Imperial Assassin (17 page)

‘Good. That is settled. Commence the search immediately after the meeting please. Next on my agenda is to congratulate Brothers Viper and Firedrake for their recent successful hits . .
.’

‘Excellent, Femke! I’m glad the Kempten operation went without a hitch. I will miss having him around. He was a useful person to have in Court, but he is more
useful to me where he is now. The bait is laid, but now we have to decide on another target so the Guild can intercept Reynik. Have you any thoughts?’

Femke felt queasy. Taking responsibility for the deaths of others had always made her feel this way. It was without doubt the most unpleasant part of her job.

‘Plenty, your Majesty, but I don’t think you’ll like any of them.’

‘Probably not,’ the Emperor admitted with a grimace. ‘I abhor this entire business, but I accept it’s necessary if we’re to locate and destroy the Guild. It helps a
little for me to regard it as a tactic of war, but no matter how I dress it up, I cannot make the taking of lives in this fashion feel any less wrong. Make up a shortlist of five for me and then
bring Reynik into the Palace tonight. I’ll meet you in my library. We’ll finalise his next assignment then.’

Femke bowed and turned to leave. As she exited the Emperor’s study, a servant was about to knock on the door outside. A trolley, loaded with the Emperor’s lunch, blocked her way. She
squeezed past, nodding and smiling at the servant. He returned the nod, but not the smile. He looked nervous, she thought as she strode away down the corridor. One would think that the Palace
servants got used to seeing the Emperor, but some never did.

As she reached the turn at the end of the corridor, she paused. Something was wrong. The servant had looked familiar, but then she knew most of the Palace staff, so that in itself was not
unusual. It was the combination of his nervousness and his familiarity. Something here was not right. Then it struck her. Yes, he was familiar, but not in the guise of a servant. The last time she
had seen the man, he had been involved in spying. He was not one of the Imperial spies, though. The last time she had seen him, he was working for one of the Shandese Lords. Which one, she could
not remember, but recalling the memory was not a priority.

The man emerged from the Emperor’s study without the trolley and closed the door behind him. As he looked around and saw her watching him, she distinctly noted a flash of panic cross his
face. It was enough.

‘Stop right there!’ she yelled, pointing at him with an accusing finger.

He did not hesitate. He turned and ran off down the corridor in a flat-out sprint away from her. Femke leaped forward and raced after him. It took a few seconds for her to cover the ground to
the Emperor’s study door. She burst through it to find Surabar lifting a forkful of food towards his mouth. He paused at the unexpected and explosive entrance, looking at Femke with genuine
surprise.

‘It’s poisoned! Don’t eat it!’ Femke gasped. She paused just long enough to see that Emperor Surabar put the fork down before she was off again, running for all she was
worth in the direction that the infiltrator had taken.

Her ribs already burned and she had not run much more than a few dozen paces. She was clearly in no condition for a long chase. If she were to catch him, she would have to do so quickly, and
without too much of a fight. Her best chance was to intercept him, rather than chase him, but that required her to anticipate where he was going.

So where would he be going? Out of the Palace, that much was sure. If he had planned thoroughly, then he would have a pre-prepared route to follow. How well would he know the Palace, though?

Femke knew the Palace intimately. She had made it her business to know every nook and cranny. There were no secret passages or hiding places that she had not explored, and she had long ago
worked out all the most efficient routes to the exits. Her quarry was most likely to be heading for the servant’s gate exit, particularly given his dress, but would he continue in that
direction if he realised Femke was no longer directly chasing him? It was a gamble she had to take.

The shortest way to the servants’ exit was to make for the central corridor to the great staircase down into the main entrance hall. From there she would cut through the servants’
corridor system, through the kitchens and out to the back exit. Gritting her teeth against the pain ballooning in her side, she zigzagged through the Palace until she reached the main first floor
corridor. There was a steady flow of people moving to and fro along the corridor, but it was wide enough that Femke could continue to run unhindered. When she reached the top of the great
staircase, she did not hesitate. Ever since she had first come to the Palace, she had always wanted to slide down the great polished banisters and this was the perfect excuse.

