Three Assassinations
Before the Great War, the University of West Camlorn had been the Arcane University of West Camlorn. It had housed over one thousand five hundred mages of varying degrees of talent and skill. Every single one, from the Archmagister to the instructors to the students, had volunteered for the Imperial war effort in the spring of 172. They had marched out of High Rock as heroes. Half of them returned as martyrs, in caskets and urns wrapped up in the Septim flag. The other half didn’t have recoverable bodies.
Twenty years later, the only thing marking their existence was the memorial tablet erected ten feet above the University’s main entrance. It was exquisite, carved by one of the finest sculptors in the kingdom and painstakingly engraved with the names of all one thousand five hundred mages – which no longer meant anything to most anybody. Their parents had died or grown senile. Their sons and daughters had moved on. Their widows and widowers had long remarried. The University now taught more mundane aspects of Breton high academics. Logic, philosophy, literature, oration, arithmetic.
And we are better for it, the professor nodded to himself, pushing his spectacles up as he hurried under the monument – resisting the urge to spit as he did – and past the University’s gates. We should all be done training our children to die for an Empire we owe nothing to…
He could feel the bitterness showing on his face and forced his grimace down. The lecture. Yes, the lecture, he had a lecture.
There came two gongs from the campus bell-tower just as he made it to the hall, robes flapping. The hall was half full. He saw some regular students, a few fresh faces, a couple of fellow instructors.
‘Has everyone had a good lunch?’ he started off. ‘Well, you really can’t expect too much from our eatery, so has everyone had an adequate lunch?’
That drew a smattering of chuckles. The ice was broken.
‘Right, we only have the better part of two hours this afternoon, so let us skip the pleasantries and dive right in, yes?’ he continued, reaching into his bag to pull out the hated book and moving over to the teaching board. ‘Today we will be continuing our deconstruction of Waughin Jarth’s writing as provincial supportive-dependent submissiveness and a prime example of ideological assimilation. If everyone has their copies of The Complete Scotti Anthology, you will find, in the final chapter of The Argonian Account, all the telltale traces of the Third Era Breton Post-Miracular esclave-bourgeoisie.’
There was a great rustling noise as everyone in the hall began flipping pages. A Khajiit girl sitting on the front row caught his eye. One of the new faces, obviously less familiar with the source material. She was frowning as she turned from one inane story to the next, shuffling through dozens of pages at once. The professor remembered how much the Khajiiti people had suffered over the centuries from the blight of Imperial Empires and knew a pang of sympathy. He drew close.
‘You’ll want page one hundred and eighty-seven, my dear,’ he whispered loudly. There were a few giggles and the girl blushed in the way that only catfolk could blush, the pink flaps of her ears growing red and hot as her nose quivered. She flipped as quickly as she could to the chapter.
‘So,’ he resumed. ‘As we read from the final chapter of The Argonian Account, we see that Jarth fully embraces the millennia-old Imperial philosophy of indifferent nonintervention and noninvolvement,’ – unless they’re invading and conquering what wasn’t theirs to begin with, of course – ‘an ideal completely embodied by his character of Decumus Scotti, who, notably, is an Imperial,’ – he managed to stop the scowl that was forming on his face – ‘despite Jarth himself being a Breton. His influence goes beyond mere literature. You will find shadows of modern High Rock laissez-faire government in the politics depicted in Jarth’s work, which are both largely derived from the Imperial administration,’ – traitors, he raged inside. Lackeys, all of you! – ‘and Scotti himself is the archetype of the perfect Imperial salaryman, an example that all good Imperial citizens – and as touched on multiple times from our previous lectures, this means all peoples of Tamriel – should strive to follow…’
He was getting more and more incensed as the lecture continued. By the time the first hour was up he felt as if half of the people in the hall were onto him. The possibility of discovery sent cold straight into his core, cutting past the layers of indignation and hurt and anger. It refreshed him; sobered him. He finished the lecture as calmly and collectedly as he always did.
There came four gongs of the bell-tower and the scholars began to file out, stuffing their books and notes back into their packs. Several of the more studious types made their way to his podium, eager to exchange knowledge. The professor envied their vigour, and he prayed for the day to come soon when they lost it to cynicism. I cannot open their eyes for them…
The female Khajiit from earlier caught his eye. She was waving it him. Cheerful, bubbly. And young, so young, barely seventeen, perhaps even younger. His envy grew.
‘Thanks for today, Professor!’ she called happily, honey-brown fur ruffling around her nape as she bobbed up and down before leaving the lecture hall.
