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Baron Assassin: Chapters 3-4
🕑 Added 2025-08-09 23:06:35 +0000 UTCChapter 3
“His name is Darim Conswin,” said the skinny fool between shuddering breaths.
Varal noted that name down in a small notebook. He narrowed his eyes at the limp form of the large fool. He’d lost consciousness when Varal had driven a dagger through his kneecap, but that had been a while ago. The assassin suspected the man might be feigning unconsciousness. He walked over and kicked the man in the small of the back. Other than a faint groan, there was no response.
“I guess he’s not faking,” said Varal before returning to his chair. “Please tell me more about this Darim Conswin.”
“Please don’t make me talk. He’ll kill me.”
“Don’t delude yourself. You will not leave this room alive. That was always your fate. The only question is the amount suffering you wish to endure before I decide to release you from that torment. Incidentally, we’re swiftly approaching the time when I start removing, well, more body parts.”
The man clutched at his stump and started hyperventilating. Varal had gone easier on that one with the lash, but he was still a bloody mess.
“Now, tell me more about this Darim Conswin. Where do I find him? What is his business?”
“Slavery. His business is slavery.”
“I thought slavery was illegal in this kingdom.”
“It is. He grabs children. Takes them across the border.”
“Is that why you were chasing the girl? To sell her?”
“Yes.”
In a way, Varal was a little disappointed. He’d thought that there had to be something more to all of it than simple happenstance, but it seemed like that was it.
“And why were you chasing her in the middle of the night.”
“We just stumbled across her.”
“Did she ask you for help?”
The fool shrank back from whatever he saw in Varal’s face.
“Yes.”
“And where does this Conswin do his business from?”
“The slums. He has a building there. Lots of orphans. Kids no one will miss. He has us gather them up until he has enough. Then they get sent away.”
“And just how do wagons full of children leave this city without any questions?”
“I don’t know.”
“I took a hand last time,” observed Varal. “What do you think? Maybe an ear this time?”
“I don’t know! I swear to the goddess that I don’t know! Maybe he has a deal with the city guards or a noble. All I know is that he gets them out!”
Varal sighed internally. He supposed it had been too much to hope that the fool would know those kinds of details. If he did, the man probably wouldn’t have been assigned to round up children in the middle of the night. Thinking for a moment, the assassin changed tac
“Where is this building?”
“It’s near the church. Big place. Looks boarded up, but that’s where he keeps them.”
“Why there? It seems as though the priests, priestesses, and acolytes would be the people most invested in finding those lost children.”
“They are. He thinks—” the fool trailed off.
“He thinks what?”
“Conswin thinks it’s funny to keep them there, knowing that the people from the church might well be searching for those children.”
Varal wasn’t sure what to make of all that. On the one hand, it spoke to a certain ineptitude on the part of the Church. However, they were religion specialists, not trackers, hunters, or investigators. They could only act on the information they had or could uncover, and it seemed that Conswin was adept at keeping his people quiet. As for the child slavery ringleader, he seemed to carry a sadistic streak. Not that Varal felt like he was in a good position to judge someone for that. He didn’t generally take joy in the suffering of others, but he was often indifferent to it. An assassin had to be. Otherwise, they simply couldn’t do their job.
Except, this time, he didn’t feel indifferent. It was a hazy and unfamiliar experience, but he finally identified it as anger. He wondered if it was just that the little girl had asked him for help. That didn’t feel right, though. It wasn’t unusual for the children of the slums to beg anyone and everyone for help. He’d long ago learned to harden himself to those pleas. Most adults in the capital had to, or they’d find themselves slowly bled to bankruptcy. There were too many in some kind of need for any one person to help them all. Well, perhaps the king could do something with the aid of the royal treasury, but anyone else would be overwhelmed.
Perhaps his own motives would remain opaque to him. What Varal did know was that he didn’t intend to let this particular problem fester. He’d seen enough of the poverty-stricken to know that they didn’t love their children any less than the aristocrats. In many cases, he would have wagered that they loved them substantially more. Having their children disappear was a type of suffering that even he found unjust. It also made him question the sanity of the goddess. Then again, he’d never had much to do with the church or the goddess. Maybe there was some explanation for her seeming blindness to this sort of thing. He just couldn’t imagine what it might be.
