-The Revenant-
The mephitis of death permeated the streets of Carran like the reek of a well-aged wine. And Vaakiya’s hands were drenched red. Arkyne Millover’s heart sat in a box within her satchel, bleeding into the crevices of the wood. Her feet ached. Moreover, there was an uncomfortable weight lodged into her chest, digging into the curve of her bones. The ghost of grief had always haunted her. Even as a babe. Her mother had resented her for it. And everyday, when night bled into Duvrion, Vaakiya wondered what her mother might think if she saw her as she was now– with her hair mused and her fingers dripping blood onto her boots, with her jaw clenched and her brown eyes wide with prudence. Anger, she supposed, had haunted her, too. She had gotten drunk on it. It sat on the tip of her tongue like poison. And these bits of her, these sinister fragments she would one day bury, would remain hidden from her family. Till her death.
The alley betwixt Urvejz’s tavern and Servall’s brothel was dark and decrepit. However, Vaakiya was unsurprised to find it wasn’t empty. A hooded figure stared down at the ground from where he was pressed against the wall of the vennel. “You’re late,” He said, “Let’s hope, for your sake, that you’re not entirely a disappointment.”
“It’s done.” Vaakiya promised, stepping into the vennel.Ryden Harlow’s collector was a tall, lithe man with hair of burnished gold and pallid skin mottled with freckles. He grinned as he stepped forward, eyeing Vaakiya intently as she materialised the wooden box from within her satchel.
“All that blood,” He chuckled, the yellow of his teeth flashing in the darkness. “It must’ve been horrific.” Vaakiya did not reply. She simply proffered the box, shifting when his fingertips brushed the length of her palm.
“So quiet and morose.” The collector shuffled forward until there were only a few sparse inches keeping him away from her. “One would think you are a grieving woman.”
Yet it was grief that weighed the bones under her skin. It was death and loss and shame. “I need my money.” She said.
“Yes,” He whispered into her hair and Vaakiya’s shoulders tightened. “You will get it.”
It was only when his lips brushed the shell of her ear that Vaakiya shoved him back. And it was only when the collector had snarled after staggering, baring those two sharpened fey fangs, that the assassin unsheathed her blade. “Whore.” The man grumbled.
She only asked, “Do you have any messages for me?”
“Harlow asks if you were followed.” He said and Vaakiya frowned.
“No. What prompted his concern?” There was a tightness to her question, an uncertain rigidity to her shoulders that had the collector sighing.
“Arkyne, the merchant you killed today, was always with strange company, girl.” The man said, crossing his arms. “The bastard was seen frequenting the upper district restaurants with military men.”
The assassin’s breath hitched. “Why is that of any concern to me?” The question was a meek facade meant to keep her knees from wavering.
“Wern Tynne, Commander of King Giirtev’s Naval Legions, was amongst those men. You don’t think they’ll ask questions about the nature of the merchant’s death?” He snarled leisurely, gesturing to the wooden box still in his hands. “You don’t think they’ll come sniffing around after finding Arkyne’s body with a hole in his chest where his fucking heart should’ve been?”
Vaakiya’s pulse was in her ears, in her hands and legs and throat. But she shook her head. “I’ll take care of it.”
“You fucking better,” The man laughed morosely, tossing her a pouch nearly bursting with gold coins, “Ryden does not like loose ends.”
~
Back at the parlour of her home, Vaakiya roused the flames of a gradually ebbing fire. The stentorian hum of her mother’s grating coughs from the bedroom filled the silence, a common symptom of Ruhgut– the K’erdan Plague as Learned Doctors called it. It was a ruinous thing, rendering its victims conscious yet inert, eating away at their flesh bit by bit– stealing the very air from their lungs. Mercifully, it was not contagious.
The groan of the front door inching open cut through the air like a honed blade, and Vaakiya whirled to find Arul grinning sheepishly at her. “You’re late.” She murmured, standing from where she was crouched before the inglenook.
“Only by an hour,” He grumbled, shifting awkwardly by the doorway. The boy was a little over eleven, with the deep brown curls and verdant eyes of his mother. “You’ll have to excuse it just this once.”
“Arul, I hardly know where you even go these days…” She sighed, rubbing at the exhaustion lining her face. Her hands still reeked of blood. Even though she’d scrubbed her palms till her skin cracked.
“I was at market, Kiya.” Arul strode for the tattered davenport before the hearth, settling onto it with a huff.
“For what?” Vaakiya sneered at her brother.“All the stalls would’ve closed by now, boy.”
Arul simply shrugged, his deeply bronzed skin flushing as he tore his gaze from her. “What does it matter?”
“You–” But Vaakiya inhaled sharply as the firelight caught the purplish bruises lining the boy’s closed fists. “What in the name of the Saint is that?”