A child. Innocent, no cares in the world, naïve, ignorant, content, complacent…! The professor took back all his earlier sympathies. He answered the insipid questions the remaining students had for him to the best of his ability and marched off out of the hall and out of the University into a darkening afternoon.
He flagged down a coach instead of waiting for the city carriage. His timepiece was about a quarter past four and there was no line. He’d probably missed the damned thing already.
‘Where to, saa?’ the coachman drawled, his accent thick, Eastern, unpleasant.
‘Museum of the Lion Guard.’
‘Mm-hmm. Ya know it’s closed righ’ now, yeah?’
‘Just drive,’ the professor said, irritated. ‘I work there.’
‘Mm-hmm.’
The ride cost him fifty septims, which he found thoroughly criminal. He argued with the coachman for five minutes before the price was lowered to forty-five. The professor sputtered and tossed over the coin. Not worth the trouble, and he did need to get to work.
His heart swelled slightly as he walked past the lion’s paw flag hanging down in front of the first row of exhibits. Ah, the Lion Guard. Now those were true Bretons. Loyal, honourable, chivalrous and noble. The finest of the Daggerfall Covenant from days long gone. Their only mistake had been their high regard for the Empire… The professor’s heart twisted back into the shape he knew best, and so did his face.
‘Sweet Mara, you’re in a right mood today, sir,’ Raymond remarked as he pushed into his office. Hugo was standing guard next to him on either side of the door. It was their shift in the evening, and it seemed like they had just arrived. ‘Bad day at the lecture hall?’
‘I am well enough to work,’ the professor snapped, shaking his head. Arm a boy and fit him in armour and all of a sudden he thinks he can talk to you as a man.
He sat down at his desk, ignoring the two buffoons as they straightened and tried to pretend they weren’t supporting their weight with their halberds.
The professor pulled out his letters first, frowning. They weren’t coded as he’d requested. Was there no one else in the brotherhood who appreciated the need for secrecy? By Julianos, Olivier, you nitwit… Well, at least they’d had the common sense not to openly use his name.
It was the usual news. No further developments with the other cells decoding the Penitus Oculatus cipher. He was the only one who had made any progress at all. The professor allowed himself a smirk before continuing his work. The Imperials were smart – they had constructed an entirely new base language to use for their codes – but he had already determined that it was the same language across all codes, which meant that if he could just decipher the language itself…
The sun was setting when he settled on the idea of using an ancient dialect of Daedric as a frame of reference. He flipped pages, examined tomes, flipped more pages and made notes for another half-hour, then rose to light his lamps.
As he pushed his chair back and stood, a sound much too quiet for him to identify reached his ears from behind. For a brief moment he thought it was distant birdsong, but it couldn’t be – his window was in front of him and the sound had been close.
‘Hello, Professor,’ a sweet voice rang out. ‘Need some light?’
He spun. It was the Khajiit girl from earlier, with the brown fur and bright smiles. She was holding out a candle for him, and her other hand was gripping her copy of The Complete Scotti Anthology.
‘What are you doing here?’ he stammered, hiding his work with a sweep of his hand.
‘Hmm? I heard from another instructor that you worked here,’ the girl tilted her head, puzzled. She set the candle down on his table.
‘I see.’ The professor felt his composure returning. That’s all it was?
‘Now that I’m here, Professor,’ the cat said excitedly. ‘I had a few more questions for you about Decumus Scotti-’
‘Look, the museum is closed right now and I’m working on something important…’ How did she even get in? The professor thought, exasperated. ‘You shouldn’t go barging in other people’s rooms like that, you know.’
The girl leant close, pouting. It was a very piteous pout with her feline lips. A whine was building in her mouth. ‘But Professor…’
Grimacing, the professor turned to his guards, who were both still standing stiffly on either side of the door, arms limp at their sides, halberds resting on their shoulders. They’d let her through without even saying a word! Once they were done escorting her out, he was firing the both of them on the spot.
‘Raymond, Hugo, show my young friend here the door, please,’ he said, turning back to the Khajiit with an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry, but we could continue our discussion tomorrow- what are you doing?’
The girl was rummaging through his pack, extracting his letters. And she was reading them.
‘Why are the two of you just standing there?’ the professor cried, rushing forward. ‘Stop her, by the gods-’
Raymond and Hugo twitched. There were two sudden spurts of blood as a pair of short, diamond-shaped blades tore themselves out of the two young men’s throats, flying straight into the Khajiit’s schoolbag. Without the daggers pinning them to the wall, the two corpses crumpled over, their halberds slipping off their shoulders and clattering to the floor.
