Alaerin snuck through the mining town of Davervan as silent as one of the Shadowless – those strange creatures she’d heard tell of but, thank the Nine, had never met. The moon overhead was a few days off full, casting far too much light for her liking. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers, just as bastards couldn’t be kings … apparently; Alaerin was pretty sure there had been plenty of bastards on the thrones of men over the centuries, both metaphorical and actual. Indeed, wasn’t the current king of Saxor a bastard legitimised by the previous king upon his deathbed? Regardless, Alaerin had a job to do tonight, and by the Nine she would see it done. One last mission, and then she would no longer be a simple apprentice – not that she saw herself as an apprentice, mind; she was simply biding her time, following the necessary procedures for simplicity’s sake. The important thing was that, once promoted, she would be free to travel where she wanted.

And not a day too soon if rumours from across the Shal’Voraken Channel are anything to go by, she thought as she peered around a two-storey building to a long, mud-covered street. The tales from Sarkoran spoke of growing unrest in the Empire, and of the Imperials searching once again. The question, of course, was for what? Or, perhaps, for who?She would worry about this later. 

Alaerin examined the street, scanning every crack and crevice, every shadow and side alley. She could make out carriage tracks and footprints in the soft earth, and the odd drunk staggered back and forth mumbling under their breath. Not an ideal environment for one such as Alaerin, but she would make do, just as she had to contend with the moon illuminating the scene. She was nothing if not adaptable.

Movement drew Alaerin’s attention. Her breath drew short as she watched an alley between two of the stone buildings across from where she crouched. She released a slow exhalation when she saw a large tabby with matted fur and only one eye appear from the shadows. She watched it slink off down the street, mouth drawn up in disgust. She couldn’t stand cats. They served no purpose. Not like dogs, which could be taught to fetch or guard, hunt or kill. 

Be grateful it isn’t a dog this time, she told herself as the feral beast disappeared down the hill and out of sight, likely looking for scraps of food. A dog could give you away, sniff you out and bark until people come running. Well, if it came to that the dog would just have to be silenced, wouldn’t it? The dog and the people who came to investigate if necessary. 

She glanced once more down the wide street then crossed in a handful of wide, quick strides, the mud squelching beneath her boots. She disappeared into the alley the tabby had come from, then pressed her back against the wet brick and peered out onto the main street as light illuminated the scene behind her. A trio of drunks staggered out of one of the taverns, singing boisterously. As she watched, one of the inebriated tripped and fell face first into the mud. The other two began laughing raucously, soon joining their friend on the floor.

Grinding her teeth, Alaerin hurried through the back streets and alleys, keeping, where possible, to the shadows of the tall buildings. She could hear more voices from the main streets, more off-key singing, and ground her teeth further, her hands clenched tight. Had the Master purposefully chosen tonight for Alaerin to undertake her final test, thus give her a multitude of obstacles to overcome? Or was it simply chance? She couldn’t recall any particular celebrations around this time. Not that this pitiful town had much to celebrate, anyway. 

It didn’t matter. Alaerin was Dorvenith, trained from birth to be a master of stealth and all known martial arts. It could have been the middle of the day during the Festival of High Sun, when the streets were full to bursting, and still she would have come. Still, she did not like being played. She did not like having to jump through hoops to prove herself, especially when the one she had to prove herself to was beneath her in many ways. Dorvenith were the Children of Sumaar, weapons of the God of War, demigods among men. The legends went that if you were foolish enough to hinder a dorvenith once she found her stride, it would be the last thing you would ever do before Syold took you into Her keeping. Many people could have contested to that … if only Alaerin had let them live. 

She pushed on, her body like that of a coiled snake ready to pounce at the slightest sound. She doubted she would have to strike tonight, but one had to be prepared for any eventuality, even in a Nine-forsaken place such as this; the two missing fingers of her right hand were a constant reminder of that. Even now, years after she’d lost the digits, the stumps itched and reminded her of the requirement that she could always better herself and should always better herself. There was always another threat out there, another enemy wanting to thrust their sword through your heart, to hurt those you cared about. Not that Alaerin would have to worry about that last, of course. She had always been alone. She had no need of others to slow her down and hinder her. Relying on others was a weakness. Everyone would betray you eventually. If you were foolish enough to let that happen to you then you deserved your death.

Eventually, she reached her destination. She scrambled up onto a rooftop and jumped high, soaring across the distance and just clearing the iron-spiked fence. She dropped into a roll as she landed on the grassy embankment on the other side. As she rose, she slipped behind a large boulder to catch her breath.

