Serpent's Tower

Serpent’s Tower
– copyright © 2015 – Karen Kincy

All Rights Reserved

No part of this story may be reproduced without written permission from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (or any other form), business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

1910

Buying cosmetics in Constantinople wasn’t the easiest operation in the world, particularly while pretending to have a sister or wife.

Well, he
did
have a sister, one he hadn’t seen in… seven years.

Wendel squinted into the Bosporus, the water glittering like a thousand sequins. He clenched his jaw until the sentimental moment faded. In his hand, he clenched a tin of kohl, perfect for a midnight enchantress. A little shudder rippled over him, but he squared his shoulders. This illusion had to be perfect.

A man sat by a bridge, his skin wrinkled like a walnut. “Pretty bangles for pretty girls!”

Smirking, Wendel stared down at the trinkets and jewelry glinting on the man’s blanket. None of it real gold, or even silver, but he doubted his target had an eye for value, which was why his disguise could be cheap.

The peddler smiled, his teeth stained by tobacco. “A handsome fellow like you must have a girl, maybe one or two on the side.”

Wendel narrowed his eyes. “I’m married.” As if he would ever dream of marriage.

The peddler plowed onward. “Your wife would love these.” He dangled a pair of gaudy earrings with gems of red glass.

Did the Grandmaster expect him to pierce his ears for this job? Best not mention it, or his boss would lovingly add just a touch more pain to his life. Twisting his mouth, Wendel grabbed a brooch shaped like a gilded lily.

“Twenty kuruş,” said the peddler.

“Ten.”

“Eighteen.”

Wendel snorted. “Ten.” He fingered the brooch. “This isn’t even
brass
, is it?”

With a shrug, the peddler held out his hand. Wendel paid the man, pocketed the lily, and strode down the street. He ducked into a shop to buy some rogue, with an excuse about his sister’s birthday, before he examined silk slippers for his wife with large feet. Fictional, of course, since he was the one who would wear them.

Armed with all the necessary feminine accoutrements, he returned home.

It wasn’t home, though he had lived here since he was thirteen. The Order of the Asphodel occupied the Serpent’s Tower, a forbidding fortress on an island in the Bosporus. The Order couldn’t be bothered with a bridge, so all the Order’s assassins hired ferrymen who knew very well to keep their mouths shut.

Wendel bundled his shopping under his arm and marched down the worn cobblestones. Another assassin glanced at him, but just for a second. When he ran upstairs to his bedroom, not a single soul stopped to question him.

Yet another reason why he loved having a terrible reputation.

Wendel shut the door. He had no lock, since the Grandmaster didn’t allow them. One of these days, he really should stage an orgy no more than fifteen minutes before Thorsten knocked on his door with official business.

If only the bastard gave any warning.

“I’m Grandmaster Thorsten Magnusson,” Wendel muttered, “a stinking curl of feces. Please, by all means, do my bidding.”

With a glance around his room, which consisted of a bed and a trunk of his things, he unpacked. Rogue, kohl, slippers, a scarf, hairpins, that hideous brooch, and a fluttery evening gown in chartreuse. That’s what the salesgirl claimed. It looked like acidic green, to him, though he supposed it would match his eyes.

Damn, he should have bought a mirror. He rubbed his hand over his jaw, detected stubble, and decided he needed to shave. Out came the shaving kit and the straight razor. Sliding a blade parallel to his throat, blind, wasn’t as nearly exciting after the hundredth time. After his skin felt smooth, he washed and dried his face.

Fortunately, he wore his hair long, to the middle of his back, which meant he could twist it into some women’s style. Jesus Christ, though, these hairpins drove him insane. When he stabbed them into his hair, they plinked back onto the floor. After he forced them to obey, he realized he should have changed first.

Swearing in three languages, Wendel unbuttoned his shirt and kicked off his boots.

