more ripping the damn thing out by the roots. Manfred was Archipalus Masonry, and had lived an otherwise quiet and successful life in Stennrial’s capital. But nobody’s luck holds forever.

And then there was the note he’d found in Tebril’s pocket. No telling what it was, but the house Tebril seal on the front seemed a good indication of its importance.

Dane hadn’t opened it, but he’d held onto it. He’d been tempted to just read the damn thing, nobody would ever know he had, but he just hadn’t gotten around to it yet. No real reason for the delay, just a healthy gut-instinct that hadn’t let him down yet. Whatever secret the two lords had died for was clearly big enough to be valuable, if sold to the right person. If Tebril had scrawled that secret onto a note, and that note was the same one that Dane now carried, then such a note was certainly worth peeking at. But later, maybe, when all this was done. When he was out of the city and away from the people who wanted that secret kept at all costs.

By the time he turned down Desrin Lane and skirted the side of The Draft Louse to silently creep up to the warehouse entrance, Dane was really just ready for the whole thing to be done. He would never have labelled himself an assassin, it was far too pretentious a title. Mercenary, sure. Even hired killer. But “assassin” was a way of life, one that involved a fair bit of inconspicuous living, a dour temperament, and too much subterfuge for Dane’s liking. He did his jobs and did them well, but never took any pleasure in the deaths. Moreover, he was small time. Hits were done on business rivals, jilted partners and renegade syndicate thugs. But a conspiracy within the largest business operation in Stennrial’s capital? Put simply, this felt like assassin’s work, and Dane wanted no more of it. After he collected the payment, of course.

He paused in front of the wooden warehouse door, shook his head to clear the imagined jingling of 5000 Krates in a fat purse, pulled the door open, and stepped inside.

His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dark interior, which struck Dane as odd. If Jaskin and his associates were waiting here, why would they just sit in the dark? The early morning light from the wide doorway spilled over a cobweb-strewn entryway choked by overturned barrels, conspicuously empty. Draft Louse was almost certainly a syndicate front, but they still needed liquor to serve. His answer came a moment later as he took a step inside and heard the soft splash of foot hitting puddle as the inside of his boot grew wet. The pungent smell of wine slammed into him like a constable’s blackjack as he took in a shocked breath.

White wine, not red. He’d mistaken it for water at first but it was wine on the floor, mixing with the red pools that gathered beneath the bundled shapes beyond the barrels. Very human-shaped lumps, now he peered closer. And wearing the familiar red-trimmed gray of Stennriali nobility.

“Jaskin?” he whispered hoarsely as the warehouse door swung shut behind him. Darkness crashed down on him, and the void offered no response.

Dane reached frantically back for the door handle, gave it a heaving tug, realized it opened the opposite way, pushed-

Brilliant light exploded in front of his eyes. Dane screamed and doubled over as his vision became gold streaks on white canvas. His hand left the door, shielded his face against the light. Tears streamed down his cheeks, he was blind, he was blind and he was dead and he should have just pushed the fucking door the first time.

“Castrated Gods!” Dane screamed.

Gold-white faded to black-green and Dane reached again for the door, still blind but now more confused than anything. That wasn’t sunlight, no chance it had been that bright already.

“Bad learner.”

Dane froze, tear-streaked face turning toward the voice. Not directly in front of him, but forward and up. In the rafters, or perhaps on a high shelf. A moot point given his vision consisted of a dark green smudge that took up his entire line of sight.

“Whah-”

“It learns badly,” the voice came again. A grating nasal hiss, devoid of intonation or gender. The voice a theatrical bard has after a four-hour performance and no water.

“It touches the door and goes blind, then goes for the door again. Stupid, no?”

Dane’s heart pounded in his ears as he slowly released the door handle, hands shaking as he reached for the pouch of miniature crossbow bolts on his belt.

“Then it reaches for the weapon. In a room full of corpses. Interesting reasoning.”

Dane stopped, noticing how his breaths came in tiny gasps now. Like a cornered animal. It struck him as oddly embarrassing, and that struck him as a meaningless observation at the moment.

“No, no, by all means. Pull it out. Aim it blind. Won’t hurt me. But whatever makes you feel better.”

“Who in the Voided hell are you?” Dane asked, trying to sound braver than he felt and failing as his voice cracked spectacularly.

“Vitriolic, rude. Poor qualities in your present situation. I shall not tell you my name, it is not for such as you to know, only that I am Three-of-Twelve, She of Iridescence and Cacophony.

Dane’s legs were gelatinous pinyons beneath him, wobbling as he leaned on a barrel for support.

“The... the twelve?” Surely a different twelve. His luck couldn’t be that bad, could it? An assassin of the Twelve Blades of Sicrocci, right here, in his little warehouse, was a twist so unbelievably unlucky that Dane felt his stones shrivel at the thought.

“I do not believe I misspoke,” the thing on the rafters hissed.

