Chapter 33: Sympathetic Assassin

Dimitry shoved through a crowd to get a closer look at a wondrous port. Originally, he expected a mundane pier filled with old men peddling vile fish from their weathered boats. That was why he and Saphiria came here—to find a seaborne vessel that would take them to Coldust. However, what compelled him forward now wasn’t necessity, but awe.

Awe at a grand wall whose towers rose from ocean depths and combined into a massive arch that shielded Estoria’s entire west side. Within its borders were over a hundred boats, several harbors, and a semi-circular slice of beach.

Every expertly cut brick shimmering with a rainbow-colored enchantment, the barrier towered higher than most buildings in the city, dominating them with sheer girth and commanding aura. Clear glass windows, rare commodities in this world, hinted the fortification doubled as living quarters.

Precious frantically tugged back on his collar, but Dimitry couldn’t suppress his curiosity.

He made his way to a stone-carved harbor and looked up to see an army of robed figures standing atop the wall. They were women from the Church. A salty wind carried down their barked orders and chanting.

“Freezia.”

“Sinkia.”

“Don’t let the carrier devil retreat!”

“Dropia.”

“Dispelia.”

Spells both novel and familiar. How many existed? And what of their targets?

Just beyond the harbor, limbs of unmoving stone corpses peeked out from ocean waves as a fleet of lightly armored men sorted through them. They chanted “floatia,” causing the heathens to rise to the water’s surface, and, in groups of four, hauled them to shore. On the frigid beach, an open-roof processing stand awaited the cargo.

An aged woman wearing a flowing, decorated robe mouthed prayers as she cracked the shell of a bird-like heathen with a hammer. Once blue blood began to trickle, she collected it in a ceremonial ceramic vessel, identical to the ones aboard a nearby carriage en route to some unknown destination.

The ineffable efficiency of their medieval-esque assembly line would evoke a standing ovation from Henry Ford himself. Dimitry would applaud too if he weren’t on their wanted list. Instilled with a new sense of respect and caution for his pursuers, he ducked his head and wrestled his way back into an unruly crowd. As long as the Church kept up the good work, heathens would never be a problem for him.

After all, Dimitry wasn’t burdened with a city to defend.

“You really like to dance with death, don’t you?” Precious whispered into his ear.

“That’s part of being a surgeon.”

“You know that’s not what I meant!”

“I don’t like to admit it, but the Zerans earned my respect. Even if they hate our guts.”

“Good, maybe you’ll stop bursting into churches.”

Precious’s suggestion wasn’t one Dimitry could comply with. Last night’s events left more questions than answers. Since Zerans built places of worship near shrines, encounters with them were inevitable. “No promises, but I’ll try to keep you out of it.”

“I need you to live too, Dumitry.” Precious paused. “I wouldn’t fare well in a city on my own.”

“Rest assured. I don’t plan on dying anytime soon.”

Dimitry searched a while before they met up with Saphiria, who waited outside the market square. Her petite figure and plain black cloak made her difficult to find among a vibrant populace.

Saphiria led him to an alleyway. “What’s the situation?”

“I don’t think our chances of finding a boat are any good. The storm took every transport vessel out of commission for the past few days, and now there’s a giant crowd swarming the harbor looking for a way out of the city.”

She bit her lip and looked at her boots. Although the rain stopped last night, her shoes were caked in mud by the flooded streets of a city that ignored the benefits of a sewer system. “I think we should try Tenebrae.”

“They’re in this city, too?”

“Yes.”

Dimitry stroked his chin. “Can we trust them? Correct me if I’m wrong, but neither of us has had a pleasant experience working with them back in Ravenfall. You more so than I.”

“We don’t have to trust them,” Saphiria said. “We just need them to lead us to a smuggler. I’ve worked here before. I know people.”

“If you worked here before, wouldn’t we risk them discovering and spreading your identity as an escaped Zeran Servant? What if they told the Church?”

“I’ll hide the scarf and tell them I’ve been freed.”

“And if they don’t believe you?”

She looked away. “Then…”

“Please don’t do anything dangerous.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

Dimitry heaved a relieved sigh. There was enough blood on both of their hands already. “But why do we need Tenebrae’s help?”

