Stinking Town

Chapter 01 | Stinking Town

Image by Mary Campos from Pixabay

Failure was almost unforgivable. Almost.

Just one more job. Just one more. Tomorrow he, Alidinia, would incite rebellion in the Empire and free the people of the North – his people. But for now, just one more job. Besides, in a funny sort of way, it all contributed to the greater cause. He only killed people who deserved it.

It was another scorching stinking day in the Reach – the southernmost region of the Mikaetan Empire. Being at the edge of the brutal Southern Desert, the city of Nielsen existed solely as a stopover for weary merchants making their journey south. The city had nothing of value except passing trade, and yet the place sprawled. He shuddered at its vastness and wrinkled his nose. Put this many people together, and they were little better than pigs. Half of them smelled like pigs too. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take of the place. It really was revolting.

“Ali.”

He looked up, and there, across the street, was his coin-pimp. The man he’d get his job from, and the reason he persisted in this stinking place. There was lots of work. He moved across the street, buffeted by the daily chaos of the city, and stood in front of the man. His employer. A man he called Employer. Employer was masquerading as a hawker.

He smiled at his coin-pimp.

“This is a funny place to sell…” he looked down at the tray hanging around Employer’s neck. It was baffling and he raised an eyebrow. “Is that rubble?” The man actually had stones on his tray.

Employer smirked. He always smirked. “Trade has been a touch quiet. Perhaps I should move to a different street.”

“Yes. And maybe you should throw that shingle away too. Nielsen may be a shit-hole, but even these people are not going to pay good money for what they can pick up from the street.”

Employer rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I think I’ll try my luck in the smaller alleys. Two blocks over. The usual place.”

“Still with shingle?”

Employer nodded. “Still with the shingle. And when you’ve sold something other than death, then I might consider your advice. Until then, stick to what you know.”

He checked over his shoulder for eavesdroppers. It was a sure sign he’d pissed off Employer when the man was so brazen with their arrangements. Fortunately, no-one paid them any attention.

He turned back to his coin-pimp. “Happy trading.” Then he strolled off down the street.

Less than a degree later, getting close to the hottest part of the day, he was in a dark alley scanning his surroundings. This was a frequent exchange spot, well away from prying eyes and ears. Only the Uncle knew where Employer had gotten to, but there was no harm in waiting. He took a coin and flipped it. Face. And again. Face. The coin always had a funny way of landing as he expected.

There was the slightest shuffling sound, almost imperceptible. At least, it would have been imperceptible to most, but in his trade, silence was silence and anything else was failure. He turned, and Employer was sliding out of the shadows. His coin-pimp.

“I see you’ve dispensed with the shingle.”

Employer, with his greasy hair, razor trimmed beard, and constant smirk, smirked even harder. If that were possible.

“They were semi-precious stones. Not that I’m surprised an uncouth vandal like yourself would fail to miss that subtlety.”

He flipped his coin. “I thrive on subtlety.”

“No, you thrive on drama.”

“As long as the job gets done.”

Employer’s smirk stretched again. “Well, there was that one time-”

“No! That was a one-off and unique circumstance.” He pocketed his coin. How dare the bastard bring that up.

“Unique? I would suggest that that was actually a rather standard scenario for an assassin. If anything is unique, I would suggest that it is you.”

“Look, I’m here for a job. Is there work, or isn’t there?”

Employer stepped further out of the shadows. “There is work, but I suggest you don’t take it.”

He took the coin from his pocket and pinged it at the wall, hard. It jammed itself between two stone blocks, face-up. Just as he’d expected. He swallowed down his ragged breathing and turned back to Employer.

“If you don’t want me to take the job, then why are you here?”

Employer tipped his head, still smirking. “I want to give you something.”

“Coin?”

“No.” Employer shook his head and reached into a pocket. “This.” When he pulled his hand out, he had a small note in his hand and he offered it up.

“Is it the details of some heaving account at a bank?” Employer shook his head. “Then I’d prefer coin.”

“It is a gift.”

“Look, what’s the job?”

“You should not take it.”

“Will it pay coin?” Employer nodded. “Then I’ll take it.”

“It is risky.”

He stepped to the wall and removed the coin. Then he flipped it. Face again. “I’m an assassin. Risk is my game, so don’t tell me when to take it.”

Employer’s smirk slipped. He’d known the man for near enough a decade, and that was the first time his face had genuinely slipped. For all his unpleasant traits, Employer was a solid coin-pimp. Trustworthy. But this would surely spell the end of their contract. It might be time to move on after all. Just one more job, and all that.

Employer held out a scroll, sealed with a red ribbon and black wax – a death warrant. He took it and licked his lips. Once he opened the seal, it would be his contract to complete. Failure was almost unforgivable. Almost.

He fingered the warrant. “Why are you suggesting I ignore this work?”

The smirk returned. “Because, Alidinia, my employer expressly requested your services.”

He laughed. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

Employer shook his head. “It is not common to request a specific assassin. You have been warned.”

“So what? A trap?”

Employer shrugged. “My belly boils and I feel compelled to warn you. That is all.”

“Why would you warn me? You earn a commission.”

Employer stroked his beard, gazing at the sky. “Let’s just say I respect you and consider you an acquaintance. Here. Take this other note.”

“What is it?”

“I told you. A gift.”

“But a gift of what?”

“News. Of the North. You always said you were after news.”

