Shadows of Amn

Chapter Six

She knew everything. She was right about everything. Every door. The sliding panel behind the bed in the third room at the left at the top of the stairs. She knew where the key was hidden behind the loose mortar. (Could a professional assassin be that stupidly naive? Apparently.) She knew exactly how to get him in there.

Abdel had been set up before. As a sellsword, he spent most of his life being set up in one way or another. He was paid to do the dirty work for this merchant, that trade guild, or the other petty principality…. This was a setup, this assassination of the assassin Aran Linvail, and Abdel knew it, but he had no choice.

There was no part of his body that hurt anymore. Only a few hours had passed since he'd been tortured, beaten, burned, shot with arrows, and he was fine now, but he was broke. He was in the middle of a city that didn't give a sewer rat's ass about anyone, especially him. Hours ago he'd been wandering around naked with two perfect strangers. He hadn't slept except that period of time he'd been unconscious. His head felt heavy and thin at the same time.

He took a deep breath and exhaled with a whisper, "One more time."

The air in the closet smelled of perfume and moth powder. It wasn't as cramped as most closets. This Aran Linvail had made a lot of coin killing people—more than Abdel ever had. The closet was full of expensive Kara Turan silks, wool from the highlands of the Spine of the World, and soft cotton from exotic Maztica. There was a suit of leather armor hanging in there that was so perfect, so flawless in its execution and upkeep that it must have been magical.

Somewhere outside the closet, outside the townhouse's tight bricks walls, the sun must have been coming up over Athkatla. In the bedroom beyond where Abdel stood ready, Aran Linvail was making frivolous love with a girl who was obviously no stranger to frivolous lovemaking. She called him "honey," which made Abdel wince. She was insincere, but Linvail didn't seem to care. To the assassin's credit, the play went on for what seemed to Abdel to be hours on end. He was hiding in the closet because he didn't want to kill the girl. He wanted Aran Linvail alone.

Abdel settled down in a squat and tried to stretch his muscles as best he could. He tried to clear his mind and found that he could a bit more easily than he'd expected. He didn't want to be where he was, didn't want to do what he was going to do, but at least he was doing something.

Some time later they finally stopped, and Abdel heard Linvail say, "Just move."

The girl said something Abdel couldn't hear, but her tone was gruff and insulting. Her response was answered by a loud slap. She squealed, and there was the sound of something heavy falling and the dull squeak of furniture being shoved across a wood floor. That was all Abdel had to hear.

The closet door came off its hinges, and Abdel stepped out, bringing his broadsword out and in front of him in a fluid motion. Aran Linvail looked up at him, and so did the girl. She was young—not too young but young enough. She was pretty. Her hair was a dull red color, and her skin was freckled all over her slim body. She was holding the left side of her face, but she wasn't bleeding. She looked surprised.

Aran Linvail had suffered a terrible injury some years before. His face was horribly scarred—it was a mass of scars. One eye was closed, gone all together. He looked up at Abdel with his one good eye from where he stood crouched over the girl. He was wearing loose-fitting breeches and nothing else. There were other scars on his chest, stomach, and sides. Abdel charged at him, the girl squealed, and Aran Linvail turned and ran.

Abdel actually missed a step. The assassin didn't just evade the first attack, he flat out ran away, and he ran fast. The girl was confused. Abdel spared her a glance, and for some reason he would never be able to figure out, she shrugged.

Abdel followed Aran Linvail out an ornately carved mahogany door and into the townhouse's upstairs hallway.

"Who are you?" the retreating assassin called over his shoulder.

Abdel didn't answer. Linvail got to the top of the stairs still three or four steps ahead of the tip of Abdel's broadsword. The assassin let himself fall down the stairs as much as he ran. Abdel followed at a slightly more controlled pace.

"Who sent you?" Linvail called back again.

Abdel ignored him again and kept on coming. Linvail hit the floor at the bottom of the long, narrow staircase and spun around with one hand on the knob at the end of the banister. The foyer was tastefully decorated, and Abdel grunted in frustration. The front door was only steps away. If Linvail made it outside, Abdel would have to withdraw back into the house and sneak out the way he came as Aran Linvail raised whatever hue and cry he might be inclined to raise in the surely busy morning street outside.

Oddly, though, the assassin made no move toward the door.

