The bay of Caso was blanketed in moonlight as the small Careyago trade ship sailed into the harbour. The masts and hulls of the countless ships cast long scars of shadow across the dark water. Illum stone beacons punctuated each vessel’s place in the dark. Soft waves lapped along the hull. Aboard, Bartiin Foxstring of Gaag and his troupe of Careyago mercenaries prepared to make land and to finally eliminate Aramuk and Ohacha Krimas. Bartiin stood at the foredeck, magnificent hat perched proudly atop his head. He watched patiently as their small craft maneuvered through the busy port towards the southern docks between the fortress perched high above the clifftop and the blue-domed palaces that glowed in the night.

The boat creaked loudly as it pulled alongside the wooden dock. Half a dozen sailors and soldiers leapt over the gunnels onto the dock with a practiced ease, despite the darkness, and managed to pull her in and tie the ship down. A warm circle of lanternlight revealed an approaching figure. Bartiin descended the gangplank and intercepted the man under the light of the lantern and the moon. It was the wharfinger, as made clear by the ledger, badge, and air of self-importance. Despite the late hour, the man looked eager for someone to hassle.

“Port of origin?” the wharfinger asked in Tralang, stylus at the ready.

Good evening to you too. “Ayaan” Bartiin lied. They had agreed it wiser not to register the ship as Gaagian, lest it raise suspicion from Aramuk. He was ever vigilant.

“Are you the owner or the captain?” The man asked, eyeing the sword at Bartiin’s hip.

“Neither” Bartiin answered. “I’m the merchant who’s chartered this vessel.”

The wharfinger judged him suspiciously, “What business do you have in Casoya?”

“A bit of everything” Bartiin said, a half truth. “I’ve got some items to sell at the Casoyan Auction House. I’m looking for some new equipment. And, I’ve got some old acquaintances in the city that I intend to visit.”

The wharfinger gave Bartiin a look that suggested he didn’t believe they had anything valuable enough aboard to warrant making it to the auction. To his credit, the man scribbled down on the ledger and kept his comments to himself. “Make sure you book an appointment at the Auction House,” he said, not looking up from the ledger, “The guild won’t let you show up the day of.

“Of course,” Bartiin replied.

“How do you want to pay?” the man asked.

“I’ve got imperial coins” Bartiin said.

“Careyago?” the man scoffed. “It’s two imperial golds per month to dock here in the Spires. That’s a hundred-eighty in silver or forty-five a week. If that’s too high…”

Bartiin drew out a pouch of coins and drew out a handful of stamped imperial golds and placed two in the man’s palm. “These are for the first month, and this one” he added, holding out a second gold coin, “is for you to forgo the inspection of cargo.”

The wharfinger eyed Bartiin with new interest. He pocketed the extra coin with greedy fingers.

“Let’s go ashore” Bartiin said, gesturing the man away from the ship.

“Got somewhere to be this late?” the wharfinger asked. He glanced a quick side-eye at the ship.

“Asleep” Bartiin answered. “In a real bed.” The two men walked together in silence down the dock. Their boots knocked hollow steps along the planks. Waves lapped softly against the wooden piers and perished along the rocks revealed at low tide beneath the cobbled quay wall. The wharfinger turned to enter a little shack on the side of the docks. Inside, a pair of soldiers were playing cards while a third napped with feet perched high on a table. The two soldiers only spared him a momentary glance before returning to their game.

Bartiin ambled alone into the dark and unfamiliar Casoyan streets, led forward only by directions committed to memory. Following the shoreline, Bartiin passed by the numerous sailor’s inns and taverns. Sailor’s snares stood outside in redolent dresses, their beauty the invitation to merriment and perhaps a little more. But never for free. Other men, drunk on new wages as much as any liquor, often found themselves with little left after the evening was done.

Bartiin kept his eyes fixed ahead. He reached the plaza with the polished black stone obelisk at its heart, the first way-marker on his way to the embassy. It was empty this time of night. No merchants manned the skeleton stalls. Windows remained mostly dark. The few people who milled around in the darkness looked up to no good. Voices and rattles of soldiers echoed from the steep path up to the fortress. At the sound, a dark slender figure slinked into an alleyway. A pair of figures separated, keen on remaining undisturbed.

