Imperial Traitor (19 page)

It was an hour’s ride to the edge of Shandrim – time for the party to split. The two young men would have made noticeably strange travelling companions for the others, so the plan
was for Kempten to continue with Jabal to the edge of the city, whilst Reynik and Calvyn cut south to enter the city from a different quarter.

‘Good luck, Reynik. Be careful,’ Kempten said as they made ready to part ways.

‘Thank you, my Lord. I’ll do my best.’ Reynik turned to Jabal. ‘Good luck to you too, sir. Thank you for helping us. It feels good to have someone like you lending us
your aid. Take care at the library.’

‘I shall. We’ll meet as agreed in two days.’ The magician waved his acolyte to his side. Calvyn moved his horse alongside his master’s. ‘Don’t do anything
rash, Calvyn,’ Jabal said in a low voice. ‘Remember – magic is not the answer to everything. Minimise your use of it. If we keep the Guild in the dark as to our abilities, we
maintain a powerful element of surprise for when we most need it.’

‘I understand, Master.’

‘Good. I’ll see you at the rendezvous.’

‘Whatever the spy has learned is of little import,’ Ferdand said dismissively. ‘She cannot escape the complex. I hear your arguments, Brothers, but I
disagree. Until Brother Wolf Spider has been dealt with, Femke is of more use to us alive.’

The Guildmaster kept his tone reasonable, but inside he was seething. What did Femke think she was doing? She was playing into Shalidar’s hands. The dragon assassin was now gathering
support amongst the other Guild members in calling for her death.

‘I’m sorry, Guildmaster, but I don’t see the logic in your argument,’ objected Viper. ‘What does it matter if the girl is alive or dead? Brother Wolf Spider knows
we have her. He also knows that we would be unlikely to hold her anywhere but here, so we already have our lure. What does it matter if we kill her? He wouldn’t know if she were still alive
unless he came to find out.’

‘There is logic, I can assure you, Brother Viper. One who wears an icon tied to his life force should realise that there are ways of discerning if a person is alive or not from a distance.
There are those within Shandrim who can do this. Not many, I grant you, but they are there. Brother Wolf Spider has proved time and again that he’s not without resources. We know that he
cares for her. He has come back for her before. If we’re to draw him into our trap, then we need to keep Femke alive a bit longer. Also, Wolf Spider has already demonstrated his ability to do
the unexpected. If we were to be caught unawares, Femke may prove to be useful as leverage.’

‘How long, Guildmaster?’ asked Fox. ‘We have Brothers maintaining a constant guard on Wolf Spider’s quarters and now a guard on her. How long are we going to keep this
up? It’s a drain on our resources, aside from being interminably dull.’

‘Patience, Brother Fox, patience. We shall continue for a week. If in that time we have still not seen any sign of Brother Wolf Spider, I shall reconsider. It may be that he has given up
on her. If that is the case, then she has no further use as a lure, but we should allow some time to determine this. If he does not show, then we shall dispose of her.’

Femke squirmed on the floor of the cubicle as she listened to Ferdand’s words. Somehow the Guildmaster’s words stung every bit as much as the bruises from her beating. ‘So much
for the three options,’ she thought. Even though logic dictated he would have to offer the Guild members some platitudes to justify their efforts, it still hurt to hear him speak of her so.
Who was he lying to this time? Were the choices he had mentioned a fabrication, or was he really trying to help her? Ferdand was more of an enigma to her now than he had been as her mentor.

‘Take her back to the cell.’

The servant standing over her bowed. ‘Yes, Guildmaster,’ he said with deference.

‘And see that you do not fall for any of her tricks again. I don’t want her interfering with any more Guild business.’

‘Yes, Guildmaster. I promise she’ll not give you any more cause for concern today.’

The man in the brown robes reached down and grabbed her by the hair. With brutal efficiency, she was yanked to her feet and guided back along the corridor to her cell. The guard hurled her
across the threshold into the room that had been converted to serve as her cell. To her surprise, when she looked back towards the doorway he had followed her inside. The hood of his brown cloak
was back up, but she could see the cruel twist of his lips. She did not need to see the rest of his features to know that he had violence in mind.

