Imperial Assassin (20 page)

‘But the assassin I hired was caught. Surabar must know that I tried to have him killed. The man was not of the Guild. He would not feel the same constraints about revealing his employer
that a Guild member would.’

‘That still doesn’t make it any more likely that Surabar would order you assassinated, Lacedian. You’re being irrational.’

Lord Lacedian started pacing again. ‘But if it’s not Surabar, then who’s hired him? I’m not in the running to take over if Surabar steps down as Emperor. I’ve not
done anything to annoy, or insult, anyone sufficiently to warrant sending an assassin after me. Is it all a hoax? Or is someone really going to try to kill me?’

Lord Tremarle did not answer for a moment or two. He watched as Lacedian paced restlessly back and forth along the drawing room carpet.

The Guild of Assassins was a strange organisation. They had been hitting Surabar where it hurt most over the last few weeks. A contract on Lord Lacedian made no sense whatsoever in the light of
their recent targets. First they had killed several of the Legion Commanders, then Lord Kempten; the Guild appeared set on removing those on whom Surabar relied the most. Lacedian could hardly be
counted in this category, so they would not have accepted a hit on him on those grounds? So who had placed the hit, and why? It was strange timing.

‘Listen, old friend,’ Tremarle said eventually. ‘I have a contact in the Guild of Assassins. I’ll get in touch with him and find out if there’s a hit out on you. In
the meantime, I’ll send you four of my men to supplement your personal guards. I suggest you have them patrol around the house night and day until I get an answer from the Guild. You might
want to get some guard dogs for your garden as well. Assassins don’t like dogs.’

‘Oh, thank you, my friend. Thank you. I cannot tell you how much your help means. I’ll sleep a lot more soundly for the extra protection. I intend to hire more men as well. If this
assassin does come after me, then he’s going to have to face a small army if he’s to earn his contract money.’

Rain sheeted down. The rattling impact of the large droplets driving onto the slate roof was loud, hiding any slight noises made by the crouching figure dressed in black. The
footing was treacherous, the visibility abysmal. Lightning flickered, momentarily lighting up the skyline with its harsh, blue-white light. From his vantage point on the high rooftop, Reynik
squinted out from under his hood at the distance to the lower roof of Lord Lacedian’s house. During the brief, flickering flash of lightning it looked closer than it had during his daytime
reconnoitre. It was an illusion, of course. He knew how far it was. He just hoped his crossbow had not become damp inside its canvas wrapping.

A slow count of three, and a crackling rumble of thunder growled its angry complaint at the passage of the lightning. The heart of the storm was not far away, and closing fast. He would have to
move quickly. In these conditions, the moment he removed his equipment from the waxed canvas, the sand would be trickling through the hourglass. He would only have a few seconds before the cord
became too heavy with water for the bolt to carry it across to the neighbouring rooftop. If the bowstring became wet, then it would stretch, losing tension and power.

There was one good thing about the storm: Lacedian’s guards were all heads down and miserable. The chances of one of them looking up and seeing him in this weather were very slim. However,
this was the only good point amongst a host of bad. Getting into Lacedian’s house would be more than doubly dangerous in this weather. He would inevitably leave tracks once inside, and
getting away after the hit could prove every bit as dangerous as getting in.

Reynik realised he would only get one chance tonight. His first shot must be perfect. Taking off his backpack, he wedged it by his feet in the ‘V between the chimney-stack and the roof.
Once ready, he worked swiftly. First he removed the canvas-wrapped bundle from the pack and began to unwrap it. It was not easy, but crouching down against the brickwork, he managed to keep the
crossbow sheltered by the canvas as he first unwrapped it, then cocked and loaded it with the grappling hook attached to the thin rope. Rain hissed around him, swirling on the gusty wind. The
drumming patter on the canvas sounded loud and obvious to his ears, but was lost amongst the background white noise outside of a very small radius.

It still seemed incredible that such a thin cord would hold his weight, but Femke had demonstrated it to his satisfaction during their training sessions. She had assured him rain would not
affect its load-bearing properties. He hoped she was right, as he had never tested it in these conditions. If the rope broke, it was unlikely he would survive the fall.

