Raymond Feist - King of Foxes

Sighing, Pasko said, ‘So it begins.’

Nodding as he headed for the door, Tal said, ‘Yes. So it begins.’

Fog shrouded the city. Mist hung so thick it was impossible to see more than three feet ahead. The bright lamps at each corner of the merchants’ quarter were reduced to dim yellow spots in the distance, and even the occasional lantern beside a tavern door became just a faint pool of light across the street. There were places on long streets where no light was visible, and the senses were confounded, distances were meaningless and the entirety of the universe was murk.

Even sound was muted. The taverns he passed offered just a murmur of voices rather than the raucous cacophony normally heard. Footfalls were a soft grinding of heel on caked mud rather than a clatter of leather on stone.

Even so, Tal Hawkins knew he was being stalked. He had known that the instant he had departed Lady Gavorkin’s home. He had lingered over dinner at the Metropol – it had taken only minutes for Pasko to gain an invitation on behalf of the owner of the establishment for the Champion of the Masters’ Court to dine as his guest – and Tal had left with a free membership in the club. He had been impressed with the decor, the ambiance and the service. The food was only just acceptable, and he planned on having words with the chef, but he could see this club business might be a useful enterprise.

Roldem lived on commerce more than any nation in the east, and this new club was in a location where nobles and wealthy commoners could come together in casual surroundings to socialize in a fashion impossible to imagine anywhere else in the city. Tal suspected that over the coming years fortunes would be lost and titles gained, marriages arranged and alliances formed in the quiet interior of the Metropol. Even before he had finished dining, a note from Lady Gavorkin had been handed to him, and Tal judged it as likely he would encounter his stalker on his way to her townhouse as he would back to his own. He had not, however, been accosted by whoever followed, and had spent a pleasant two hours, first being scolded for his long absence, then being ardently forgiven by Lady Gavorkin.

The lady was recently widowed, her husband having perished in a raid against a nest of Ceresian pirates operating out of an isolated bay off Kesh. His service to the Roldemish Crown had garnered Lady Gavorkin a fair amount of sympathy, some guarantees of a modest pension in addition to her ample estates and holdings, and an appetite for a new husband as soon as the proper mourning period had been observed. She was childless, and her estates stood at risk if the Crown decided that another noble would better able manage them. Ideally, from the royal perspective it would be ideal that Lady Gavorkin, Countess of Dravinko, should marry some other noble who was favoured by the Crown, which would tie up two loose ends nicely.

Tal knew he would have to sever all contact with Lady Gavorkin soon because he would never withstand the close scrutiny reserved for those marrying into Roldemish nobility. A minor squire’s son from a town outside a distant Kingdom city who was socially acceptable as an escort for galas and festivals was one thing, but someone who wed the widow of a recently departed war hero was another matter entirely. Besides, being tied down to anyone, even someone as attractive as Lady Margaret Gavorkin, held limited appeal for Tal, her substantial wealth, holdings, and energetic lovemaking notwithstanding.

Tal listened as he walked and let his hunter’s instincts serve him well. He had learned years earlier that a city was nothing but a different kind of wilderness, and that the skills he had learned as a child in the mountains to the far north, across the sea, could keep him alive in any city. Each place had its own rhythm and pace, its own dynamic feeling, and once he was comfortable within that environment, threats and opportunities for a hunt would be recognized, just as they were in the wild.

Whoever followed him was desperately trying to keep a proper distance and would have gone unnoticed by anyone less keenly aware of his surroundings than Tal. Tal knew this area of the city as well as anyone born here, and he knew he would be able to lose his stalker at whim. But he was curious as to who was following him, and more to the point, why.

Tal paused for half a step, just enough of a break in the rhythm of his walking for his stalker to reveal his whereabouts, then continued. He turned right at the corner, and stepped inside a deep doorway, the entrance to a tailor shop he had frequented. Forgoing his sword, he deftly removed a dagger from his belt and waited. At the moment Tal expected, the man following him turned the corner and stepped in front of him.

Tal reached out and grabbed the man’s right shoulder, bearing down and twisting as he pulled. The man reacted, but Tal was quicker; the stalker did exactly as Tal anticipated, hesitating for an instant before reflexively pulling away. Tal yanked upward using the man’s own motion to spin him completely around. Suddenly the stalker found himself hard against the door with Tal’s dagger at his throat.

‘Why are you following me?’ Tal asked, his voice a hissed whisper lest he arouse those asleep upstairs above the shop.

The man was quick, for his hands were moving towards his own dagger before the last syllable was uttered. He was also no fool, for he recognized he was in a hopeless situation a scant moment before Talon would be forced to plunge the blade into his throat. He slowly raised his hands to show they were empty. In a whisper, he answered, ‘Magnificence! I mean you no harm! My sword and dagger are still at my belt!’ He spoke in the language of the Kingdom of the Isles.

‘Who are you?’

‘I am Petro Amafi.’

‘Amafi? That’s Quegan. But you speak the language of the Isles.’

‘I have resided in Salador many years now and, to tell the truth, my command of the Roldemish tongue is lacking, so I employ the King’s Tongue.’

‘Tell me, Amafi, why are you following me?’ Tal repeated.

‘I am an assassin by trade. I have been paid to kill you.’

Tal took a step back, leaving his blade against the man’s throat, but gaining a perspective on him.

Petro Amafi was a half-head shorter than Tal’s two inches over six feet, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. His clothing marked him as a foreigner; he wore a curious long tunic, gathered at the waist by a black leather belt, and rather than the long wide-bottomed trousers affected by the style-conscious in Roldem this season, he wore leggings and a courtier’s slippers. He sported a moustache and goatee and upon his head he wore a felted wool beret with a clasp and feather on the left side. His face was narrow, with deep eyes that revealed his menace more than his vulpine appearance. ‘You mean me no harm, but you’re an assassin sent to kill me. Something of a contradiction, don’t you agree?’ observed Tal.

‘I gain nothing by hiding the truth, Magnificence. My life is preserved by your ignorance. Should you kill me this moment, you will wonder who hired me.’

Tal chuckled. ‘That is true. So, then, we are at an impasse, for should you tell me, then I must kill you. So it is to your benefit not to tell me. But as I cannot spend the rest of my life waiting for you to divulge who sent you, so I gain nothing by keeping you alive.’

‘Wait!’ said Amafi, holding out his hand in a conciliatory gesture. ‘I did not come to kill you. I was hired to do so, but I have been observing you since nearly a week before you departed Salador and I wish to bargain.’

‘For your life?’

‘More, Magnificence. Let me serve.’

‘You’d take service with me?’ said Tal in dubious tones.

‘Willingly, Your Magnificence. Any man of your skills would be a worthy master, for I have seen you duel in the Court of Blades in Salador, and I’ve watched from the corner as you play cards in the ale houses; you win just enough to raise no suspicions, yet you are a master cheat. You are welcome in the homes of the great and near-great. You are admired by men and desired by women. What’s more, no one has ever done what you just have, turned me from hunter to hunted. But most telling of all, you are Champion of the Masters’ Court, the greatest blade in the world, and a rumour circulates that you are secretly in the service of Duke Kaspar of Olasko, and one who serves such as Kaspar can only prosper greatly. I wish to prosper greatly with you.’