The streets of the Lower Town were strangely deserted. There was not even a beggar in sight. The Council of Thieves was meeting in the Guildhouse, and they had ordered the streets kept clear. If all went well at the meeting, there would be no need for the precaution, but the Council hadn't survived this long by being careless.

"They want what?" Coldhand squawked incredulously. The usually unflappable Master of the Thieves Guild was dumbfounded. Never had he heard such an outrageous demand. It was unconscionable. He could feel his power being wrest from him already. The rest of the Council was sure to impeach him for getting them in this deep.

Blacktongue kept his rat-like face carefully expressionless as he calmly repeated his Ward's fee. "The sum of the Target's years, plus a single year from each member of the Ruling Council. Non-negotiable." He sipped quietly from the tankard in front of him, allowing a brief pause to let the full nature of the request sink in. Despite their current outrage, he knew they'd give in, they invariably did. Nobody ever contacted the Poisoners' Guild without being certain of their own desire. "I will be at the Inn of the Red Dog for two nights. After that, the Snipe's offer will be permanently withdrawn." So saying, he turned on his heel and strode carelessly from the room.

The council chamber was quiet for the space of several heartbeats after the seedy little go-between made his exit, then it exploded into uproar. Several of the council members were on their feet shouting and waving their fists, others were pounding on the tables, and still others were roaring with laughter. It took Coldhand nearly a candlemark to reestablish any semblance of order. Even then, he only got their attention by climbing atop a table and sending a huge water jar crashing to the floor. "That's enough!" he roared. "Sit down. You'll all get your chance to speak." The room was relatively quiet, as he awkwardly maneuvered his immense bulk down off the table and back to his seat.

Looking around the room, he stared them down one by one. The Guildmaster was nothing, if not intimidating. "You all know why we called for an Assassin. The Council has been failed miserably in every attempt to drive this self-styled Duchess out of Karanak. There is no other option." He held up a beefy hand to forestall any further uproar. "Ask yourselves these questions: Why have we failed? Can we do what our predecessors could not? What would an Assassin have to be to make such an outrageous demand? Is the result going to be worth such a price? Think hard people."

A deep silence fell on the room as the Council members considered his words. Why had all previous attempts failed? The Duchess was an old woman, living alone in a stone tower atop the town's only hill. It should have been a simple task to rid themselves of her. What had stopped them? She had been ruling from seclusion for nearly four centuries. Those who resisted her wishes had a disturbing habit of turning up dead, earning her the sobriquet Death's Duchess. She kept an iron grip on the town, stripping the Guilds of all power and wealth. Although they chafed a bit under her rule her people were, for the most part, happy. She had held them for so long that only the denizens of the Lower Town even remembered that Karanak had once been a proud kleptocracy. Only the Guilds had ever resisted her. Only they had been brave enough or, perhaps, foolish enough.

Of course, the fact that she was one of Aronak's foremost Players was not to be taken lightly. Even among the Elder Players her longevity was legend. Her great age was a clear indicator both of her lethal nature, and of her skill in the eldritch Contest of Power. The Players were an elite caste, wagering with their own lives to hold and increase their power. Some called it sorcery. Others called it science. They just called it Playing at Power. The Duchess was the oldest and strongest of them all. All those who had tried to unseat her had wound up adding their years to hers. It was unlikely that a group of mere thieves, however skilled, could prevail against such an adversary.

It had been sheer desperation that had moved them to hire the Assassin. Unfortunately, the Snipe was an even greater enigma to them than the Duchess had been. Rumored to be the best Assassin in all of Aronak, with a reputation for never having missed a kill, none had ever met the Snipe face to face. Not even the gender of the Assassin was known. On top of the mystery, the nature of the fee also indicated that the enigmatic Snipe was a Player of the First Rank. Only a ranking Player would have the strength needed to collect on such a demand, an advantage not lost on the members of the Council. The combination of Player and Assassin was unheard of, an anomaly. Perhaps this odd fusion could do what they could not. Perhaps, at last, they would gain back the vast riches they had lost.