From the plaza, Bartiin followed the street opposite fortress hill, one hand hovering close to the sword he kept at his side. Two blocks inland, Bartiin found the place he was looking for. The building was old, like the others in the neighbourhood, and had a set of dark stone steps leading to a landing. Above the doorway, burned onto a wooden sign lay the emperor’s sigil. The Careyago Embassy. He rapped on the firm wooden door with his knuckles and immediately regretted the choice. He hammered with his fist instead and the door flew open despite its heft. A man stood, filling the portal. Not the ambassador, Bartiin puzzled, the ambassador is a woman.

The stranger spoke to him in a foreign tongue. Bartiin stared back, blank-faced. The man switched languages again. This time, Bartiin recognized the sounds as Careyago but still didn’t understand their meaning. Bartiin used the only Careyago phrase he knew, and asked to speak in the trader’s tongue.

The man eyed him suspiciously, gaze lingering on the large hat. Bartiin started to wonder if this were a Casoyan normality, or if he simply looked untrustworthy for some reason.

“How can I help you, sir?” the man repeated, this time in Tralang.

“I am here to meet with Ambassador Durali. I’ve come under the direction of Atipo Waliimanad and Governor Krimas of Gaag” he said, presenting a sealed parchment pulled from his pocket. The parchment was smooth and luxurious and Bartiin felt remorse in having to give it away.

The strange man broke the seal and opened the letter to read its contents. Bartiin stood awkwardly in the doorway as the man read the letter. The man’s eyes darted up and down between the parchment and Bartiin’s face. He smiled, trying to appear non-threatening. “Please, come inside” the man said. “I’ll fetch the ambassador. Remove your boots and wait in the parlor.”

“Ah, thank you” Bartiin said, finding a bench in the landing. He sat and removed his boots, then wandered into the parlour. The room was filled with fine wooden furniture and a plush upholstered bench the colour of shallow seas. On the walls hung paintings and maps, indicative of the empire a world away. A few long and quiet minutes later, the man returned with a woman, the two of them descending down the staircase.

“A bit late for a visit” the woman said, entering the room. Her eyes revealed that she had been woken for this, as did the large shawl draped around her body that did little to disguise the fact that she hadn’t been dressed for company.  “My name is Hina” she said, “Ambassador of the Careyago Empire to the Casoyan Patzaucracy.”

“I am Bartiin. My sincerest apologies for disturbing you at this late hour” Bartiin said. The two of them spent a moment, sizing each other up in the dim light as she took her seat and settled in to the opposing chair. She was older than he was, but not by much, and had the distinct features of the Careyago of Cayanoshi, the capital. The round face, round eyes, and strong nose prominent with northerners. Her hair was lighter than his own and very curly. He wondered what she saw as she looked at him. Bartiin removed his hat.

“This couldn’t wait until morning?”

“My business here differs from what was written on that parchment” Bartiin explained.

“I know” she responded, “I recognized the code. What is it you’ve actually come here for?”

“A group of men, enemies to the empire, are slated to arrive in Caso very soon” Bartiin said. “I have been tasked with killing them.”

“Who are they?” she asked, leaning back in her seat.

“The last surviving members of the Krimas dynasty” he answered.

“And who has sanctioned this attack?”

“Governor Belvaas the younger–”

“Who has no authority here” she cut in.

“Under the direction of the emperor himself” he finished.

“Ah,” she said, taken aback. “That makes things a little clearer. I saw Atipo’s signature beside your governor’s. This is his plan?”

“He was involved” Bartiin said.

That seemed to satisfy her concern. “What is the threat?”

“They still hold power and loyalty in Gaag” Bartiin said. “So long as they continue to drum up support against imperial rule, there will be a risk of uprising. Their mission is to reclaim Gaag and they have the resources and connections to make an attempt at it. I was there; the last invasion came much closer to succeeding than the imperial historians will ever admit.”

“What is the plan to eliminate them?”

“A local” Bartiin answered. “Somebody capable of getting it done. Preferably one we can make disappear afterwards. The princes have strong bodyguards, including a Ayaani master Aginjigaade. It’s important that you and I have limited direct involvement.” The man who answered the door entered with a cup of water for each of them, placing the hot water on a low central table between them.

Hina looked down but didn’t move to pick up her steaming cup. “I have some contenders in mind, but I can’t be involved in contact” she said. “Gold rules this city. So long as you have some to spend, I can pull political strings as needed. The Council of Patzaus are generally suspicious of everything Careyago, but they also tend to ignore those hesitations when it comes to favourable business arrangements.”

