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SIARI

The Silence Has Been Broken

Volunruud

It had taken Siari some time to hike all the way to Volunruud, but she hadn't minded all that much. She could do without all the tensions and the drama back in the Sanctuary, with Astrid acting like she was on the worst period she'd ever had and everyone else walking on eggshells, except of course Cicero, who missed no opportunity to vex the 'bossy homemaker'. So the trip had been a welcome diversion, just herself, her thoughts, and her unfavourable thoughts of the world.

There was a lever next to the entrance, and Siari stuffed the rest of her sweetroll in her pack, pulled her mask up, then engaged the mechanism. The stone door ground open, and darkness yawned before her. Taking a breath, she stepped inside.

In the darkness, her eyes still trying to adapt, she faintly saw a man uncross his legs and rise to his feet, taking up the warhammer that had lain beside him. "Who goes there?" The voice was wary but collected.

Siari obviously couldn't answer.

Again the voice demanded to know who she was, and again she couldn't reply. She simply raised her hands to show they were empty.

"Step forward slowly, and identify yourself," the man with the hammer said. His accent sounded Cyrodiilic, but Siari wasn't sure.

She did as she was told, stepping towards the man. She made sure to draw her fist across her throat to indicate she couldn't speak.

"I won't ask again. Identify yourself this instant."

Siari let out an angry sigh and rolled her eyes. She'd just indicated that she couldn't. Besides, didn't the shrouded armour speak for itself? Of course it did.

"It's alright, Rexus," another voice came from the darkness, this one with a cultured Breton accent, and equally fancy clothes, much finer than the clothing in Skyrim, and probably even posh by High Rock standards. This wasn't some backwoods bumpkin, nowhere near it. "I was already... informed that our contact has been afflicted with a rather significant speech impediment."

"Hmph," the other man, obviously a bodyguard, grunted. "Then she can at least lisp her name or something."

A dignified chuckle. "No, not even that I'm afraid." The Breton stepped forward and gave her a long glance. "Please. No need for secrets, or masks here. Believe me when I say that I am at far greater risk than you are."

Siari shook her head.

The man with the hammer minced far less words. "Mask. Off."

"I'm afraid I must insist," the fancy-clothes Breton said, tempering his bodyguard's attitude. "There can be no paranoia, no secrets between us. This matter is of too great an importance. I fully understand your reticence, but I must ask you to remove your mask or remove yourself."

Siari was torn for a brief moment. Part of her wanted to just turn on her heels and leave. Then again, she'd come this far, and blowing up this contract would mean displeasing the Night Mother, and Siari didn't feel like displeasing an entity more powerful than she was. So she let out an angry breath through her nose, and pulled the mask down and her hood off, fluffing her ponytail out of her collar.

"There. This makes for a less tense conversation, does it not?" the Breton said. "Though I must say, I hadn't expected someone this..."

Snotty? Puny? Untesticled?

"... innocent-looking."

Hm. Siari could live with that. Still, she simply shrugged at him to indicate that she'd be as good as it got.

"Yes. Well. I am, as you know, Amaund Motierre, and I wish to employ the Brotherhood's services, for what is likely to be their greatest undertaking", he chuckled at the age-old pun, "in its history. But where are my manners. Sit, please."

He motioned towards two travelling chairs with furs draped over them, with a small campfire in the middle. A put was suspended over it, steam rising from the heated water.

"You seem to have arrived just in time," Motierre said as they sat down, Siari trying not to show how much she enjoyed the feeling of the soft, expensive fur. "Water is close to boiling. Tea?"

Siari thought briefly of refusing (it always felt awkward to accept something from strangers), but she'd always been taught that accepting offers of refreshment is the most polite, and she was seriously cold, so she smiled and nodded. Not like it'd be poisoned or anything.

Motierre scooped some water from the pot, filled two pewter mugs, and sprinkled some ground leaves in each. Strange that he did it himself and not let his bodyguard do it, but Siari wasn't here to ask questions.

"Now then," Motierre told her as he passed the cup of in-progress tea to her. "About what I require of you. As I said before, it's the most significant contract the Brotherhood has ever been offered."

Siari raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to go on. It would probably be far less significant as he imagined it to be.

He leaned in, the embers of the small campfire casting his face in red. "The contract... is for Emperor Titus Mede."

There was a brief silence as the words sank in.

Then, Siari felt herself break into a chuckle. This was too crazy for words. Some crackpot with fancy threads trying to pull a prank, or just believing his own delusions. Her chuckle grew into a laugh, echoing off the walls. She enjoyed the sound of her own voice as it laughed. It was one of the few times she could actually use her voice without making inarticulate yawling sounds that made her feel ashamed beyond words.