‘So it is you, Professor,’ the girl said calmly, raising her book. One fuzzy finger came down over the spine, obscuring the ‘Dec’ in ‘Decumus’, and the professor heard a sharp twang. Some kind of spring.
He wanted to run, but the girl was standing in the doorway now. I could go for the window, he swallowed, teeth chattering. But her daggers will be in my back in no time. Telekinesis… magic.
How long had it been since he last produced a fireball? He had only ever dabbled in the first place.
It was his only chance. He raised his left arm, remembering how the old wizard had taught him to stand and concentrate and-
Breathe-
Breathe, he gasped. Breathe!
His lungs would not respond. They were twitching, convulsing – bubbling, filling with some kind of fluid.
As the professor drowned on dry land, he tried to scream. The only sound that came out were wet gurgles. He thrashed, sobbing for air. ‘Agghhkkk…’
The light faded from his eyes and he joined Raymond and Hugo on the floor.
The girl simply looked at him, turned him over, and plucked a small, inch-long dart from the side of his neck.
TARGET(S): MEDIUM PRIORITY. Unidentified codebreaker for the New Unity Movement (see File ‘Minor Dissidents, Continued’)
SECONDARY TARGETS: MEDIUM PRIORITY. Coded Penitus Oculatus mission transcripts numbered 1902-1911.
OPERATIVE(S) ASSIGNED: ONE. Low Priority, Year 182 Number 6 Diia.
MISSION STATUS: COMPLETE. After analysis of intelligence acquired by Operative 4-182-7, target located 23/5/198/4 in the University of West Camlorn, subsequently trailed to the Camlorn Museum of the Lion Guard and identified as Tremel, Wynton, Senior Professor. Eliminated same date without further delay via poison. Kill confirmed. Secondary targets summarily retrieved. Returned to Penitus Oculatus via official liaison officer Sagittarius, Lencius Arius.
GEAR EMPLOYED: 1 set midnight blue woolen robes and hosen – recovered. 1 standard northern High Rock style single-strap leather bag – recovered. 1 kunai – recovered. 1 copy of The Complete Scotti Anthology as Arranged by Richmond Yenn PLUS spring-load sleeve mechanism concealed in spine – recovered, disassembled, components returned to Library and Armoury respectively. ONE hollow-tipped poison dart – recovered. 1 vial Intsume Ansatsu-senyo Dokuso Number Eight, size minimum* – consumed.
*Note* Usage of Toxin Number Eight was entirely unnecessary given target’s close proximity. Eight is rare enough as it is and the greenhouse produces barely five fluid angaids every year. Issue minor remonstration to Operative 4-182-6 for waste of village resources. Overruled, Bengakhi. I realise your standards are high, but for the love of Furiya, Diia’s execution was near flawless for a kit her age.
COLLATERAL DAMAGE: 2 dead – two on-site personnel (private security), no evident political affiliation, armed non-target combatants. Expendable. NEGLIGIBLE damage to – Museum of the Lion Guard interior. No reparation required. TOTAL reparations – 0 STM.
Berry had only been with the Greenshanks for a year, but he had already learned to dislike working bodyguard details.
Beatdowns and retrievals were easy enough. Battles were tougher, especially when they took government contracts, but they were straightforward and simple – fight until the fighting was over. You didn’t have to be a world-class scholar to figure out when that was.
Bodyguarding, though…
It wasn’t that there were a hundred thousand ways for things to go wrong. That went for battles too. But you knew when a battle was a battle. Barring the worst luck, it was over in hours, occasionally even in minutes – the boss was smart enough to avoid siege warfare, and there had been no large-scale sieges between the High Rock kingdoms in years anyway. Bodyguarding, on the other hand, took days. Weeks. If Nocturnal was being enough of a bitch, sometimes months. Months of looking for every movement in the shadows, staring down anyone who stepped within twenty feet of the client, standing guard outside their rooms while they slept. Insanity. It drove even the calmest of mercenaries round the bend. The worst part was that nine times out of ten absolutely nothing happened. That was bodyguarding in a nutshell.
