Jon Sprunk: Shadows son

A leader of the True Faith, supposedly sworn to vows of poverty and chastity, keeps a house in High Town with a wife and children, and no one cares to comment. But why should they? Large sins are easily forgotten. It's the little ones that gnaw at your soul in the lonely hours of the night.

"Of course," Ral said, "the fops up on Celestial Hill are terrified out of their wigs that it's another movement toward rebellion."

Caim nodded, uncomfortably reminded of young Lord Robert. "If you'll excuse me, I have business of my own with Mathias."

"I've no time for palaver myself. I'm heading out of town."

They passed each other on the stairs and Ral turned. "You know, Caim. It's not fair."

Caim paused with a foot on the top step. "What isn't?"

Ral opened his hand and a slender throwing blade appeared, too fast for the eye to follow. Caim tensed.

"Here we are," Ral said. "Two of the deadliest men in the city. We should be running things, lording it up in the palace. It's all wasted on those powdered fools whose only claim is their family name." His eyes lit up as he spoke.

Caim looked down at the other man without a shred of empathy. According to the rumors, Ral was a son of privilege who had enjoyed many a night rutting in Low Town until his inheritance ran out. Then, broke and desperate, he had weaseled his way into the assassination trade. He must have found the taste to his liking, because he came back again and again between benders on Silk Street. Knifings in the merchant district in broad daylight, pregnant mistresses found floating in the harbor-those were Ral's stock in trade.

What does that make you? A vigilante with bad dreams or a thug just smart enough to stay one step ahead of the law?

Searching for a way to end the conversation without giving insult, Caim decided on brevity. "It is what it is."

"I suppose so. Farewell, Caim. I'm off to a warmer clime to take care of some business. We'll talk another time."

Not if he had any choice in the matter, Caim thought as he climbed the last step. He was tired. He just wanted to get his money and go home. Maybe he would take some time off. He approached the only door on the upper floor, knocked twice, waited a heartbeat, and gave two more knocks. He opened it without waiting for an invitation.

If Mathias acted the skinflint with his patrons below, he spared no expense to make his living space look and feel like a mansion. Overlapping hand-woven carpets covered the floors. Silken arrays embroidered with eastern-style hunting scenes decorated the walls, hiding the bare panels underneath. Heavy furniture in glossy hardwoods cluttered the room, along with marble tables and expensive bronze artwork.

Mathias came through the archway on the far side of the parlor, dressed in a gaudy teal robe splashed with tiny golden cranes. He was a heavyset man past his middling years. He still had most of his hair and employed dyes to keep it black and lustrous except for a pair of silver wings brushed back over his ears. An admission of inevitability, he called them.

"Our good friend returns from the north!"

They shook hands, and Mathias offered him a choice of seats. Caim sat down on a high-backed chair with no armrests or cushion.

Mathias fetched a bottle and two glasses from a malachite sideboard. "By the gods above and below, I am glad to see you back."

"Blasphemy, Mat? At your age?"

"Aye. I'm too old to care anymore what the Church thinks. What has that prattle ever done for anybody? Nothing. But forget about that. Everything went well, yes?"

Caim accepted a glass of amber brandy and settled back into the hard seat. "Well enough, although trying to get anywhere in this country is becoming a right pain in the ass. The roads are a mess and tollhouses have sprung up over every hill."

Mathias flumped onto a banquette and sloshed liquor on his expensive robe. "The realm is coming apart like an overripe melon. Every warlord who can put together a dozen half-trained men-at-arms is trying to carve out a piece for himself. It's almost enough to make one long for the good old days of imperial law and order. Almost."

"Anyway, I stayed in Ostergoth long enough to hear the bells ring His Grace's departure from the world of the living before I left."

Mat lifted his glass. "To another job completed and another villain vanquished."

Caim took a sip before setting the glass down. "I've gathered there was some trouble in town while I was away."

"I had nothing to do with it." The rubies encrusting Mat's pinky ring gleamed as he placed a plump hand over his flabby breast. "You know I never touch that sort of smash-and-grab work. It's an unsavory business and a trifle pathetic. Now we all have to suffer through a few weeks of heightened security, but things will settle down. They can't stay on full alert forever, eh? More brandy?"

"I'll just have my fee and leave you in peace."

Mathias smiled. "That's the man I know. All business-and business is good!" He reached under his seat and tossed a bulging leather sack to Caim. "Five hundred soldats, just as the contract stated."

Caim caught the bag and slipped it into his shirt.

"Not going to count it?"

"No need to. I know where you live."

"Right enough. You're acquiring quite a reputation, Caim. That's why I know you're just the man for another job I'm sitting on."

Caim rose to his feet. "No thank you, Mat. I don't want to see anything you're sitting on. That cushion looks like it's had enough."

"It's not like you to pass up money, especially for a worthy cause."

"I'm sure. Another priest with a fetish for children, or a landlord who squeezes every last crumb from his destitute peasants. No thanks. I'm going to take some time off. Like you said, the city's heating up."

"That's why I'm turning to you, Caim. Believe me when I say this job is easy. So easy you could do it blind and one-handed."

"Not an image I want to ponder."

Mathias brushed the air with his pudgy fingers. "You know what I mean. But it has to be done fast."

He headed for the door. "Sorry, Mat."

"Caim, I'm desperate!"

Caim stopped with his hand on the knob. Mathias wasn't a stranger to theatrics, but he sounded genuinely worried, and Mathias Finneus never worried. The look of relief on his face was almost comical as Caim came back and stood by the high-backed chair.

"What's the Job?"

"Please, sit, my friend," Mathias urged. "More brandy?"

"No more drinks. Tell me about the job."

"It's very simple. One target, living in High Town."

Calm's hand hovered over his glass, resting still on the table. "Inside the city?"

"Yes, you've done local work before."

"Who is he?"

"A retired general, a real hard case from what I've heard. He was responsible for some big massacre during the war. Up in Eregoth, I believe. You're from those parts, aren't you?"

Caim considered the carpet between his feet as a jumble of old feelings knocked around in his chest. "What makes you say that?"

"Nothing much. You just have a northernish look about you."

Caim looked Mathias in the eye. "I told you before. I'm from the western territories."

But he wasn't. As far as he could piece together from his shambled memories, his family had hailed from Eregoth, one of several border states that had once been part of the Nimean Empire. But it was a past he didn't want known, for no better reason than it was personal.

"Oh yes." Mathias winked. "I forgot."

"Go on."

"Well, what makes me nervous is the timing. This job has to be done in two days."

"Impossible. You know I don't do rush jobs. Go find some desperate sailor deep in his cups and slip him a few silvers."

"Caim, this client isn't someone to disappoint, if you get my meaning. It must be done quickly, and with no mistakes. That's why I need you. You're the only one I can trust with a job like this on such short notice."