7
It felt like
a fist in the stomach. Suddenly he found it even harder to breathe, to
concentrate. The world shimmered slightly, flicking in and out of focus. Even
the cacophonous rattling of the train diminished, amounted to nothing, was lost
in the steady thrum of coursing blood in Jordan’s temples.
Questions wanted to pop from his
mouth. Silly questions, inane questions; Melvin-styled questions. Jordan
stilled his mouth. Such a line to take was immaterial. The point is that the
mission was compromised; Jordan didn’t need to know how, or why or even who. He
sagged back into his bunk, warmth draining from his features.
In the meantime, the stranger was
busy with his documents, flicking through them without reading them. Every now
and then he’d snigger at something that amused him, or he’d shake his head. At
length, he lowered the documents, stared at Jordan.
“There was a leak. A flapping trap. Much
like your friend’s.” His eyes motioned above Jordan to where the kid slumbered
without a care in the world. “That’s been dealt with. Cleanly and efficiently.”
The stranger drew a finger over his throat: the gesture was clear. “It was such
a shame that the leak came from so high up.” For the briefest moment, the
stranger closed his eyes as if in remembrance. When he opened them, though,
those dark eyes were a pair of flints. His lips were pressed together into a
thin line, the muscles in his jaw wavered, trembled.
“At this moment, there is a small
band of Black Hoods loyal only to me making pace towards Ma’arnar on horseback.
They’ll get there tomorrow morning in anticipation of our much more leisurely
arrival the day after. Their first mission is to ascertain how much damage our
loose-lipped companion has done. There’s word in the grapevine that the
information was passed onto no better set of ears than Kraithé Darellion
himself.”
Here the stranger paused to allow
the magnitude of the dropped name to have maximum impact. Once more, Jordan’s
mind raced with all sorts of possibilities. Kraithé Darellion was definitely a
man who you didn’t want hearing about your illegal activities, especially if
they’re of the sort Jordan was so stunningly proficient at. If he caught so
much as a sniff of conspiracy, he’d track the word down to its source, leaving
no stone unturned. His tenacity was second to none. According to rumour, there
was no price he was unwilling to pay, especially if the subject at hand sought
to destroy his patron. That his patron was the most powerful man in the realm
was also food for thought. Darellion operated not just with the King’s
blessing, but the force of his arms behind him and the support of the entire
treasury. There was little wonder, then, that rumours sprang forth concerning
the myriad cruel machines employed by Kraithé Darellion to draw confessions and
information from tongues formerly stilled and mouths supposedly sealed shut.
Nor was there cause for wonder that such an elite organisation as the Black
Hoods—or even its very core, the Three—could be infiltrated with the allure of
gold. Any means to an end Darellion sought and if that meant loading his traps
with blood money, then so be it.
So Jordan surmised that the presence
of this part of the elite assassin trio was not so much because word had
somehow got out about his most dire mission, but rather, that word had been
picked up by the last individual in this godforsaken realm you’d want to have
privy to this plan. In short, the Three were engaged presently in fighting fire
with fire.
Jordan swallowed nervously,
painfully aware once more of how dry his throat was. As little as a day and a
half ago the mission had seemed easy. Reading instructions on sheaves of paper,
walking the streets of Ma’arnar with the tips of his fingers, it had seemed so
very simple. Only now was the true measure of complication revealed and
revealed in a manner that suddenly changed the entire mission into a spiralling
and dizzy free fall.
There were so many unknowns. Sure,
the plan before was not without its pinholes, but now these pinholes were
gaping, bloody wounds. At first, there was the presence of this stranger. Then
the news that the mission had been compromised. Now, learning that the King’s
own Minister of Security might be breathing down his neck, that there might be
a welcoming committee at the train station in Ma’arnar, but not the sort that
was likely to greet him with smiles. How swiftly things had changed.
“From what little information I have
at the moment, I’ve rearranged your schedule somewhat.” The stranger was now
producing a new sheet of paper. He accorded it a short once over before passing
it over to Jordan.
Jordan was unable to stem the way
that his hand shook as he read this new missive. But even before he trained his
eyes on the small and neat script, he found his gaze dancing down to the
signing line. He wasn’t wholly surprised to see which name was etched at the
bottom. Tonight was proving to be a night of surprises after all.
Felipe
Belsair.
In his head, a voice whispered, Master of the Knife.
Somehow it seemed apt.
Jordan read the missive, found that
at least in the initial stages the plans weren’t overly different. There was a
rendezvous with Belsair’s men at Ma’arner instead of the head of the local
chapter of the Black Hoods. That was fair enough. If Belsair’s men weren’t at
the station, then Jordan and Melvin were to use their spare tickets to catch
the train back to Tor. That was the same as the initial instruction. Upon
arrival, Jordan and Melvin were to be escorted to one of Belsair’s safe houses
where the final tweaks of the plan would be made. From there, it would be made
clear whether the mission was to continue, whether it was to be suspended, or
if it was to be aborted altogether.
“I’m leaning heavily on a
suspension,” Belsair stated once he was sure Jordan had read the note. “If
Kraithé has wind of our plans he might move his patron out of the city for a
while. Should that be the case, I will have some men tail and report. If the
patron looks to be headed for the Grey Palace then we will abort. But if he is
for the Summer Palace then I think we will be all right.”
Belsair rifled through more of his
papers in a manner that suggested to Jordan that it was done as a show only.
And maybe that was true. Should someone inadvertently walk in, they’d see
merely a business transaction if anything.
He plucked another sheet of paper
from his pile. This sheet was folded in half. He passed this one without so
much as glancing at its contents. On it, Belsair had written: this is about your friend.
“Do I…?” he motioned upwards with
his eyes.
Belsair shook his head. “It is for
you.”
Jordan nodded, his hands shakily
pulling apart the folds of paper. On it was written a note in the same hand as
the instructions. It contained only a few simple sentences.
We’re not entirely sure where Melvin’s heart
lies in this matter. All we can say is for you to watch your back. If he makes
another attempt at your life, exterminate him. If he pulls his head in then you
are to “deliver him to his destiny.”
With the meaning clear in his mind,
Jordan passed the paper back. Belsair instantly tore it to pieces and secreted
it within the folds of his cloak. Then he leaned back heavily on his bunk, suddenly
old and tired once more. “Some would hate to have this level of disorganisation
thrust upon them,” he ventured. “But if the cause is true and noble… then needs
must dictate.” He paused, catching his fingers before they rifled once again
through the miscellany scattered before him. “Sometimes disorganisation is for
the best. It keeps you true, focussed. You’re less likely to make mistakes.”
Jordan nodded once more. The initial
shock of this night’s meeting was wearing off and sleep was now tugging at his
eyelids. There was something of comfort in Belsair’s note, if not in the
tidings that caused that great man to board this locomotive to Ma’arnar. As for
disorganisation… give Jordan guidelines and a script to follow, so that he
could take his frantically beating heart out of his mouth and the cold and
clammy sweat away from his shirt!
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