Arul, in a haste, pulled the sleeve of his tunic over his hands, standing abruptly. But Vaakiya’s hands were on his shoulders, her fingers digging into his skin till he faced her with a disgruntled scowl. Her gaze sharpened. “What is that, Arul?”
“I didn’t mean to…” He trailed off, picking at the grit lining the hem of his shirt. “I told them not to touch me, Kiya.”
Vaakiya’s chest sundered, every breath a weighted ache as the familiar pangs of dread split through her like lightning. But Arul’s tongue had slackened, a knot unfurling betwixt his auburn brows. Vaakiya drank in the sight of him– from his tousled curls, the slump of his lean shoulders, the light quivering of his lip, to the attenuated scrapes peeking from beneath the white collar of his tunic. His threadbare pants– the brown faded with age– were torn at the knees, and its ripped edges were spattered faintly with crimson. “What happened?” She pleaded, her countenance softening as his wiry fingers shook with trepidation.
Arul did not answer her. Instead, he reached into the pockets of his pants, materialising the leather pouch she had bought him. The thing was empty– utterly empty. Vaakiya had filled it to the brim yesterday– had even castigated him on spending the silver coins wisely. “The boys from Downstrat took it all.” Downstrat– Carran’s largest aristocratic complex, built along the city’s northern border, facing the King’s castle.
“What were they doing around these parts?” Vaakiya brushed the hair out of his abashed eyes, sighing as she turned his face this way and that– inspecting for any more bruises. She prodded a speckled welt twisting along the underside of his jaw, hidden beneath the length of his curls, scowling as he winced.
“I–” But Arul stopped himself, wringing his hands together. “Promise me you won’t yell.”
“Depends on what you’re about to tell me, Arul.”
The boy steeled himself with a sharp inhale. “I went northside.”
The world stilled. Stilled and teetered. The assassin’s hands grew heavy, a tightness blossoming in her skull as she flinched away from him. “You know better than to do that.” But from the shame tipping his chin downward, Vaakiya knew otherwise. Northside, the upper half of Carran, was teeming with royal guards, merchants with hearts full of avarice, artisans with more wealth than skill, and generals from King Giirtev’s army. Ever since Arul had grown an inclination for exploring the capital city on his own, Vaakiya had been cautioning him against ever setting foot in that slice of upper-class hell. Her own knees weakened every time she was sent there for a hunt– for a kill. Just hours before, as she split Arkyne’s chest and stalked the northside city streets after, drenched in death, a peculiar apprehension weighed her every step.
“I was curious.” Arul gesticulated flippantly, stepping back from Vaakiya. “I didn’t know why it was so dangerous–”
“You were a damned fool.” Vaakiya grit her teeth, raking a hand through the ebony strands of her hair. Northside was beyond dangerous. The rich had a tendency for being ruthless– to prey on those less fortunate than themselves. Vaakiya had seen it herself– had watched women, men, and children alike, dragged into towering mansions, forced into metal collars with chain bindings around their wrists and ankles. She had to learn to turn her head and simply walk by as the crack of a whip sluiced through the damp midmorning air. “Mark my words, boy. You are to never leave this house unaccompanied again. Is that clear?”
“But Vaakiya–”
“I don’t fucking care!” She snarled, her pulse thundering in her ears. Arul staggered away from her, hands clenched. “I do everything I can–” The assassin swallowed the lump in her throat, her voice lethally quiet. “I do everything I fucking can to ensure you get the life you deserve– the life I deserved. You do not get to compromise it for stupid curiosity.”
“I’m sorry.” He whispered, gaze downcast.
“Good. Now go clean yourself. I made soup for dinner.” She turned away, sniffling as she rubbed the tears from her eyes. Arul lingered for a moment longer before trudging away. When the bedroom door clicked shut behind him, Vaakiya’s shoulders loosened, a silent sob fighting past her lips. Defeat scalded her insides, branding her skin till she was reddened with guilt. Arul did not know Vaakiya brought home their wealth by stealing lives. She made sure he’d never know. Every damned thing she had ever done was to shield him from the life she had been sold into.
And she’d spend her every breath ensuring he’d never tread the same path as her. That he’d never learn of bloodshed or violence.
~
Vaakiya had spent last night tending to Arul’s wounds. When she was done treating the fruits of his idiocy, she reprimanded him for long arduous minutes till her throat ran dry. When Arul, alas, crawled under the covers of the single, wide bed in the bedroom, nestling against Ishya Marai as her weathered face had loosened with sleep, it was well past midnight, the sky lightening with the first light of dawn. But Vaakiya could not succumb to sleep– even though her whole body protested, her eyelids growing heavy. She twisted and turned on the davenport in the sitting room, her long braid wrapping around her waist. Rest eluded her, worry settling under skin and flooding her veins till she had no choice but to sit up in defeat.