"I thought you couldn't speak?" the bodyguard grunted, clearly knowing nothing.

"This is no joke, I assure you," the other said, his face completely straight. "Though I suppose I can't fault you for thinking it is. When you are done being unprofessional, perhaps I can divulge the details?"

He was serious? By the hairs on Grelod's chin, this guy was serious. Siari stopped laughing and looked at him in disbelief. This fancy-pants was serious.

"May I? This letter contains all the details. It will be a series of tasks, each aimed at assuring the Emperor's presence in Skyrim, and weakening his security. Execute each one to the letter, and you'll find the Emperor himself a vulnerable target."

This guy really was serious.

"Drink your tea."

As Siari took a drink from the warm, bitter tea, the rich toff rummaged in a bag, taking out a sealed envelope. "The enclosed amulet will both assure you that I am no common peasant, and it should fetch a price high enough to cover any expenses. Pay for the assassination will follow after completion. The terms are all explained."

The envelope exchanged hands from his manicured fingers to her gloved ones, and Siari felt the weight of a jewel inside, as well as the thickness of a sheaf of papers. She also didn't miss the capitals spelling "ASTRID", nor the seal that made sure it wasn't opened before reaching its recipient. Siari still couldn't wrap her head around what she'd heard. A plot to assassinate the Emperor of Cyrodiil. The Emperor, even, of Tamriel, as the Imperials so loved to claim. And while Titus Mede wasn't the most beloved of Emperors, nor the most legitimate, it was hard to imagine anyone hating him enough to risk trying to assassinate him. Then again, Emperors were Emperors. Not many of them had died of natural causes. Still, if Siari remembered correctly, it had been over a hundred years since an Emperor had been assassinated. Uriel Septim, Emperor of Tamriel, had been stabbed multiple times by a bunch of lunatics known as the Mythic Dawn. It had been a dent on the reputation of the Dark Brotherhood – being upstaged so painfully would make even the most confident guild blush – but that hadn't mattered for long, since a few weeks later, all of them had been wiped out during a mass poisoning. Perhaps it had even been that Mythic Dawn cult, looking to deal the coup de grace to the Brotherhood. It was possible.

But still. Attempting to assassinate an Emperor was generally seen as suicide. There was this specialized division of the Imperial Army, dedicated to the Emperor's safety, the Penis Oculus or something, and they were supposed to be both extremely thorough, and extremely punitive towards would-be assassins. Siari recalled the story Veezara had told her, of an assassin, or a would-be assassin rather, who'd been captured by the Emperor's guardians. He'd appeared before the court blind, without fingers or toes, and without his manhood. And that was before the sentence had even been determined. Then again, it could also just be a tall tale. Wasn't the Imperial Army bound by laws? No matter.

"I see the reality of the situation is sinking in," Motierre said. "It will give you something to think about during your return trip. Do not worry overmuch, I've taken care of everthing. As I said, follow these instructions to the letter and everything will be fine."

Easy for him to say. Siari finished her tea, the envelope in her other hand, then rose, making a short bow. People like these loved it when you acted all formal.

"And a good day to you too. I suspect we shan't hear of each other until the entirety of the contract is completed." He rose and said, "If there is nothing else?"

Siari shook her head, turned and left, her head full of questions.

Astrid's reaction was much the same when Siari handed her the paper she'd written Motierre's ultimate plan on. First a chuckle, then a laugh. Her face showed mirth, but her eyes were dark with worry and unease. "I'm glad you can still make jokes, but come on, be serious. What did he want?"

Her face serious, Siari pointed at the paper again. She'd written, in hasty letters, 'assassinate emperor'.

Astrid let a few more guffaw-induced hiccups escape, then her face slowly became serious. "You're not kidding?" She pointed at the paper. "He's not kidding?"

Siari shook her head and produced the envelope.

Astrid took it with a confused face. "So what is this?"

What did she think it was? Siari let out an impatient sigh and scribbled on the paper, 'plans. amulet. cover expenses.'

Astrid turned the envelope over in her hands and broke the seal, sliding out the sheaf of paper, each sheet covered with writing on both sides. Also out came an amulet, a gold chain with an equally gold pendant, set with diamonds and gems. Didn't look like a cheap trinket bought at the Pawned Prawn. Astrid didn't think so either, giving a little whistle when she saw it. She put the amulet down and thumbed through the papers.

