Page 6 of The Barbarian King's Assassin (Magic and Kings 1)
“The master asked to not be disturbed.”
“By everyone else. He won’t mind a visit from his top journeyer and adopted orphan. Don’t worry, I’ll put in a good word for you.” I winked. “Be sure to have my funds deposited in my account before morning. I might have some shopping to do.”
A caravan had recently arrived with goods. Maybe some new blades. I could always use more. Maybe some armor, too.
I could feel Benji’s glare burning into my back. The man never did like me even as he used me. He hated the master, too, because he’d been positioned to become leader until Jrijori arrived. He’d transferred from another guild and took over as master. Benji couldn’t rise any higher without fighting. He bided his time, which was why he didn’t deserve the position. Only the strongest should lead a guild of killers.
This wasn’t the first guild Jrijori took over since he’d rescued me. In the beginning, he’d freelanced in a city, only to realize the steady gig would profit us more in the long run. He joined a guild. Didn’t like taking orders so he rose in the ranks and took over. Once master, it wasn’t hard to transfer that reputation when we moved to new places. As to when and why we moved, it was random, with Jrijori suddenly announcing the relocation. Aluztha had been the place we’d stayed in longest. A steady home with a few friends. The ones I’d carefully allowed to get close had moved on from the bounty hunting and the assassination game to form families and start boring businesses. How did a man who could accurately shoot a bow farther than should be possible sell cheese and look happy?
I had no interest in settling down with anyone. No children desired either. They made me uncomfortable. Especially the small ones. I preferred the older ones, the teens who could understand if I gave them an order.
The main guild hall held a few long rows of tables and chairs. Most were empty, but not because the mercenaries living here had jobs. Recruitment numbers were down. Lack of work because the city had gotten too nice. Stupid sultan, bringing peace and order to the country.
My steps took me to the middle of the room, where a set of stairs rose, zigzagging to the next floor and the sleeping quarters for those who lived inside the guild. Not me. I had my own place rather than a closet-sized room.
The stairs went up another level, the third floor being turret-like with an excellent view of the city. But I eschewed the climb. Why knock on the master’s door like a normal person and wait for him to bid me entry? He’d expect better from me. After all, he’d taught meDon’t ever be predictable.
It reminded me of the first time we met in that dungeon.
“I accept,” I’d said with no hesitation. After all, he offered me a way out of that cell.
“It won’t be an easy life, nor a gentle one,” he countered.
“Still better than dying. And I’m not afraid of hard work.”
“You will have to work hard. There is much to learn when it comes to being an assassin.”
My eyes widened. “You kill bad people?”
Apparently not the right thing to say, which resulted in a chilly reply. “That would be a vigilante. I am an assassin.”
“What’s the difference?” I’d asked, curious because the two seemed the same.
“An assassin acts for money, not a cause.”
At the time, my nine-year-old self didn’t grasp the difference and didn’t care. I glanced at my hands, still stained in blood, my clothes crusted in it. I should probably feel remorse about what I’d done. I didn’t. Just wished I’d been faster so my mother didn’t have to die.
“Teach me how to kill,” I said. Because, while young, I understood only luck kept me alive.
“First lesson is that the meting out of death is an art.”
My nose wrinkled. “I’m not good at art.”
He actually chuckled. “And yet you painted a vivid canvas from what I heard. With my guidance, I’ll teach you how to conduct masterpieces using the right tools.” And as if to compound his point, he pulled free a short blade comprised of a strange, dark substance that didn’t glint despite the single torch left lit.
“What kind of metal is that?” I’d only ever seen the gray kind, dull or shiny depending on its use.
“It’s elekium, an element so strong it can only be forged in the heart of a volcano.”
“Is it sharp?”
“You tell me.” He’d swung his blade across the bars. Once high. The second time, low.
It barely made a sound, and nothing happened. “Did you miss?”
“Do you often ask stupid questions?” As if his disdain were a signal, the bars he’d sliced across fell out, tumbling to the floor in a clatter.
A glance over my shoulder showed everyone still sleeping. Odd. Then again, this entire evening hadn’t gone as imagined.