Her whole being was itching with restlessness. And so, Vaakiya found herself in Furhadan’s bar. The tavern was little more than a superannuated bit of rotting wood and stone, with a sloped roof and a crooked chimney that was perennially smoking. Inside, meagre throngs of impoverished cityfolk drank for overflowing cups. Daydrinkers. Vaakiya snorted, eyeing an orc stumbling out of the squat doorway. The barkeep, Furhadan Marleine, wiped the inside of an ale mug, leering at her as she pulled out a chair by the bar, plopping onto it with a scowl.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of ye gracin’ my establishment with yer presence–”
“Shut it, Marliene.” She grumbled, rubbing at her red rimmed eyes. The bearded man set down the mug, leaning onto the counter to glower at her. His faded red hair, threaded with shoots of bright silver, caught the dappled sunlight, the freckles along his face almost brightening in the dank shadows of the bar. A bard, playing a lute as he weaved through tables of drunkards, sang bawdily of old fables of the Saint. “And if you can, make that infernal arsehole shut it, too.”
“He gets paid to perform ‘ere.” The barkeep grinned. “Are ye waitin’ for that pretty lass that bounds after ye like a lost puppy?”
“Thema?” Vaakiya hefted a thick brow, chuckling. “Yes. Though I should have you know, she has no interest in men like you. Saint, she has no interest in anyone at all.”
“Shame. She’s a real looker, that one.” He smiled, flashing his yellowed teeth.
Vaakiya grimaced. “Yes, shame indeed.”
As if summoned, the door to the tavern swung open. And from the garish sunlight stepped Thema Sade. She walked in with a flourish, beaming at Vaakiya. “Took you long enough.” The assassin grumbled, snagging a bottle of wine from Furhadan’s stout hands and uncorking it.
“You can’t rush beauty, Vaakiya dear.” Her voice was as silken as always, her white curls pulled back into braids adorned with an assortment of beads.
Vaakiya sniggered tauntingly, taking a long swig from the bottle. “Must you be so vain?”
Her friend chortled, smoothing the front of her sapphire gown. “I can’t help it. It’s second nature.” Furhadan’s gaze tore down Thema, faltering for a beat on the arch of her plump lips. The woman’s perfectly set face, upon noticing, scrunched up in repugnance.
Thema knew what Vaakiya was. She had known for eight long years. The woman had seen the assassin wreathed in the darkness of sin and had not baulked. “How’d it go last night?”
“Same as always, Thema.” But Vaakiya’s chest tightened as she sighed. Furhadan had taken to wiping down the bar counter, sweat beading at his brow. “Furhadan, what do you know of Wern Tynne?” Thema canted her head with dubiosity, watching the assassin with newfound perplexion.
The fey man’s head shot up, the wizened lines of his face deepening. “Why do ye ask?”
Vaakiya propped her head on an arm, scrutinizing the man as though he was a slab of meat to be carved open. “I’ve heard some things about him.”
“He’s General of the Naval Legions.” Furhadan’s lips quirked with false apathy. Thema bristled in her seat, picking at the skin lining her pristine nails.
“He’s–” The man sneered, “He’s a strange one, Vaakiya. I know little but… I know enough to be wary. You don’t fuck with northside.”
Sighing, the assassin rummaged through her pocket, pulling out a lone, scintillating gold coin. Without a word, she proffered it to him, watching as the man tensed before resignation slackened his shoulders. Once the gold coin was in his fingers, his spine straightened with newfound bravado. “He runs strange business dealings in northside. With– with merchants and K’erdan scholars. Something to do with smuggling.”
“Smuggling?” Thema yelped, “From where?” But Vaakiya inhaled sharply, her jaw clenching. If his illegal dealings with Arkyne were so important, he’d certainly prod into the matters of his death.
Furhadan shrugged, “I know not, lassie. But hunters in the woodlands by the coast ‘ave seen him and his men carryin’ carts of crated goods off of ships.”
“That could be just about anything…” Vaakiya trailed off, crossing her arms against her chest.
“Aye, it could just be. But rumour around these parts says it’s a smugglin’ operation of some kind.” The barkeep sniffled, running his fingers through his beard. “Though, I know not what raised that claim.”
“Who told you this?” Her friend asked, her skin of midnight as lucent as polished obsidian.
“A drunken sailor.” The man deadpanned, shrugging as he stepped around the bar to tend to a quarreling pair of nymphs.
“That has to be horseshit.” Thema’s brows puckered, her gaze flitting between the assassin and the barkeep.
But Vaakiya’s thoughts were a muddled mess.