"It'll... take some time to get through all this and organize it, from the looks of things," Astrid muttered, not looking up. "Meanwhile, go see Nazir. He's got a job for you. Some crooked noble performed the Black Sacrament." She kept looking down, rifling through the papers. "Believe it or not, we still have actual jobs to do while you run secret errands for the Night Mother." The envy and venom in her voice was unmistakable. "It's in Riften. I believe you know the place." Yes. She did. She'd taken quite a few tumbles down the stairs with the assistance of the kindly orphanage mistress, taken quite a few canes to her bare behind with all the other kids watching, relieved that it wasn't them this time, being hurt and shamed in front of the others. She'd spent many hungry nights there and seen many of her friends get sold to 'foster parents' who took them away with evil and hungry eyes, until she'd run away into the night, dressed in nothing but her frayed and dirty underclothes, and Astrid knew it. "Take this amulet too. I've got a contact in the city who can appraise it for you. I'll send word, he'll be expecting you."

Siari wanted to acknowledge her orders, but Astrid didn't look up and kept perusing the papers. She knew full well that Siari couldn't communicate if she didn't look at her.

Feeling her jaw clench, Siari took the amulet, turned on her heels and left, slamming the door.

The cold sun was bliss on her face when she bit the apple she'd bought, feeling the juice trickle into her dry throat. With all this assassin-business, she'd almost forget to enjoy the little things. Riften was a stink hole of a city, with an even bigger stink hole in the middle in the form of the now-defunct orphanage, but she wasn't Siari the ragged orphan this time. She was Siari the almost-adult assassin, part of a group. Part of a family. Part of her wished Grelod would see her now: a strong and feared young woman, who could end lives. Who belonged to something. But Grelod couldn't see anything anymore. Siari had taken all that away, as Grelod had taken her childhood.

She opened her eyes when she felt the bench shake, a man sitting down next to her. He was reading some random pamphlet he'd picked up off the cobblestones. As he read, he said quietly. "Perhaps you can help me, miss. I'd like to buy an amulet. An expensive one. Don't know if you know anybody?"

Siari rolled her eyes at the unsubtle display from the man with shoulder-length hair and a brown stubble on his chin. He looked like a Guild member if ever there was one.

He saw her reaction and said, "Yes. I assume it's not possible for you to answer?"

Siari shook her head, munching her mouthful of apple, and resumed swaying her head from side to side to get the chunks to roll between her teeth.

"And you eat like a very strange person," the man in leathers remarked.

Yes, it's how people eat when they don't have a tongue to move things around in their mouths. Was this guy just sitting here to make observations about her eating habits?

"No need for that look," he said with a chuckle. "'I'm just playing. Astrid sent you?"

Siari nodded. Obviously.

"Follow me."

He got up and led her to the graveyard. Her father was supposedly buried here, but she'd never even known the man. Her mother wasn't here though. Hadn't been enough left to bury. The place was colourful with flowers and a cold sun basking it in light, but Siari had always known it as a rainy, dreary place. There wasn't a living soul in the graveyard right now, and Siari hoped her escort wouldn't try to kill her and take her priceless amulet. He wasn't good at being funny, but he was two heads taller than she was, and twice as broad. Assassin or no, Siari wouldn't stand much of a chance in a straight fight. When they reached a small mausoleum, the man stopped her and made her wait outside. "Just a sec. Name's Brynjolf by the way."

She nodded without telling him her name. And not just because she wasn't physically able to.

He went inside, there was a clicking sound and the noise of stone grinding on stone, and his head popped out again. "Down here. G'theer, show the lady to the back room and stay with her until Delvin's here."

"Of course, Brynjolf," the Khajiit waiting at the bottom of the stairs said to his superior. "This way, please."

So this is where the Guild had been holed up. Siari had heard of them (and one of them had stolen all of her two septims when she'd had a day to go to the market a few years ago), but she'd never known where they'd had their base of operations. Here, apparently.

Siari climbed down the ladder and followed the initiate to the back room, a small space, secluded from the big cistern, its walls slick with moisture that gleamed in the dancing torch light. There was a table and some chairs, but Siari didn't feel like sitting. She was small enough without sitting down already, and she didn't want to have to look up at the people she'd come to see. The initiate nodded and left the room.

There wasn't much to see in the room, apart from a rather nice picture book, with sketches made by an unknown artist. They were more than decent, and Siari leafed through the pages as she waited for the contact.

It didn't take long. The door opened with a creak, and a man with a shaved head said, in a heavy north-Breton accent, "After you, mate."

The two Guild members came in, and Siari put the book down.

One of them, a Dunmer with short hair standing up, and sharp features, snorted and asked, in a loud and rude voice, "She's from the Brotherhood? This slip of a girl?"

Was this how this was going to go? Siari crossed her arms, feeling furious. What was this asshole's problem? She was pretty damn tired of being seen as a kid.

