Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #12 March 2015 | Page 11

beast packed the winding streets, filling the air with the stench of civilization and roar of commerce. He guided his mount through the throngs. The turmoil wouldn’t ebb with the encroaching twilight, but would just be replaced by another sort of revelry involving drink, deviousness, and all manners of debauchery. Khellus’s gaze lingered on a woman slumped in a domicile threshold. Eyes shut, mouth gaping, one would’ve thought her dead but for the occasional twitch of legs under her skirt. Streaks of platinum-blonde hair coursed through her otherwise black tresses, and blood seeped from cracks in her fingernails. Those combined with the leg twitches were signs of rampant dravillish use. He let his gaze slide past her and oriented himself. Dravillish was just one of the many pernicious drugs Belladain dealt in below all its other transactions of silk, spices, flesh, and soul. She looked like she’d crashed. He knew the energy and focus the drug promised was false. That eventually you’d end up as this woman had, with mind-wrenching exhaustion. One more addict didn’t concern him. Even though she could slip into a life-threatening stupor if she couldn’t replenish her supply. She’d made her choices in life and now paid the price. He had enough of his own to pay to take on anyone else’s debts. To meet his current obligation, he needed to find his contact, get the salient details, finish the job, and slip out of the city before the blood dried on the stones. Quick, quiet, and yet effective in sending a message king’s orders. He chose an inn at random and paid for a three night stay, though he intended just one. He had his horse stabled and tipped the muckboy a half-copper to ensure the feed had no bugs in it. As night spread a sable blanket across the city and its conjured lights blurred the stars, Khellus strode off for the nearest marketplace. He found the proper shop an hour later. The engraved board above the door displayed T’ings and F’ings. He allowed a small chuckle at the crude gutterspeak which also served as code among many royal agents across the kingdom. He ducked into the alley alongside the establishment, which stunk of piss and offal. Odd patterns of soot and the occasional streak of dried blood marked the stones all over. Tucking his gloves into his belt, Khellus clambered to the roof, picked the lock on the waiting hatch, and dropped into a lightless upper storeroom. He prowled through stacks of dusty crates and scattered stock until he found another door. Using a tiny vial from a pouch on his belt, he dripped oil onto the hinges, and then opened it, revealing the living quarters behind the shop. He detected a subtle scent of lemons as he slipped though the doorway. The shop owner, a hefty men, with a permanent flush to his pale neck and cheeks, sat at a table lit by several large candles. He dithered over a simple dinner of roasted dogflesh and herb-rubbed bread. A ledger lay open on the table beside the meal, and he ticked off entries with an inked quill as he picked at his food. Khellus studied him for a few minutes, noting the sweat gleaming on his bald head and the slightest quiver to his fingers as he wrote. Then the assassin descended the stairs and leant against the wall directly behind the man. To his left, a wooden slat door closed off what he assumed to be a closet, while another stood half-open to reveal a bedroom with armoire and feather-stuffed mattress. A third doorway, blocked by a silk curtain, led into the shop front. He waited until just the right moment, as the shop keeper took another bite of bread. Devils above and below, he loved this part of the work. He cleared his throat. Crumbs spewed. Meal and book went flying as the man shoved the table away, spinning as he rose, quill thrust out like a dagger. His chest heaved and the bloodshot whites of his eyes showed as he staggered for balance. “Easy, Dolomun” Khellus rumbled. “Your heart isn’t allowed to fail until you’ve given your report. Then you can have all the spasms you want.” PAGE 11