Berry was glad this was a short contract. And the payment, at the very least, was huge. One of the few good things that came with guarding this client. The other, of course, was that everyone was here. The seven snidely little businessmen had contracted the entire Greenshanks band. In addition to the dozen other bounty hunters they had already hired, that meant that there were thirty-six mercenaries surrounding them at all times, watching for threats. Berry had initially dismissed it as overkill – businessmen tended to be paranoid cowards – but now he wasn’t so sure. Whatever the businessmen were doing involved dark alleys and knowing handshakes and inconspicuous deals with fat pouches of gold and even fatter magistrates. Berry shifted as he rode behind the businessmen’s carriage. He felt like a fish left to dry in the sun. Out of his depth and exposed. Wary, he examined the town’s rooftops, half-expecting a sudden storm of arrows or barrage of magefire.
Quintelia rode up next to him, her charger nickering as she nudged it with her spurs. ‘You’re squirming,’ she noted. ‘Is something wrong?’
Berry twisted his head to look at her, keeping one hand on his reins. She returned his gaze frankly, leaf-green eyes peering at him from under her visor. Beneath the closed bascinet and the rugged, dirt-stained plate armour, he knew, was a woman equally rugged but beautiful in her ruggedness. She was large, full-bodied but not fat, her figure muscular but still curvaceous, and her swarthy face had the rough appeal of the working Imperial, complimented with the scars acquired over a career five times the length of his own.
‘Do you think we can trust the client?’
There was amusement in her voice as she answered. ‘I trust them to pay up.’
‘That’s not what I meant and you know it,’ he complained.
‘Then what did you mean, little Berry?’ she teased.
He bit his lip, colouring as he looked away. Just because he was the youngest member of the band didn’t mean they had to rub it in every few hours.
Berry only had an arming cap covering his head, and his displeasure must’ve shown on his face. ‘Sorry,’ Quintelia said placatingly, riding up in front of him to catch his eye again. ‘But really, the payment is the most important thing, and the client has shown that they’ve money to spare. What are you fretting about, lad?’
‘It’s obvious that whatever this… company-’
‘Enron Brothers Caravans.’
‘Right, Enron Brothers. Whatever they’re up to isn’t legal.’
‘…so?’
‘“So”? What if they end up deciding we’re witnesses and-’
‘Let me just stop you right there. What do you think they’re going to do? Honestly, what can they do? We make up the most part of their security right now and the only other people they have with them are the bounty hunters they managed to scrounge up over the towns we’ve already passed. This is our last stop, and the client needs us to watch the whole place while they have their little meeting with the mayor. After that we’re getting paid with the rest of the gold. If anything goes wrong, it won’t be on their account, I think. Besides, we’re not exactly squeaky clean ourselves, are we?’
‘Fine,’ Berry mumbled, somewhat mollified. ‘I’m probably just overthinking it, then.’
‘Our cute little strawberry needs soooo much babysitting,’ Quintelia chuckled, riding on ahead.
‘Oh, come on, woman,’ Berry yelled after her. ‘I’m twenty-five, for the love of the Divines…’
She had ridden up next to the clients’ carriage and was out of earshot. Berry rubbed the top of his arming cap glumly. The old stitches on the green linen were coming loose already. Maybe he ought to get something else to wear. At any rate, it was far too late to stop the nicknames anyway. Green cap, red face – strawberry. It had stuck to him since his first month, like a congealing glob of horse glue.
The town was coming up. Arkhill, Berry recalled. It’s called Arkhill. Just south of Camlorn, it was a medium-sized settlement with a decent population, mostly farmers and millers. It was the middle of the day and the sun was blazing, but the peasants continued to work the fields. They wiped the sweat off their brows and stared as the carriage rolled through into town. The carriage itself wasn’t fancy, the wood was simple oak and the only decorations were on the inside – but the small army escorting them likely drew some attention as well. Probably more horses and hired swords than they’d ever seen in their lives.
They rode straight into the centre of town. The roads turned from pressed earth into cobblestones and the businessmen slowed their carriage to dampen the rattling.
Beggars and delinquents were on them instantly. Most of them stuck around for less than a minute, cowed by the glares of the mercenaries as they made a show of fingering their weapons. A Greenshank whacked a random urchin with the butt of his poleaxe. They all dispersed quickly enough after that – except for a single beggar, a grimy Khajiit with greasy jet-black fur. He looked tougher than the rest, with restless hazel eyes that flickered to and fro like flies. He had gotten right up next to the carriage’s left window. Berry wrinkled his nose – the cat stank to high Oblivion – and tugged on his reins, hurrying forward.
‘Please,’ the beggar was hissing, ‘Just one coin, just a little bit of coin, you know you can afford it, Kharsi hasn’t eaten in three days, oh please…’
The businessman talking with him seemed to be pinching his nostrils. ‘Augh, gods,’ he coughed. ‘Get out of my face, you wretch-’
Berry drew up next to the carriage and saw that it was the Nord, Kolsch. It was hard not to sneer. I thought Nords were supposed to be a warrior race.
