THE SERPENT'S TOOTH, Part 5
"I have word from my mistress," the assassin told me.
We were in our room on the second floor of the local inn. Gant was so large that he couldn't even enter the inn's common room. He was outside, sitting next to the front door, his back propped up against the wall as he enjoyed a bucket of ale.
Off in the distance, we could hear the unending roar of the falls. You're never far from that noise when in Nyagra.
The assassin disguised as a prostitute was kneeling as she faced us - for some reason, assassin cults seem to enjoy feigned humility. She had closed her tunic, but the buttons at the top and bottom were still undone, so she was displaying her very appealing legs and a 'v' of painted skin from her shoulders down to between her breasts. That's a common-enough trick of attractive assassins. The theory seems to be that we men-folk will get so fixated on any show of feminine flesh that we will helplessly drop our guard. Actually, that does work, but not all of the time. During the Black Widow War, the Widows lost several assassins who tried that trick on me. It got to the point that I simply assumed any under-dressed female I encountered was actually trying to kill me.
"And what does your mistress have to say for herself?" I asked.
The assassin smiled serenely. "Her precise words are this: 'I am required to contact you. I have contacted you. Now get the fuck out of my town.'"
Benjamin choked down a laugh.
I scratched my chin. "That's really quite rude."
"You are responsible for the deaths of both of her grandmothers and one of her great-grandmothers," the assassin explained.
I looked at Benjamin. "How many assassins have you spotted?" I asked.
He didn't hesitate. "The girl selling bread out on the street. An older woman disguised as a traveler - she's having a drink in the common room downstairs. The two so-called 'wives' of that Blood ranger who's selling venison to the innkeeper. There's also somebody on the roof, but I don't have a particularly good feel for that. How about you?"
I nodded thoughtfully. "The killers on the roof are a pair of over-excited young girls - Widow-apprentices. In my opinion, they're too young for an operation like this. There's also a woman with a compound bow on the second-floor of the building across the street. She's watching us right now."
Benjamin frowned as he glanced out the window of our room. "Dammit, I'm getting old," he grumbled as he waved to the assassin on the other side of the street. The shadowy window that the assassin was hiding behind suddenly seemed to become rather disgruntled.
The kneeling assassin was doing a commendable job of keeping a straight face. Unfortunately for her, like many Blood I'm quite good at reading people by triggers other than facial expressions and body language. Her scent indicated that she was becoming more than a little alarmed.
"What's your take on her?" Benjamin asked as he pointed a thumb at the assassin.
"She's probably the youngest and prettiest full-assassin of her cell," I answered. "They're the ones who are inclined to disguise themselves as courtesans - and dealing with the issues involved is normally considered a rite-of-passage by senior Widows. She has contact poison on her lips and more under her fingernails. Also, she has a dagger adhered to the small of her back and a pair of throwing stars on each of her shoulder-blades. They're most likely also poisoned."
Benjamin raised an eyebrow. "Poison on her lips? How does that work?"
I glanced at the woman. "Care to handle that one?"
The assassin looked at me for a long moment before replying to Benjamin. "As a part of our training, we're exposed to the poison in small doses until we develop a tolerance. It takes about a decade."
"You can literally kill with a kiss?" Benjamin persisted.
The kneeling assassin rolled her eyes. "It hinders rather than kills. We use it to disable the target. It also works most efficiently if you apply it to... somewhere else... than a man's lips. Are you two finished showing off?"
"Almost," I answered. "The fact you brought two apprentices along means your mistress has deployed all available resources. However, we've spotted you, so any conflict between us will be an open brawl - a battle instead of a nice, orderly, and neat assassination. Maybe you'll win that fight. Maybe you'll lose. But no matter what, you will lose sisters, and perhaps lose everyone. That's not how the Widows like to work."
The assassin didn't say anything, but I caught a sudden spike of fear from her.
I glanced at Benjamin. "She's trying to decide if it's possible to injure the two of us so badly that the other Widows can finish us off without taking losses."
Benjamin shrugged. "She wouldn't survive," he pointed out.
"She's a good Widow, so that's not the point. If I had to make a guess, she's particularly worried about the fate of the two youngsters on the roof."
"It's rude to talk about somebody as if they aren't there," the assassin noted.
"You shouldn't have brought the two kids along," Benjamin told her.
"Look, just what do you two assholes want?" she snarled. By then she had the dangerous eyes of someone who has decided that their death was probably both inevitable and necessary.
"I don't want a fight," I told her. "I do want to talk to your cell-mistress - who is almost certainly the older woman downstairs. So let's pay her a visit."
The cell-mistress looked more than a little disgusted when we sat down at her table. Then she gave the assassin with us a hard look.
The ranger and his two wives were enjoying a drink at a table across the room. Through an open window, I could see the woman who was selling bread. Another woman - carrying a long bundle - had joined her. None of them seemed to be paying any attention to us. Of course.