Naked, he tossed the gown onto his bed and stared at it for a full minute. There wasn’t any way around this. Nobody would believe him to be a lady if he wore black assassin’s clothes. He tugged the silk over his head.

Interesting. It hung rather well on him, though the latest styles favored small bosoms.

He stood with his hands on his hips. Hardly child-bearing hips, though he was rather tall for a woman. Outfitted with the evening gown, he braided his hair and looped it around his head, pinning the black serpent to his skull.

There. Ladylike.

With only the cosmetics remaining, Wendel crossed the hall to the communal bathroom. A mirror of dull glass stretched along the wall. He leaned over the cracked porcelain of the sinks and shadowed his eyes with kohl.

Boots shuffled on stone as a recruit froze in the doorway. “Ma’am, you can’t—”

“Stop staring and get to work.” Wendel glared sideways at him.

The recruit’s jaw gaped. For heaven’s sake, he thought a woman might wander into an order of exclusively male assassins?

“You—you’re the princeling.”

“Christ, they told you that already? What an irritation. I suggest never repeating the name, if you value your body’s integrity.”

“Yes, sir!” The recruit stepped back. “May I use the toilet, sir?” he babbled.

“Don’t wet yourself.”

Returning to the mirror, Wendel scowled at his reflection. In truth, he
was
a princeling when he joined the Order of the Asphodel. A disinherited Prince of Prussia, to be more precise, though he loathed the useless title.

The past was long, long ago. The future was his priority.

***

Music from the party spilled into the street. A Turkish folk song, complete with jangled tambourines. Henry Spebbington, a prosperous British businessman, had requested an Oriental party with a Scheherazade theme.

His rival had requested him dead.

The doorman waved Wendel into the club without a second glance. Spebbington wanted a thousand and one girls to attend the party, which was of course impossible, but he welcomed all the ladies in Constantinople.

Wendel entered a foreigner’s fantasy of a harem, peacocks strutting between waitresses wearing absurdly flimsy costumes. It took him a moment to spot Spebbington; at the back of the club, the businessman lounged on tasseled cushions, dressed like a ridiculous sultan. A trio of women giggled and clung to Spebbington’s arms, despite his pockmarked face and thinning ginger hair. The man was obscenely rich.

A waiter passed with a tray of liquors; Wendel knocked one back.

This part was the worst. Isolating his target before killing and interrogating him. Spebbington didn’t look like he wanted to leave any time soon. Perhaps he could be persuaded to venture into one of the back rooms.

Wendel wandered over. “Pardon me.” He spoke in a smoky purr, his English flawless.

Grinning, Spebbington looked him up and down. The alcohol reddened his cheeks and glazed his eyes. What a sloppy drunk.

Wendel masked his sneer behind a coy smile. “Lord Spebbington?”

“You must be mistaken, darling. I’m not a lord.”

“Aren’t you a sultan today?”

Spebbington chuckled. “I suppose I am.”

Wendel traced the rim of his glass and sucked a drop of liquor from his fingertip. Spebbington gawked, his attention riveted, though he didn’t make a move. Jesus Christ, did he need to be even more obvious?

“Sir,” Wendel said, “might we have a word in private?”

“Yes, certainly.” Bracing himself on the ladies, Spebbington staggered to his feet and offered his arm. “Right this way.”

Wendel took the man’s elbow and steered him into the back, where the fragrant smoke of incense drifted between shadows. A passing waitress smiled at Wendel, sympathy obvious in her eyes—the women working in this club made a living from rich bastards like Spebbington. Wendel hauled his target into an empty room.

“Darling, you look lovely,” Spebbington slurred.

“Thank you.” Wendel shut the door and shoved the deadbolt home, while Spebbington pawed at his hips and planted a wet kiss on his mouth. Grimacing, Wendel shoved him toward the bed, where he fell with a stupid grin.

Panting, Spebbington unbuttoned his trousers, his fingers clumsy. “A little help?”

“Allow me to decline.”