Kolsch’s eyes widened, almost bulging in relief as he saw Berry approach. ‘Ah, excellent. Get this… vagrant away from us, will you, Strawberry?’
Berry felt his right eye twitch. It was one thing for Quintelia to call him that. It was quite another for a balding, hollow-cheeked old Nord to do the same.
Still, a client was a client. He reached out, leaning to the side and grabbing the beggar by the wrist. ‘All right, off with you now.’
‘No, no! Kharsi just wants food!’ the Khajiit wailed. ‘Karsi hasn’t eaten in-’
‘Three days, yes, we heard you the first time.’ Berry rolled his eyes as he steered his horse – and the gibbering cat – away from the carriage.
‘Kharsi has a starving mother!’
‘And a litter of nine children, yes, yes,’ Berry sighed. The carriage was trundling off. ‘Be off with you now-’
Kharsi jerked his arm back. He was quite a bit stronger than he looked. The sudden force caught Berry off guard and he tumbled off his horse, splattering his face with mud. He leapt to his feet, spitting, livid.
‘You want to go, you little shit?’ he snarled. ‘Fine.’
Berry started punching and everything devolved into a brawl after the first six blows. The beggar was lean and starving, skin and bone – but Berry made sure not to underestimate his opponent. This was a survivor, someone who’d spent his life on the streets.
Kharsi didn’t go down easily. He didn’t use his claws either, something that earned Berry’s respect. Not everyone in his situation – in better situations, even – settled things quite so decently, fist to fist and man to man. But at the end of the day, Berry was healthy and fit, and no matter how desperate the beggar was, that made all the difference. Battered and bruised, he forced the Khajiit against a building to the side of the road and landed a final, crippling blow to the chin. Moaning, Kharsi slid down the wall, clutching his jaw.
‘Bah,’ Berry muttered, sniffing as he held his bleeding nose. Now he needed to catch up with the carriage. At least his horse hadn’t run off.
‘You know, you’re a pretty fierce fighter,’ he said, looking down at Kharsi. The vagrant seemed around seventeen or eighteen, barely an adult. ‘Someone young and strong like you shouldn’t be out begging for scraps, but… here.’
He dug into his pocket and fished out a piece of clapbread. It was a few days old and growing stale, but definitely still edible. Kharsi stretched out a shaking hand and took it, stammering thanks.
‘Think nothing of it,’ Berry waved a hand, turning around to mount his horse.
‘Sir,’ Kharsi said slowly, gnawing on the bread. ‘You’re a good person.’
Berry frowned, turning back. It wasn’t so much what Kharsi said but how it was said. His tone was relaxed, confident. He almost didn’t sound like a homeless vagrant anymore.
‘You’re a good person, so here’s some advice,’ the Khajiit continued. ‘Kharsi is a beggar, so he hears things, yes? You should leave this town as soon as you can.’
‘Why?’ Berry asked, suspicious. ‘What have you heard?’
‘Some kind of attack,’ Kharsi shrugged, still with that strange calm in his voice. ‘You should turn around and leave the way you came, sir.’
Berry made for his horse immediately. The client! ‘Thanks for the warning, friend. I need to warn my employer-’
‘Oh, for crying out loud,’ he heard the Khajiit mutter from behind. ‘You blasted idiot, you just don't get it. Fine.’
There was a blur of speed at the edge of his vision and a tremendous force drove into the back of his neck, where his skull met his spine.
Eh?
Ehh?
Berry’s eyes rolled back into his head and he fainted.
He came to with a couple of street urchins trying to strip off his clothes.
‘Get off me,’ he growled, sending one of them flying with his boot. They scampered off and he sat up, groggy.
‘How on Nirn…’
What time is it?
The sky was a dark grey, and there was an orange glow to the east. It was dusk.
Wait. The east?
Berry stood up – and smoke streamed into his nostrils. Coughing, he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. When they cleared, he saw. The town was burning.
TARGET(S): MEDIUM PRIORITY. Cadoc, Jouan, mayor of Arkhill (see files ‘Glenumbra Settlements’ and ‘Minor Dissidents, Continued’ for additional details)
SECONDARY TARGET(S): LOW PRIORITY. Walshe, Regis. Yew, Fiona. Carielie, Germond. Tyrkersson, Kolsch. Lafayette, Dorian. Enron, Eduard. Enron, Willaume. Collectively the supervisors of Enron Brothers Caravans, minor logistics company active in Western High Rock.
