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She’d not gone more than a dozen paces from the waterfront, down a side street, when the crossbow bolts bracketed her on either side. She rolled, diving into a doorway. She heard steps from either end of the street, slowly advancing.

Who? The others of the ship? The city guard? Gerstok would have been so ashamed of her, she was trapped so easily.

Then again, what was there left? Her revenge was over. She had nowhere to go, nothing to do. Perhaps it would be best if she were killed and have done with it.

No, by the gods.

She would not be taken so. She’d fight until dead, or until all her enemies lay in their own blood around her. Anger welled up in her, and she channeled it into a weapon she could use as easily as the rapier and new dagger she had drawn. She stepped out into the street again, blades at the ready.

"Bide a moment, elf," came a voice from one side. She saw, advancing there, half a dozen figures, dressed in blacks and dark browns, weapons at the ready. No city guard these, nor pirates. A glance behind showed the same. They bore their weapons with an ease and grace that indicated training. A quick look up showed three figures with crossbows aimed at her from different rooftops around.

Your anger is your weakness — do not let it rule you, but rule it in turn.

"What do you want?" Aladris asked, cautiously. She used her eyes before, her ears behind, to warn of attack. She did not know what to do about the bowmen; she would have to listen for the quarrels in flight.

"You do fine work," said the same voice, which belonged to a thin man in black leather armor. His face was partially obscured by a black mask around his nose and mouth, leaving exposed only the eyes. His fellows were similarly accoutered. He held his blade easily, keeping its point always at her.

"Work?"

"The Talon’s men. Nice work. A record for Tandrik, I think."

She gave a small shrug. It had been what she needed to do.

"Unfortunately," he continued, "we cannot allow just anyone to wander about the city, carrying out death contracts."

It was personal, she wanted to protest. Then realized, yes, there had been very little difference. It had been a contract with herself, with the dying bit of her soul that had been left by Kell and his comrades. That bit was gone now, she felt, laid to rest, but with nothing to take its place. "I imagine it might bother the population," she said.

He laughed. "True. But more important, it might cut into our business. We are the Assassin’s Guild of Tandrik. Join us, or die."

The very thought was outrageous on one level. Yet, what else could she do? She was certainly qualified. And there was that in her which had reveled with the ease of the killing, the brightness of the blood, the small sighs as life left the body. Why not do it for money, then? You are the predator. Always.

"Why not?" was all she said.

For five years, then, she worked in the Guild at Tandrik. A lawless town of pirates and those who profited by them, the Guild was the most organized band of cut-throats there. Aladris’ life was busy, and it had a purpose after a fashion — quite a profitable fashion, for what it was worth. She learned the ins and outs of being an assassin, the unspoken Code she must obey. She developed her own trademark — a scrap of blue left somewhere on the body. She was not so obsessive as some she knew, but a job did not seem finished until a blue flower, a blue cloth, or a blue-fletched arrow graced her victim. Without it, it was just a killing, another day’s work. With it, an offering to the child Aladris, an extension by proxy of the revenge which was all the adult Aladris had to offer.

She also learned, in her time, how such an organization as the Guild worked — or how it should work, if jealousy and pettiness did not take their toll.

Finally she felt she had learned all she could. Tandrik was too small, too close to some memories, too far from others. Some skills she had picked up from the Guild, and with them and the training — and her dark, sharp weapons — she felt she could make her way in any city. And that she could find "work" anywhere.

So she set sail on a small trader heading northwards. She did not tender her resignation, since such was not done, voluntarily at least. She did not care. Tandrik held nothing for her. She was returning home.

Grey mist filled the street, matching the grey in her mind. It all seemed familiar, yet centuries removed from her, like a tale out of her childhood. Her house was gone; the folks who lived in the new dwelling there said it had been burned in the raid, these ten years back. So many things were different — buildings, people. Why had she come here, back to Hraeme? What made her think there was anything for her there? No Aladrin to care for, to take care of —

"Urk!"

The sound, muffled, came from the alleyway she was passing. It was followed by the sound of flesh on flesh, and more grunting.

It was none of her concern, and life in Tandrik should have taught her to mind her own affairs. But she had once played in that alley, and the thought of a mugging there, or worse, vaguely offended her, and the memory of that child Aladris. She drew her rapier and stepped in.

In the dim morning light that filtered through the fog and high walls, she could see three figures huddled around the fourth.

