An assassin pacing in front of a bookshelf admits his fears. Apprehension twists into his nerves, too tight and white-hot. The royal protector has escaped from his shallow hole, a slew of bodies ( living. sleeping. unexpected, but it would be untrue if he said he didn't appreciate it in some marginal way. ) left in his wake.
While it isn't unexpected, it isn't especially comforting, either.
It's because he knows.
It comes when gloved fingers brush against an empty space slung through the loop on his belt. His hand curves into a fist and, for the moment, he pretends not to have noticed. There are duties he has to attend to, there is an audiograph patiently humming away, still recording.
Still, it comes when his key missing from its post, the next thing he reaches for. Another assassin waits not-quite-patiently in the next room, hoping to embark on her expedition. She does not know if she should be relieved or disappointed when she gets word of a delay. ( she won't leave until the morning, and when she does, the sewer door is gone. a whaler of higher ranking stands watching patiently in its place. she does not ask why. )
There are a great deal of things he will do for coin. He plucks people from their beds, sending them to places he does not care enough to remember. He slips into the offices of well-liked nobles and slices through the soft flesh of their throats. They're all written down, every single bounty scribbled into journals dripping in red; but he does not dwell on the fates of people he cares nothing for. It does not do to dwell, after all.
There are few things he would refuse. There are things he knows he should have.
He does not dwell until he shoves a blade through the belly of an empress, until he drags a ten year old girl into the tipping point of a could-be war; a could-be fall of an empire.
( he knows he should have slid the blade through the belly of the lord regent, instead. )
He knows he cannot change which cards have fallen, but he does know, as a witch lays rotting in a painting, that the girl is safe. He knows he has done his best to spin the deck his way, just as he knows that he has been spared, just as he recognizes a warning.
Daud clears his throat.
The assassin leaves.
He continues speaking, filling the audiograph with his words.