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 Musicology Anthology Entry |
| Notes ▼ I knocked on the large wooden door at the far end of the corridor and waited. I was not looking forward to this part of the assessment. The psychological profile. Having someone dig around in my head to find cracks in my armour. They wouldn’t find any. I had melded those bastards shut a long time ago. But the thought of such close scrutiny left an uneasy trickle down my spine. “Just a moment.” the muffled voice of my mentor crackled. The old man must have been asleep again. I looked out the window. The sun was four fingers passed noon. He’d probably just woken up from his afternoon nap. The heavy walnut door creaked open. “You should get someone to oil the hinges for you, Master Roux” I said with a raised eyebrow, “the hinges are starting to seize again.” "Ah, yes… so they are…” he paused, lifting the spectacles to examine the rusted bolts. Roux had been my mentor since my acceptance at the guild eleven months ago. The kindly, dithering facade he projected in public was nothing more than a carefully constructed rouse. He was still just as deadly as he had been in his youth. Probably more so, since he’d taken the time to hone his technique, so he never expended more energy than necessary. “Come in... Come in Wren… Please… Take a seat.” he pointed to the large emerald armchair in the corner of his study. “Oh... don't look so worried child. This is just an informal chat. The first of many... hmm... Starting next month – should you pass your assessment – these will be much more regular! Tea?” “Yes, please. Honey too.” The old man smiled as he set the china teacups on the table in front of us. “So, tell me, how is your first official assignment progressing?" He sunk into the deep chair opposite mine and sighed. "You make it sound like a term paper-” I huffed a laugh under my breath and tilted my head, “It’s... going ok... I guess.” “Huh… Yes,” he said with a chuckle, “I suppose they are a little aren’t they. Lots of observations and research. Plans to be written up and submitted for approval…. Who are you paired with?" “Warren… Bisford…” I winced as I pictured the cocky, blonde-headed prick I had been forced to spend my evenings with for the last three nights. “Ahh…. Yes… A third year, is he not? An excellent choice of partner for your first time in the field. You could learn a lot from him” “I guess…” I shifted uncomfortably. “Not your choice I presume?” he questioned. Although he already knew the answer. It was a known fact that I didn’t play well with others. I never had – well, if you excluded Leigh and my brother, but they hadn’t counted for years. “It is important to build a network Wren. This life is isolating enough, but it is impossible to survive without carefully selected resources. Your fellow guild members are just that. Or they could be.” He continued, studying my face for a flicker of agreement. He sighed again and shook his head, peering over his glasses, which were precariously perched at the end of his nose. A subtle reprimand for my obstinance. “We don’t always have the luxury of liking who we work with Wren. Learning how to adapt. To work with our partners strengths and weakness can be the difference between life, or your corpse rotting in a back alley in the Quad. Now tell me, who is your quarry?" "Edgar Richardson...” “And what can you tell me about Edgar? “He’s 29 summers old... Criminal... Violent… Complete psycho by all accounts. He’s suspected of the death of old man Parsons last winter-" I recited from memory. "Ah yes, the break-in,” Roux interrupted. “Nasty business as I remember it. Very… messy…" He took a sip of tea and gestured for me to continue. “He's also a drunk. But can’t hold his mead passed two or three. Neither can his bladder.” I wrinkle my nose in disgust at the memory of coming across him in the alley, caked in his excrement. “I’m surprised his liver hasn’t packed up yet. He’s a gambler too. Cards mostly though he dabbles with the bones when he’s desperate. He’s not very good at either. He’s heavy in debt with Hockins if the black eyes and broken fingers are anything to go by.” I leaned forward and lifted my cup from its saucer on the table. The tea was sweet and sharp – a hint of lemon. I sipped it though my teeth to cool it down. It was probably to hot, but I needed the space to collect my thoughts, and I relished the burn as it slipped down my throat. “Interesting observations… Anything else...” “He works at the docks. A hard worker surprisingly. Never misses a shift. His dock mates don’t like him much.” “How so? Have you spoken to them?” “No.” I shook my head, “He just sits on his own at noon with his pasty. There is little interaction with anyone. If I cared enough, I’d hazard a guess that he drowns himself in mead coz he’s lonely… but I don’t. He’s a twat and deserves it.” Another chuckle signals me to continue. “He collects his coins from the yard in the afternoon. Kills his liver at the tavern in the evening. It’s a well-practiced routine – predictable. He’s got a room at Flanagan's, the boarding house on Eastbank, but he rarely makes it back. Passes out drunk in a puddle of his own piss most nights..." "What about physically?" “He's tall. Taller than me… like a beanpole....but he’s not wiry like one”. At five-foot-four most people are taller than me. Especially the arseholes in the guild. It was a constant weakness they tried