Once calm, once the thrill of the leap lessened, she peered around the boulder and scanned the area ahead, watching the guard rotations one final time to be sure nothing had changed since her previous scouting missions. Then she scrambled up the dewy slope and vaulted the waist-high stone wall, slipping across the wide courtyard in a few long strides. As she moved, she pulled the hood of her cloak forward to keep her face in shadow, and then pressed her back against the cold stone of the building, breathing hard, breath misting in front of her face. 

The building was a mansion – or as close to one as could be expected in this part of the world. It was a long, three-storey structure made from stone and thick wooden pillars, with wooden balconies around the upper tiers. Three chimney stacks protruded from the steep tiled roof – one for each of the main wings. Alaerin had to stifle a growl. Such an enormous building for one man, especially considering that families of eight or ten (or more, in some cases) were crammed into buildings the size of one of this mansion’s rooms down in the town proper, struggling for warmth, for food, for basic necessities. 

Alaerin silently made her way around to the back of the mansion. The guards on the balconies above – their heavy footsteps marking their locations – had missed her as she approached, oblivious to anything that moved in the grounds they were supposed to be guarding. She pulled out a small set of lockpicking tools she kept in a roll of black fabric and quickly opened the first door she came to, the metallic click sounding too loud in the silent night. She slipped through the gap, wincing momentarily as the door squeaked on its hinges. There was no sound to suggest the guards had been alerted. 

Nine. These guards are worse than those I came across back in Gyar. And that’s saying something!

Alaerin crossed the kitchen, pilfering a lump of cheese as she went, and made her way through the mansion. A few servants were dotted here and there, cleaning suits of armour or dusting the many exotic artifacts and memorabilia. Some of the things on display, Alaerin noted, were from the time of the Sacrilon. The sale of a single piece could feed half the population of the town. She moved on, pausing only briefly to listen to the secrets divulged in the dead of night, before ascending the stairs with purposeful strides. 

On the topmost floor Alaerin hurried towards the north wing, creeping towards the door she sought. A pair of guards protected it, as she had anticipated. One yawned widely and stretched his arms above his head. The other stood scratching his balls before sniffing his fingers. Alaerin wrinkled her nose. Men! Was there any creature more disgusting? She pulled out a pair of throwing knives and stepped around the corner, approaching the two men casually.

‘Hey! Who’re ––’

Alaerin threw the knives even as the men stepped forward to intercept her, as the bulkier of the two began his final sentence on this plain of existence. As always, her aim was true. Both men stopped their advance as blood began to run down their necks and their eyes widened in pain and horror. Before the bodies could fall and make noise, Alaerin was upon them, lowering them gently down. She stepped past the dying men and opened the door they had been guarding, ignoring the choking sounds and soft thuds of boots on carpet. 

Her face tightened as she took in the room. She wrinkled her nose at the pungent smell of body odour and flatulence, made worse from the stifling heat from the roaring fire. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she took in the bulging form asleep in the bed. The mayor of Davervan – a fat man with thick greying sideburns, a wispy mess of balding hair, and small, piggy eyes – slept in a bed that could easily sleep three, cosy under layers of silk and propped up on goose-feather pillows. His breathing came in deafening snores and occasionally he mumbled something inaudible. 

Alaerin crossed the room in a matter of seconds, not caring now that the floorboards creaked under her; it was too late for anyone to stop her. She pulled a ruby-hilted dagger from its sheath in the small of her back as she went, climbing onto the bed and straddling the mayor, who awoke at the weight of the assassin atop him. He opened his mouth to scream. Alaerin drove the blade into his chest before he could do so. Blood rather than sound spewed from the mayor’s mouth. Alaerin kept her expression impassive, even as splotches of blood hit her face and dripped onto the bedcovers. The mayor’s eyes widened in surprise and pain. He coughed several times, hands scratching at Alaerin’s face, feebly punching her stomach, her ribs, his legs trying futilely to buck her off. His eyes locked onto Alaerin’s own. She stared back, watching in haunting silence as the man’s face drained of colour, as his bed sheets and silky nightgown darkened with his blood. 

The mayor’s breathing came in hitching gasps as his punctured heart failed. Blood seeped around the ruby-hilted knife and more ran from the corners of his mouth. His punches became weaker, his legs no longer bucking but merely rolling under her weight. Alaerin continued to straddle him, her gloved hands wrapped around the hilt of the knife. Its ruby pommel glowed, as if it drank his blood and absorbed its power. 

