210 - Brahvnikian justice in action

“So I heard this right, Cheng? You want to kill this Arkan mucky-muck right in their council chamber, while they’re in session, because that would be most fitting, even though it’s probably the best-guarded place in this whole city, other than the treasury.” I signed chalk. “Hmm… you know... I don’t think we should back you up so much as haul you back to the House of Integrity.”

“Krero, it’s three thousand gold ankaryel. Think of how many mercenaries you can sign on with that.”

“Maybe the client wants to get you killed too; he’s no less a foreigner; did you think of that?”

“He didn’t specify the place, except somewhere where he can watch. Doing it in the Praetanu is my idea.”

“Right, so you just want to kill yourself before you can get home to save Yeola-e. I understand.” I had not yet entirely learned that, with some stratagems, the best way to get them past your advisors is not to mention them until you’re in the midst, or just before. It had been inadvertent with the battle of Niah-lur-ana and my mrik game with Astalaz, but, on retrospect, worked well. Remember this, I told myself.

One should especially not mention them before one has done the needed reconnaissance, I realized, as I now had to tell him, “Krero, don’t worry; I will learn all I must know—how the place is laid out, where the guards are, and so on—before I decide for certain whether I’ll do it.” Alas, that opened the way for him to have much more influence on my decision.

One person whose influence I did seek was Mikhail; he’d know the ins and outs of the building as well as whether, for instance, the guards might be less than vigilant in catching me because my victim was an Arkan, and what the political implications would be if it came to light that the assassin was me. Knowing him, he’d have another dossier. I had a feeling he’d love the idea, but I trusted him in his careful shrewdness not to childishly shade his view of my odds because of that.

“Right in the Praetanu?” he said, when I visited him again that night. His salt-and-pepper brows disappeared under his thin fore-curls, the most expression I’d seen from him. But though he said “The thought delights me,” he didn’t smile, and went right on to say, “but it would be so much less dangerous almost anywhere else, except perhaps his house. Are you thinking just to please me by this, young Shchevenga, or to prove your own gallantry?”

“I am thinking to please you, and all Brahvniki,” I said. “And the challenge of it tempts me… maybe there’s some wish to prove my own gallantry in that. But I must know much more before I decide for certain, and I ask for your help in learning that.”

We went over what he knew right there in his office. I knew the room a little from when I’d watched them in session on my month away, but he could tell me where the guards were placed, how they were armed and so forth.

I didn’t think it would hurt to admit this in writing, but it does more than I expected: what he told me made me decide against, even though I saw a way that might work. I’d fallen in love with the idea, so I had to tell myself firmly, I am being prudent, not a coward.

The thing that persuaded me more than anything else, in truth, was that those guards were of a friendly people, not enemies, so I would be constrained against harming them; they, however, would not know who I was and so would feel no such constraint, putting me at a disadvantage against them. And if we did end up in a full fight, the ending would be disastrous either way.

At least it meant Krero would be relieved that I would do it on the street instead, instead of being horrified and worried as he would have been if I’d presented it to him that way from the start.

To this day I wonder how it would have gone differently if I had chosen the other way.

Mikhail wouldn’t let his Edremmas dossier out of his house, so he loaned me a little office in which to sit to read it. Next day I got false whiskers and a wig, straight blond solas-cut, as well as a low-brimmed hat that I showed to Mikhail so he’d know me.

Out of respect for my position and consideration for my self-defense, Ivahn had personally exempted me and my guards from the usual Brahvnikian peace-bond requirement, but I went to the peace-bonding office and had it done anyway, so as not to draw suspicion carrying Chirel. Out of sight, I weakened the wires so it would slightly slow my draw at the most.

The slave-market is a subject of debate in Brahvniki, as many people oppose slavery on principle while others make money at it; there is a slave-market whose size goes up and down depending on which side is prevailing in the debate. It was a pastime of Edremmas to go there every day, since, as there are dog and horse-fanciers, he was a person-fancier, and dreaded missing choice items. He travelled in a hammock-chair borne by four, with a guard of eight, all Arkans. He took the same route back to his house each day, and there were plenty of alleyways near into which one could go in a hat-wearing Arkan and come out a hooded Yeoli. I learned the routes from the place I picked on a city map, and assigned Krero, Sachara, Kunarda and Alaecha to wander near me, pretending not to know each other, in case the guards proved more than was likely.

The day was hot and dusty, sun-swirls rising from the buildings, the people in a mood to push and curse. I ambled to the designated fountain; there was Mikhail, paused as if to enjoy the water, his entourage all liveried in silver and black. Four dark-haired young women, including the one who’d led me into the place by the hand, stood close around him. It seemed they all wanted to watch, too.

I had a sudden bitter thought: I was killing for his enjoyment, just like in the Mezem. It was overwhelming for a moment; it was almost as if I could hear the oddsmakers and the hawkers yelling. I seized myself, and drove the feeling away. I was killing for his enjoyment, yes, but in this my people would benefit, and greatly. The semanakraseye of a country all but conquered must do what he must do.