to exploit. Unfortunately for them, what I lacked in height I made up for in speed and flexibility. I was light and quick and could scale the battlement walls faster than any of them, my small fingers and the tips of my boots found easy purchase in the mortar and crumbing brickwork. “He’s got a slight hunch on his back. At his shoulders. Could be from his height or nutrition. He has to duck under doorways – knocked his head a beauty two nights ago. Knocked him straight out.” I struggled to contain my giggle as I recalled the man sprawled in the mud by the tavern’s back door. “It took him a good five minutes to come round. He’d lost his coin purse by the time he did.” “Oh…? Isn’t that the same night the Sister’s got an anonymous donation.” “Maybe…” I grinned in reply. “He walks with a limp. Broken ankle that never healed properly. It's painful. Worse at night when it's cold and he's been on it all day. Makes him slow. Clumsy." Roux steepled his fingers together and lean forward, bracing his bony elbow on his thighs. “And what does all of this tell us?” he questioned. “That he’s an idiot that’s well on his way to doing the assignment for me?” “Wren…” he chastised. “Fine... It tells me that he’s physically strong – he lifts those boxes at the docks all day. He’s got brute strength. Explosive. He’ll likely overpower me if he’s sober, even with his gammy leg. But he’s got no stamina. And no self-control. A well-timed kick to his left ankle would level the playing fields considerably.” “Is that what you are proposing… a straight assault? One on one?” “No… of course not. I’m not an idiot.” I roll my eyes and drum my fingers in the arm of the chair, “I’m going to wait til he’s on his way back to the boarding house. He’ll be topped up by then and probably bouncing off the walls.” Roux nodded, “that does seem like the perfect opportunity.” “Hockins’ usually collects on a Friday. If I wait til after then his men will have softened him up for me as well. Makes it easier to if things go south.” “And how will you frame it? Accident? Ambush?” “An overzealous collection gone wrong… Hockin’s ain’t gonna care if he gets the blame. It’ll just add to his reputation. Maybe he’ll even believe it was one of his guys. Any marks and bruises will be buried by those from his men anyway. And the guards likely won’t take any worth of notice. Richardson will be just another lowlife who expired.” “How will you ensure you don’t get caught?” he asks. Fingers twisting in his greying beard. “He takes the same route. I know it well. It’s easy to follow from a distance. From the roofs maybe?” “And what method will you suggest?” “Knife.” I say firmly, “Small blade. One from the market stalls. Easy to swipe, hard to trace. Four inches. Slip it between the fourth and fifth costal bones. From behind. Twist and extract. It will nick to his heart. His lung too. He’ll bleed out or choke on his own blood.” “A blade is personal choice. Visceral. It says a lot about the one who wields it. Much more so that the other methods available to you. Why not slip a poison into his mead. Or an arrow – I know how well you are coming along with your weapons training in that field.” A hint of pride clear in his voice. “An arrow is harder to explain, and a bow is harder to conceal. Besides… he deserves it. The brutality I mean.” “And why that’s important? The Brutality? You want to serve a form of justice…? We are not the law Wren.” “No, but we can be its weapon. Bring Karama to those that deserve it.” “Karama…. That is a slippery slope, Wren. Self-administered justice is frowned upon within the Guild. When we make it personal, we open ourselves to mistakes. To getting caught. You are far too young to swing from the gallows.” I tilt by head back and stare at the painted ceiling. The picture of a hunt. A wolf surrounded by men on horseback with bows taut and arrows knocked, and large swords raised in anticipation for the impending strike. “How do you think this will affect you. It’s your first official kill. Some people struggle with the complicated emotions that it brings about.” Another question. Another sip of tea. This was the main point of this session. The psychology preparation. A guilt-ridden assassin would not last long between these walls. "That won’t be a problem. I killed my conscience a long time ago. And this isn’t the first death I’m responsible for. I won’t be crying myself to sleep over Richardson." “Ah... yes... but that was an accident, Wren. This will be different. Purposeful. Your conscience might not be so easily silenced this time. Besides, it should not be easy to take a life. It will tax your soul. But I fear our session has come to an end. And probably just in time – my tea is cold.” I laughed despite myself. The old man’s obsession with tisane was well established. He was best avoided before he’d had his morning beverage. I rose from my seat and collected the delicate cups, retuning them to the tray on his desk. “Wren,” he paused, opening the door, “This life is not for everyone. It is cruel, harsh, and lonely. But you… you have a gift. One I’d like to see reach its full potential. If you let me, I can help you achieve great things. Even those things you refuse to acknowledge outside of you own mind.” I nodded in response. “At least think about it… hmm.” He twittered. “See you next week.” “Goodbye Master Roux. Thank you for the tea.” Lyrics ▼ |
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