The Fade

3

I break the surface with barely a ripple and climb up on to the bank, towing a waterproof sack behind me. Crouched small, dripping and naked, I search the mournful lichen-trees for signs of movement. A chill breeze, drawn through stony vents from the higher caverns, runs invisible fingers through the foliage. Beyond that, nothing moves.

Satisfied, I run silently into the undergrowth and hide at the feet of the shaggy green trees. There I open the sack, towel dry and dress. Soft black shoes, laced to the knee, where they meet the ends of my trousers. Long black gloves, sleeveless black top, black mask covering the lower half of my face.

I tie my hair up and then I lay out the remaining contents of the sack. Shortblades. Bow and quiver. Blowpipe and darts. Daggers. Garrotte. Flash bombs. Throwing knives. And finally, a couple of little treats concocted by Ekan. He was really pretty co-operative, once I told him what I was using it for.

I'm kitted out to kill, and I'm looking forward to it. All that's left to me is hate now. Cold, icy hate.

Ledo. I'm coming for you.

The mansion belongs to an eminent Plutarch of the Turnward Claw Alliance, a good friend of Ledo's who has presumably given him the use of it while he's away. I've watched the place for several turns now, from the roof of an apartment building in Lash Park. Finding a good vantage point has been the hardest part of the operation so far. Harder than getting through the underwater grate in the stream, anyway. A touch of acid paste and a swift kick was all it took. Someone should tell them it's no use building walls if you make it so easy to swim beneath them.

The staff were sent away a few hours ago. I watched them depart through my spyglass. Ledo doesn't want anyone but his Cadre to know what's going on here.

The exterior guards, six in all, are Caracassa men. There are two on the front door of the mansion, four patrolling the grounds. Two of them have leashed abris, to sniff out and disembowel intruders. The abris might have been a problem; it's not easy to hide from creatures with such a keen sense of smell. But I have ways and means.

Security is light, though that's to be expected. Too many men would only draw attention. Ledo's got no reason to think that anyone suspects what he's up to. He's protected by secrecy. Or so he believes.

Once dry, I splash myself in the first of Ekan's concoctions: a scent that imitates the smell of foliage, strong enough to mask my natural odour and hide me from the abris. I hesitate for the barest moment before applying it. It's not in my nature to trust an expert poisoner I've recently maimed. I'm running chants in expectation of a slow creep of deathly numbness where the formula touches my skin or hair, but there's nothing. I relax a little. It seems that Ekan is smart enough not to shoot the messenger, then. He knows who gave the order to cut his hand off. And he knows his only chance of retribution is through me.

Given the choice I wouldn't have used him at all. Risk is not something you take on lightly in an operation like this. But it's essential that I don't leave a trail, and that rules out any of my regulars. They'd never trace me to Ekan, and even if they did, Ekan won't say shit. Besides, there's a certain amount of poetic justice in it, and since there's little enough justice in the world, I might as well take the poetic kind while it's up for grabs.

Now, let's see if we're both as good as our reputations.

I sneak through the trees and come into sight of the mansion, across landscaped grounds cut through with narrow streams and spotted with copses of dwarf mycora. Shine-stacks – little ornamental cairns with shinestones hidden inside – cast their light across the lichen-fuzzed lawn. Something long-legged and thin moves with a startled gait in the distance, silhouetted against a shine-stack. It's just one of the grazing animals that the master of the house keeps, but it reminds me of the scha'rak, the lightning-fast steeds of the SunChild warriors.

I haven't thought of Feyn much since I left the caravan. I wonder if it's because I've been trying not to. Because I know if I think of him, I might want to go back to him; and there's a job to be done first.

The mansion is comprised of globular sections, like a cluster of unevenly sized bubbles that have crowded together and been petrified in ceramic. Irregular, round windows glow yellow, randomly scattered across the building's dark surface. A driveway leads from the front door to the entrance gate of the grounds. The two guards are standing to attention, liveried in formal Caracassa red and black. Dressed for ceremony rather than protection. I'll deal with them later.