With a yell of ‘Look out! Coming through!’ she leaped onto the left hand rail and started to accelerate. It was well that she had a cat-like sense of balance. If she had overbalanced
and fallen from the rail, the impact with the marble floor below would not have been pretty.

‘Shand alive!’ she exclaimed, as her velocity down the long, straight banister reached a peak well beyond anything she could control. The banister rail flattened out at the bottom,
but she did not wait that long to disembark. She pushed clear from her breakneck ride a few stairs up from the ground floor, her momentum carrying her beyond the last of the stairs and onto the
thick walkway of carpet that led from the main doors up to the staircase.

Despite the thick pile of the carpet, Femke landed hard, but she absorbed much of the momentum by tucking into a roll that spun her fully halfway across the great entrance hall. People watched
in amazement as she regained her feet with the agility of an acrobat, but she did not wait for a round of applause. She ran swiftly across to one of the side exits, barging the door open with her
shoulder and clutching at her side as she went.

The side corridor that she entered led straight to the Palace kitchens, which had saloon style swing doors. In agony, she crashed through them and careered through the kitchen, causing one chef
to drop a great tray of food and another to burn his hand on the top of his stove. She could not pause to apologise, and she did not have the breath to do so anyway. At the far end of the kitchen,
she grabbed a large metal meat fork from a wall hook as she shouldered through the opposite doors. Cries of anguish and pain followed her, but they faded quickly as she disappeared down the
corridor and around the corner towards the servants’ exit.

Femke’s breathing was coming in ragged gasps as she staggered the final few paces. Gripping the meat fork tightly in her right hand, she opened the door and looked across the courtyard
outside. There was no sign of her adversary. She had beaten him to the exit. The pain in her side was excruciating, lancing through her as if a spear had just been driven into her chest. With an
iron discipline, she calmed her breathing and concentrated on blocking out the pain. There was an alcove to the side of the door. Femke ducked into it and flattened herself against the wall to
prevent anyone approaching along the corridor from seeing her until the last second. She did so in the nick of time.

No sooner had she concealed herself than the would-be assassin came racing along the corridor. He grabbed at the door handle only to find the cold metal prongs of the meat fork pressing at his
jugular.

‘Move and I’ll stick you like a pig,’ Femke rasped.

The man clearly did not think she would follow through with her threat and he whipped up his hand to try to sweep aside the vicious kitchen implement. He was not fast enough. Femke jabbed the
prongs of the fork into his neck even as his hand struck her wrist. As a result, the man caused the fork to tear through his own flesh, opening the main jugular artery and spraying blood in a
bright red fountain across the corridor.

He screamed in horror and clasped at his neck to try to staunch the spurting flow.

‘Who sent you?’ Femke asked, holding the fork in front of her threateningly. ‘Tell me and I’ll help you.’

The man did not answer. Femke was not sure that he had heard her in his panic.

‘Who sent you?’ she repeated firmly. ‘You need a medic, or you will die. The main artery must be stitched, or you will not last more than a few minutes. I will help you get to
a medic if you tell me who sent you.’

‘No! He’ll have me killed if I tell.’

‘And I’ll let you die here if you don’t. Do you want to die now, or have a chance of escaping your master’s wrath? Choose quickly. You don’t have long to
decide.’

The man looked at her with wild eyes. She met his gaze with an icy stare.

‘Lacedian,’ he spat. ‘Lord Lacedian sent me. Now take me to a medic. Quickly!’

It was some time later when Femke returned to the Emperor’s study. The guard on the door had doubled. She smiled as she noted it. A little late, maybe, but at least the
Emperor was now treating his personal safety as a matter of more import again. It was so easy to relax in familiar surroundings. It had been some time since the old-school Lords had tried to kill
him, so it was only natural that he should suffer from a little complacency.

Femke asked the guards to announce her, and she was immediately called inside. Emperor Surabar’s eyes were like those of a falcon when she entered: alert and taking everything in. She
bowed gently, bending more at the neck than the waist, to avoid increasing the discomfort in her side. How long would her ribs take to heal? She had certainly not sped up the healing process today,
she thought grimly. It was frustrating to be so limited in what she could do, but she knew that if she did not take her healing seriously, her ribs might become a permanent restriction. That was
something she could not afford.