“Thank you for your support. These targets have been… elusive for some time. Our previous assassination attempt utilized the emperor’s own assassins.”

The ambassador looked aghast. “And these men survived?” she asked.

Bartiin lifted his cup to his mouth and drank, nodding in answer. It was warm to the touch.

“How many assassins?” she asked.

“Four”

“They escaped four of the emperor’s assassins?” Hina repeated, disbelieving. “I’m beginning to believe this task is more difficult than you first led on. I’ll speak to my contacts and see what options we have. There are a few powerful gangs that control the slums outside the city walls in Mudtown, they’d take the contract in a heartbeat.” 

Bartiin furrowed his brows, “Perhaps somebody more capable would be better” he suggested.

“You don’t understand” Hina said. “The gangs here are at war with the guilds. Like little armies camped under the shadow of the city. You’ll find no better killers in Caso. They’re more than capable.”

“I’d like to meet a representative. A bar or tavern will work. I’ll bring the downpayment. I look forward to working with you, Hina” Bartiin said.

Her placid face made it clear she didn’t share the sentiment. “Could you do the job yourself, Bartiin?” she asked, gesturing to the sword he’d left at the door by his boots.

“If you’re asking if I’m competent with that blade, then the answer is yes. But not competent enough to get past the Aginjigaade who can’t be cut” he answered. Nor competent enough to defeat the sword master who taught me to use it, he added to himself.

“I see” she said, leading him to the doorway. Bartiin collected his hat, drew on his boots, and attached his fine sword. “We’ll speak again soon. I’ll send messengers in the future” she said.

“I’ll share which inn I’m at once I choose one. Goodnight, ambassador” Bartiin said with a charming smile. She faked one back as he departed, then closed the door behind him.

“I have a bad feeling about this” the man said.

“As do I” she said with a tired sigh.

Heavy droplets fell from the low clouds that rolled overhead, obscuring even the rooftops above. The dry packed earth turned slick and muddy under the downpour. Fast flowing rivers formed in the middle of the streets running towards the lake as Yoharum pulled his coat tight around his body and trudged his way towards the lake gate. Turning from the muddy side streets and joining up with the stone city road that led east towards the smaller hamlets and villages out towards the mountain, Yoharum could make out the looming black structure that was the gatehouse even through the fog. Getting into the city was always the hardest part for outsiders. Fortunately, Yoharum was an expert. He had a few tricks up his sleeve to make the process easier.

The rain pattered off his hood and droplets seemed to pool just about anywhere they could. His long brown hair clung to his forehead and the droplets hung about his thick eyebrows and long eyelashes. He reached up with a wet hand to wipe both away to no great effect. Approaching the lake gate, Yoharum spotted the guards who were just as soaked through as he. Almost nobody was out in the roads today and the six men watched him approach alone. Yoharum removed his hood as he reached the gateway with its large pair of tunnels through the black-stone structure. Above the large wall, obscured by the fog, Yoharum knew there were more guards in the guardhouse.

“Miserable day” Yoharum shouted out ahead to the six guards. It was important to be the first to talk. That was the first strategy. Be the one to set the tone.

“You’ve got that right” one of them said as he approached. “Where are you coming from, friend?” the soldier asked.

“Horal” Yoharum lied. “My family’s farm is just west of the hamlet. I manage the deliveries to the market in Caso” he said.

“Horal?” the guard repeated. “In this weather?”

“It’s been a two-days walk in this weather. I had to stop in a tavern yesterday just to remember what dry feels like.”

“What have you got on you?” the soldier asked. “Any weapons?”

“No” Yoharum answered, “Just a few wax tablets to share inventory when I arrive.” This part was true, although the writing on each was fabricated. Have a reasonable story. Don’t provide too many details, but have them ready in your back pocket if needed.

“Take off your cloak” the guard said, “I want to check for weapons.”

Even under the archway of the gatehouse, the downpour of rainwater off the gatehouse roof splashed water into the most sheltered of places. Combined with the fog, nowhere felt dry. “Really?” Yoharum asked, “I’ll get soaked if we do it here. Its another hour on foot to the market. Can’t we do this in the tunnel?” This was also true, should he truly be walking to the central market. Act like you belong on the other side of the walls. If you act inconvenienced rather than combative or pandering, you’ll appear just like any another city dweller.