"Attention." Nearly another candlemark had passed before Coldhand once more called the Council back to order. "You have had time to consider. Have we any comment?" Looking around the room at their grave faces he saw no signs of confusion or dissent. When not a single hand was raised, he continued, "How say you then? Is it worth the price?" With a flick of his wrist he sent an underling scuttling around the room to collect the votes. When the stones were counted, there was not a single black one among them. They would require the body as proof of the kill, but the vote was unanimous; the Assassin's demand would be met. After all, what was one short year off of their lives compared to an entire lifetime of riches? Not one of them considered that the Snipe would also be getting at least four centuries more in life and skill from the Duchess. Having at last made their decision, they got down to the serious business of celebration. As they began to drink and boisterously congratulate themselves a slim, dark clad figure slipped unnoticed from the back of the room.

Once outside the slender form paused in the shadows to survey the street. Satisfied that she was unobserved, she stripped the gloves from her slim hands. Relieved, Reimy flexed her fingers, watching the tiny white skulls flash against the unnatural blackness of her little fingernails. Her Guildmarks would have been a dead giveaway inside. After all, there were very few Poisoners in Karanak. In fact, she was in all likelihood the only one. The Town was much too small for them to be common, and the closest Assassin's Enclave was nearly two days ride from Karanak. It had been easy enough to fool them tonight; it would be far more difficult tomorrow. She would have to face them to collect her fee, and she had little doubt that they would refuse payment if they saw her. She had started Playing early, just into her seventeenth winter. Even now, with her shoulder length mop of unruly black hair she looked no older than her early twenties, despite the fact that she had seen nearly a hundred winters. It would cause her more of a problem here than in any other place, because there were still those on the Council who had known her as a child. Hopefully a much heavier version of an Assassin's black cloak would be sufficient. If not, she would have to do some serious thinking in order to come up with another solution by the morning. Tonight she had other, more important things to worry about.

The Snipe slipped stealthily through the shadows until she was out of the line of sight of the Thieves' Guildhouse, angled straight towards the Upper Town. Blacktongue would be waiting at the inn already, probably wondering what she had gotten herself into this time. After Warding for her for the past twenty years, he had little faith in her ability to avoid problems. It wasn't like she tried to get into trouble, she thought ruefully; it just seemed to find her. She had told him time and again not to worry, but sometimes he acted more like her father than her Warder. The careless ease born of long familiarity, she supposed. The Poisoners Guild had assigned him to be her Warder when she had first joined them. It was considered beneath an Assassin's dignity to deal with the common ilk, so the Guild trained the Warders to act as intermediaries. Orphans, unfettered by family ties, they were well paid for their services. Their tenure was usually quite brief, limited by their Assassin's span of duty. Reimy's unusual nature had kept him by her for far longer than was normal. They had grown close over the years, genuinely fond of one another. Blacktongue had spent his entire adult life Warding her, and tended to forget that she was far older than he was.

As she ran, her grey eyes sparkled in amusement as she thought about the Council meeting. The mewling worms had capitulated, just as she had known they would. Their kind always did. Her reputation as an Assassin without peer was too strong for them to refuse. First thing in the morning, their messenger would be at the Red Dog looking for Blacktongue. By the next evening, she would be free of this filthy little town forever. Of course, there would be high a price for her freedom despite all she stood to gain. A shadow flickered across her face for but an instant before she spotted Blacktongue in front of the inn. Her eagerness to tell him about the vote instantly chased away any lingering shadow, pushing all thought of personal cost into the dusty, forgotten corners of her mind.

Grabbing the rat-faced little groom by the hands, she spun him in circles in the street in front of the inn. "They took the offer, Blackie! We'll be out of here at last!"

Blacktongue sputtered in protest at the shortening of his name. He knew it would have no effect on his enthusiastic Ward, but he felt obliged to make the attempt. It was like swimming against the tide. No amount of time would ever quell her mischievous nature. She had no sense of decorum or dignity. She always managed to make him sound like a puppy, something young and foolish. "Stop it." He hissed in annoyance. "Do you want everybody to see you, Reimy? You can't let them make the connection between us. They must not suspect that you are the Snipe, not here. You could cost us everything."