Whatever the case might be, he decided he had enough information to go on now. Plus, there was a good chance the little girl was going to wake up soon. The last thing he needed was for her to regain consciousness in a strange place and panic. That could lead to some awkward questions he didn’t especially feel like answering. No, it would definitely be better if he was there when she woke up. That was assuming she remembered him. The girl had been badly frightened, injured, and then healed. Everything that happened the night before might well be a blur in her memory. Oh well, he thought. If it is, I’ll just have to remind her before she starts yelling enough to draw attention. The fool with the stump started fidgeting enough that it drew Varal’s attention.
“You’re going to kill me now, aren’t you?” asked the man in a quavering voice.
“I am,” agreed the assassin. “But you did answer my questions. So, I’ll give you this one mercy.”
Varal stood up, reached into a pocket, and pulled out a small vial.
“What’s that?” asked the fool.
“Poison. But not the kind that makes you suffer. It’s the kind that just makes you drift away and never wake up.”
“What about—” the man’s eyes tracked to unconscious form on the floor.
“He’s not really your problem anymore,” said Varal. “I know some men want to see it coming. So, I’ll let you pick. Do you want the poison or the blade?”
Resignation slowly replaced fear on the man’s face.
“There really isn’t anything I can say to change your mind, is there?”
“No.”
“I’ll take the poison. No reason to pretend I’m brave now.”
Varal nodded and opened the vial.
“Open your mouth.”
The man grimaced, having perhaps imagined he could somehow turn the tables if given that vial, and then opened his mouth. Varal pressed the tip of his dagger into the side of the man’s neck as a warning not to act foolishly. The man swallowed hard, and then opened his mouth. He tipped the vial and pressed the dagger a little harder into the man’s neck, drawing a little blood.
“Swallow it,” he ordered.
It only took about a minute before the man toppled over, rendered unconscious by the poison. Varal turned to look the other fool.
“You missed your opportunity there.”
“I can’t take you,” muttered the man. “We both know that. So, do I get the same choice?”
The assassin answered by whipping his dagger through the air. It pierced the man’s back and lodged in his heart. The big man let a strangled cry of pain and surprise that was cut off when Varal drove the dagger the rest of the way in. Withdrawing the blade, he waited until both men went a little gray in death. Raising a hand, he whispered a word and unleashed a new spell.
“Obscuration.”
His magic spread through the room and even out into the surrounding buildings and streets. Assassins, at least the ones trained by his guild, had learned long ago that there was no way to completely erase the traces of their presence. Rather than labor against an impossible goal, they had developed a different method. The spell gathered up the remnant energies of anyone and everyone who had been anywhere in the vicinity of a space, pulled them back, and then churned it all together. Instead of trying to track and find one person, anyone brought in to investigate would have to contend with dozens of possibilities.
The task would be made even more difficult because most of those possibilities would include people who lived or worked nearby. The spell also helped dilute the remnant energies left behind by any single person. His energy would just be one more innocuous entry on a list. Easily explained away by him living nearby. He’d just walked by the place a few times recently on his way to or from somewhere else. Perhaps he’d touched the wall outside and his energy had seeped into the room. Who could tell? He would need to dispose of the barb lash elsewhere. In a place it wouldn’t be found soon. Perhaps he could drop it into the river, assuming it wasn’t iced over.
Those were the thoughts that occupied him as he extended his senses to ensure he wouldn’t be observed leaving the building. It getting close enough to morning that at least some people might be awake. He didn’t feel anyone or anything to suggest he would be observed and slipped out into the night. Once outside, he simply adopted a casual air and walked toward his home. Someone might find it a little odd for him to be arriving home at this hour, but not so odd as to be remarkable. He’d been astounded in his first years as an assassin just how hard people would work to explain away things that didn’t fit in with their expectations. Once they found that explanation inside themselves, it was easy for them to forget since it had returned to the realm of the mundane. That tendency was possibly the greatest advantage someone like him had in evading discovery or capture.