‘Did you catch him?’

‘I did, your Majesty. He is no longer a threat.’

‘Did you kill him? I hoped to question him.’ Surabar frowned, staring at Femke’s injured side. ‘You’re hurt again, aren’t you?’

‘My ribs are not yet fully healed,’ Femke admitted with a grimace. ‘I’ll be more careful with them in future.’

‘You’re not fit to be doing anything but rest, young lady. If I weren’t so stuck for good operatives, I’d have the medics lock you in their emporium until you were fully
recovered. Sadly, I don’t have that option. Tell me, where is he and what did you learn from him?’

‘He’s locked up. He’s lost a lot of blood, but the medics are tending him. I think he’ll live. I can tell you that he’s not a member of the Guild of Assassins.
I’ve seen him before, but I don’t know his true name. I would have considered him a spy rather than a killer, but he was offered enough money that he decided to branch out. It seems we
have found Reynik’s next assignment.’

The carriage approached the large rectangular country house at a stately pace. Lord Kempten peeped out through the closed curtains of the carriage windows. The stone building
looked cold and grey. In some ways it would be nice to spend some time here again. It had been some months since he had last visited. Of course, Izzie had been with him then. It would not be the
same here without her.

Izzie had dominated his thoughts during the journey. How would she react to his ‘death’? The Emperor had promised that he would send her out here to the country house at the earliest
opportunity, but to send her immediately would look suspicious. His heart ached at the thought of what she would be feeling right now. At least he could count on the children to look after her.
They were reliable and sensible. They would help her through it.

‘I can’t tell her,’ Surabar had told him. ‘It’s too risky. I need her to react with authentic grief if the deception is to feel real. I know it will be hard on her
and your children. You can be sure that I’ll apologise to them all at the first opportunity afterwards, but I’m sure they’ll see I’ve done this for the best of reasons. You
have become a legitimate target for the Guild. I’m not going to let them get to you. This deception has a double benefit. It will instantly give Reynik the sort of profile he needs if he is
to infiltrate the Guild, but it will also put you out of harm’s way for a while.’

The carriage stopped in front of the main doors. The driver, who was actually a member of the Imperial spy network, jumped down and opened the door.

‘All clear, my Lord. Don’t dawdle outside, though. There’s always the chance of a watcher.’

Kempten stepped out of the carriage. His back was stiff after the long ride, but he did not wait to stretch. He climbed the few steps to the front doors as quickly as he could and slipped
inside.

The house staff was minimal; just enough to keep the place clean and tidy whilst the Lord and Lady were not in residence. Izzie would bring the bulk of the house staff with her from the town
house in Shandrim when she came. There was no one around. He went to the kitchens and rummaged through the cupboards until he found the dahl. The embers of the kitchen fire were still warm. A
little fuel and some gentle encouragement with the bellows soon revived it to a healthy blaze.

A short while later Kempten sat in his favourite chair in the study with his feet on a footstool and a large cup of steaming dahl in his hands. He looked out of the windows at the green trees
and open fields. It was so peaceful here. He closed his eyes and his mind suddenly raced back to the moments before his ‘death’ in the Court office in Shandrim. The scene was vivid in
his mind. He could remember every detail:

What would it be like to die? The thought would not leave.

He fiddled with the papers on his desk, first tidying them and then messing them up again. The bag of pig’s blood felt awkward and obvious. Would the fake dagger hilt that Femke had
given him fool anyone? He ran his fingers through his silver-grey hair. A moment later he ruffled it again.

‘This is ridiculous!’ he muttered aloud.

How best to look for one’s own assassination was not a thought that had ever crossed his mind before. There were so many little details that could give him away. Was his hair normally
combed this neatly? Was his desk usually this tidy? Where should he put his quill and inkpot? Should he be holding his quill? Should he die in a dramatic pose across the desk, or just collapse like
a bag of turnips on the floor? The questions flooded his mind, increasing his tension and nervousness with every passing minute.