“As your sultan, I command you to disrobe.”

“Henry Spebbington.” Wendel sighed. “I’m here to kill you.”

It took him a moment. “Pardon?”

“As a businessman, you understand the situation.” Wendel slipped a knife from his sash. “It’s nothing personal.”

“Wait!” Spebbington scrabbled around the bed, his trousers at his ankles. “Stop!”

Damn it, he couldn’t let him scream. Wendel caught the man against the mattress and, without blinking, stabbed the knife into his throat. Spebbington struggled, his fingers at his neck, breath gurgling from his mouth.

Wendel waited until he felt the man die; the sensation of mist cooling his skin.

The client requested that he interrogate Spebbington. Kill first, ask questions later. What a waste of his necromancy.

Wendel clenched his jaw until his teeth ached. His magic crawled from his bones and skittered over his skin like icy fire. He focused on the corpse, directing his power into the body, reviving the man as his undead minion.

Spebbington opened his eyes. He stared at the necromancer, his master.

Wendel recalled the client’s questions. “What is your current net worth?”

“Four-hundred thousand pounds, sir.”

Damn. No wonder someone wanted him dead. “The value of your estate?”

“Twenty thousand.”

Shadows of memories darted between them. A manor house; a Rolls Royce he bought to impress his late wife; his daughter running down the drive to meet him. Grimacing, Wendel closed his eyes, his concentration shaken.

Cora. His daughter’s name.

“Who—” Wendel struggled to remember the last question. “Who inherits your wealth?”

“My daughter, sir, upon marriage.”

Unwanted emotion hit the necromancer. He fought the feeling; it wasn’t his to own. Spebbington loved Cora. Loved her enough to indulge her wish to travel. God, she was in the worst possible place: Constantinople.

Wendel relinquished control. The empty puppet collapsed on the mattress.

Spebbington stared at the ceiling with empty eyes. Trembling, Wendel wiped the knife on the sheets. Blood soaked the bed.

Necromancy never turned his stomach, not the magic itself, but sharing memories...

Sometimes, they wanted him to hide the body. This wasn’t one of those times. His client wanted a scandal. Spebbington’s corpse would be found in a disreputable club in Constantinople, little better than a whorehouse.

Would his daughter find him? Would she even know when to run?

Meticulously, Wendel poured water into a basin and washed his hands. Once, twice, and he still felt dirty. Red stained the water. He couldn’t shake the feeling of having touched the dead. He never could. Scrubbing his skin raw proved a temporary solution. Abandoning the room, he shoved through the back door of the club.

Time to return to the Serpent’s Tower and report on the job.

But Wendel lingered by the Bosporus, washing his face and his hands in the lukewarm water. He breathed in the stink of fish, but it wasn’t enough to distract him. His eyes unfocused, he stared at the luminous horizon.

God, he couldn’t let this happen.

***

When Wendel dressed as a gentleman, the disguise suited him well. He hailed a cab to the Byzantine Hotel, a grand affair of granite, and tipped the doorman generously. Boots clicking on marble, he advanced on the desk.

The woman behind the desk straightened with a smile. “May I help you, sir?”

Wendel slid a card across. “Albert Darcy-Arlington, Earl of Shaftesbury.” A complete lie, though the earl was a distant cousin.

She clutched the card in both hands. “What an honor!”

“I would appreciate your discretion.” He dipped his head. “I’m rather fond of travelling incognito, due to the duties of rank.”

“Of course.” She placed the card on the desk like fine china. “I completely understand.”

“I’m here to meet my dear friend, Mr. Spebbington, and his daughter Cora.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Spebbington is out for the evening.”

“Must have just missed the chap.” Wendel straightened his gloves. “And his daughter?”

She blinked. “Miss Spebbington should be in her room.”

“Alone and unchaperoned?” He grimaced. “Cora does like run away on little adventures. Her father shouldn’t indulge the girl.”