At least, it used to be. He wasn’t sure what would happen after he paid a visit to this Conswin. Varal’s killing days might well be over after that. It was a sobering thought, but not as distressing at it had been. It was the abruptness of the change that had been thrust on him that led to resistance. Yes, he’d spent his entire life honing the skills of a killer, but it wasn’t as though he found any particular delight in ending people’s lives. It wasn’t something he did because he had a passion for death. It had just been the work he knew how to do. Yet, as he thought about, he realized that Erstwhon had been right.
He could just go do something else. Or do nothing at all. It wasn’t as though he had expensive tastes or excessive needs. Even without the money the guild master had arranged for him, Varal was fairly certain that his business interests were more than sufficient to support him. He also had several carefully secured locations where he’d stashed money from his work as an assassin. In truth, he could probably live out his days quite comfortably with minimal effort. Yet, the thought of doing nothing made him shudder. Magic users had long lives, and those who worked to improve their magic longer still.
He had worked very hard to strengthen the quality and quantity of his magic. Given the nature of his work, Varal hadn’t been eager to compare his magic to that of others. That left him somewhat at a loss as to how to evaluate his own potential longevity. While it felt a little ludicrous to entertain the idea, centuries weren’t outside the realm of possibility. If he continued to strengthen his magic, that possibility could very well become the reality. He couldn’t idle away that much time the way some nobles seemed determined to do. He would need to find a way to occupy himself. As he climbed the stairs to his modest home, he asked himself, What will I do with my time now?
Chapter 4
Varal finally registered that he was tired when the warm air inside hit him. It wasn’t crippling exhaustion, but he had been up for nearly twenty-four straight hours. That was starting to push the boundary, even for someone enjoying the benefits of a magically-enhanced body. Experience told him that it would be another full day before his thinking started to become compromised. Nonetheless, a nap sounded very appealing. Of course, the only place to sleep was currently occupied by a small child. A small child who would likely wake up soon and, according to the healer, require food. He resisted the urge to simply stretch out on the floor. Varal made himself tea instead. After drinking two cups, he started to search through his small kitchen for things that would be easy to eat.
That proved something of a challenge. He didn’t normally keep a lot of food in the small apartment. While Erstwhon and Gibon had trained him in a great many things, his cooking skills were barely adequate. He could fry meat or boil vegetables. If truly desperate, he could make something that was porridge-like. Varal generally found it more convenient to find a tavern or inn around meal time and order a meal. The quality was generally better than anything he could make. The search wasn’t a complete failure. He found half a loaf of bread, some hard cheese, and an apple.
He was looking at some dried meat that he couldn’t even recall buying when he heard rustling from the other room. He decided not to give it to the girl. There was no reason to chance making her sick after he’d gone through all the trouble of getting her healed. A new reality struck him then. He had no idea how to talk to a child. At least, he didn’t know anything beyond telling them to go away. There hadn’t been any other children in the guild. He needed information from this child, and he couldn’t just scare her to get it. Well, he thought, I suppose I could. It’s not likely to end well.
A shred of reason pierced through the slowly growing discomfort and mild panic. The girl probably wouldn’t respond well to him looming over her. Nobody liked that. Walking over to the small table where he’d put the food, he sat down and poured another cup of tea. It was the least threatening he knew how to be. It took several, seemingly eternal minutes before the girl peeked out around the door. She saw him, let out a terrified little squeak, and retreated back into the room. That response actually relieved some of Varal’s uncertainty. The girl was acting like a frightened animal. He at least had some idea how to deal with that. He advised himself to be patient and calm. After a minute or two, the girl peeked back out at him. She looked scared and uncertain. He took another sip of tea and then spoke in a measured tone.
“Do you remember me?” he asked.
The girl shook her head.
“We met last night. You asked me to help your Mama.”
The girl’s eyes went wide, and she took a few steps into the common room.
“Where’s Mama?” she almost shouted, tears welling up in her eyes.