‘You’re going to pay for making me look the fool,’ he hissed.

‘Don’t do it. You’re making a big mistake,’ she warned, her eyes flicking around the room as she considered her options.

‘Oh, I won’t kill you, but I am going to make you wish you’d never tricked your way past me.’

Femke shuffled backwards away from him, scrabbling across the floor on her hands and feet. He ran forward and kicked her hard on her right leg. She cried out at the pain, trying her best to drag
her body clear. He came forward again, giving her another kick – this one so hard that it rolled her over. Her body came to rest next to the mattress.

A thought occurred to her. His scabbard was still empty. He had not found his sword. A third kick landed, his boot this time catching her in the kidney region of her lower back. The pain from
the impact was excruciating. Any thought she had harboured about being the good prisoner and taking her beating disappeared in a flash of rage. Her body was hard up against the edge of the
mattress, so it was easy for her to slide her hand underneath it. She found the blade with her fingers and worked her hand down until she reached the hilt.

‘Stop!’ she cried. ‘Please, stop before you do something you regret.’

‘Oh, I don’t think you’ve quite had enough yet,’ he replied, his voice cold with calculating cruelty.

A moment later his boot impacted her back once more, this time slightly higher. The kick brought another wave of pain. The senseless violence hardened her resolve. Her grip tightened on the
sword hilt and she gritted her teeth as she released a snarl of determination. The guard was drawing his foot back as Femke rolled towards him. There was a scrape of metal against stone as she drew
the sword out from beneath the mattress. The guard heard it, but did not have time to withdraw far enough to find safety. Femke’s roll took her close. With all her remaining strength she
thrust the blade up into the man’s gut. His jaw dropped and his eyes bulged with the shock of the pain as he looked down at the blade protruding from his body. He staggered back a few steps,
a horrible gurgle sounding in his throat. Then, with agonising slowness, he sunk to his knees, his hands clutching at the blade before falling with leaden finality onto his side.

Femke was breathing hard as she got to her knees. She could make out the pool of dark blood spreading from beneath his body. She was no stranger to blood and death, but the combination of her
pain with the sight of the dead guard hit her hard. Nausea twisted her stomach and she retched, falling forwards onto all fours. The smell of her vomit triggered further spasms, each one hurting
more than the last as her bruised muscles protested at the clenching strain.

It took some minutes before she regained control. As the spasms died away she felt momentarily drained – drained of strength, of hope and of spirit. At the same time she felt a sensation
of deep uncleanliness, as if somehow, in her short time here, the dark filth of the assassins’ killing mentality had stained her to the core. As she considered this, she realised that much of
the sense of uncleanliness flowed from her history with Ferdand. It was he who had taught her how to kill. She had thought the lessons were to keep her safe during her life as a spy, but now she
wondered if he had pursued a deeper motive all along.

The feelings of despair did not last long. As soon as she felt herself sinking into the rising well of negative thoughts, her spirit rallied. It was not her who was unclean, she realised. Her
motives had never been dark. She could hold her head high in any company. Since entering the Imperial network her actions had never been driven by thoughts of self-interest, or personal gain. She
would never follow in Ferdand’s footsteps. She would die first.

The realisation that she was willing to sacrifice her life for her beliefs was timely. Only minutes ago there had been calls for her death. How much more would the Guild members call for her
execution when they discovered the dead servant? She sighed. There was no escaping the fact that the situation was dire, but there had to be a way out. There always was. It was up to her to find
it. For a moment she considered stealing the servant’s robe and trying to get away from the body, but even assuming she could bluff her way out of the quarters, where would she go? Trying to
run was unlikely to achieve anything. The Guild complex was big, but not big enough to remain hidden for long in the face of a determined search.

Femke got slowly to her feet and staggered over to the chair. It was facing the door. She had no energy to move it, so she sat down and rested her head in her hands.

