"Speak! Speak, or I'll rip your skin off right now—are you lying? I'll have to use magic, this won't work..."
– Pour, pour down her throat! It looks like she's gone mad with fear.
Yusanar izber…
Mustan gorasirunor…
Жусс опар нас…
Khered sured dar...
Tarnaaran nakanas...
Hulk!
- Now speak!
- What to say?
- Stupid creature...
- Stupid creature!
- I hope you die...
- So that you...
"Don't repeat after me, you idiot! Answer the questions! Tell me, have you been to the king?!"
- Was.
- What were you doing there?
- He took possession of me twice, once as usual, the second time...
"I'm not interested in the details of your dirty amusements! Tell me—what did the king look like, how was his health, how did he behave?"
"A strong man. He took me for a long time, then took a short rest, and took me again. He looked like... like a king."
- What, he's not sick at all? Did you notice him dying?
"I didn't notice him dying. The King is a healthy man, he complained that I alone wasn't enough for him, that he needed five like me."
"Great Atrok, it seems she is not lying," the Atrok standing nearby said quietly.
– I see. But how can this be?! HOW?! The king is dying, and suddenly he's beating this cow, and even complaining that she's not enough for him? Do you understand what that means?
– Either the king has recovered – then it's strange that he doesn't appear at the various entertainment events he was keen on, or…
"Or it's not the king! A changeling! Ah, Gyrsos, ah, the creature! Do you understand what he's done? A pocket king! I imagine his next steps—the king will gradually begin to recover, until he's completely well. And then he'll sit on the throne, signing whatever Gyrsos wants, and... fear the changeling will be discovered. If it's discovered—off with his head. But how did they manage to make such a mistake—how did that fool end up in the false king's bed? Hey, you, how did you get into the king's room?"
"He rushed out into the hallway, and I happened to be walking past the king's bedroom. He grabbed me and dragged me into the bedroom. He started undressing me until he was completely naked. I couldn't resist—he was the king, he had the right! And then..."
"Enough. Shut up. Now it's clear—the man replacing the king has screwed up Gyrsos's entire plan, and his entire life. But is he the only one to blame? What would it have cost to lock a couple of girls up with that idiot to satisfy him? If he's such a stallion! Although... that's dangerous. Gossip would have gotten going... That idiot just needed to be patient, just a little bit patient. One thing amazes me—why didn't he, Gyrsos, flush that chick down the drain? Yes, even smart people make mistakes, and Amunsky is no exception.
- What to do with her?
"Tear her head off and throw her in the sewer. The rats will do the rest." Great Atrok dismissively waved her assistant and headed for the door, then paused, thought for a moment, and ordered: "Come with me, we need to discuss something."
Atrok nodded to the Shatrii standing nearby and signaled—kill! The Shatrii approached the girl, frozen with a mindless smile, and with one movement snapped her neck, cracking her broken vertebrae.
The High Ones came out, and the Chatrii grabbed the body and dragged it to an inconspicuous door that led into a tunnel, and from there into the city sewers.
Fifteen minutes later, it was all over. Only a lost earring near the interrogation chair testified that a girl had once sat there—dreaming, desiring, loving…
She left home and disappeared. Who remembers her? Only her mother, peering out the window at the passersby – is that her? Maybe she'll come back after all? She went on a spree with a sailor and sailed off somewhere far away...
But no, the daughter will not return. Her soft flesh has long since been digested by rats, and her bones have been washed into the sea by mighty torrents of rain and rest on the bottom, along with hundreds and thousands of others—the bones of those less fortunate in this life…
* * *
In the corner of the kitchen, in a small pantry, a hatch slowly lifted, covering the opening of a small cellar used for storing perishables. Not even a cellar, but an icehouse—at one time, ice was loaded here from a nearby mountain, onto which fish, meat—everything destined for the royal table—was laid. Then another icehouse was built in the courtyard, and this one remained, forgotten and empty.
Who dug the underground passage there, and when, is unknown. Who passed on information about it to the Shirduan sect is also unknown. The main thing is that it existed, and that it allowed one to safely enter the palace from the dungeons that permeated the earth beneath the city, like holes permeating cheese. This part of the kitchen was rarely visited, especially at night—what would one do in the royal kitchen at night? Especially when the king had been ill for a long time and was preparing special food for him. There had been no feasts in the palace for a long time, and the cooks, lacking work, had been sent home or transferred to the servants' kitchen. There was no one to stop the assassins.
Two dark figures in shapeless, loose robes, resembling either bats or bales of straw, slowly and cautiously began moving toward the kitchen door, disappearing into the shadows cast by the moonlit cabinets. These two knew that the human eye easily detects sudden, jerky movement, while slow, careful, and smooth movements are invisible. However, they were protected by obfuscation spells, so anyone within thirty paces saw only what they had seen before their appearance—the walls, the floor, the ceiling. But not the two assassins. The key was to have no observers further than thirty paces. In that case, the assassins would be plainly visible. But that's what the common skill of concealment, ingrained in the blood and flesh of cloak-and-dagger masters, is all about.
The kitchen door was locked, but the unlocking amulet worked as expected—a click, and the door creaked slightly as it swung inward, leaving a small gap between the frame and the oak paneling. They had to go up to the second floor, where the target's bedroom was presumably located.