“I don’t know,” he said, before pushing the bread a little toward the other side of the table. “Why don’t you eat something, and tell me where you live. Then, we can go and see her.”
The child looked like she might protest, but a grumbling, gurgling sound from her belly cut that short. She was staring at the bread with the kind of intensity usually reserved for life-and-death fights. Yet, for all that intensity, she didn’t move toward the table. Varal resisted the urge to frown, worried that it might send the girl scurrying for shelter in the bedroom.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
The girl nodded, her eyes never leaving the bread, but words drifted across the room in a tiny voice.
“Can’t pay.”
“You don’t need to pay for this food,” he said.
Varal wasn’t sure that she actually believed him, but another rumble from her stomach seemed to settle the matter. She almost ran across the room, snatched up the bread, and took a huge bite. After watching her swallow several bites, he slowly stood and fetched a water pitcher and glass. He filled the glass and pushed it across the table. The girl put down the bread, wrapped both her little hands around the cup, and drank half the water. Then, she snatched up the apple and began wolfing it down. He wasn’t sure she actually chewed the pieces of fruit at all. He worried that she was going to eat so much so fast that she’d make herself ill.
Despite that, he couldn’t quite bring himself to tell her to stop. He doubted she could if she was that hungry. After a couple of minutes, her pace slowed dramatically. That much was a relief. Unfortunately, her single-minded focus on the food was replaced with very suspicious looks his way. He just waited and kept sipping at his tea. She finally stopped eating, but he noticed that she hugged the remaining bread to her chest like it might disappear if it left her hands. The assassin wasn’t a sentimental man, but seeing that frail little girl desperately clinging to the bread struck him as particularly sad.
“Where’s Mama?” asked the girl in that same tiny voice after they stared at each other for several seconds.
“You’ll have to tell me,” said Varal.
The girl looked around with a hopeful expression, as though her mother might be hiding somewhere in the small room. With no maternal figure in sight, tears started to well up in the girl’s big blue eyes again. The last thing Varal wanted was for the child to begin weeping. He truly wouldn’t know what to do if that happened. He hurriedly filled the silence.
“What’s your name?”
She blinked at him a few times, her bottom lip starting to poke out a bit and said, “Marida.”
“Well, Marida, I think I have an idea about what part of the city you live in. If we get close to where you live, do you think you’ll remember?”
Marida thought long and hard about that before she hesitantly nodded. Varal wasn’t at all convinced that she’d even understood the question, but he suspected it was the best he was going to do. He couldn’t help but wonder just far how did she run before she found him. However, knowing the general area where the dead fools had been operating should narrow it down. He supposed he could even inquire at the church if he absolutely had to. They might know the girl or where to find her mother. Of course, the next problem was what the girl was wearing. It still far too cold out for her plain worn dress. Even if they rode in a carriage, it would probably prove too much now that the child wasn’t in a complete panic.
Nor did he have any real idea of where he might acquire clothes for her. If it was another man, certainly, but not for a little girl. He’d just have to make due do as well as he could. When Marida started hugging the bread even tighter and rocking from side to side, he was pretty sure he’d been silent for too long.
“You’ll need something warm to wrap up in when we go outside,” he said. “Let me see if I can find something.”
He rose from the table, which made the girl shrink back a little. He made a point to walk wide around her. Her eyes tracked him the entire way as he entered the small bedroom. He dug through his clothes looking for something, anything, that he could give the child to wear. He finally found a heavy shirt. It would probably be as long as a dress on her, but it would provide some protection. Of course, she didn’t have any shoes to wear. He truly couldn’t do anything about that, other than give her a pair of heavy woolen socks that would also be terribly oversized.
It was a trial to get her to put the shirt on over her ragged dress. He was forced to use string to secure the socks. An action that took a lot of coaxing and barely suppressed frustration on his part. He genuinely didn’t know how parents managed all of these things before he remembered that they likely avoided such problems by getting things that fit their children. The last step was draping a blanket around the girl. It wasn’t even a very big blanket, but it still seemed on the verge of swallowing Marida whole.