“Were there any larmesh smugglers where you come from?”

“I’m not even sure what that is.”

“It’s a drug from Coldust.”

It seemed even medieval societies struggled with narcotics. “Go on.”

Saphiria brushed raven black hair away from her eyes. “In Estoria, Tenebrae is charged with distributing larmesh, which is imported by smugglers.”

“And these smugglers have boats to do that?”

“Correct. We have to find one heading back to Coldust to resupply.”

Dimitry never imagined that he would end up seeking Tenebrae once more, but they were desperate for a seafaring vessel. Even if it belonged to a smuggler. “Alright. Let’s get this over with.”

On their way to the red-light district, they passed through the market square. A feminine voice cut through passionate hollers to deliver a grim message. The source was a robed woman atop a marble stand whose heartfelt hand movements pleaded for the attention of passersby.

“All ye faithful! Pay heed! The end times are coming! The shrine’s light is lost! The struggle for survival will only worsen! The Church needs your aide to fight against the growing demon threats! Leave your children under our care! Celeste, guide us all!”

Women with babies clutched to their chest, overworked laborers, fur-clad merchants, and believers from countless other walks of life gathered around the preacher. As their numbers grew, so did their shouting. They packed tightly, turning the frigid air into a humid carrier of offensive body odor.

Dimitry shuffled through them and shot a glance at the cathedral courtyard behind the preacher. She was right. The shrine, no longer decorated with glowing blue pawns, was now a featureless jet-black pillar. He thought he saw its light wane when he retrieved the relic last night. Does that mean their outrage was his doing?

Precious shook with laughter. Her wings chimed, brushing against Dimitry’s ear like vibrating films. “Dumitry, didn’t you say you got that weird ball from the cathedral’s shrine?”

“I did.”

“Does that mean you’re responsible for this mess?”

“I’m wondering the same thing. Has something like this happened before?”

“Not that I know of.” Precious snickered. “Keep up the good work.”

“At least someone’s enjoying themselves.” In truth, Dimitry derived mischievous pleasure from his misdeeds as well. The Church deserved grief for abusing its followers. Milli and Rowan believed their illnesses were a loving god’s punishment, and those who strayed from the teachings became slaves.

However, these days, Dimitry wasn’t a paragon of justice either.

————————————————————————————————————

Estoria had changed.

There was a time one could hear the boys from the Fletchers Guild shout slurs at the Leatherworkers Guild apprentices across Layfen street, complaining about the stenches of urine and lime wafting from putrefying cowhides. But now, both workshops were gone. New establishments took their place, and even the businesses that remained had fresh faces. Unfamiliar alleyway fences eagerly peddled stolen goods, gangs with novel insignias patrolled the slums, and new ‘chefs’ sold rotting meat pies.

Four bygone years was all it took to replace the world Saphiria knew well into one of strangers. Part of her was relieved to leave her unforgivable past behind. Only nightmares remained from the lives she cut short at a client’s request. Now, after being sold to Delphine and a reckless escape, Saphiria was finally free. She could make her own decisions.

But freedom was its own prison.

The sight of shacks with shingles sliding off of their roofs and the creaking of warped timber beams sent shivers down Saphiria’s spine. The pleading of helpless victims echoed through her mind. How many had she killed here? Whether in a home or a dark alley, Saphiria never let a mark escape.

Most targets were innocent. To survive and support their struggling families, they had to oppose aristocratic monopolies. But she slaughtered them anyway. Vivid memories of their murder soaked her hands in unseen blood, and without a collar’s enchantment to numb the regret, dread weighed down on Saphiria like a thick leather mantle.

She scoured the slums since morning. Every Tenebrae facility that once handled smuggled goods was under new ownership, wary of a formerly infamous assassin, or gone entirely. Her vast knowledge of Estoria had crumbled in her absence.

Saphiria had to hurry and find a lead—a surgeon depended on her.

She glanced back.

Pale green eyes examining the alley they stood in, Dimitry rubbed his chin. Would he still talk to her if he knew who Saphiria was? No. He was a healer—a man devoted to saving lives. She could only take them.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“I’m thinking where to look next.”

Precious peeked from the back of his hood. “Doubt it.”

Dimitry waved the faerie away. “Quit being an ass.”