“Not if it’s another list of all those who’ve gone missing. Is it?” He peered into Employer’s eyes, and behind the smirk, there was something darker. A shadow. The man shook his head. If he had trusted the man for near enough a decade, then he should trust the man one more day. He snatched the small note out of Employer’s hand, pocketed it, and then ripped open the warrant, accepting the contract. He scanned the note and breathed steady. Easy. It was for some Eastern dignitary who was in the city. Standard. Simple. He laughed, and looked up, but Employer was gone. In many ways, it was the coin-pimp who was the shadier of the two of them, even though he was the assassin. He turned and left the alley.

Mother Bright beat down from above, and he was sweating. He was always sweating in this forsaken city. Nielsen was, quite literally, the arse-end of nowhere, the gate to the savage South, and despite the horrendous conditions, the damned city was thriving. As was the work. He shook his head and blinked the sweat from his eyes. The sooner he was out of here, the better. It had been too long, too long, and the North was waiting. Waiting for him. Just one more job, and then he’d be gone.

Ahead, there was the gentle hum of city commerce one street over. Just another day in another viciously hot southern city in the glorious Empire of Mikaeta. The entire Empire was a shit-hole, and this place must surely be the worst of it. But it was all for the greater good, even if it was delaying him from his purpose. After all, what better way to gut something than though its arse-hole? He would endure, and the Empire would suffer at his hands. Eventually. Just one more job, and then he’d get to it.

He slid from the shadows of the alleyway and joined the casual flow of the city’s population. Being a major city artery, the sand-packed street was densely packed with shoppers, hawkers, and people trying and failing to get places fast. He laughed. If one wanted to move fast in this city, one had to fly across the roof-tops. Quite literally. But he did not want to move fast today. He was intrigued by his gift. Employer never gave him gifts.

He removed the slip of paper from his pocket and fingered it. Cheap paper. His hands were sticky on the note, so he tucked the slip under his arm and wiped his hands on his black shirt. Why did he persist with the black? It was stupid in this heat. He picked the paper from under his pit, and instantly regretted his actions. The paper was sticky, just like his armpit. He really hated this city.

He carefully unfolded the paper and licked his lips, scrunching up his nose at the salty taste. The words on the paper were few, and they were scrawled in rough shapes. This was not what he was expecting. But if Employer believed this was valuable, then it was most likely valuable. He would at least humour the man.

---

“Help. Help us crack the illusion of the North. It has gone on too long.”

---

He shuddered, reading the words over and over. Where had this come from? Oh, this was so much better than even his wildest dreams! For so many years, so many years of his life, he had wanted to break the Empire’s grip on the North, his home, and fulfil the legacy of his beloved mother who was so cruelly taken from him. But to save the North, he needed the North onside, and until now, none in the North admitted that they needed saving. Until now. Now, at last, this was the evidence he needed. The Empire’s grip was not a grip at all. It was an illusion, and he shuddered at the prospect of cracking it. One more job, and then he would go home. One more job, and he’d answer his true calling. His time had finally come, and rebellion would be born.

He was shoved forward from behind, and the note slipped to the floor, flying off into the masses. Lost. Bloody well lost.

“Watch it, you shit.” A bulldog of a man sneered at him, and his heart fluttered. He sneered back and then turned to the floor, but the note was gone. He scrabbled around, at people’s feet, looking for it, but it was definitely gone. It was being kicked down the street somewhere. Priceless and lost. He looked back up, and the bulldog sneered harder. The man had a terrible face.

“Come on little shit. Get up off the floor.”

He smiled back. “Beware of filth. It has a nasty habit of creeping up on you.” With awful speed, he slipped beside the man, rising to his feet, and then stepped around the bulky bastard. Bulldog got all in a pickle and went full circle, which was funny, and the chance was there. He jabbed Bulldog in the neck, right on the jugular, and the bastard flailed, grabbing at his throat. Perfect. He then crushed a tiny vial in his gloved palm and swept the liquid over the bulging lips of Bulldog. Then he shifted into the stream of shoppers, and ducked below the legs of a merchant. Time to get out of there.

Bulldog let out a wet scream, and it was so loud that the entire street stilled. He smiled at what he had done. He wriggled along the ground, through the legs of shoppers, searching for the priceless note. One man stepped on him, but he yanked the man’s leg and tipped him over. The man objected, but he didn’t have time to kill this one too. Against the blistering crowd, he scrambled through the mass of legs, escaping the tirade, always searching. And then, there, two people over. There it was. He barged a woman out of the way and leapt to the floor. He retrieved the slip of crisp white paper, and kissed it. Not so crisp any more, and definitely not so white. In fact, it smelled a bit of dog-dirt. But it was still legible and it was still his. He kissed it again and stood.

He moved quickly through the static crowds, and Bulldog’s strangled cries faded fast. The man would be dead in moments. That was an expensive vial of poison, but for this note it was worth it. The illusion needed cracking, and he would be the architect of that shattering, if only he could find his allies. But the allies definitely existed, and he would find them. It was time to go home and it was time to incite rebellion. The time had come.

But before that, just one more job. Travelling north was not cheap, and he had spent all his coin. And besides, he’d accepted a contract over some poor delegate; some agent of the Empire. That could only be a good thing. One less delegate was in the best interests of everyone, with the possible exception of the delegate himself. Maybe.

But annoyingly, he’d now have to do it without his prize poison. It would take days to recreate that little beauty. He turned, and damned Bulldog with a shake of his fist, the wet screams dying fast. Some people just did not respect the art of killing.