"They spotted us," the younger assassin reported quietly. "If we'd fought, it would not have been to our advantage. We would have lost sisters."
The cell-mistress considered that, and then shrugged her shoulders and turned her attention to me.
I honestly wasn't sure how much of the cell-mistresses appearance was really her and how much was a disguise. She looked like she was approaching crone-hood, but her scent was younger. Of course, a hard life and strict training would have kept her in good shape.
"What's your name?" I asked the younger assassin. I was coming to the conclusion that I needed to know her - she was smart, able to think on her feet, and willing to risk the ire of her mistress if she felt it served the best interests of her sisters.
"Jessica," she replied shortly. Perhaps that wasn't true, but it would do.
I didn't bother to ask the cell-mistress her name. There were no bridges to be built there.
"Can I buy you a drink?" the cell-mistress asked Benjamin and I.
"Not on your life," Benjamin chuckled. I just shook my head. The cell-mistress smiled coldly.
"I assume you received my message," the cell-mistress said as she took another sip of her wine.
Outside, I heard a sudden ruckus. Gant roared and a pair of young-sounding female voices seemed to be screeching about something. The cell-mistress frowned and glanced at her younger counterpart. Jessica got to her feet and walked out the door.
"I received your message," I told her, "and under normal circumstances I would have probably respected it. However, I need something done and I have a means of payment that I believe you will find more than acceptable."
"There's not enough wealth in this world that would make me - or any other Widow - do anything for you," the cell-mistress responded almost amiably.
"I can tell you where high-mistress Tonya is buried," I said.
The cell-mistress had been about to take another drink. The wine-cup paused halfway to her mouth as she began to stare at me.
One of her eyes twitched very slightly. Outside, the racket was still going on.
"Perhaps it is time for the high-mistress to return home to her mothers, sisters, and daughters," I continued contemplatively. "Then she could be buried with her fellow high-mistresses in a manner appropriate to her station. Even more importantly, the rites that protect her soul from hell of the Red Room could then be properly performed. Mind you, I think Tonya was a terrible high-mistress: she sought worldly power, provoked a war with the Blood, and almost got the Order of the Black Widow annihilated. More sisters died under her reign than any other high-mistress, before or since. However, that is ultimately a matter for historians to ponder. In the meantime, getting her body back would fulfill the oath to obey, defend, and serve that all Black Widows swear to their high-mistresses."
The cell-mistress was still frozen as she looked at me. Except for her one eye. It twitched again.
"What say you?" I asked carefully.
The cell-mistress put her cup down, and then nodded her head once.
Gant stuck his head and shoulders inside the doorway of the inn. He was holding a young and dark-skinned Folk girl up in the air by the scruff of the neck. Her arms and legs were wind-milling wildly as she futilely battered at Gant with feet and fists. Meanwhile, another Folk girl was riding on Gant's back, stabbing wildly at him with a dagger. Gant didn't even seem to notice.
Jessica was nearby. She had a hand over her eyes.
"These two poisoned my ale!" Gant announced indignantly.
The cell-mistress closed her eyes and took a long, deep, breath.
We had to talk in private, so we adjourned to a warehouse just outside the town wall. The workers in the warehouse promptly left when the Widows entered.
The two young Widow-apprentices were obviously twins. They were dark-skinned, but had yellow-brown eyes that were odd for Folk. They were perhaps twelve years old. By ancient tradition, the Widows often adopt orphans into their ranks. The cell-mistress identifies as their mother. Their fellow assassins become their sisters.
"We're sorry, Mr. Gant," the two child-Widows chorused together.
"Tell him what you're sorry for," Jessica ordered sternly. She was standing between them, with a firm hand on each of their shoulders.
"We're sorry we tried to kill you, Mr. Gant," the two youngsters said in unison.
"You poisoned my ale!" Gant said, his voice filled with uncomprehending tragedy. "Ale! You poisoned ale! How could you do such a thing?!"
Benjamin patted Gant on the small of his considerable back. "They're just kids, Gant. They don't know any better. And besides, you drank it anyway."
"It tasted terrible!" Gant protested.
"Now tell me what you are sorry for," the cell-mistress ordered.
"Mistress, we're sorry we exceeded orders," one of the two girls said.
"But we saw a chance...", the other girl began.
The cell-mistress sternly slapped the dissenting girl.
"I'm sorry, mistress," the slapped girl said miserably.
The cell-mistress raised her hand again.
"Once is a lesson. Twice means nothing," Gant announced suddenly.
The cell-mistress glanced coldly at Gant. Then she slapped the girl once more.
A low growl came out of Gant's throat. Benjamin hastily put a hand on his arm. Gant subsided, but he still looked dangerously unhappy.
Ignoring Gant, the cell-mistress turned to me. "What do you need done?" she asked.
I began telling her a carefully edited version of the tale of Ingrid's death.