“Alright” the guard conceded and Yoharum followed him out of the rain. “Now, remove the coat” the guard said. Yoharum followed instructions, handing his coat to another guard to hold, and revealed his fine clothes underneath. He wore an embroidered emerald coloured undercoat with a wide flowy skirt popular with the noblemen and noblewomen inside the walls. He lifted the coat to reveal his waist. The final trick, looking the part. Smuggling weapons into the city was the mark of an amateur. It was simple enough finding weapons inside the walls if you knew where to look. The guard circled around him, looking for knives, axes, or other weapons that might be hidden on his person.

“And open your undercoat” the guard said.

Yoharum snorted in disappointment, acting up the entitlement. He complied and opened up his undercoat, which revealed the wax tablets tied inside to the jacket.

The guard gave him a once over and then gave him the okay. Yoharum collected his raincoat from the other guard and redressed for the heavy rain. “Stay warm” he said with as friendly a voice he could muster, and turned to go. He got most of the way through the tunnel when one of the guards yelled at him from behind. Fear welled in Yoharum’s heart and anxiety sent prickles across his skin. He turned to face the guard, unsure what to expect and fearing the worst. Fearing the need for violence, but not his own harm. Instinctively, he reached for his axe. A weapon he always carried, except on days like today where he travelled through the gates. His hand grasped at air where the weapon ought to be. He imagined swinging his fist hard enough to crush the man’s face. Taking the soldier’s weapon to deal with the rest. The guard stood only a few paces behind him, and reached towards Yoharum with an outstretched hand.

“You dropped this” the man said, offering one of the wax tablets.

The tension that filled Yoharum’s muscles and had his body ready to kill dissipated in an instant. His body relaxed. There would be no need to kill today. There would be no need to hide from the guild’s corruptible spies. He reached out and took the tablet from the guard. “Thank you” Yoharum said. “You are a life-saver” he added.

“Be careful” the guard said with a kind smile. “Wouldn’t want to lose that.”

“Cheers, friend” Yoharum agreed. “May the sprits bless you” he said, thanking the soldier in his most appreciative tone. He didn’t believe in such things anyway. Yoharum turned back around and tucked his head under his coat, disappearing into the misty city streets on the enemy’s side of the wall.

The heavy rains didn’t cease. Long streams of rainwater washed through the city streets, spreading the dirt and grime from the back alleys and side streets everywhere. The rain disturbed the canals and the smell of filth rose from the water. Yoharum walked along the southern canal, the one that cut through the Spires. He wrinkled his nose as he caught a waft of the disgusting water, then tucked his head lower to cover his nose. Along the canal, massive trees loomed overhead, most of them old and decrepit. Ahead, a lonely tree leaned harshly towards the rows of buildings, entirely dissimilar to the others that slumped over the canal. Yoharum stopped under the lone tree and took a gaze around him before proceeding to remove a small sack from the tree’s roots. Opening the small sack, he unwrapped and stowed a pocket knife, removing it and giving it a once over for signs of rust. When it revealed none, he stashed it away in his cloak. He returned the other objects, a few extra silvers and some flint, back into the sack and tucked them back under the tree’s roots.

Yoharum looked up, thankful for the respite from the downpour and watched as a dozen or so rain spirits danced their shimmering forms through the underbrush of the trees, catching the raindrops that made it through the foliage. He watched them, transfixed by their presence. His mother would have given them a short prayer. Yoharum hadn’t inherited her disposition. A large raindrop fell from above and hit him square in the forehead, soaking his face and getting rainwater in his eyes. He wiped his face and grumbled a curse at both the weather and the little spirits above. The spirits ceased their play and drifted away into the rain and Yoharum added himself to the list of those he cursed.

He left the canal behind and walked back the way he had come. As he rounded the bend, a woman turned the corner flanked by guards and servants who corralled a litter of children. The servants carried a tarp overhead to protect the little brats from the rain. The children, unaware of this privilege, reveled in running into the rain and back again, splashing in every puddle they came upon on the way. Yoharum watched as the eldest boy kicked his boots into the flowing stream of water and soaked the two servants in the front with murky water that stained their clothes brown. Yoharum steered clear as he past the kids, lest he be chased from the city a second time, and sympathized for the servants. They looked like him, after all. They always did.

