Chris Wooding: The Fade

I laugh softly through my mask. 'You actually think you have the upper hand, don't you? You arrogant aristo fuck. That smoke wasn't just for concealment, and nor is this mask. You've been dead for some while now.' As an afterthought, I add: 'Ekan the apothecary sends his compliments.'

The look on his face is perfect. If I could preserve just one thing in my memory for ever, it would be that. Then Caydus roars, and comes for me.

I shove my blade deep into Belek's neck and wrench it out in a jet of blood, then I shove him towards Caydus. He staggers, gargling, into the warrior's path, clawing at his wound. It slows Caydus long enough for me to fling a throwing knife across the room and into the eye of the Gurta soldier who's still standing. The last one is out of action, slipping and falling as he tries to get to his feet, nerves malfunctioning in a dreadful parody of a newborn animal.

I flit across the room, retreating from Caydus. He's the only one I have to worry about now. Ledo makes for the door, but his legs fail him for a moment and he goes over. The poison is beginning to make itself felt. Panicked, gasping, tears in his eyes, he tries again. He's too afraid to face the truth. All that aristo invulnerability and dignity is gone now. He's just a man, cowardly in the face of death.

He wrenches open the door and plunges through, calling for his guards. Nobody will come. I'd love to follow him and watch him die, but Caydus is blocking me. Loyal to the end.

Though he doesn't have long left, he's still got it in him to be dangerous. He takes a swing with his sword, but he's been slowed by the poison and I dart out of his reach. I back away a little. He makes an incoherent noise of rage, lunges clumsily towards me. I dance out of reach as he cuts air again. Teeth gritted, he tries a third time, but I'm way too quick for him. With each charge, he gets more tired and more angry.

'Don't do this,' I say, because I liked him, and this is embarrassing for both of us.

He stares at me with bloodshot eyes, sweating, hating. He tries to lift his sword and he can't. Slumps onto his arse, exhausted. He heaves a great sigh and raises his head.

'Bitch,' he says, and then his head lolls and he dies, just sitting there.

I step out into the corridor and find Ledo lying face down. He didn't get far. I take off my mask and unstrap the gas filter from around my nose and mouth. The poison in the air is long gone now.

I kneel down, turn Ledo over and stare at his lifeless corpse. I don't feel anything. No satisfaction. Compassionless as a child studying a beetle.

What did I expect? I don't know. I'm too fucking numb to know.

Listless, I wander back into the study. I'm waiting for some kind of closure and it hasn't come. Bodies everywhere, blood smeared across the floor. I walk over to the desk and look down at the document that Ledo and Belek were signing.

It's the signatures that draw my attention. The latest occupy pride of place at the bottom, as the authors and executors of the document; but there are many more. At a glance I can see over a dozen Plutarchs, all of the Folded Wing, with Ledo the only member of the Turnward Claw Alliance on there. A similar number of Gurta signatories have also put their names to it.

We, the undersigned, firm in our conviction, do hereby commit ourselves in whatever capacity we are able to sue for the cessation of hostilities between the two great nations of Eskara and Gurta…

I stop breathing. I snatch up the document, skim read.

… make all efforts to persuade our respective authorities… phased plan of withdrawal with negotiation of ceasefire to begin immediately…

Horror settles on me like a freezing fog. It's a peace accord. They were forging a truce.

They were trying to stop the war.

I break the surface with barely a ripple and climb up on to the bank, towing a waterproof sack behind me. Crouched small, dripping and naked, I search the mournful lichen-trees for signs of movement. A chill breeze, drawn through stony vents from the higher caverns, runs invisible fingers through the foliage. Beyond that, nothing moves.

Satisfied, I run silently into the undergrowth and hide at the feet of the shaggy green trees. There I open the sack, towel dry and dress. Soft black shoes, laced to the knee, where they meet the ends of my trousers. Long black gloves, sleeveless black top, black mask covering the lower half of my face.

I tie my hair up and then I lay out the remaining contents of the sack. Shortblades. Bow and quiver. Blowpipe and darts. Daggers. Garrotte. Flash bombs. Throwing knives. And finally, a couple of little treats concocted by Ekan. He was really pretty co-operative, once I told him what I was using it for.

I'm kitted out to kill, and I'm looking forward to it. All that's left to me is hate now. Cold, icy hate.

Ledo. I'm coming for you.

The mansion belongs to an eminent Plutarch of the Turnward Claw Alliance, a good friend of Ledo's who has presumably given him the use of it while he's away. I've watched the place for several turns now, from the roof of an apartment building in Lash Park. Finding a good vantage point has been the hardest part of the operation so far. Harder than getting through the underwater grate in the stream, anyway. A touch of acid paste and a swift kick was all it took. Someone should tell them it's no use building walls if you make it so easy to swim beneath them.

The staff were sent away a few hours ago. I watched them depart through my spyglass. Ledo doesn't want anyone but his Cadre to know what's going on here.

The exterior guards, six in all, are Caracassa men. There are two on the front door of the mansion, four patrolling the grounds. Two of them have leashed abris, to sniff out and disembowel intruders. The abris might have been a problem; it's not easy to hide from creatures with such a keen sense of smell. But I have ways and means.

Security is light, though that's to be expected. Too many men would only draw attention. Ledo's got no reason to think that anyone suspects what he's up to. He's protected by secrecy. Or so he believes.

Once dry, I splash myself in the first of Ekan's concoctions: a scent that imitates the smell of foliage, strong enough to mask my natural odour and hide me from the abris. I hesitate for the barest moment before applying it. It's not in my nature to trust an expert poisoner I've recently maimed. I'm running chants in expectation of a slow creep of deathly numbness where the formula touches my skin or hair, but there's nothing. I relax a little. It seems that Ekan is smart enough not to shoot the messenger, then. He knows who gave the order to cut his hand off. And he knows his only chance of retribution is through me.

Given the choice I wouldn't have used him at all. Risk is not something you take on lightly in an operation like this. But it's essential that I don't leave a trail, and that rules out any of my regulars. They'd never trace me to Ekan, and even if they did, Ekan won't say shit. Besides, there's a certain amount of poetic justice in it, and since there's little enough justice in the world, I might as well take the poetic kind while it's up for grabs.

Now, let's see if we're both as good as our reputations.

I sneak through the trees and come into sight of the mansion, across landscaped grounds cut through with narrow streams and spotted with copses of dwarf mycora. Shine-stacks – little ornamental cairns with shinestones hidden inside – cast their light across the lichen-fuzzed lawn. Something long-legged and thin moves with a startled gait in the distance, silhouetted against a shine-stack. It's just one of the grazing animals that the master of the house keeps, but it reminds me of the scha'rak, the lightning-fast steeds of the SunChild warriors.