OPERATIVE(S) ASSIGNED: ONE. Low Priority, Year 182 Number 1 Ambarro.
MISSION STATUS: COMPLETE. Primary target located 20/5/198/4 in Arkhill, Glenumbra. Left undisturbed until scheduled meeting with secondary targets on 25/5/198/4 in Arkhill town hall. All targets eliminated via improvised explosives and magic. Kills confirmed.
GEAR EMPLOYED: 1 set rag tunic and trousers, heavily soiled – recovered and incinerated. 1 kunai – recovered. 300 AGD refined fire salts* – consumed.
*Note* On-site procurement: Operative 4-182-1 also appropriated a considerable amount of resources from the town of Arkhill in order to fabricate explosive material and accelerant. They are as follows: sawdust from the lumbermill, flour from the granary, and manure from the dairy farm. Operative 4-182-1 was unable to provide exact measurements for the amount taken and described them as having ‘filled up three big sacks pretty good’. Estimation: 150-550 AGD sawdust – consumed. 100-400 AGD rye flour – consumed. 200-600 AGD cow manure – consumed.
COLLATERAL DAMAGE: 27 dead – 27 on-site personnel (private security), no evident political affiliation, armed non-target combatants. Expendable. 9 incapacitated or severely injured – varying degrees of burns, trauma from collapsing rubble. 8 on-site personnel (private security), no evident political affiliation, armed non-target combatants. 1 Imperial affiliation, Legionnaire, armed non-target combatant. Estimated 90+ injured – varying degrees of burns, smoke inhalation, trampling, trauma from collapsing rubble. MASSIVE damage to – Arkhill town hall. Building completely demolished. Foundations destroyed. Imperial reconstruction required. Reparations 10,000 STM. EXTENSIVE damage to – Arkhill central road, five buildings in close proximity to Arkhill town hall. Uncontrollable fire. Road severely damaged by heat and blocked by rubble. Buildings rendered inhospitable. Imperial reconstruction required. Reparations 7,000 STM. SIGNIFICANT damage to – eleven buildings in central Arkhill. Escalating fires. Buildings suffered noticeable burn damage. Imperial reconstruction assistance requested. Reparations 4,000 STM. TOTAL reparations – 21,000 STM**.
**Note** In addition to steep reparation fees, the village has also received three separate complaints lodged by the Penitus Oculatus, the Imperial Legion, and the Synod detachment in charge of the reconstruction of Arkhill, all regarding the utter lack of subtlety exhibited by a Tsukikage shinobi and the blatant destruction of Imperial taxpayer property. Issue fifth major remonstration to Operative 4-182-1 for extreme levels of excessive force and cut his allowance for Mid Year and Sun’s Height.
The new girl was perfect.
It wasn’t just her features, a stunning melt of elf and human, or her body, a willowy figure with slender limbs and soft curves in just the right places. It was how well she could do anything that was asked of her in the house.
Liana watched her scurry around the hall, cleaning imperceptible motes off the master’s various glass displays with a few light strokes of a feather duster before rising up into a tiptoe – a tiptoe that would have left even the most accomplished of salon dancers weeping with jealousy – and flicking the feather duster across the top of a bookshelf.
Gods, she’s filling out her blouse and skirt like it’s a second skin…
Chewing her lip, Liana tugged at her own apron. The new girl – Ciera, her name was Ciera – had left the display cases so clean they were better than most mirrors. Liana examined her reflection and readjusted her headdress, sighing. She had been brought up in the most prestigious of Breton ladies’ schools, learned everything there was about being prim and proper before even coming to work under the master. She was young and elegant and beautiful and graceful and she knew she was – but standing next to the new girl, she felt like an Orc.
A male one.
A few of the other maids had already developed a frothing hate for the girl. Especially the former head kitchen maid, who was now under kitchen. Some of the others wanted to bed her. Most were simply grateful. In addition to being really good with chores, the new girl was now the one holding the master’s attention at night.
The master was a widower, but from the way he acted Liana knew he had never really cared about his wife, who died barely six months after he married into her house. Liana’s imagination often ran wild and the first time the master took her to bed she had found herself wondering, in terror, if this was how he’d killed his wife, with gentle caresses and soothing lips, and a dagger hidden beneath his pillow.
Different things occupied her fantasies now, after what she had seen the last two nights. Ah, if only the other girls knew. Whenever she looked at Ciera now all she could think of was the wickedness lying underneath that innocent white apron and headdress – Liana could now see through her so completely that her maid’s uniform might as well have been ripped off already.