Keeping to the shelter of the trees, I hunt down the first of the abris-handlers. I spot him walking in the open, his pet loping alongside with a sullen murderer's swing to its step. I've dealt with abris before, and I hate them. Their spiked carapaces make it hard to get a good hit on them. They're strong as three men and their claws and teeth can open you up to the bone. The best way to deal with an abris is to make sure it's dead before it realises you're there.

I use another of Ekan's little tricks to take them out. Poison powder, pungent and liberally scattered at knee-height among the foliage. It's not long before the abris notices the scent, and pulls its master over to investigate. He follows his pet warily into the copse, sword drawn.

'What have you found?' he asks. The abris is sniffing excitedly, sucking the deadly powder in through its sensitive muzzle. It slows, whines, sways a little, and then keels over. That's when I slip my garrotte over the guard's head and pull it tight. It takes him a while to die, but he does it silently, and that's what's important.

The death of the second handler isn't quite so elegant, but it's more straightforward. I hide out till they wander close to me, then shoot the abris through the neck with an arrow. It's a tricky shot, between the armour plates, but I make it well enough. Then I string and fire again before the surprised guard has time to react. Quick and sloppy, but I still get him through the lung so there's too much blood in his throat to scream.

The other two guards on patrol aren't a problem. Alone, unaware. Picking them off is child's play.

Bodies hidden, I creep closer to the mansion and wait. My timing is good. I'm there in time to see the carriage come rolling up the drive, pulled by a single crayl. Three figures get out, hooded and cowled, masked and gloved. Not a bit of flesh showing.

I feel a thrill of fury at the sight of them. Voids, the fucking audacity of that! To invite the Gurta into the heart of our capital city! And yet how easy it would be, travelling under Ledo's sanction. Nobody would dare to question or investigate. Less suspicious than a clandestine meeting on neutral ground, even. Ledo's leaving the city would raise eyebrows, but not this. Just a secret meeting, like dozens of others carried out by the Plutarchs every turn.

Just thinking about it makes me clench my teeth. For an instant, I see Jai: the same picture I've had in my mind since Reitha came to me. My son, sprawled dead on the floor of a barracks, an empty vial in his hand. Eyes closed, features still and lifeless. I stamp the images flat. Grief and sorrow come later. For now, there's only revenge.

The newcomers go inside, and the guards return to their posts. I give them a decent amount of time and then blowpipe them both with poison darts. The beauty of the blowpipe is that most people take several seconds to realise they're under attack. Several seconds is much more than I need.

I could have sneaked in, avoided the guards entirely. But that's not how I want to play this one. I'm taking no chances. I don't like the idea of one of the outside guards coming in and surprising me, and I don't want any witnesses.

That's the sensible and logical part of the reason. The irrational part is stronger. I want to kill them. I want them dead for just being involved with Clan Caracassa, with Ledo, with everything that's happened to me and my family. By dealing with the Gurta my master has become complicit in the deaths of everyone I ever lost. Even my parents and my brother. If he's working with the enemy, then he's condoning what was done to them. He's making my life meaningless. He's making a joke of it.

I'll never be able to kill enough to make this feeling go away, and I know that. But just these few. Just these.

I crack the door and look inside. The hall is polished rootwood and ivory, immaculate and predictable. Jewelled spiral steps lead up to a balcony on either side, and at the end is a wide staircase narrowing towards double doors at the top. There's nobody in here. If I'd thought there would be, I'd have gone up the side of the building, cut through a window. But I've counted who's been in and out. There are only seven people in this entire place. Three Gurta, three Cadre, and Ledo. If a single person spotted one of Ledo's visitors without their masks then the game would be up. He's keeping the numbers tight.