Obediently she dropped his hands, but her grin was completely unrepentant. "Who's going to suspect your young daughter of being a formidable Assassin? They won't even guess. You must be getting old, you worry way too much." She shook her head in mock dismay and changed the subject before he could protest. "Did you get the new cloak?"

"It's up in the room already. When do you think they'll come?" He eyed her narrowly, well aware of her attempt to redirect him.

Her voice light, evidently unconcerned, she replied pertly, "Oh, not before morning. They won't want to seem too eager you know."

"Well enough. I'll deal with them then. You'd better get some rest though. You'll need all your strength tomorrow." Blacktongue firmly steered her towards the inn door. "Get along with you now."

Reimy impudently stuck her tongue out at him, then disappeared through the door. Her amusement faded the moment she stepped inside. Going up to her room alone was the last thing she wanted to do, but she had no more excuses left for stalling. As she slowly climbed the back stairs she tried in vain to find a reason to stay downstairs. Unfortunately, the taproom was already closed so she couldn't stop for a drink or a bite to eat. She really did need the rest, but she was unlikely to get it. Tomorrow's kill would be unlike any of the others because of her personal stake in it. It would take all her nerve just to go through with the contract because this time she knew her Target. Lying on her bed, she found herself lost in memories. A soft voice… the touch of a hand… the strength… shadows of her past flickered through her mind as she drifted into a restless sleep. Troubled by dark dreams, she tossed and turned fitfully, never quite waking.

The day that dawned was grey and dismal. Dark clouds shadowed the entire town lending it an air of omnipresent gloom. Reimy stood by the open window of her room, gazing morosely into the inn yard. Very fitting for her mood, she thought sadly. A good day for an Assassination. She had been staring out the window for hours, watching for the Council messenger to arrive. He had finally made an appearance a few moments earlier and Blacktongue was meeting with him down in the taproom. She had nothing to do but wait until the final arrangements were made, nothing to occupy her thoughts. Quite naturally, her thoughts had drifted toward the day ahead, hence her bleak mood. Nothing she had been able to tell herself had reconciled her to do what she knew she had to do. Nothing could. There was no way she could believe she was not doing the wrong thing, not betraying a secret trust. There had to be another way, if only she could discover it. She had too much to lose otherwise.

She continued to stare blindly out the window when the door opened quietly behind her, too sunk in despair to pay much heed. She ignored the footsteps coming up behind her, and she didn't even flinch when Blacktongue put his hand on her shoulder. They stood in companionable silence for a moment before she turned to face him with a regretful sigh. Quietly, her voice almost a whisper, she asked "Is it time?"

"Yes. They want their proof by noon. Will you get your cloak, or shall I?"

"I suppose I must." Moving slowly, the Snipe lifted the heavy black cloak and settled its folds over her shoulders. As she felt its weight envelop her a curious, unnatural calm swept over her. Without speaking she took a jar from her pack, and began spreading its pungent contents on her face. Within seconds, her eyes were the only visible spot of color in a pool of foul smelling blackness. She braided her hair tightly to her head, then looked over at her groom. "Well?"

At his nod, she pulled the hood of the cloak up and forward, hiding her face in the deep shadow of its folds. Pulling on a pair of supple black gloves, she steeled herself for the walk to the tower. This slim disguise was the best she could muster. It would have to be enough; Assassins always wore black when working. Gathering her nerve, she strode from her room. She walked through the taproom, her back ramrod straight. She never faltered, never paused, seemingly oblivious to the curious glances that followed her to the door. Never once, as she strode purposefully down the street, did she look back or hesitate.

As she made her way through the town, she was aware of the surreptitious glances of passersby. To her heightened senses, it felt as if the whole town was staring at her, aware of her intent. She knew a moment's panic before that odd sense of icy calm took hold of her again. She made the rest of her walk blindly, trapped in her thoughts. From the depths of her soul rose a dark and mournful chant. It echoed through her mind, filling her awareness until there was nothing else left. Nothing but the call of death.