‘I killed a guy who got another guy killed, and now the guys who ordered his death have been killed by something that is not a guy, and it wants to kill me.’ It wasn't so funny anymore.

Dane squinted through blurred eyes up at the rafters, made out something hunched and slender and very pale.

“You killed them,” Dane said, trying not to stutter. The monster above was death, plain and simple. “Why?”

“Same reason you killed Manfred Archipalus. They knew a pretty little secret. One they wished to leverage.”

“I see.”

“I can fix that,” the thing said in a mocking tone, and Dane’s vision had returned just enough to see the creature’s face above split into a jagged grin, like an animal baring its teeth.

“Me too, then?” Dane’s fingers trembled as he reached into the pouch at his side, hoping the movement was slow enough to be overlooked.

“You’ve asked your questions. Several of them. Only polite to give me the same courtesy. And I assure you, it is in your best interests to be polite.”

There was a flutter of air, the creak of timbers, and the blurred pale shape was gone. Dane froze, a sliver of steel-tipped wood clutched in his hand as he heard the light patter of steps along the beams above his head.

“Ask, then,” he said, eyes rolling up toward the ceiling in terror.

A thump to his right. A breath on the back of his neck a moment later. An icy hand on his wrist, fingers so powerful that he couldn’t pull away.

“This little secret is a bit… delicate,” came the whisper, inches from his right ear. “I’ll ask once, and once only. Did your employers speak of it to you? What were you told?”

“N-no,” he squeaked. “Only told to kill Archipalus. Whatever he knew, Jaskin knew too. I swear, oh gods I swear I have no idea what any of this was about!”

The silence that followed was deafening as Dane’s heart hammered so loudly he was sure it would pop out of his chest. This was it. After everything, all he’d survived in this shit occupation, he would meet his end from a shadow at his back, killed by something he couldn’t even turn and fight. Just like Archipalus.

“Heartrate erratic, but voice timbre within expected range,” the creature hissed abruptly. “Chance of falsehood low. I… believe you.”

Then the breath on Dane’s neck was gone, and the creature was in front of him, obsidian eyes gleaming atop a thin, long line of a mouth. It was hideous, with a large sloping bald head and scars that marred every inch of exposed flesh. A homunculus, a demon born of black magic.

“Go on then,” it whispered. “Run along, little human.”

Dane didn’t move at first. Maybe he’d misheard? But he began to back up, inch at a time, toward the door.

“You’re not… gonna kill me?”

“Wasn’t asked to,” the homunculus hissed. “So won’t.”

A trick, probably. This thing thought he was stupid. As scared as he was, he squared his shoulders and set his jaw. He could die with some pride at least. “Right. And I’ll turn my back and find a knife in it before I’m out the door. Doubt your employers want witnesses. Rather just get it over with now, if it’s all the same to you.”

The monster shook its- her?- head. “They didn’t specify. And no. Back or front, wouldn’t matter. You’d die the same. No point in lying.”

Dane wasn’t sure he believed her, but nodded just the same. A chance of escape was better than certain death, and he couldn’t afford being choosy right about now.

As he reached for the door, she spoke again.

“Don’t want to search their purses?”

Dane stared slack-jawed at the pale demon.

“Don’t want to… what?”

“Search purses. They don’t need the coin.”

This was quickly turning out the strangest day of Dane’s life. But money was money, and so he gathered purses from three of the corpses before his nerves got the better of him and he fled. Not the haul he’d been hoping for, but when it came down to it, Dane guessed that didn’t matter much. He was just glad to be alive.

As blessed daylight streamed into his eyes, Dane began to run and didn’t stop, jostling past several baggy-eyed street urchins and continuing down the stinking street. He flew past a drunk greeting the dawn with a hungover howl, didn’t spare a second glance for the woman covertly exiting her neighbor’s residence with a worried expression, and only stopped when he was out of sight of the warehouse. Darting into yet another alley, Dane huffed for breath, wiped sweat from his brow, and bent over, resting his hands on his knees as he stared at the snow-salted dirt.

Only then did he take the note out of his pocket, held it in trembling hands. His life had been spared on a whim. A whim and dumb luck. She would have known if he’d read the note and lied, somehow he was sure of that.

But he’d lived. Lived and made out with some gold, and nobody who knew of his involvement still breathed, aside from the monster that had let him walk away. His calloused fingers gently pinched one corner of the folded letter. A secret so dangerous that somebody had employed the most lethal organization on the continent to keep it quiet. This little slip of paper was worth Dane’s weight in gold, at the very least. His fingers twitched on the edge of the fold.

“Back or front, wouldn’t matter. You’d die the same.”

His hands shook terribly and it took him several tries and four broken matchsticks, but he got it done. Dane watched the ashes blow away on the morning breeze, then walked from the alley into the main thoroughfare, chased by the acrid scent of potential wealth going up in smoke.

But that was alright. He’d gotten lucky, and sure, maybe he’d get lucky again. But nobody’s luck holds forever.