I’m going to watch them again tonight, Liana decided. All of it this time…
Already she could feel the world between her legs buzzing in anticipation. She sighed again, this time in excitement.
‘Liana?’
She gasped. Ciera was standing in front of her, staring. She looked concerned.
‘Are you all right? You look a little distracted…’
‘F-fine,’ Liana squeaked. ‘I’m fine!’
She rushed off to do her chores and made a dreadful mess of the drapes.
Dinner for the master was a seven-course affair with meat from six different animals and two desserts. Because of course, in addition to everything else, Ciera was also somewhat of an expert in Breton haute-cuisine. Dinner for the servants was beef and cabbage stew washed down with milk. Liana didn’t care. All she had on her mind was the night to follow.
The sun set. The master didn’t turn in early. He stayed up, as always, in his study, working on his papers and letters and whatever business minor noblemen were supposed to conduct. Liana didn’t care. All her chores were done, except for one – the last task of the night; putting out all the lamps after everyone had bedded down. It was why she'd seen what she saw the first two times, and Liana couldn’t wait to see it again.
Midnight came, and Liana nearly did too, already picturing the scene in her head. She did her rounds and finally, finally, finally, started putting out the lights on the corridor just outside the master bedroom.
Heart pounding, legs trembling, Liana knelt in front of the bedroom door – and peered through the keyhole.
Oh gods oh gods oh gods. She almost squealed aloud. They’re only just getting started!
While the master was already fully nude, Ciera had only been undressed to the exact degree of nakedness required to leave just the most delicious minimum to the imagination. She was using her mouth and fingers first, and the sounds emanating from her lips and her throat were enough to make Liana salivate. The master was groaning, already strained – but Ciera made sure to keep him simmering, bringing him up slowly, slowly, like a witch watching over her cauldron as it boiled.
It took a painstaking half an hour before Ciera moved on, still teasing the master with an infinitely soft series of ‘pattes d’araignée’ and replying to his clumsy attempts at ‘postillionage’ with her own skillful ministrations. Liana loved her for it, loved her for her power over him, loved her for showing her that a woman could do far more in the bedroom than spread her thighs and let the man do all the work.
As Ciera and the master began in earnest, Liana let out a gasp. This was more than just primal sex or vulgar lovemaking – this was something only priestesses of Dibella or the very best Yokudan prostitutes could achieve, a pure exaltation of the act of pleasure. Liana felt her hand part her skirt and slide downwards and inwards and did nothing to stop it.
It lasted for hours, until night had begun to pass into morning. Liana watched it all, drunk with lust, as techniques and positions she had previously only read from her secret teenage collection leapt off the pages and presented themselves in front of her. Ciera and the master moved from ‘cuissade’ to ‘flanquette’ to ‘croupade’, all while the vilest, naughtiest filth poured from their lips to each other’s ears.
When the final minutes came it was glorious. Ciera clambered on top of the master and brought him to his highest peak with ‘la diligence de Alcaire’, then slowed the rotation of her hips, keeping him there almost sadistically. The master played along at first, his hands caressing her waist – then he moaned and gnashed his teeth and actually wept, begging for release. Ciera made it slow, made it last an eternity, clamping down on him and squeezing, keeping the pressure on him and around him until Liana was positive the master was about to go mad. She knew she was.
The master screamed as Ciera finally allowed him his petit mort. His body twitched and convulsed, making his voice shake – and Ciera simply wrapped her hands around his neck and gave him one deep, final kiss.
Liana jerked back from the keyhole and let out a lungful of hot air. She only had two more hours left to sleep, but it had been worth it a hundred times over. She stood-
And then the bedroom door opened.
Liana threw her hands up, panicking. There, standing in the doorway, was the goddess herself.
Before she could even open her mouth, Ciera placed a single finger on top of her lips.
The same fingers that had just been…
Liana felt herself grow giddy. Ciera’s finger was cool, and a finely manicured nail was poking the skin above her upper lip.
‘Shh,’ Ciera whispered, closing the door behind her with her free hand as she stepped out into the hallway. ‘The master is asleep.’
‘Nnn,’ Liana nodded dreamily. Ciera smiled, stabbing lightning bolts straight into her heart.
‘Were you watching us all this time?’ Ciera asked playfully, tilting her head and letting her raven hair course down slowly across one side of her neck. Liana followed the motion, mesmerised. ‘You bad girl…’
‘Look…’ Liana licked her lips, growing bold. ‘Look who’s talking.’