A block past, Yoharum ducked into a portal and the intensity of rain finally lessened. He removed his hood and pushed back the wet dark hair that had clung to his skin and fell past his shoulders. He removed a cloth and wiped the water from his eyes before moving to clear the water from the rest of his face including his dark moustache and beard. The wind gusted and the sign over the door squeaked on metal hinges. Yoharum hadn’t read it as he approached, but already knew it named his destination over a drawing of the great volcano that towered over the island; Yomu’s Inn. Yomu of course, being both the powerful volcano spirit revered by the mountain people; his people, as well as the surly barman who owned the joint. Yoharum pulled back the large wooden door and the rain sounds merged with the sounds of life inside the building. The heavy door swung closed behind him and only the sounds of people chatting and drinking remained.

Yomu gazed up from behind the bar and gave Yoharum a friendly nod before going back to his business. Yoharum removed his coat and hung it by the door, then walked to the back of the room to take a table tucked away in the corner. It was busy and all the tables had a few people drinking and conversing. He put his back to the wall and leaned forwards, waiting for his company. The table wobbled and Yoharum cursed. Somebody switched my table, he grumbled. Yoharum watched as Yomu sent one of the serving girls his direction with a beautiful green glass bottle and a pair of equally fine stone cups. Yoharum recognized her. She approached him with a playfully scornful stare and Yoharum held her gaze. She was tall and chesty, with a smile that was equal parts inviting and equal parts threatening. She wore a vibrant striped sarong and an indigo blouse complete with sash.

“Somebody switched–” he started.

“Don’t get started about how somebody switched your damn table” Pola said, cutting him off. “Yomu knows you hate the wobbly table but if you haven’t already noticed, we’re damned busy today cause o’ the rain. The best he could do with little notice was save you the back table.” She placed both of the heavy polished cups down on the table with one swift hand.

“And he thinks the good cups will make up for the damned table?” Yoharum asked.

“He thinks the good wine will make up for the damned table” she dismissed. “The good cups are ‘because he doesn’t have it in ‘em to give you good wine in cheap cups.”

“I thought he had some crystal cups in the back” Yoharum bantered.

“The way you drink” she scoffed, “you’re lucky he lets you hold anything breakable.”

The two of them locked eyes, neither willing to break the tension between them. Then, at the same time the broke out laughing.

“Thank you, Pola” Yoharum said.

“Good to see you, Yoharum” she answered. “I don’t wanna know why you’re here, but I already know it ain’t good.”

“Every time I’m here its for something good” he countered. “And not just the pretty women” he added, tipping his now filled cup in cheers.

“Boy, I’m old enough to be your mama” Pola responded. She couldn’t hide the smile.

“But far too pretty to be her” Yoharum said playfully. “Pola, I’m expecting company” he added in a more serious tone. “A foreigner. Probably a man. I’m not sure what he’ll look like but I’m sure they’ll come in looking a little lost. Could you point ‘em my way?”

“I’ll keep my eyes open” Pola said.

“Thanks, Pola” Yoharum said. He brought the cup of palm wine up for a sip as Pola walked away in the direction of the bar. The wine was warm and sweet. Yomu was right, the wine made up for the table. He turned the stone cup in his hands and watched the room, waiting.

The door opened and heads glanced casually towards the entrance. Even from the far side of the room, Yoharum knew that the foreigner who entered was the man he was waiting for. He was drenched and looked around awkwardly to determine how best to deal with his coat; a military style coat. He wore an outlandishly large hat that looked soaked through. As if on cue, Yomu shouted and Pola appeared with another girl at her heels. Words were exchanged. The man turned and locked eyes with Yoharum from across the small room.

“Welcome,” Yoharum said, addressing the foreigner, “Have you eaten?” The words felt clumsy in his mouth. It had taken Yoharum years to get the hang of speaking Casoyan and years more to drop his inlander accent. He’d never needed the trader’s tongue much.

“No, I have not come to eat.” Bartiin said, pulling his wavy hair back to tie it. Pola appeared with a cloth and the man took it and wiped his face dry. Yoharum sized him up. He was a big man with a lean figure but was comfortably shorter than Yoharum. Most men were. He had an angular jaw and a large crooked nose under small beady eyes. His beard was well kept and his moustache was manicured. Under his military coat he had worn a casual shirt that revealed his chest. He had muscle, but also the clean airs of a nobleman. It was strange to Yoharum. It felt as if the man wished to come dressed in disguise, as if only changing his clothes were enough. A soldier. Or perhaps a former soldier, Yoharum reassessed, from a noble family, maybe. He was the exact type of person Yoharum usually avoided.