“Rude.”

Saphiria averted her gaze. If Precious could discern her emotions so easily, they must have gotten out of hand. She had to hold it together. At least until she got home. Then, like in the days of her youth, she could help father manage Malten’s mines in blissful ignorance. She could forget.

The familiar odor of something burning sweetly wafted from the street.

Saphiria’s head perked up.

Strolling down a carved brick crossroads were two men. The shorter one held a small pipe whose bowl emitted fumes from a burning narcotic resembling apricot jam.

Dimitry crept closer, cloak fabric scraping against a rough plaster wall. “Is that orange putty he’s smoking larmesh?”

“How did you know?” Saphiria asked.

“It’s obvious. This is the first time you’ve stared at anything so intently for hours.”

“What is hours?”

Dimitry froze. “They’re what my people use to measure time. It’s a bit complicated.”

Measure time? Was hours like a sundial? Saphiria met the mysterious surgeon’s gaze. She often wondered if he was fabricating falsities, but confident pale green eyes and suturing techniques superior to Malten’s court doctor convinced her otherwise. Father had often stressed the importance of learning from the skilled.

“Tell me about it later, okay?”

He chuckled. “Sure.”

Saphiria’s attention returned to the two men. The crudely stitched emblems on their gloves and pants were gang insignias. Chances were high that they could help locate the smuggler that sold them that larmesh. Normally, she wouldn’t rely on uncertain odds, but the shire-reeve knew that she and Dimitry were in Estoria. Guards searched for them even now.

Time ran short.

Saphiria considered luring the gangsters into an isolated alley with a bribe and asking where they had purchased the narcotic, but the men did not move as she had predicted. They arrived at a cottage with collapsing window shutters first.

Inside, a father counted what little money he had while his wife sewed heavy fabric into a thick shirt for the oncoming winter months. Four girls, all but one too young for marriage, helped with chores. The family was poor, but they had something far more important—each other.

The smoking gangster’s fist slammed against the cottage door.

Eyes wide open, the father dropped his three bronze gadots, and his wife huddled their daughters into a small corner.

Tensity gripped Saphiria’s shoulders. That father’s panic—she saw it many times before. Tenants that couldn’t afford the local gang’s territorial taxes were publicly eviscerated to set an example to the neighbors. Four daughters were about to lose their father.

Heat rushed into Saphiria’s chest, and her breath grew hasty. She yearned to run forth, to stab those gangsters in their kidneys and leave them to rot in the midday sun like the scum they were, but she promised Dimitry she wouldn’t. And a midday assassination was too risky. Waiting until the gangsters finished and entered an isolated area would allow Saphiria to extract information without conflict.

Precious giggled.

“What’s wrong with you?” Dimitry whispered.

“Something is about to happen.”

“Like what?” He looked into his cloak. “Something bad?”

“Dunno. Whatever it is, it’s not looking good for the guy in the rumpled tunic.”

Should Saphiria tell Dimitry? If he knew, he might recklessly run out to help like he did to free her from the Church. And yet, she wanted to do nothing less herself. Saphiria bit her lip and suppressed the urge.

Pale green eyes devoid of their comforting nature, Dimitry met her gaze. “Do you know something?”

Saphiria should stay silent, she tried to stay silent, but a foolish hope that he would force her to act compelled her to speak. “They’re collecting protection money.”

“Will three copper coins be enough to pay those guys off?”

“No.”

After knocking without answer several times, the smoking man kicked the flimsy door open. The first gangster slapped the coins away from the outstretched father’s hand, while the second pulled a utility knife from his pants. They took turns punching him in the stomach.

Doors and window shutters slammed shut as residents retreated into their homes, hoping to avoid getting involved. Their widened eyes peeked from behind uneven planks.

Dimitry looked around. “Where the fuck are the guards when you need them?! Do they do anything at all?”

As if possessed by The Ancient Evil, Saphiria’s hand dove to retrieve her dagger from its sheath, but a glance at the accompanying surgeon gave her pause.

“Saphiria,” Dimitry said. “You were thinking to ask those guys about smugglers, right?”

