Please comment and any suggestions for story titles would be very welcome :p
Chapter 1
The moon was high in the sky, a lustrous pearl cradled in the indigo belly of the night. Torn wisps of cloud drifted over the surface, narrow, radiant beams slicing through them. I frowned. It was near to full, which would make my job harder. It spilled brilliance over the pale white courtyard, exposing everything in silver. I slowly crept round the edge of the courtyard, staying in the shadows. I brought the night with me, I with my face streaked with coal dust and loose clothes black as the night. The only light on me was a naked blade, strapped to my hip. Beauty in the tempered steel of a weapon. Light in death. This was how I had been born and how I was raised.
The other agent, on the roof let down a rope from the top of the tower. Usually I would have scaled the tower myself, but this wretched one was hewn from black marble; impossible to climb. The agent signalled, then leapt from the roof bat-like, silken pockets billowing out from his pack. He did not stay, as I had not expected him to. This was my mission and mine alone. There would not be another second chance.
I fingered my pack nervously. Every agent is equipped with a large pack, in which a useful variety of objects can be kept. In the sides of this contraption, there lay, hidden, several yards of thick silk. It functioned like a parachute. You had to zip the small pockets beneath the large pockets open to reveal strings that attached to the parachute. When these strings were pulled, the silken pockets billowed open and the strings could be used to steer. It was ingenious, however if I fell, I would not have enough time to open the pockets and tug on the strings.
I tied strips of dark cloth around each foot, so that my footprint could not be recognized, and began to scale the tower. It was arduous work; the marble was as glossy as ice and my sensitive feet could detect not blemishes or mars in the rock. Furthermore, the linen tied around my feet did not improve my grip. My arms were in fiery, cramped agony and there was chill sweat beading on my hot brow.
When at last I reached the top, I pulled myself on to the gutter of the roof. It was slippery, but my stomach did not drop as it used to. I had been well trained. I would not fall. Light as a monkey, I scampered over the tiles, until I reached the peak of the roof. From there, I prised the ornament off the roof, and with a large crack, a small hole was revealed. For a few minutes I crouched, stock still, quiet. When there was no other sound, I continued with my work. From there, I worked, slowly clearing away the rubble in the roof, gouging the slates out with my knife. I did this all very quietly. The victim should not know that I approached.
When there was a small hole in the roof, I slithered down, landing lightly in the room. I looked around it, analysing each piece of information slowly and logically.
Sight: Room, round in shape. Large. Several pieces of large furniture, with fine wood and silk upholstery, but both stained and ripped with age. In the corner, a large bed with wisps of gossamer floating down from the ceiling. A slightly ajar door. I crept over to it, peeking inside. A tub for bathing and a chamber pot.
Taste: I flicked my tongue out experimentally. The air tasted sour and stale. The room was completely sealed, but for a few slits high in the wall, where daylight and fresh air could filter through. Now, a flickering oil-lamp beside the bed created an artificial daylight. For a moment, I felt pity for the nameless victim. This was a prison, with no way out. No window, no door. Killing them would be a kindness.
Sound: Nothing but the slow breathing of the victim.
Scent: The smell of thick, spoiled air. The odour of jasmine perfume. I sniffed my own sleeve self-consciously. I had washed before my task of course, the ritual cleansing, then coated myself with the scent of animal dung, a common enough smell in these parts. Here, in this room, I would be easily detected.
I walked slowly towards the victim. My eyes were better adjusted to the darkness now, so I could not help seeing the victim’s face. It was sharp and colourless in the darkness. Her eyelashes lay curled upon her cheeks and her face was framed by thick, dark hair. It was a girl. I frowned. I did not want to kill girls.
Do it! My brain said. Don’t look at it; don’t think of it as a person. It is only something to be slaughtered. My heart did not answer. It had been abused, trampled on, quashed in my training and was now too weak to move or speak. Nevertheless, I heard its silent pleading.
I lifted my knife. It was silver on one side, iron on the other. The girl stirred in her sleep, murmuring uneasily. She was having a nightmare. I was no stranger to those.
DO IT!
I couldn’t help thinking that if I had to choose a way to die, it would not be like this, killed in the night by a dark stranger.
The girl sat up, rubbed her eyes and opened them. She looked around slowly, her eyes narrowed. I waited, agonizingly. From my hiding place at the foot of her bed, she only had to lean forwards, then ..... She seemed to shake her head a little, then lay back down. After a few minutes, her breathing became even and regular. I reached for my knife. That had been too close. I should just kill her and go.
Finally! My brain again.
The knife flashed silver in a tiny beam of moonlight filtering through one of the slits in the wall. I aimed it at the sleeping girl’s neck. It was amazing how easy it was now. I just had to shut off my emotions and my body did what it had been trained to do my whole life. In a precisely calibrated and calculated throw, the knife left my hand and flew gracefully through the air. To slice easily into the empty mattress.
There was no one in the bed.
It's not too good right now, but I'm working on it!