As the mayor’s death rushed in to meet him, as Syold reached down to pull him into Her fold, Alaerin leant in close and said in a monotonous drawl, ‘The Seeker has deemed you unworthy. May Vedenar see otherwise.’ She had no idea who this Vedenar person was; it didn’t matter to her anyway; she had her orders and had now seen them though. The mayor, however, seemed to understand. His eyes widened one final time and he raised a quivering hand, one finger outstretched as if he were about to scold her. His hand rose halfway from the bed before he took one final, pathetic breath, and then it flopped back onto the bloody bedsheets and moved no more.

Alaerin scrambled off the dead man and wiped the dagger on the silk coverings. The ruby had dimmed, as if the eye had closed, to rest after its meal. She stared at it momentarily, still wondering what the blade was and why the Master continually made her kill with it. She returned it to the sheath. As she turned to leave, something caught her eye. She reached down and pulled from the opening of her target’s nightgown a key tied to a length of rawhide. It was a strange key: bronze, with three thick teeth pointing out at different angles. What lock did it open? 

‘Thank you,’ she said as she cut the cord from around the mayor’s pudgy neck. 

Alaerin pulled the bodies of the guards into the bed chamber, listening for sounds elsewhere in the house, then began searching the room for the lock the key belonged to, pilfering small trinkets as she went. She also emptied the pockets of the two guards. What was a little theft after murder? 

As she prepared to leave, she heard muffled voices beyond the door. She crept to it and heard a deep male voice ask where the mayor’s guards were. Another voice answered from deeper in the house but Alaerin couldn’t make out what was said. She heard footsteps come down the hall. Cursing, she slipped to the window, unlocked it, and scrambled out. As she hung off the ledge she heard the doorknobs rattle and someone cross the room. There was a pause, then a horrified yell followed by a string of curses.

Grinning, Alaerin let go of the ledge and dropped to the balcony below. It creaked beneath her weight but thankfully didn’t break. She stowed the key away before jumping off the balcony and fleeing the area.

⁜⁜⁜

Alaerin knelt on a marble mosaic floor in the centre of a large circular room. The room was dimly lit by a single chandelier hanging from the domed ceiling. Tall candelabras flanked the wide, sweeping stairs that led to a raised podium which ran across the back of the room. A large chair stood alone in the centre of the platform, above the symbol of the Order of Assassins that glittered in blood-red rubies on the wall directly before Alaerin. The solitary seat was smothered in shadow so Alaerin could not be sure if anyone sat upon it until a deep, drawling voice spoke. 

‘It is done? Duchabold Crantz is dead?’

‘He is dead, Master,’ Alaerin confirmed. She refused to look at the floor as was proper, instead keeping her head raised and staring into the shadows surrounding the chair.

‘You said the words?’

‘I did.’

‘Then it is done.’ Alaerin heard the relief in the Master’s voice. Had the man really doubted her abilities, knowing what she was? Of course he had. They all did. ‘You have done exceptional work, Apprentice. Those that remain will undoubtedly see what I have planned for them to see. It will soon be time.’

Alaerin did not understand this last part. She said nothing.

‘You have completed your final mission,’ the Master continued, his voice reverberating off the circular walls. ‘I must concede, I did not think you would be successful, especially considering it was your blunder that stopped us bringing Vedenar’s justice to Crantz in the first instance. Your skills must be far greater than I had at first believed, given all the extra security the fool employed. It seems the stories of you dorvenith hold some truth. You will make a promising addition to our ranks.’

You have no idea, Alaerin thought. Perhaps one day soon I’ll show you just how great they are.

‘What are our tenets, Alyssa?’

A strange question. Still, she complied, reciting the words she had learned upon being taken by the Order of Assassins. ‘“The dark is our ally; use it but do not become dependent on it. 

‘“Hide in plain sight; let your enemy fool themselves into a sense of security.

‘“Do not compromise the Order; they are your only family now.

‘“The enemy is the only target; never harm an innocent even to reach your target, for it dishonours the Order and the Nine.”’

‘Good.’ The Master sounded pleased. ‘You know our words. You are armed with our skills and our tools. There is nothing more we can teach you. As per the rites of our Order, you are hereby promoted to the rank of alassassino. Congratulations, child.’

A muscle in Alaerin’s jaw twitched. She hated being called a child. It was patronising. She was Dorvenith, not a child still dependent on her mother’s tit for sustenance or her father for protection. Back in the Empire, women like her were revered and loved. Feared, yes, but loved, nevertheless. She was a Daughter of Sumaar after all. 