‘OK, lightning, do your stuff,’ he murmured, the words lost in the wind.

On cue, another jagged spear of fire lit up the foul night sky. The timing was so uncannily perfect that Reynik’s face twisted into a smile of amusement as he angled the crossbow and
squeezed the trigger. There was a ‘thunk’ and the grappling hook shot off in a low, arcing trajectory towards Lord Lacedian’s rooftop, the cord-like rope snaking out behind it as
it whistled out of its neat coil. A wicked gust of wind buffeted the rooftop, turning the flight path of the grappling hook subtly to the left.

‘. . . two, thr . . .’

An ear-splitting crash of thunder rattled shutters and doors, with after-rumbles continuing for some seconds as the fury of the storm came closer. Reynik followed the flight path of the rope
anxiously, but it was impossible to see where it had landed. The rain lashed even harder on the wind, reducing visibility still further. He knew that a deflection left was less critical than one to
the right, for it was likely the grappling hook would simply impact higher up the sloping rooftop, allowing it to slide down and around the chimney-stack he was hoping to hook against. Too far
left, however, and it would go over the top of the roof crest. There was nothing there for the grapple to hook against.

The uncoiling of the rope slowed. The energy given by the crossbow was spent. Reynik grabbed the remaining coil and peered across at Lord Lacedian’s rooftop in a further effort to see
where the hook had come to rest. It was impossible to tell. All he could do was to slowly pull on the cord and hope the grappling hook caught on something solid.

With infinite care, he pulled the rope towards him, gathering it back into a neat coil as he went. He had marked it with a splash of white at the length he thought would be needed to reach the
Lord’s chimney-stack. The white mark reached his hands, but the line had not pulled tight. He paused for a second and took a deep breath.

‘Hold,’ he prayed silently. ‘Come on. Catch the chimney-stack and hold.’

Hand over hand he carefully drew more of the cord into the coil. Five arm lengths past the white mark, the cord tightened. The grapple had caught on something. The question was what? Would it
hold his weight? There was only one way to find out. Using the chimney-stack as a safeguard against falling, Reynik gradually increased the tension on the cord until he was leaning against it with
all his weight. The line held fast. ‘Thank Shand for that!’ he murmured with a sigh of relief.

Taking care to maintain some tension and not to jerk the rope in any way, he gathered some coils from the spare and threw a large loop over the chimney-stack against which he was leaning. Then,
with the ease of much recent practice, he increased the tension on the rope around the chimney, tied a self-tightening knot, cut off the spare coils and stowed them in the pack.

Out of the pack he pulled a rope-tensioning device that Femke had introduced him to a few days before. It took a moment to attach, then he was twisting the device round and round, watching as
the angle of the rope climbed until it pointed away from his position in a straight line at Lord Lacedian’s rooftop. Ideally, he would have liked to tension the rope further, but without
knowing for certain how much grip the grapple had, he was reluctant to risk increasing the load too much.

With the tension as great as he dared, he secured the tensioning device and took out yet another of Femke’s gadgets. This time it was a strange contraption: a narrow central drum that
freely rotated around a thick circular axle of iron, which protruded two hand spans from either side of the drum’s axis of rotation. Cloth handgrips had been bound around the outer hand span
of each end of the metal rod, and loops of strong cord were attached at the inner end of each of the handgrips. Reynik put the device down carefully into the ‘V between roof and chimney, then
secured the top of the pack with the toggles and slung it onto his back.

He picked up Femke’s contraption, placed his right hand through one of the loops, twisted the loop until it tightened against his wrist, and settled his fingers around the handgrip.
Satisfied that the grip was secure, he lifted the device, placing the narrow drum on top of the tensioned cord. He looped his left hand through the remaining safety loop, again twisting it tightly
around his wrist, and worked his fingers into a secure grip. All that remained to begin his slide was to lift his feet and suspend his weight totally on the iron bar. This was it – the moment
of truth.