The crowd ahead parted; Brahvnikians liked to steer well clear of Edremmas, it seemed, as if he stank. As I’d hoped, two of his guards had their hands full, leading a spectacular slave: she was a full head taller than me, coloured and muscled like a bronze statue but with flame-red hair, and still fighting despite their whipping her. He meant to enjoy breaking her, it seemed. I forgot that I had nothing against him other than where his loyalty lay, and the contract.

The slave was pulling the pair back and apart from his fluttering retinue of servants and hangers-on, those flea-like people who surround anyone who is both powerful and of bad character. Edremmas, who was as soft under his jewels as Mikhail had said, swung slightly in his hammock, his flank wide open. He saw Mikhail, and gave a smug smile. Mikhail gave an even more smug one back, as did all the daughters.

I took two running steps and a long leap in between two of the fleas, letting out a war-cry to freeze everyone. I drew as I leapt, into a two-hand down-stroke that went half-through him.

He couldn’t scream—I’d cut just below his ribs—but everyone else did. Six of the guards drew on me, but they were standard stock, and three backed off after seeing what happened to the first three when they came after me. The two with the slave stood still, torn between coming too late to defend their master, and holding the slave, who saw this as an opportunity and struggled with new strength. The servants and fleas all shrank away from the fight screaming and wailing in mourning, real or pretend; the bearers just stood with the hammock chair still slightly swinging, not knowing what else to do.

All around, Brahvnikians looked from Edremmas’s corpse to me, smiling, and then began snapping their fingers, which is how Brahvnikians applaud. Mikhail and his daughters did it loudest.

So I took a bow, like a dancer—Mikhail threw back his head and guffawed, which was most unlike him—and then ran like a rabbit, as I heard the shrilling whistles of the city watch.

The gathering crowd let me through out of sympathy, and them out of duty. I dashed around the first corner of my route, sheathing Chirel; two more twisting alleys and I’d throw off the hat, cloak, whiskers and wig and casually walk back out, curious as to what all the commotion was about. But across my path I found—and it would have gone perfectly if not for this—a caution-fence, beyond which the alleyway was dug out too wide to leap over and too deep for me to see the bottom. Brahvniki has sewers, at least in the rich quarters; where they were being repaired today had not been on my map.

Kyash on me for not walking it first, I cursed myself, and almost fell coming to a stop, my boot-heels scraping on the cobbles. Despair-inducingly fast and well-trained, the watch were at the corner. I dashed down a side alley, leaping over a heap of garbage and two five-year-olds playing with stone knives. More watch ahead of me; I couldn’t shed the disguise; I heard whistles all around, the tweets rhythmic, a code. Soon I was in an alley with them at both ends. I sprang for the rougher wall, but it was too smooth to climb fast enough, and as my fingers were finding an edge two man-heights up, something hooked around my foot and yanked it off the wall. I fell sliding, clawing for holds, and a dozen hands pinned me against the wall. A bill-hook half-circled my throat and a voice barked in Enchian, “We have you, assassin.” There was nothing to do but say, “I surrender,” and stop trying to move.

They shackled my wrists and ankles with ironwood rings and unslung Chirel from my shoulder, but it felt very different from being in the hands of Arkans, or Lakans for that matter. They were friends, and were doing no wrong; I’d murdered and they’d arrested me; it was justice in action, with which I couldn’t disagree.

Justice in Bravhniki is understaffed for the size of the city, but it has strict rules to incur fair trials, including a very simple and effective measure to keep the suspect from uttering words that can be used against him in court. Just as I was wondering whether it was a Praetanu or Benai jurisdiction, and what words, said without a Yeoli accent, might persuade the watch people to take me to the Benai, their commander unfastened some device from his belt and seized me by the ear. All I could get out was “No, wait, you don’t have to—” before he jammed the gag in, fastened it and sealed its clasp with something like a peace-bond, the court’s assurance that no false confession would be forced out of me.

It was the Praetanu, it turned out, for they led me to the Kreml, the building I’d decided not to kill Edremmas in. I took the less risky choice and got caught anyway, I thought, cursing myself again. I looked for Mikhail in the crowd, thinking maybe he might talk or bribe my way out, but did not see him. I was supposed to meet him tonight to take the second half of payment; his first news I’d been caught would be if I didn’t show, unless I could somehow get out before that. I couldn’t see Krero and my others as well; my orders, if I could have given any, would have been for them to stand down anyway.

They took me downstairs to a stone-lined cell, and left me bound to a bed. I tried not to be reminded of the Ministry of Internal Serenity. Two people came in, in a very short while; a woman who, by her insignia, was important, and a man assisting her.

“You’ll be pleased to know that our torturing, or torture-threatening, days are over, assassin,” she said to me in Brahvniki-accented Enchian. “There are some benefits to Arkan ways, at least when it comes to dealing with your kind.” The man laid the box that had been under his arm on the table beside the bed, and opened it, revealing the vein-needle.

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