The hallway was empty, quiet, and dark, so the killers didn't bother hiding, but ran along the wall at a leisurely pace to reach the stairs leading up. They had to hurry—they had only an hour to destroy the target and get away. The lives and fates of many, many people depended on whether they succeeded in eliminating this man.
The staircase is wooden, made of sturdy oak beams covered with a heavy carpet. The carpet muffles the sound of footsteps, and the beams don't sag as the assassins slide past the guard standing on the first step.
The guard is bored, sleepy, and it's late. What could possibly happen in a tightly locked palace, surrounded by rows of guards on heightened alert? A guard at every window, and at every entrance and exit. The garden and courtyard are simply crammed with guards. Who, who could possibly sneak in? Why even post so many men inside?
The first guard passed and remained below. The second is upstairs – the same. They're not even allowed to talk – they just stand there, bored.
The corridor curves in an arc, and that's very, very good, simply wonderful—if it were long and straight, the guard in the other corner would have noticed the creeping assassins. Or rather, he might have noticed. But as it is...
Like giant spiders, the two figures rush forward. They are protected by anti-magic spells, so illusion amulets have no effect on the assassins; they can see each other. Their movements are so coordinated, so skillful and precise, so perfectly timed, that the assassins don't collide or stumble, but rush forward, only occasionally exchanging the quiet, inaudible signals and gestures that the Brotherhood uses during their actions.
Here's the bedroom. Two guards stand beside it, leaning against the wall and yawning. The bedroom door has no lock, but that doesn't mean anything—it could be bolted from the inside. As far as the palace plan goes, there are no double walls, no underground passages—solid stonework, nothing more. She needs to enter the bedroom, but how? Guardsmen are pacing the corridor—a patrol is making its way around the palace's circular corridor, checking the posts. When it will arrive is unknown. Should she wait, when will she appear? Yes. Wait.
The killers stand in a niche, touching each other with their shoulders.
The patrol appeared about fifteen minutes later—three guards in polished armor, swords drawn across their shoulders. They were tall, broad-shouldered men. The guards at the door immediately straightened up, stood at attention, and froze, waiting for the patrol to pass. They only relaxed when the patrol disappeared around the corner.
One assassin touched another's arm, signaling—it's time! They pulled out small blowguns, loaded the darts, and blew at the guards. They simultaneously slapped their necks, thinking they'd been bitten by some vicious insect, and immediately sank to the floor, their armor clanking, but not very loudly. Glory to you, unknown idiot, who laid soft carpets throughout the corridors!
The assassins rushed forward, grabbed the guards, and dragged them toward the alcove. Anyone looking where the guards should have been would assume they'd retreated to the alcove, and seeing them lying on the floor would certainly raise the alarm.
Now to the door. The first killer pulled the handle, and... there it was, the door! Unlocked! Thanks for the gift. One less problem.
They entered, closing the door tightly.
The bedroom is quiet, a man snores on the bed. The red moonlight falling through the window outlines his figure, half-covered by a satin blanket. The assassin draws a short sword, but… the other one stops him with a sharp gesture – no! Don't!
He approaches the sleeping man and leans on him, squeezing his throat at the precise point. The sleeping man, still half-asleep, can't comprehend anything, convulsing, trying to break free and breathe, but the killer's iron fingers hold his throat. Within seconds, he loses consciousness.
The killer dumps the body on the floor and adjusts the bed, making it appear as if the man had gotten up before heading out. He gestures to his partner, and they pick up the body, dragging it out into the hallway.
Every minute counts—a patrol will be here soon. Leaving the man at the door, they run to the guards, lift them up, and drag them to the door. One of the killers pulls a dagger from a guard's sheath and, with a swing, plunges it into the man's heart. He shudders, and waves of convulsions run through his body.
The killer takes the guard's naked sword and thrusts it hard into the guard's stomach, reaching deep into his heart from below, so as to create the impression that the guard has thrown himself onto the sword. He then rolls him onto his stomach, creating the appearance of suicide. He does the same with the second guard.
From the outside, it looks like this: a man left the bedroom for some reason, a guard stabbed him with a dagger, then killed himself, fearing retribution for his actions. The second guard did the same. Why? Apparently, he was also scared, deciding that since his partner wasn't there, he'd be held accountable. Who's going to handle it? No people, no problem. They've got someone to blame—they've gone crazy, and that's it. Especially since before arranging the guards' corpses, the killer sprayed them with alcohol from a flat bottle. So that's the reason—drunkenness on duty! They've drunk themselves to death!
Distant footsteps and voices were heard—a patrol. The killers raced down the corridor, expecting screams and noise at any moment. They managed to reach the first floor just as the commotion began, people scurrying back and forth like ants in a disturbed anthill. But it was too late—the killers disappeared back into the storage room and, descending a long, narrow, red-brick corridor, found themselves in one of the cavernous galleries.
When the killers had already moved about a hundred steps away from the tunnel entrance, one of them thought he saw someone walking behind him. The killer waited, peered into the darkness... but saw nothing.
And they went on, walking quietly and carefully, like animals on a night hunt.