“I am Yoharum” Yoharum said with as little accent as he could muster in Tralang. He wasn’t confident in the language.

“Bartiin” the man responded.

“Palm wine?” Yoharum asked, leaning back and gesturing to the bottle between them.

Bartiin hesitated. “Why not?” he said and scooped up the bottle and poured himself a small cup. Bartiin didn’t hesitate to down the cup he had poured for himself. He drank it as if it were a harder alcohol. Yoharum watched. He was curious about this man and the new prospective job.

“Too sweet” Bartiin said, picking up the bottle to examine it. He turned it over in his hand, “From Mada’abi?” he asked, rhetorically. “I would have expected the wine to be as disagreeable as the people. I suppose their joy has to be funneled somewhere” he added, with a laugh and a smile that Yoharum found too friendly. Yoharum didn’t laugh. He wasn’t quite sure what part was supposed to be funny.

“The job…” Yoharum continued.

Bartiin let out a hard sigh and scratched at his beard. “Not one for conversation, are you?” Yoharum remained silent. Bartiin leaned in close and lowered his voice, “Are you involved?  in the murders?” he asked, whispering the last word.

Yoharum chewed on his cheek. When it was clear the man actually expected an answer, Yoharum simply answered, “I am involved. I will lead the attack.”

“The leader?” Bartiin mused. “Where I come from, leaders don’t get involved. Not personally, anyway. They just tell someone else what to do. I like that you get involved. No wonder you come recommended.” Bartiin smiled a charming smile, but Yoharum didn’t feel charmed. The man spoke far too quickly and his accent made understanding difficult. “I feel like I’m talking at you, not talking to you. Do you feel like I’m talking at you?” Bartiin asked.

“I do not know of the difference.” Yoharum answered, frustrated. “I do not speak Tralang very well. You do not speak Casoyan?”

“Unfortunately, I do not” Bartiin answered, “If I did, you would surely be right here along with me joining along in my merry humour and quick wit.” He poured himself another cup of wine and downed the liquid. Yoharum watched rather unimpressed.

“Who is the recipient?” Yoharum asked.

“Oh, I like that” Bartiin said. “Recipient of death. Has a good ring to it, that.” When Yoharum didn’t respond, Bartiin frowned and continued, “I need you to take care of a few evil men who seek to kill the current ruler of my homeland. There are two men, an older man and a younger man. They’re disgraced nobles, former princes to be precise. Unfortunately, it seems they’ve already slipped into the city. I was hoping to have you receive them when they arrived in the city.”

“Two men.” Yoharum repeated. “I must have names and descriptions.”

“Two men,” Bartiin agreed, “but there are five total in their party. They hail from Gaag like me. They will be dressed like noblemen or princes with soldiers and soldiers. The five men are Aramuk Krimas, Ohacha Krimas, Cask Gohara, Gaba’ké of Ayaan, and Yoliim Kulimas. I need you to eliminate the uncle and the nephew, Aramuk and Ohacha. If you can kill all five, I’ll pay extra.”

“You said two men before” Yoharum pressed.

“Those two princes will have the other three men with them.” Bartiin remarked.

Yoharum frowned, “How many soldiers?”

“Not sure anymore. My last assassins killed a lot of them” Bartiin snickered.

“You have sent others before?” Yoharum asked. “I am not the first? And these assassins failed?”

“In one way or another, yes” Bartiin answered.

“What gives you confidence that I will succeed where these others have failed?”

“The game has changed” Bartiin said with a cunning smile. “These men are on the run. In an unfamiliar city with few resources left. They’re desperate. And desperate people make mistakes.”

Yoharum poured himself another cup of the wine, then refilled Bartiin’s. “What do you want us to try?”

“We’ve tried two tactics at this point,” Bartiin said, bringing the cup up to his mouth. His voice had lost the soft concern for secrecy and his increasing volume made Yoharum less and less comfortable. “We’ve tried surprise attacks; a beggar on the street, a traitorous soldier in their ranks, a band of indebteds with nothing to lose. It never worked. Their bodyguards are too competent for that trash.  The more successful tactic we’ve tried is assaulting their most defensive positions with trained killers. This also hasn’t worked, but has yielded the most success. Two years ago, there we’re ten men. Now there are but five.”

“You wish to mix the skill of soldiers with surprise” Yoharum guessed.