Not any more. She wanted to slit their throats. Whether her fury sourced from an urge to atone for the many innocent lives she had taken or to keep four girls from parting with their father, Saphiria’s legs burned, eager to lunge forward. But it was lunacy. “There are too many witnesses. We shouldn’t.”

“Yeah!” Precious said. “There are too many people! Let’s calm down and—”

“What if I lured them somewhere no one can see?”

Saphiria gazed into his pale green eyes. “How?”

He retrieved a gold gadot from his pouch and gave her the rest. “Think this’ll be enough to tempt those assholes? I’ll tell them to follow me to hear out a lucrative business deal.”

“No!” Precious hissed. “We should leave them alone!”

His diversion would provide time to set up an ambush without revealing her position and allow them to question the gangsters afterward. Dimitry's plan was efficient and sound. “I'll have to kill. Are you alright with that?"

“No, but four kids are about to see their dad get murdered in the middle of the street and no one’s doing shit. If you don’t want—”

"I want to." Saphiria snatched the pouch from his hand. “Lead them to the dead-end alley we passed earlier. The one with the rundown cottage. I’ll handle the rest.”

“Precious, go with her.”

“I just knew you dummies were going to do this!” The faerie clambered into Saphiria’s hood, green wings brushing against her ear. “Let’s get this over with.”

With a slow and self-assured step, Dimitry strode forward.

“Wait.” Saphiria grabbed his wrist. A slight tremble revealed his bravado as false. “Even if you feel like you’re in danger, don’t run. It’ll only attract attention. Just trust in me. I’ll come no matter what.”

“I can count on you, right?”

“Anytime.”

“Then I have no need to run.” He smiled and left the alley.

Despite tingling across her limbs—the long-forgotten anxiety before a kill—waves warm and resplendent flooded into Saphiria’s abdomen. They were the acknowledgment that she trusted someone, and that someone trusted her without forced obedience through servia.

Precious’s sigh tickled Saphiria’s nape. “You knew he was gonna do that. And here I was, thinking you were the smarter one.”

“I guess not.”

Displaying five small silver coins on an outstretched palm, Dimitry spoke unheard words across the street. The smoking man took his money and shouted a grim warning at the father. Both gangsters trailed behind the surgeon.

Once they were out of earshot, Saphiria rushed to the cottage.

Four girls hugged and kissed their father, who struggled to stop shaking and fought back tears from bloodshot eyes. Only a good man could garner such adoration from his daughters. They would be devastated to lose him.

Although wasting Dimitry’s money without permission irked Saphiria, she plucked eight silver gadots from the pouch he entrusted her with, vowing to pay everything back once they reached Malten.

She intruded into their home.

“Go, go!” The father waved his family away. “I’ll handle this!”

The mother and daughters halted their heartbreaking reunion and retreated into a corner. Did they think Saphiria was here to finish the gangsters’ job? Perhaps they would have been correct four years ago, but not anymore.

“You’ll never be safe here.” Saphiria dropped the coins onto an unsteady wooden table. “Use the money to move out of the city. Stay at an inn. A bathhouse. It doesn’t matter. That gang won’t look for you in the countryside.”

“W-what?” the father blurted. “Who are you?”

“It doesn’t matter. You have to leave. Now.” With those parting words, she darted away to catch up with Dimitry. The thumping of her boots against crumbling brick roads echoed across narrow streets.

“I was wrong,” Precious whispered. “You’re even worse than Dumitry!”

The heaviness weighing down on Saphiria lightened. “Do you really think so?”

“It wasn’t a compliment! Look at what happened because of you!”

Dimitry walked ahead. Instead of two gangsters following him, now there were five. Did they plan to reconvene here all along?

Saphiria bit her lip. If she didn’t spend time on that family, could she have prevented this? It mattered not. Lowering their numbers was all she could do.

“How is Dimitry? Do you think he’ll run in fear?”

“He’s not pissing his braies yet,” Precious said.

In the middle of the road, a little boy and girl scribbled chalk doodles onto torn plaster walls. The perfect distraction.

Saphiria hid in a nearby alley, picked up two rocks, and tossed one over the children and at a gangster’s head.

“Oi!” a shout rang from down the street. “Did you little fuckers throw that at me?”

Gangsters’ howling laughter followed.

“Go teach those cunts a lesson.”