As she sat, she thought. Memories of the Royal dungeon in Mantor flooded back. There she had faced the prospect of death at the end of a period of captivity. The situation had seemed dire, with
little chance of salvation, but she had not lost hope. Reynik had been her lifeline to the outside world in Mantor. Once again he was her best hope of reprieve, but this time the odds were stacked
against him like never before. The enemy expected him. The Guildmaster was laying traps for him. ‘Webs with which to trap the Wolf Spider – how ironic,’ she thought. ‘A wolf
spider doesn’t weave webs! It has no need for them.’

For some reason this fact gave her hope. Did the Guild understand the nature of the beast they were trying to catch? Reynik was resourceful and a quick student. No matter what the odds, she
would not give up hope.

‘It’s not over until the final curtain call and I’m not ready to take my last bow just yet.’

Shantella put the finishing touches to her make-up and took a moment to admire the results in the mirror. The meeting had not long since finished. To her delight, the best
contract had fallen to her.

‘Darling, you are to die for,’ she purred, delighting in the
double entendre.
Turning her head from side to side she checked the symmetry of her artwork. It was perfect. The
smile she gave herself before turning from the mirror accentuated her classic cheekbones. ‘Time to go.’

Rising gracefully from her chair, she swept her dark cloak around her shoulders and pulled the hood carefully over her intricately-styled hair. The ring on the middle finger of her right hand
glinted as she touched it to the transfer stone. A glow of power briefly illuminated the fox-head design on the ring as it made contact, and Shantella instinctively took a deep breath as she
embraced the sensation of magic enveloping her.

Transfer always left her feeling flushed and alive. For her there was only one thrill greater: that of watching the life drain from the eyes of her victims. Shantella revelled in kills that
allowed her to be close to her victim when he died. Tonight would be no exception.

Lord Marnillus should be at home. His was an impressive house – large and imposing. In some ways it was a reflection of the man. The down side to such a large building was that it offered
many routes of entry for a person with the skills of the Fox. That she had visited the house on several other occasions over the years made it all the easier. Marnillus had always been one to show
off his wealth and influence by holding extravagant parties. Shantella had attended several gatherings here in past years, employing various guises to locate previous targets. There was no detailed
planning required for this hit. It was as straightforward as they came.

Assuming no complications, she would enter and exit with the only person any the wiser being her target. Lord Marnillus, however, would not be telling anyone of his caller.

Shantella slipped silently out from the dark corner of the side street and set off on the short walk to find her intended victim. Her blood was fizzing through her veins as the aftereffects of
the transfer mingled with the anticipation of a kill. Her sleek, lithe figure flowed through the dark with feline confidence. Thieves in the areas around her transfer points knew not to mess with
her. Several had learned the hard way and word had not taken long to spread. She had little to fear until she reached areas of the city where she was not instantly recognised as predator, rather
than prey.

The walk did not take much time, and entering the building even less. Locks and latches were rarely more than a brief inconvenience. The windows of the Marnillus residence had none that slowed
her for more than a few seconds. Once inside she prowled up through the house until she found the Lord’s bedroom. He slept alone, which simplified matters.

She cracked open the door and slipped inside, easing the door closed behind her.

‘What the . . .?’

‘Shh! Keep your voice down, my Lord,’ she purred. ‘We don’t want to wake the rest of the household, do we?’

‘No, but—’ He pushed himself into a half-sitting position and the bedcovers slipped down to his stomach.

‘I just
had
to come and see you. I do so love powerful men, and word has it in the city that you are destined to become the most powerful man in Shandar.’

The light was dim, but his eyes were well adjusted to the low light. As she spoke, Shantella slipped off her cloak. Marnillus was entranced. The strutting approach and the purring voice of the
shadowy figure set his pulse racing.

‘Yes, well . . . Wait a minute! I know you. You’re—’

Shantella did not hesitate. The volume of his voice was increasing. If he were to wake others in the house, her escape would become complicated. Even as she pounced, the assassin whipped a
cushion from a convenient chair. Her blade gleamed as it plunged down with unerring accuracy, slicing between his ribs and into his heart. The cushion, jammed firmly over the Lord’s face,
muffled his cries. He struggled, fighting with all his failing strength to break free, but he fought in vain. Shantella knew her trade. With the deathblow dealt, she concentrated on maintaining his
silence, leaning on the cushion and restricting the thrashing of his arms.