Getting her outside seemed to relieve some of the girl’s fears, although he didn’t fully understand why. Maybe she just felt less threatened when she could see the sky. It still took some effort to get hail a carriage and get her situated inside. He almost had to argue with the driver to take them to the slums and finally resorted to vastly overpaying the man. Marida studied the inside of the cab with eyes that were intensely curious but fearful. It was as if she feared to touch anything. When they got into the slums, Marida’s eyes widened. She started to look around with purpose. She reached out and started yanking on his sleeve and pointing.
“Driver, stop,” ordered Varal.
He looked at the dilapidated building the girl was pointing at.
“You live there?” he asked.
She nodded fervently and started trying to climb over him to get out. He slipped out of the carriage and, after one look at the slush on the ground, made the decision to carry the girl to the steps. No sooner was she clear than then driver took off with the carriage, clearly uninterested in waiting for this particular fare. He spared the retreating carriage a glare before he followed the girl inside. It was clear that this building hadn’t been cleaned in a very long time. The poorly lit stairs creaked ominously as he climbed them behind the girl. She crashed through a door on the second floor that hadn’t been properly latched. He quickened his pace, since an unlatched door rarely heralded anything good in his experience.
What furniture there was in the room looked more like trash to him. And there was the smell of death. Not the iron tang in the air that might suggest spilled blood, but the miasma of long illness. He saw the girl shaking a still form on a kind of makeshift pallet of threadbare blankets.
“Mama! Mama, wake up. Wake up.”
Varal knew with one look that the woman was never going to wake up. Her skin was a gray that only came when life had gone. The assassin wasn’t sure what to do. He’d never been on this side of a death before. He thought that there must be some process or procedure to it when someone died of illness. Surely, there had to be someone who’s profession it was to dispose of the dead. Then again, such people might not bother to practice their trade in the slums, where people struggled to pay for food. Maybe this was what the church was for. He went back out into the hall and looked around. He walked to the next door and knocked on it rather firmly. The door opened a crack and bitter-looking woman with white hair glared at him with one eye.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
He held up a silver coin. That got her attention. She opened the door a little more.
“The woman next door has died. Go and fetch a priest, or whoever it is that handles bodies,” he said before adding another thought. “And orphans.”
“Tara died?” asked the woman suspiciously. “How?”
“Illness, I assume.”
The woman grimaced before she nodded. She reached out for the coin, and he let her take it. He fixed her with a hard look.
“Quickly, if you please.”
“Aye. I’ll be quick as I can.”
He went back into the room where Marida was kneeling next to the corpse of her mother. She wasn’t shaking the body anymore. She heard or sensed him because she turned to give him a pleading look.
“Mama won’t wake up.”
Whatever fear she’d had of him seemed to have evaporated when he returned her to her home. Now, somehow, she’d apparently come to see him as someone who could fix things. He glanced at the door. Varan knew that no one else was going to arrive swiftly enough to take responsibility for explaining this hard fact of life to the girl. Sighing a little, he went over and crouched next to Marida.
“I’m sorry. She isn’t going to wake up. She was sick, wasn’t she?”
The girl looked from him back to her mother’s body and nodded.
“Well, sometimes, when people are sick, they don’t get better. That’s what happened to your mother. Instead of getting better, she died.”
Varal was certain that someone else would have done a better job of that. It seemed that girl was familiar with the idea of death, even if she wasn’t practiced at recognizing it. She threw herself at him and started sobbing. The assassin abruptly found that he had no idea what to do with his hands. He had no experience at offering comfort, or whatever it was that a heartbroken child needed at a moment like this. Left an impasse brought on by ignorance, he did nothing. He just crouched there and let the girl sob into his coat while he wished that the old woman would bring someone soon. Finally, he heard someone climbing the stairs. He looked back at the door to see a stern man who took the room in at a glance.
“Poor Tara,” muttered the man.
Varal frowned. He thought that if pity should go anywhere, it should rightly go to the crying child.
Comments
Marcus Martin
I like this one!
Seriously
This is better than all your other stories, and they are all excellent.