“We don’t have time for this. Meet up with us at the alehouse when you’re done, Durant.”

“You know I fuckin’ will.”

The children froze as a scowling gangster stomped closer.

There was a time Saphiria would abandon her diversions, let them perish to increase her odds of success, but the suffocating constriction around her chest grew tighter. She wasn’t that anymore.

“Hey!” Saphiria hissed.

The children twitched to face her. Tears and snot dripped down the girl’s little red face.

To terrify an innocent baby so much—Saphiria was a horrible person. “One of your mommies called for you. Both of you. Go before she gets really really mad.”

They stared, paralyzed.

Saphiria pulled both children into the alley and shoved them away. “I said go!”

Scurrying as fast as their little feet could carry them, the boy and girl waddled away.

The gangster turned into the alley soon after. “Where do you little fucks think—”

Saphiria lunged from a crevice and repeatedly thrust her dagger into the man’s lower back. The excruciating pain of a mutilated kidney let not an utterance escape his mouth. She clutched a crude vol pellet with one hand and pressed a rock to his exposed upper neck with the other. “Propelia.”

The stone pierced the gangster’s spine and throat, blasting blood and flesh and bone fragments into the opposing alley wall. He collapsed with a stifled thud.

There was no regret.

There was no guilt.

All Saphiria felt was feedback’s remnant heat warm her arm, the need to catch up with Dimitry, and one other thing. She glanced down the alley to make sure the children didn’t see.

They had left.

Good.

Saphiria withdrew her dagger from the man’s kidney and wiped away the gore with his cloak. “Is Dimitry far?”

“Just a little that way.” Precious tugged the scarf around her collar to show direction. “By the way.”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry if I ever made you mad. Please don’t do that to me.”

Saphiria’s barbaric displays coaxed remorse even from a corrupted creature. “I won’t as long as you never tell Dimitry what I did to those children.”

“My lips are sealed... I hope.”

After a swift dash through the slums, Saphiria located her targets. All four walked alongside Dimitry. There wasn’t time to whittle down their numbers further. The dead-end alley was just ahead, and the surgeon’s bluffing would provide a diversion for only a short while before the gangsters grew suspicious.

Saphiria had to eliminate them now, but how could she keep the smoking gangster alive for questioning while disposing of the others? The only weapon at her disposal was a dagger. Magic risked collateral damage when Dimitry was close to every mark, but without spells, the battle was lost. Separating the surgeon from the scum offered the highest odds of success.

“Precious, on my command, cast illumina on the first gangster to reach for a weapon.”

“Oh boy.” The faerie inhaled deeply. “Here were go again.”

Saphiria ignored her shaking legs as she absorbed a pure vol pellet into her palm, ran forth, and shouted. “Step aside!”

Dimitry chanted inaudible words. With blurry and unnatural speed, he rammed into the smoking gangster. Both plunged through an open window. Through mystical means, Dimitry had isolated himself and the knowledgeable target. An opportunity she couldn’t miss.

“Propelia,” she said.

A stone shot forth into a gangster’s skull. He fell backwards.

The two other men looked back. They reached for their knives.

“Illumina!”

As light flooded a gangster’s eyes, Saphiria tossed a dagger into his chest and kicked the hilt, slamming the blade further into his heart. He collapsed.

A fist flew forward.

Saphiria ducked behind the last gangster and unraveled from her wrist a black rope made of Julia’s hair. She threw it around his throat, crossed the ends, and pulled back with all her might.

He grasped at his neck. “Y-you fuck… ing…”

His face grew redder and more engorged until his legs folded beneath him.

Saphiria preferred to kill her marks to guarantee safety, but a more urgent concern urged her forward. She rushed into the cottage.

Under a lopsided window, Dimitry struggled to pin down his target. His limbs pulsed unnaturally as if powered by demons.

Saphiria didn’t stop to inquire. While the surgeon wrestled the flailing man into submission, she squeezed her arm around the gangster’s neck, constricting until he fell unconscious.

“Nychld,” Dimitry babbled.

Unsure of how to respond, Saphiria blinked.

Dimitry’s movements normalized when he grabbed her dispelia-enchanted scarf. “I said, nice chokehold.”