Midnight Tides

Almost directly across from her was a side postern gate leading into Gerun Eberict’s estate. The Finadd disliked ceremony upon his return. Modesty was not the issue. More relevant, however, were the innumerable positions from which to stage an attempted assassination near the estate’s formal entrance.



None the less, there was some commotion attending Gerun’s appearance. Bodyguards drifting into the street announced his imminent arrival. Shurq melted back into the darkness as they scanned the area. Taking defensive positions around the side postern, they waited. Their officer appeared next, striding past them to unlock the gate and push it back, revealing a narrow passage that opened out into the sunlit courtyard. All at once, there were fewer citizens in the area, thinning as if by some prearranged signal until only the guards remained within the range of Shurq’s vision.



‘Don’t make me laugh,’ she muttered under her breath.



Gerun Eberict then strode into view, one hand resting on the pommel of the sword scabbarded at his left hip. He did not pause, but continued on directly into the passage. The guards swept in after him, followed at last by the officer, who then slammed the gate shut behind him.



Shurq walked further into the alley until she came to a rusty ladder more or less fixed to the wall of the building on her right. She climbed, ignoring the protests of fittings and weakened metal, until she reached the roof. Clambered up the slope, testing the firmness of each slab of grey slate she set her weight upon, then over the edge. Sidling along until she could look down upon the front entrance of Gerun’s house and part of the courtyard. She lowered herself as far as she could on the opposite side, until only her fingers, eyes and top of her head were visible – as unlikely to be noticed as she could manage, should someone in the courtyard glance up in her direction.



Gerun Eberict was standing before the doors, listening to the captain of the house guard, who was speaking at length, punctuating his statements every now and then with gestures indicating bafflement.



His report was cut off when Gerun’s right hand snapped out to close around his neck.



Even from this distance, she could see the man’s face darken to a curious shade of blue.



Of course, no person with any courage would take much of that, so she was not surprised when the captain tugged a knife from his belt.



Gerun had been waiting for that, having palmed his own knife, with which he stabbed the captain, up under the breastbone, pushing it to the hilt.



The captain sagged. The Finadd released his hold on the man’s neck and watched him crumple to the flagstones.



‘It’s just coin, Gerun,’ Shurq said quietly. ‘And a missing brother who you killed a long time ago. Your lack of control is dismaying… for your other employees, that is. For me, well, little more than confirmation of all my suspicions.’



There would be a bloodbath, if not tonight, then the next night. The city’s countless spies and snitches – those who had remained – would be stung into frantic activity, and the great hunt for the thief would begin.



All rather unpleasant.



Gerun’s wealth had paid for the exodus of the city’s indigents, meaning he would have to make most of his victims Letherii rather than Nerek, Tarthenal or Faraed. Indeed, he might find victims hard to find. Besides which, there was a war, and the Finadd might well find his time otherwise occupied. The man’s rage would be apoplectic in no time.



She watched as Gerun stormed into his house, guards scrambling after him, then she lowered herself along the slope, rolled onto her back and slid towards the edge.



There was a balcony directly below-



No, not any more.



She fell, struck a clothes line that snapped with her weight, cannoned off the side of a ledge thick with pigeon droppings, and landed spread-eagled on a heap of rubbish. Where she lay for a time, unmoving.



That was the problem with cities. Nothing ever stayed the same. She’d used that balcony at least a half-dozen times before, when staking out the estate. She lifted an arm. Then the other. Drew her legs beneath her. Nothing broken thus far. And, after a careful examination, nothing overly damaged. Fortunately, she concluded, the dead did not suffer much from pride, said wounding being minimal.



It was then that she discovered the bar of rusty iron projecting from her forehead. Perfumed liquids were leaking out, blurring her vision. She probed the offending object with her fingertips. Punched right through the bone, all the way, in fact, to the back of her skull, if the grating noises the bar made when she wriggled it were any indication.



‘I’ve made a mess of my brain,’ she said. ‘But was I really using it? Probably not. Still, was I in the habit of talking to myself before? I don’t think so.’