‘Shand help me! I must be mad,’ he whispered, gritting his teeth and narrowing his eyes against the driving rain. He knew if he procrastinated, he would look for excuses not to make
the blind leap of faith, so, before he could change his mind, he straightened his arms and lifted his feet to begin his descent.

The rope dipped markedly under his weight, but nevertheless he accelerated away from the higher rooftop. Lightning split the sky again in a spectacular double fork. Gusts of wind caused him to
swing wildly from side to side as he raced across the void. A particularly strong gust whipped his hood from his head. The rain soaked his hair instantly. The rest of his cloak billowed behind him
with an alarmingly loud flapping noise, while the deluge plastered his other clothing against his skin.

Rain blinded him. Blinking and squinting against the barrage of wind-driven water, Reynik did not see the problem until it was almost too late. At the last second, he realised what had happened
and braced his body for impact. He had not tensioned the rope sufficiently to allow him to glide onto the rooftop. Instead, the rope had dipped under his weight such that as he approached the
house, the rope was almost parallel to the surface of the roof, and little more than a hand span above it.

With little time to react, Reynik crashed into the side wall of Lord Lacedian’s house at high speed. Despite having done his best to brace against the impact, his collision with the wall
was not pretty. All the air was driven from his lungs, which prevented him from crying out more than an ‘oof of pain. What sound he did make was whipped away by the wind. It was well that he
had twisted his hands tightly into the safety loops for they saved him from a long fall. His left hand slipped from the cloth grip, causing the device to tilt rapidly to the right. His right hand
then lost grip too, leaving him dangling by the safety loops.

Winded and bruised, he hung against the wall for a moment, the gusts of wind swinging him on the line and scraping him back and forth against the rough surface. His arms felt stretched beyond
their normal length. Pain spiked in his armpits and the whole of the front of his body felt mashed and bruised from the high-speed impact.

A noise from below drew his attention. There were two guards directly beneath him, trudging around the house on one of their regular patrols. His vulnerability spurred him back into action.
Using the wall as a brace, he walked his feet upwards until he was almost inverted, hooking first one foot, then the other, over the rope. Then, pulling simultaneously with both arms, Reynik pulled
his torso up towards the rope and made a grab for it with his right hand. It was awkward, as both of his hands were twisted into the safety loops of the sliding device, but there was just enough
flex for him to get his fingers over the top. Untwisting his left hand from the safety loop took a scant few seconds, whereupon his left hand joined his right on the rope, leaving the drum device
dangling from his right wrist.

With an inverted crawling motion, Reynik shuffled his body forward onto the roof until he felt it safe to unhook his feet and lay flat against the surface. As he took weight off the rope, so it
rose under tension away from the surface. Without letting go, he regained his feet and traversed the slippery slates to the chimney-stack.

He crouched in the lee of the narrow brick tower for a moment, luxuriating in the break from the elements. Taking off his backpack he removed another, pre-measured, coil of rope from one of the
inside pockets. After the near disastrous crossing from the nearby building, it would have been nice to take a rest, but Reynik knew he could not afford to stop here. He must get in and out of the
house swiftly if he were to limit the danger of being caught. He did not dare to cast loose the grappling hook, so the high-wire would have to remain, leaving an obvious indicator and trail for
anyone who saw it. Although the storm had proved a blessing for masking the noise he had made during the crossing, the lightning could yet betray him with its flickering light. The elements were a
fickle ally at best.

Throwing a loop over the chimney, he tied off the rope in a self-tightening knot. Then, as Femke had taught him, Reynik pinched a ‘U’ in the rope and fed it through the
figure-of-eight-shaped, cast iron accessory on his belt. He put on his pack once more and, bracing himself with the rope, he stepped tentatively around the chimney-stack and started to back down
the steeply pitched roof.

As he descended and the rope settled around the chimney, he gained in confidence. His worst moment was the transition from the roof to going down the side of the house, but once past this
hurdle, Reynik progressed smoothly down the wall until he reached the upper floor window shutters. As Femke had predicted, they were only held shut with simple internal lift latches, which were
easily opened with his knife. Once open, however, it became a bit of a juggle to stow his knife and open the shutters without allowing them to rattle or bang in the gusty wind.