Standing at last before the weathered tower door, Reimy felt a large lump gather in her throat. The specter of her coming duty rose before her with a haunting urgency, momentarily freezing her in place. Gathering strength from some unknown depth, she raised her hand to knock at the door. Before she could touch it, it swung open soundlessly. She knew then, without knowing how, that the Thieves were gathering outside the walls. Their fear and expectation raised an almost palpable force. She could feel them praying for her to continue, goading her on as she stepped through the door. It was so pathetically intense that it nearly made her laugh. Fools they were, and fools they had always been. They were paying her well, but what she was about to do would change nothing for them. It would however, change everything for her. The world, as she had always known it, would be irrevocably altered. There could be no going back, no reprieve.

The interior of the tower was surprisingly shabby. Though the Duchess had ruled here for centuries, there was very little by way of furnishings. Starkly plain and utilitarian, the tower echoed hollowly with every step she took. Once inside, she made her way carefully up the crumbling steps to the highest room. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she was able to make out a bed in the corner of the room. There, bathed in the weak light from the high window, lay a withered twisted crone. Reimy's tears flowed freely now as she watched the frail figure on the bed. Unwillingly, she stepped into the room she had exiled herself from half a lifetime earlier.

"Is it time my daughter?" a croaking whisper came.

"I do not have the strength Mother." The words were wrenched from her as if they twisted her soul.

"You must. There is no other way. This is how it must end, as ever it has." The old woman's tone was firm, full of certainty.

"I cannot betray you…" Reimy's voice trailed off in a whisper. For several seconds there was only the sound of two people breathing, then the muttering roar of a mob began to filter through the window. Even muted by distance and thick grey stone, it was obvious that they were crying for blood.

"The only betrayal is one of trust… I have trusted you to follow the old rites… You must give me my due… It is my only rest, my only way out." The Duchess' voice shook both with age and emotion. "You must, my child. You knew this day would come. Again I ask you, is it time?"

With a sinking feeling, Reimy realized that her mother had the right of it. The petty little people of this Town would not let her live in any case. Doing what she had come to do would be a kindness in its own way. The old woman's courage and strength shamed her. There was no other way for them. There never had been she supposed. Most Players were made, some special few were born. By right of birth, they were what they were, and there was no escaping it. She wiped away her tears and settled herself upon the edge of the bed in resignation. Reconciled at last to her duty, she grasped her mother's hands and whispered her first line of the ritual, "It is time, mother."

"So be it then." The duchess' grip was dry and firm, her voice surprisingly strong as she intoned the words of ancient ritual. "Let it be, as it has always been, soul to soul our powers pass unseen. Daughter to daughter in a timeworn rite," she paused and Reimy felt a surge of cold fire rage through her. She lived an eternity in mere moments as the dreams and fears of a hundred lifetimes coursed through her. Her thoughts were an impenetrable tangle of her own and others. It was impossible to hold herself free from the jumble. She could do nothing but let the confusion wash over her, burning away what she had been. The torrent of power and knowledge nearly overwhelmed her before the ritual was complete. The last phrase stabbed right through her, piercing the daze that confounded her. "Let the Elder pass from sight." On the last word, an intense crash of thunder came from outside. When the last faint rumblings died away, for one brief moment, there came the sound of only one person breathing. The instant of near-silence was broken by the rushing hiss of a torrential rain.

She sat in blind silence for a moment, savoring the breadth and depth of her newfound power. She had an incredibly long life ahead of her now, and she had yet to collect her fee. She wondered if it would be worth the price that she had paid. Perhaps, perhaps not. Only time would tell. What mattered had been done, and could not be undone. Suddenly she realized that she could hear them in the lower reaches of the tower already. Fighting down a dizzying feeling of disorientation, she composed her mother's body for viewing. They would have their gruesome proof the young Duchess thought. As she pulled her hood into position to hide her face from questioning eyes, a single tear fell glistening on the sigyl of the Poisoners Guild.

(c) M.C. Sak 1999

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