"Are you just going to kill me, then?" Linvail called over his shoulder as he ran down a short hall parallel to the stairway.

Abdel followed, finally gaining a step on the fleeing man. Linvail passed through a swinging door at the end of the hall, and Abdel burst through behind him. The knife slipped between two of Abdel's ribs and tore through flesh, muscle, and some soft tissue the big sellsword might have needed to survive.

Linvail had made it to his kitchen, and as Abdel sagged into the knife, he had to acknowledge Linvail's speed in not only getting to the kitchen but also in grabbing a large knife with such a quick, fluid motion that he could thrust it into the blindly pursuing sellsword without missing a step. This assassin was good after all. As fast as Linvail was, Abdel was at least as fast. He clenched his tight stomach muscles around the blade and bent forward, drawing the knife painfully farther into his guts even as he pulled the handle out of Aran Linvail's hand.

"Who are you?" the assassin asked again. Abdel grunted in pain and brought his sword up. Linvail slid under the attack, and Abdel could see the assassin's good eye register the reverse and anticipate Abdel's following attack.

Avoiding a slash that should have taken his head off, Linvail ducked in and grabbed the knife still sticking out of Abdel's abdomen. The blade came out with no little blood and even more pain. Abdel let himself curse loudly, but the assassin wasn't stupid enough to take the time to gloat. He tried to stab Abdel again right away, but the big sellsword managed to get his new broadsword in and down fast enough to swat the blade away. It was a good knife and didn't break, but Linvail grunted as the force of the parry obviously sent a painful vibration up his arm.

He hacked down at Abdel's hand—a cowardly sort of attack Abdel should have expected from this man.

From upstairs the girl called "Aran? Aran, are you all right?"

Linvail brought the knife down hard, and Abdel stepped to one side, avoiding it even as he stabbed hard and low at the assassin. Linvail proved faster again, though, and not only avoided the big broadsword, but hacked down again with the big knife, taking off the first finger of Abdel's left hand with a sickening snap.

Abdel roared in rage and pain, more embarrassed than injured really. The finger hit the wood floor of the cramped kitchen with an almost inaudible splat!

"You can't kill me, big man," the assassin mocked, obviously happy with his petty dismemberment. "I've killed more—"

Whatever he was going to say ended up as a bloody gurgle. Abdel sliced in so fast and so hard he surprised even himself. He nearly cut the assassin in half at the midsection. He put one foot on the assassin's chest and pushed him down. Blood was everywhere instantly.

"That's. ." the assassin managed to say around a mouthful of blood, "that's too bad."

Aran Linvail died on the floor of his own kitchen.

"Aran?" the girl called again. "Aran, you're scaring me. Who was that?"

Abdel grunted again and searched the floor for his missing finger. Drenched in blood, Abdel bent and retrieved the severed digit. He'd seen parts of people amputated one way or another on any number of occasions in his life and knew the simple rule that if you loose it, it stays lost unless you have a lot of gold and a very good priest. Abdel wasn't actually conscious of placing the finger back on the end of the little bleeding stump, but he did. It mended almost immediately, though it still bled. He held it in place for a few deep breaths, and when he let go, it stayed there.

"Bhaal," he breathed, knowing all too well the source of his ability to heal. So, he thought, maybe there's some advantage to this cursed blood after all.

"Aran?" the girl called, her voice quavering. "Aran, this isn't funny."

Abdel almost considered going back upstairs to tell the girl what happened, reassure her that she was better off, and send her on her way with a couple pieces of gold. He didn't have any gold, of course, and really didn't want the girl to see him covered in the blood of her lover.

He kneeled in the puddle of blood still growing rapidly around the inert form of Aran Linvail. "One more," he said. "Last one." He cut the assassin's head off because he had to. It was worth a king's ransom in gold to him—a druid's ransom at least, and Abdel knew Aran Linvail wouldn't be the last Shadow Thief he'd have to kill to get Jaheira and Imoen safely out of wherever they were.

A thin, lightly constructed door led off the kitchen into the cellar and Abdel went through it. There was a trapdoor in the floor of the cellar that led to the sewer, which led to an alley, which would take him in relative safety and anonymity back to the Copper Coronet. At least, that's what Bodhi had told him, and she'd been right so far.

"Aran?" the girl called from upstairs. "Aran, that's it. I'm coming down."