old man with no guards; a simple enterand-kill and he'd be gone before the clock on Septon Chapel struck midnight. He strapped on his knives and settled a medium-length cloak, the
color of old dishwater, over his shoulders. He'd let his whiskers grow; the
stubble would make his face more difficult to distinguish in the dark.
He turned around to see Kit, levitating above his bed. She wore a
short emerald dress. Sparkles danced across her chest.
"I confess," she said. "I still don't understand why you're going along
with this. Even after throwing most of your money away, you've got
enough to last for weeks, maybe months the way you live." Her eyebrows
rose in wry disapproval as she looked around the apartment.
He didn't feel like a debate. His mind was already working the job,
combing through the details for anything he might have missed,
checking every angle for flaws.
"Mathias was in a bad spot. I took the job as a favor. What else is there
to say?"
"And when has that overstuffed bladder ever done you any favors? He
treats you like a half-trained wolfhound. He snaps his fingers and you
jump to do his bidding."
Caim grabbed the rest of his gear and headed for the door. "You know
better than that."
Kit flipped her hair as she followed after him. "All right, I don't want
you to go out tonight. There's a strange vibe in the city."
Caim paused at the door. He had felt something when he first woke
up-a raw, indeterminate feeling of dread. He hadn't dwelt on it,
chalking it up to anxiety about tonight's work, but now it returned,
stoked by Kit's words.
"What kind of vibe?"
"I don't know. It's just a bad feeling, okay? It doesn't matter. Let's just
go. I'm tired of watching you fidget."
"I wasn't-" He took a deep breath. "Fine, I'm ready."
"Good. See you outside." She sank through the floor.
Sometimes I wish she was real. Caim undid the locks securing his door. So I could wring her pretty little neck.
He peered out. The hallway was empty. He pulled the hood of the
cloak over his head as he slipped down the corridor.
Kit joined him on the city's mist-shrouded streets. She whistled an
eerie tune while she skipped beside him. It sounded like a funeral march.
He considered asking her to shut up, but knew it would only encourage
her to whistle louder. At least it was a good night for working. A blanket
of clouds occluded the stars. The moon peeked out every few minutes,
only to be hidden again behind the shroud of dark.
He took a roundabout way to the target as a matter of habit. There
were few pedestrians about. As winter approached and the days grew
shorter, people tended to make their way home earlier, but Caim enjoyed
the brisk weather. People closed their minds to the outdoors when the
temperature dropped; sentries spent more time seeking warmth than
manning their posts.
He paused at the Processional. The broad avenue continued downtown to the Forum. The minarets of prayer towers jutted above the stately roofs of government buildings, all silent at this hour. Beyond them and
taller still rose the unfinished towers of the new cathedral. Fires burned at
the zenith of every overlook, proclaiming the supremacy of the True
Church for all to see.
Caim crouched behind the weathered statue of a dead civic hero festooned with pigeon droppings as a patrol of night watchmen marched along
the thoroughfare. Their spear butts struck the ancient cobbles like the
hooves of a forty-legged beast. When they passed from sight, he darted
across, just another gray shadow in the twilight. A six-foot wall ran along
the other side of the street, intended to keep out the riffraff, but it was
broken by so many gates and posterns, most of them unguarded, as to make
for no barrier at all. Once on the other side, he was inside High Town.
Caim kept to the smaller avenues and avoided the wider boulevards
that crisscrossed the burg like the warp and weft of a weaver's loom. Glass
lamps lit the tree-lined
color of old dishwater, over his shoulders. He'd let his whiskers grow; the
stubble would make his face more difficult to distinguish in the dark.
He turned around to see Kit, levitating above his bed. She wore a
short emerald dress. Sparkles danced across her chest.
"I confess," she said. "I still don't understand why you're going along
with this. Even after throwing most of your money away, you've got
enough to last for weeks, maybe months the way you live." Her eyebrows
rose in wry disapproval as she looked around the apartment.
He didn't feel like a debate. His mind was already working the job,
combing through the details for anything he might have missed,
checking every angle for flaws.
"Mathias was in a bad spot. I took the job as a favor. What else is there
to say?"
"And when has that overstuffed bladder ever done you any favors? He
treats you like a half-trained wolfhound. He snaps his fingers and you
jump to do his bidding."
Caim grabbed the rest of his gear and headed for the door. "You know
better than that."
Kit flipped her hair as she followed after him. "All right, I don't want
you to go out tonight. There's a strange vibe in the city."
Caim paused at the door. He had felt something when he first woke
up-a raw, indeterminate feeling of dread. He hadn't dwelt on it,
chalking it up to anxiety about tonight's work, but now it returned,
stoked by Kit's words.
"What kind of vibe?"
"I don't know. It's just a bad feeling, okay? It doesn't matter. Let's just
go. I'm tired of watching you fidget."
"I wasn't-" He took a deep breath. "Fine, I'm ready."
"Good. See you outside." She sank through the floor.
Sometimes I wish she was real. Caim undid the locks securing his door. So I could wring her pretty little neck.
He peered out. The hallway was empty. He pulled the hood of the
cloak over his head as he slipped down the corridor.
Kit joined him on the city's mist-shrouded streets. She whistled an
eerie tune while she skipped beside him. It sounded like a funeral march.
He considered asking her to shut up, but knew it would only encourage
her to whistle louder. At least it was a good night for working. A blanket
of clouds occluded the stars. The moon peeked out every few minutes,
only to be hidden again behind the shroud of dark.
He took a roundabout way to the target as a matter of habit. There
were few pedestrians about. As winter approached and the days grew
shorter, people tended to make their way home earlier, but Caim enjoyed
the brisk weather. People closed their minds to the outdoors when the
temperature dropped; sentries spent more time seeking warmth than
manning their posts.
He paused at the Processional. The broad avenue continued downtown to the Forum. The minarets of prayer towers jutted above the stately roofs of government buildings, all silent at this hour. Beyond them and
taller still rose the unfinished towers of the new cathedral. Fires burned at
the zenith of every overlook, proclaiming the supremacy of the True
Church for all to see.
Caim crouched behind the weathered statue of a dead civic hero festooned with pigeon droppings as a patrol of night watchmen marched along
the thoroughfare. Their spear butts struck the ancient cobbles like the
hooves of a forty-legged beast. When they passed from sight, he darted
across, just another gray shadow in the twilight. A six-foot wall ran along
the other side of the street, intended to keep out the riffraff, but it was
broken by so many gates and posterns, most of them unguarded, as to make
for no barrier at all. Once on the other side, he was inside High Town.
Caim kept to the smaller avenues and avoided the wider boulevards
that crisscrossed the burg like the warp and weft of a weaver's loom. Glass
lamps lit the tree-lined
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