Ciera leant closer, and Liana began to smell a very peculiar scent. It was creamy and flowery at once, and it made her mind fill with everything she had seen and heard through the keyhole.
‘I saw you looking at me today, you know,’ Ciera breathed, holding her chin between a thumb and forefinger. Her breath didn’t smell like the breath of a normal woman in the small hours of the morning. Liana inhaled it and felt her hunger grow. ‘But I never would have thought…’
‘Yes?’ she said softly, reaching out to stroke Ciera’s cheek. Her exquisite elven features almost seemed highlighted in the darkness, and her moist silver eyes were mirroring Liana’s innermost desire.
‘…that you were such a deviant, Liana,’ Ciera crooned, bending her neck forward to kiss her. Liana pushed herself into it, crushing their tongues and bodies together with the impatience of a starved wolf.
They parted after a full minute.
‘Now, now,’ Ciera giggled softly, licking her lips. ‘Let’s take this somewhere else-’
Liana was past the point of rational thought. She growled, grabbed Ciera by the shoulders, and pinned her against the wall. Or what her feverish mind had thought was a wall. Too late, she remembered that they were standing right outside the master bedroom.
The door flew open with the force of her passion, which cooled immediately with fear. The master’s rage was terrible when roused-
Oh, thank goodness. He’s still asleep…
But something was wrong. His eyes were still open. Staring. His jaw was agape. And his neck was twisted ninety degrees to the right, hanging loosely off his shoulders. Broken.
The door closed quietly behind her. Trembling, Liana turned around to see the love and craving drain out of those silver eyes, leaving only-
Only-
She tried to scream, but three rigid fingers planted themselves squarely into her solar plexus and the air erupted out of her lungs. Another finger jabbed her in the windpipe. Liana doubled over, silenced, gagging. She looked up, her eyes wide, terrified, pleading.
‘Well,’ the thing that had called itself Ciera said softly. ‘This is unfortunate.’
Liana managed a single tear. Then her neck snapped.
TARGET(S): MEDIUM PRIORITY. Mail correspondence between Lafayette, Olivier and unidentified New Unity code breaker (see file ‘Minor Dissidents, Continued’)
SECONDARY TARGET(S): MEDIUM PRIORITY. Lafayette, Olivier, current head of House Lafayette (see files ‘Glenumbra Estates’ and ‘Camlorn Noble Families, Continued’)
OPERATIVE(S) ASSIGNED: ONE. Low Priority, Year 182 Number 7 Harrow.
MISSION STATUS: COMPLETE. Secondary target headquarters infiltrated 14/5/198/4. Intimate relations with secondary target established 15/5/198/4. Primary target located and identified 20/5/198/4. Secondary target eliminated 21/5/198/4 via spinal dislocation. Kill confirmed. Extracted primary target during exfiltration 24/5/198/4 and intelligence gathered was passed on to Operative 4-182-6.
GEAR EMPLOYED: 1 set Breton maid outfit (blouse, skirt, undergarments, leggings, shoes) – recovered. 1 set Breton maid accessories (headdress, armbands, apron) – supplied by secondary target, appropriated and recovered. 60 AGD synthetic imitation fat – recovered and extracted from Operative 4-182-7’s mammary glands. 1 experimental imitation flesh gender dissimulation device – rendered inoperable due to violent intercourse with secondary target*.
*Note* If the device is still that delicate after being worked on for three straight months, it should be concluded that it is of little practical value in the field. Return to Operative 4-166-3 at her outpost in Anvil. Recommend an emphasis on the usage of magic in future attempts to mask an operative’s gender.
COLLATERAL DAMAGE: 1 dead – 1 on-site personnel (house staff), no evident political affiliation
Bengakhi stopped, setting his stylus across the lid of his inkpot.
‘You eliminated an unarmed civilian?’ he rumbled, peering over the report to look at Harrow.
‘Yes, Bengakhi-ra, sir,’ came the reply. ‘It was the most reliable solution, as I had to remain in the mission area for at least another day and conduct another undercover assignment in close proximity. You will find in my next report-’
‘Your explanation is satisfactory,’ Bengakhi said. ‘Well done.’
As Harrow rose and bowed, Bengakhi felt a brief tingle in his throat. He was sure of it now. This was pride.
In another ten years… he will be more efficient than me.
As a general rule, Bengakhi did not smile. But there was a slight tugging at the corners of his mouth as he dipped his stylus back into the ink and, right after the line ‘unarmed non-target non-combatant’, wrote –
‘Expendable.’
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