"This’ll be a lesson to you, elf scum, not to cross Narven. You’ll be eating gruel for a month — if we let you live." A fist lashed out, and the target’s head snapped back.

"B-but," came a low voice, thickly, through swollen lips, "I di’n’t —"

The leader of the thugs slapped the speaker across the face, then screamed as the throwing knife pierced his hand, pinning it to a wooden beam. The scream was cut off as the second knife found his throat.

"Wha —?" yelled one of others, as they turned toward the alley mouth.

Aladris was upon them then. Confusion, panic — they double your number, and halve theirs. The rapier slashed across the belly of one, while the sai sank into the other’s gut. Both went down, their lifeblood gurgling into the beaten dirt beneath them. They would be several minutes dying, but that Aladris knelt and slit their throats with a dagger, sheathing her sai first. Make certain of the kills. Avoid surprises.

Their victim had slumped to the ground as well, and she turned to him, grabbing his tunic. It was of the same make, but stained now with blood, and, she noticed as if from a great distance, her own tears. "Aladrin!"

His eyes were unfocused, but they widened with shock. "Aladris," he said, in the voice she could never forget, even muffled in blood and pain. Then she passed out.

It was a different Aladris who had returned home. Aladrin could see that plainly. She was armed, and carried herself as though she knew how to use those weapons. Her clothes were comfortable, but well-made — leather, raw silks, all in a dark colors both striking and well in keeping with the darkness that seemed to shroud her. Her hair was braided up around her head — a warrior’s cut, adding that little protection. Even as they talked, as she told him of her life to the south — though, he suspected, she did not tell him all — she paced, like a panther, and flipped a dagger up and down in the air with an easy grace.

Silent but deadly, came the unbidden thought to his head. He nodded, and smiled.

"Do you not you see? It is perfect." Aladrin was also on his feet, walking slowly back and forth in the small inn room where his sister was staying. He was still limping slightly, but the potion of healing she had given him had taken care of most of his wounds.

She shook her head. "I see nothing of the sort. It cannot work." She threw herself down to sit on the bed.

He laughed. "I have just about outlived my welcome in this godsforsaken town. I am being thrashed to a near-crippling. And along comes my sister, escaped from death, erstwhile assassin of the south. The gods must be smiling on us!"

"They smile on those who act with reason, brother." She rose from the bed and went to him. "You have become a gambler and a playboy here in Hraeme. But you have crossed enough people for them to send those idiots after you. Maybe the gods want you to quit, now, whilst you are ahead." There is but one god you follow, and he is a cruel master, but a loyal one. Worry leaked through her previously impassive face. "I — I do not want to lose you again!"

"You will not! That is the beauty of this plan! I use my wiles and contacts, you use those nasty little skills you have picked up. We are enough of the same build, even if someone sees you, they may well think it me, especially with a mask on. We make a fortune, and exercise a lot of power."

"By you pretending to be a master assassin, while I do the work?" She shook her head. "It cannot work, Aladrin. They know you too well here."

"Ah, you are so right," he said, tapping her nose. He poured himself another glass of wine from the bottle she’d ordered. She hadn’t touched it. "But in another town —"

"Where? Crossland Valley? We have relatives there, from before Grandmother moved here. But they would not welcome such as we there."

"Then someplace else, perhaps. Someplace where assassins might thrive. Midpoint, maybe."

She thought about it a moment. She’d heard lots of stories about Midpoint, all of them disreputable. On the other hand, it couldn’t be any worse than Tandrik. "Well —" she began, uncertainty on her face.

"There now, gelenri," he said, in that soothing voice that always won her over. "It will be just fine. Nothing will go wrong. It will be just the two of us. Family."

Her heart leapt upwards. Family. She’d nearly given up any hope or feeling of family. She would not turn her back on it now.

It had worked out even better than Aladrin had said. In four short years, "The Blue," as they were collectively known for her trademark, became the head of the Assassins Guild in Midpoint, a far richer, organized and deadlier town than Tandrik could ever hope to be.

While Aladrin charmed or offended all the highest members of the town’s power elite — for the head of the Assassins Guild sat on the Council — Aladris was behind the scenes, building an organization that she could be proud of. And doing what "work" was necessary to keep them safe, and comfortable, at least as Aladrin defined it.

Assisting the two of them — though even he was not privy to the secret — was a Chakir nicknamed "The Knife." He was ambitious, the siblings knew, but cautious. They didn’t think they had anything to fear from him.

They were wrong.

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Copyright © 2001 by Dave Hill

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