“Exactly!” Yoharum said, leaning back in his chair. “These men have a habit of hiding behind walls and defenses and soldiers. I have a plan to flush them out. All I need you to do is find the right place, and move in for the kill.” He clinked the two cups together dramatically. “They’ll have money and riches. Make it look like a robbery.”

“Make it look like a robbery?” Yoharum repeated.

“Yeah” Bartiin said, waving off the question. “I don’t want it to look like an assassination. You can keep a cut of anything you manage to steal.”

Yoharum thought for a moment than gave his answer, “I am interested. How much will you pay to see the job done?”

Bartiin removed a small pouch from a pocket and dropped it hard on the table between them. The jingle of metal on metal revealed its contents. He leaned back and gestured to Yoharum to pick it up. Yoharum leaned forward and picked up the pouch. He drew back the drawstring to reveal the glimmer of gold. They were imperial mint. Careyago coins. Commonly traded amongst Casoyan merchants. Perhaps forty or fifty inside the bag. He pulled one out for a closer look. It was heavier than he expected and glinted softly under the dim candle light. Yoharum did his best to hide his excitement. This was a fortune in Mudtown. He looked up and met Bartiin’s fixed stare.

“This one pays for the attempt” Bartiin said. “There’ll be three more once it’s confirmed you’ve completed the job. Remember, the two princes matter most. And don’t think you can take off with my money. I’ll have people watching you. Do we understand each other?”

“I accept” Yoharum said. “There is no preference for method?”

“No preference.”

“How soon must this be done? Will they try to leave the city?”

“As soon as you have an opportunity, you take it.” Bartiin answered. “As I said before, I have a plan to create an opportunity. I’m not sure how long they plan to stay in the city.”

“Where can I find them?” Yoharum asked.

“In one of the rich estates by the palace.” Bartiin said. “Someone named Yohati, I think.”

“Yohati?” Yoharum repeated. He coughed on the wine he had in his throat. “Like, Patzau Yohati? One of the eight Patzau of Caso. Burrenal Yohati?”

“I don’t know” Bartiin answered. “I would presume it’s the same person. Is there another Yohati?”

“Patzau Yohati is the most powerful man in the city.” Yoharum said. “There is no person sane enough to attempt an assault on his estate. He has dozens of guards and hundreds of servants. His home is a fortress.”

“That shouldn’t be an issue, then” Bartiin said. “I don’t want you to attack his estate. We wait for princes to leave the estate and then take them down when the opportunity arises.”

Yoharum stared dumbfounded. These men are staying with Patzau Yohati. Just how powerful and protected are they in truth? What have I agreed to?

“Then I believe we are settled” Bartiin said. “Remember, kill the two princes and you’ll see the full payment. I’ll be in touch.”

Yoharum brought a hand to the gold he had stashed away in his pocket and his worries dissolved. With this much gold, I’ll never have to work another day in my life. Even after paying out each cut, this could be the last job I ever pull. “We are settled” Yoharum agreed. He leaned forward and poured the remainder of the wine into the two cups and offered Bartiin’s back to him. They clinked glasses, earning a devilish stare from Pola, who happened to walk by every time Yoharum did something against Yomu’s rules. Then they drank to their new partnership.

“Thank you for your time” Bartiin said, rising from his seat. “I have great expectations.”

“You have come to the right person” Yoharum agreed.

Bartiin rose and left the room, collecting his coat on the way out.  

Yoharum carefully slid a small gold coin from his pouch, his hands working to keep the small fortune silent. He scanned the room, but no one seemed to notice him, their attentions fixed on their own private conversations. He didn’t trust it. He knew the truth: in a city whose blood runs gold, even good people become leeches. He was certain every person in the room would turn on him for the fortune he carried, given the chance. He gripped the knife in his pocket harder than ever. Outside, the rain continued its onslaught against all things dry. Bartiin covered his head with his coat and moved slowly through the slick cobbled streets. Murky water spilled over the canal in places and pooled across the streets. It took a quarter hour to make it back to the ship through the maze-like city streets. Bartiin waved a polite hello to the soldiers that sat in the same booth at the foot of the docks. They seemed unphased by his comings and goings, but that didn’t stop Bartiin feeling uncomfortable with the fact that people were familiar with his habits. Anonymity was preferred. As he walked down the wooden dock towards the ship, a figure watched from the window off one of the sailor’s inns that faced the harbour.