13
The room was
small, but comfortable. It contained the bare necessities: an iron-framed bed,
over which someone had courteously left a towel and wash cloth, a set of
drawers, a table upon which sat a washbowl and jug and a mirror that hung
crookedly on a rusted nail. All the items had obviously seen better days, but
Jordan was not going to be critical of any of it. Having spent so long on the
locomotive from Tor to Ma’arnar and with the very real possibility of meeting
his maker as early as tomorrow, the notion of being contrary didn’t sit well
with him. Indeed, there were matters more pressing to worry about than lumps in
a mattress and crusty growths over the mirror’s surface.
It would be best to keep your
consternation somewhat private, Aldernon had counselled. The remark had caught
him off guard, but was sage advice nonetheless. Peering at himself in the
scabrous mirror, he tried to find what it was in his expression that could have
tipped Aldernon off as to the thoughts inside his head. There were no answers
forthcoming.
From outside came the muted rumbling
of the city. Silence, it seemed, was a luxury very few city denizens could
afford. Next door, he heard Melvin crashing about. The boy was both excited
about being quartered somewhere where he didn’t have to fight flea infested
rats for a place to sleep and apprehensive about an excursion into the wider
world. He was at pains to pretend to be dissatisfied with the quality of the room
furnishings, but Jordan saw through the façade.
Just as Aldernon had seen through
his own.
It irked him that he had been so
easy to read, but he chalked it down to the other man’s experience. Yet even
that was making excuses. How could he deny the reality of his fear?
The face staring back at him was his
face, but the mind underneath it seemed alien. Doubt nestled comfortably inside
that mind, a nest of rats. It wasn’t an unknown feeling, but never before had
it been so pervading and so... foreboding.
Foreboding.
Jordan latched onto that word, for
it perfectly described the darkness he felt dwelling inside his head: a sense
of premonition that was nearly tangible and had only been in evidence since
Felipe Belsair had announced that their mission was compromised. Before this
time, he could recall no other instance of prescience, at least not in the same
calibre as that he felt now. There were hunches aplenty, and the occasional
prickle of intuition, but in those moments there was solid evidence upon which
to ground them. Now, he wasn’t entirely sure. It could just be a matter of
feeling spooked, of genuine nervousness before the single hardest mission he
had ever undertaken and therefore a natural feeling that would awaken in him
the need to remain constantly alert. But what if by some unlikely chance, there
was a clue somewhere that he hadn’t noticed that could unlock the true message
behind this dark contemplation?
“Psychic you are not,” Jordan
muttered to himself, glaring long and hard at his reflection in the mirror.
There were dark smudges beneath his
eyes that spoke of missed sleep and the shadow of four days of stubble on his
cheeks and chin. When coupled with his ruffled, unkempt hair, it gave him an
almost manic look that did little to improve the situation. He looked like a
man on edge, and was probably, on a subconscious level, acting like one, too.
“Get a grip,” he told his
reflection.
He turned back to the room with its
austere furnishings. It was as humble as Jordan thought himself to be. Humble,
simple; practical. There was nothing superfluous here. Even his meagre
travelling kit was simple and practical: soap, shaving brush, razor, comb. The exemplar
of a highly organised mind, of someone who was meticulous and desiring full
control of their life.
Was it any wonder then that he now
felt haunted by this sense of foreboding, given that the plan he was supposed
to follow was compromised?
He dry washed his face with his
hands, feeling the coarseness of the stubble on his skin, hearing it rasp
against his fingers. The sound seemed very loud in the room as if he were
buffing wood with sandpaper. It served as a prompt for the action of unrolling
the travel pack and extracting the shaving equipment.
The shaving ritual proved an
adequate distraction from his inner turmoil. It was part of his preparation for
any mission, the sake of grooming a rare instance of vanity for a “just in
case.” While that reason seemed grim, Jordan found the mechanical process
comforting, even if the water he used was tepid and the smooth skin of his face
was dotted here and there with pinpricks of crimson by the ritual’s completion.
He was just finishing when he heard
a polite knock upon his door. “Maurice?” a voice inquired. It was Belsair, he of
the cool and detached manner.
“Come in,” Jordan said.
The door creaked open and Belsair’s
shadow poured into the room. The man himself was a momentary shadow until
Jordan blinked away the aura the sunlight threw around him. When he set foot
inside the room, turned slowly to close the door and just as slowly back to
face Jordan, Jordan could see that he, too, had taken time to make his
appearance less haggardly.
“You have the look of a man deep in
thought,” Belsair stated.
Jordan nodded, a sigh escaping his
lips. He tossed the towel back onto the bed. “It would seem so,” he concurred.
“Am I that easy to read?”
The tiniest trace of a smile
momentarily flickered at the corner of Belsair’s mouth. With it was an equally
transient spark in his eyes. Then the veneer of detachment returned. Belsair
ventured a few more paces into the room and the shadow peeled away from his
face. He, too had shaven, though unlike Jordan, had left a goatee styled beard
behind. His hair was captured in a ponytail that snaked around behind his head,
disappearing into the folds of his cloak and exposing more of his weather
beaten face.
“You’ve been thrown in at the deep
end,” Belsair said. “So I’d be more worried were you not deep in thought. As
for being easy to read, to be honest, any signs shown are purely
psychosomatic.”
“...and that means?”
“That by suggesting you’re showing
signs of being a man deep in thought, you actually exhibit those signs.”
Belsair paused, waiting for Jordan to reply. When Jordan didn’t, he continued.
“Take it from someone who knows, you’re handling yourself with aplomb. Given
the twists and turns this plot has taken. I guess this is why the Powers That
Be tapped your shoulder for the assignment.”