‘Thank you, Master,’ Alaerin said. ‘I am honoured to serve the Order and bring justice to the world.’ She wasn’t. These fools were all far beneath her. Joining the Order had been necessary, however. ‘If I may, what happens next? Am I free to hunt my own targets? May I go where I desire?’

‘“Free?”’ enquired the Master. ‘“Go?” Are you so eager to leave already, child? You are a full Assassin now, bound to the Order. Naturally, there will be an official ceremony in a few days, but the rank is yours.’ 

Alaerin heard the title in the man’s words rather than just the rank. ‘Of course. I am loyal to you and to the Order. It is just that … well, you know my past, Master. What I did before you found me.’ A fake story, true, yet the best lies had elements of truth within them. ‘Those that pursued me and wished me harm then are seeking again. I must continue on for a time, keep my distance. I am of no use to the Order dead.’

There was a moment of silence. Alaerin remained on bent knee not daring to say anything else. I’m going whether he allows me to or not, she vowed. I am no-one’s puppet or pet, taught to fetch and beg and rollover. 

‘I understand,’ the Master said at last. 

Alaerin glanced up at sounds of movement from above. To her surprise, the Master was moving around the edge of the room and began to descend the stairs. 

‘Rise, Alyssa Oldhand. Rise and face the Master with a light heart. You are an Alassassino now, no longer an apprentice, a babe who needs watching every waking moment. Only children must kneel and talk to shadows.’ 

Alaerin rose uncertainly. For almost a year she had only ever talked to a shadowy voice. Now, as she looked upon the Master, she was surprised at what she saw. He looked just like an ordinary person. Perhaps in his late fifties, he had short black hair going grey at the temples, cool, pale-blue eyes, and a short, well-trimmed beard. A thick scar ran from above his right eye, across the eye socket itself, and halfway down his right cheek, cutting through a part of his beard like an axe through wood. He was nothing like she had imagined, having listened others in the Order talk.

‘I have a, ahh, proposition for you, Alaerin Costaad, something that profits us both. Yes, I know your true name, just as I know who hunts you. Don’t be so surprised, my dear; the Seeker – your patron – knows all, sees all. You have nothing to fear from us. We are family now, and we protect our family to the death.’

Alaerin did not know how to respond. She had gone under the alias Alyssa since first coming across the Order. How was it possible they knew her true identity? 

‘As I was saying,’ the Master went on, wrapping an arm around Alaerin’s shoulders as if they were the best of friends, ‘I have a proposition that will benefit all.’ 

Alaerin immediately stiffened – nobody touched her unless she allowed it – but she listened with growing confusion and uncertainty as she was steered out of the dim chamber. There was something else going on here, something more than the man known only as ‘Master’ was letting on, an undercurrent that would sweep her feet out from under her if she wasn’t careful. 

‘I would like you to travel to Kaveren,’ the Master explained as they walked through the Order of Assassins’ headquarters and up onto the roof to overlook the city of Laraka. Dawn approached, turning the sky a faint pink. ‘The king there is currently playing at war with Suatar – some sort of border dispute, I believe – but that isn’t why I’m sending you out that way. Raivorn Delwario recently received a particularly, ahh, special item that the Seeker himself requires. It is imperative this item be obtained at the earliest opportunity and returned to me here with as much haste as Aralas will grant you. It requires someone of your, ahh, unique talents to collect it. I would not dare risk my usual contacts to deliver it themselves, you understand?’ 

Alaerin did not but she said nothing.

‘This item has the power to change the world or so I am told, and as such requires someone of your, ahh, stature to protect it until I can deliver it myself to the Seeker.’

The Master turned to look at Alaerin, hands clasped before him. On the fifth finger of his right hand he wore a thick ring with a flat top. Alaerin examined the insignia embossed into the bronze disc, noting it for future reference. She did not recognise the symbol, and that in itself warranted investigation. You couldn’t formulate a plan if you did not have all the necessary facts first. 

‘Do this for me, Alaerin, for the Order, and Vedenar will reward you beyond anything you have dreamed, including removing those who hunt you from your path. Now,’ he added almost as an afterthought, ‘I would prefer you not assassinate Raivorn Delwario if you can help it, but if you must …’

‘I will require a swift horse,’ Alaerin said, mind made up. She wasn’t sure what this special item was, nor why it required someone with her unique talents to collect it, but if completing this contract freed her from having to always look over her shoulder for pursuit, then by the Nine she would see it done. 

The Master smiled knowingly. ‘May Mumin grant you a safe journey, child.’