I head up the spiral steps to the balcony and pad along. Exquisite murals line the walls, but I only see their beauty, I don't feel it. Beauty exists no more. It's done and over, and it was useless anyway. Where's the reality in those fleeting moments of pleasure we leach from the sight of something that gladdens or puzzles us? I'm sick of these fucking illusions we create to make our bland lives that much more epic. I'm sick of trying to convince myself that life is not some horrific animal, into whose jaws we're thrown, to be tossed and rent in a brief and bloody struggle before being flung brokenly aside. Happiness is just the anaesthetic that delays the pain. If you don't think that, it's because you're too weak to face it.

Everyone's dead. I'm dead too. I just have too much hate to lie down.

At the end of the balcony is a door, leading to a corridor and rooms beyond. I'm used to the eerie emptiness of a sleeping mansion from a dozen infiltrations, but a deserted one has a uniquely forlorn air. It's an old, stately place, heavy with time. I pass through it, caring nothing for its charms.

They haven't gone far in. It takes me a little searching, but I find them. The room has the feel of a study about it, with a library gallery running around the top and a single double door. A heavy desk takes pride of place, flanked by a solid glass globe of Callespa, with the known lands suspended three-dimensionally inside, a complex cavern system of precious metals. The shinestones have been hooded and lanterns burn. Ledo always preferred firelight. It leaves the gallery in shadow. That suits me.

Having heard their voices through the door, I make my way to an upper level and through an attic crawlway to a trapdoor that opens on to the gallery. Blueprints were easy enough to acquire, for someone like Keren. I owe him a debt that is becoming colossal, but I think he sensed the finality of this and didn't complain. He even offered to act as lookout for me, to send up a signal if any unexpected guests should arrive at the mansion.

From the gallery, I can look down on them. The Gurta have shed their disguises. Two stand in ceremonial sap armour, pale and faintly iridescent, hands near their swords and bows on their backs. The third is standing before the desk, talking closely with Ledo. Even at this distance, I know him. I may have had trouble recalling the name, but I'll never forget the face of the man who told me I was an animal without passion. Close to thirty years have changed him, weathered him like bark; but he's still indisputably Belek Aspa.

Ledo has three Cadre with him. Caydus, Jyirt, and a chthonomancer known as Ashka. Jyirt and Caydus are two of a kind, massive brawlers who make deceptively subtle fighters, just like Rynn. The three of them were good friends, in their time. It bothers me a little that I'm going to have to kill them.

Caydus is heavily armoured, ruddy-faced and blond: he looks perpetually furious. Jyirt is bald-headed, grey-skinned and sunken-eyed, and wears a scornful expression which makes people instinctively mistrust him. He's clad in light blue leathers, designed for mobility. Ashka is a little more flamboyant by nature, long hair scraped back into a ponytail that dissolves into colourful extensions. His face is a symmetrical tapestry of skinmarks. He wears a tight black bodysuit beneath plates of light alloy, his arms folded across his chest.

There's a popular misconception that chthonomancers have the natural ability to sense things beyond the power of normal mortals, but I know their powers only work when they're trancing, and that drains them fast. Chthonomancers rely on meditation and focus to tap their inner power. They can get into it pretty fast, but it doesn't just turn on and off. Catch a chthonomancer in the street with a knife, and he's as helpless as anyone.

Nevertheless, I decide to kill him first. Because if he gets time to do what he does, then I don't stand a chance.

Below me, Ledo and Belek are leaning over something on the desk. A document. Ledo signs with a flourish, and then hands the pen to the Gurta, who does the same. I adjust my face mask carefully, scrutinising their body language. What kind of deal have they made? I'm thirsty to know the details of the betrayal. I want to understand everything about why my master has done what he's done.

Then they're clasping hands, Eskaran-style. Smiling. Like old comrades. It's a horrible sight, a mockery. Eskaran and Gurta together, wide grins on their faces, congratulating each other on the murder of their kinfolk. Then Belek turns away, motions to his bodyguards, and the three of them head for the door.

Voids, it's over already? I was only just in time. Once they're gone, they're gone for good.

No time to revise my plan. No time for second thoughts. It's now or not at all.

Goodbye Jai. Goodbye Rynn. Goodbye Mama, Papa, Chada. Goodbye Veya. Goodbye Orna.

Now!