“Hmm,” Jordan replied. “While I
shall graciously accept your compliments, I doubt that is the reason you’ve
come visiting.”
“It isn’t. At least not directly. What
I am here for is to update you on the plan.”
“Ah,” Jordan said aloud. In his
mind, he repeated the mantra: the plan first, the plan last.
“Nothing onerous,” Belsair insisted.
“In fact, we’ve been given a lucky reprieve. It seems our false trails have
momentarily waylaid Darellion Kraithé. And making things even more delicious is
the fact that Julian—against all advice—has elected to remain in the Capital.”
“So... what does this mean?”
“It means that we can strike
tomorrow, if the final reconnoitre is favourable.”
“How likely is that?”
Belsair shrugged. “I cannot say. A
lot can happen in the time between now and then.”
“When is the strike planned?”
“There are two options that would be
best. The first—and easiest—is the change of guard just before dawn. That is
the time when there are the least amount of people out and about and as such,
it is easier to avoid detection. Having said that, though, the guards
themselves are more alert, especially the reliving guards and anybody without
reason to be within their perimeter are treated with some degree of hostility.
“Option two is the transitional
periods before and after the King breaks his fast. There are crowds in
abundance here, gathered either to join the King in his lavish morning feast,
or simply to stand in awe at the galleries to watch. Mingling among the
revellers and the gawking spectators will be the King’s servants, whom you
shall recognise by their apparel and standing close to the King, his private
bodyguard, all of whom will be attired in the livery of the Royal House.
“Slipping amongst the crowd will be
no problem. Getting close to the Royal person is another thing altogether. Hence,
the optimal moments are when he is arriving to partake in his morning fast
breaking, or in the moments when he is taking his leave. Of the two, the latter
would be more advantageous... when everyone has taken more than their fair
share and are... burdened somewhat...” Belsair winked at Jordan after the last
two words, illustrating the point by rubbing his stomach.
Despite the gravity of the situation,
Jordan found himself laughing at the suggestion. In his mind, he saw the King
and his entourage as a surreal pantomime, rubbing their swollen bellies
lavishly as they prepared to rise from the table, their faces masks of
gluttonous self-satisfaction.
“Does he break his fast with a
banquet every morning?” Jordan asked.
“Every morning he is at the Capital.
It’s a grand spectacle, or an ego trip; depending on which side of the line
you’re standing on. But... at those crucial moments of entering the fray and
departing from it, he is totally exposed. An assassin with their wits about
them could easily use the commotion to their advantage...”
A rueful smile played across
Belsair’s lips. Unlike most of the other smiles that enjoyed a brief life
before being wiped away, this one remained on his face for at least half a
minute. “An assassin with as much experience as you, Maurice Jordan, could not
only commit the deed, but could affect their escape. And should the avenue for
flight be—how should we put it... hampered?—then you play the ace up your
sleeve.”
“Melvin.”
Impossibly, Belsair’s smiled widened
somewhat. Jordan saw two rows of brilliant white teeth, all perfectly straight.
He saw a pair of dark eyes glistening with malevolence. He saw every contour of
Belsair’s face form a mask of sadistic pleasure.
“This time tomorrow, my friend, you
could be on that locomotive back to Tor, your mark made in the book of history
forever.”
“Even if they pop Melvin’s neck?”
“They will interrogate before they
pop his neck. And he will squeal like a suckling pig after ten minutes.”
“So you’re saying he will name me?”
“Of course he will name you. And he
will name me. And anyone else whose name he has overheard in the course of our
little journey.”
“We will be ratted then?”
Belsair grinned some more, only this
time, the malevolence became genuine mirth. “Oh, for sure. He will squeal and
names will pour like vomit from his mouth. But seriously, what species of
inquisitor is going to believe that what the street urchin is saying is the
truth after only ten minutes of prodding? Especially a snivelling, wretched,
effeminate, poncing thing that reeks of shoddy toilet water?”
Jordan let Belsair’s description of
Melvin (just Melvin) hover in the air for a few seconds. At first, Jordan
wanted to poke holes in the scenario, but found he couldn’t. Everything Belsair
said of Melvin, directly and indirectly was true. Melvin was a self-serving
gutter rat with no sense of loyalty. He had proven this many times during the
train ride to Ma’arnar. Believing that his life would be spared if he named
names, then he’d name them with nary a blink, just as certainly as he’d tried
to open the throat of his travelling companion on their first night together.
And while the idea of using Melvin as a pawn played havoc at Jordan’s
conscience—but only on a superficial level, he was quick to realise—the premise
and the promise shone like a brilliant white light at the end of an otherwise
dark and claustrophobic tunnel.
In the time it took Jordan to fully
appreciate that light, Belsair had produced from the many folds of his cloak a
leather pouch and an ornate smoking pipe. He sat now on the end of Jordan’s bed
and opened the pouch. Instantly, the rich smell of fresh tobacco treated with
rum and wine filled the air.
“The evening before setting out on a
mission,” Belsair explained as he proceeded to fill the bowl of the pipe, “I
buy myself a pouch of the most expensive tobacco. That, my friend, is my
ritual. We all have one. Everyone, that is, except the craven and the
weak-willed. While we sit and contemplate, our Melvin is cavorting with all
manners of low life scum. I bet you the contents of this pouch—which cost quite
a few gold pieces I must say—that he returns of an early morning hour reeking
of cheap wine and perfume. If he isn’t laid out in some back alley with his
neck opened and his shirt soaked in blood.”
“I’d be a fool to bet against that,”
Jordan replied, feeling the first true smile creep over his own face in at
least a week.
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