"What'd you expect then mate?" the other thief, an older man with a shaved head, asked his companion, sounding annoyed with his friend's rudeness. "Some dark elf with a cowl, white hair an' two scimitars? That's how you all think an assassin looks like don't you? Well let me tell you summat. This 'slip of a girl' is ten times more likely to get 'er mark than any cowled showman with two black swords an' a whole list of 'tragic powers'."

This one made sense at least. Still, Siari didn't think it was time to abandon her crossed arms and her glare just yet.

"An' you know why?" the bald guy went on, his friend apparently realizing that he'd pulled a blunder. "Because this girl don't look like an assassin, mate. The best assassin is the one you don't suspect. Give 'er a frock an' some flowers in 'er 'air, an' no one suspects a thing."

There. See?

The ashface seemed to have understood, raising his hands to show he didn't mean any trouble. "Alright, alright. I apologize. I'll uh... let Delvin do the talking."

"Best, mate," the other said, seeing the humour in his friend's stupid statement. Good thing the churlish Dunmer let the Breton do the talking, because these negotiations wouldn't end well if the boor kept running his mouth. "So, you've come to us with word from Astrid, do you?"

Glad to return to the business at hand, Siari nodded.

"How is our lovely Astrid? Still an arse like a pair of juicy peaches, squeezed into 'er tight leather breeches?"

Siari didn't know about Astrid's butt, but somehow, the man had a disarming personality, and she couldn't help but grin at the silly rhyme. It'd have been different if the Dunmer had said it, then she hadn't tolerated the question, but from this guy, for some reason, it sounded harmless.

"Forgive me if I seem ignorant," the Dunmer said. Ugh, here we go. Siari already dreaded the idiocy that would come out of his mouth, "but do Brotherhood members take vows of silence?"

Hm. It could have been worse. He was still a moron, but the question hadn't made it worse at least. So in the interest of the negotiations, she let her wary look go off her face and drew her hand across her throat like she always did.

"Oh," the volcano worshipper said. "I see."

With that out of the way, Siari took the sealed letter from her pouch and handed it to the man called Delvin, who read it intently.

"Pleased to meet you, Siari," the man said as he read, without looking up from the paper. Siari smiled and nodded a greeting back at him, even though she knew he didn't see. It wasn't ill will, just forgetfulness. Not like Astrid had done.

"Pleased to meet you too," the Dunmer said. Siari let her smile fade, knowing full well that it did, and just nodded back at him. Fucking idiot.

"You already know Delvin, and I'm Falnas."

Siari didn't care who in Oblivion he was. She just wished he'd shut up, but took care not to show it.

"So Astrid wants the enclosed amulet verified for value," Delvin said, folding the letter again. He fished in the envelope, taking out the amulet given to her by Amaund Motierre. Even in this faint torchlight, it shimmered like nothing she'd ever seen. The Breton whistled between his teeth, clearly impressed. "I actually know that piece." He looked back at her. "I'll take it off your 'ands right now, if you want. Spare you a trip to the antiquary. It's more than worth the price Astrid hopes I'll estimate it for."

Oh, that would be nice. Save her the trip. She smiled and nodded, happy not to have to wear her soles even thinner.

"I'll write out a letter of credit for it. Should work just fine for Astrid." He paused, then looked up from the amulet. "She still with that hairy oaf?"

Heh, yes she was still with Arnbjorn.

He simply let out a frustrated snort. "Only thing I could possibly consider a negative point of Astrid is 'er taste in men." Siari couldn't disagree entirely. He handed her the letter back and she took it. "Where'd you get this am – " he began, but he interrupted himself. "Never mind, I don't want to know." He bent over a table, scribbled some words on a paper and handed that, too, to the assassin. "Letter o' credit, lass. Astrid knows I'm good for it."

Astrid had indeed said that a letter of credit from this man was completely reliable, and that she could accept it without questioning. Glad to be out of this hole, and away from the Dunmer asshole, she made a short bow, and left the room, letting the initiate lead her back up.

She was glad to find herself back in the sunlight. The rat hole the Guild scurried to after jobs was a miserable place. Sanctuary wasn't the cosiest of places either, but this was literally a cesspool. Bah.

She took a few steps through the graveyard, her eyes going across the headstones until they stopped at that one engraved stone block she'd sat in front of every time she'd been allowed outside, before her mother died.

There were no flowers on the grave, only weeds. The headstone itself was in poor repair. How could it not be, with no one there to care about it?

RELVIG MAERSL, said the lettering on the stone. FALLEN IN DEFENCE OF THE HOMELAND. And in smaller letters, husband, beloved by Hordis and father, beloved by Siari.

Tch. 'Beloved'. She hadn't even known the man. She'd spent a lot of time at this headstone, first wishing she'd gotten to know him, then being angry with him for leaving them, then being even angrier for not being there when her mother had her problems, then being even more angry for being as dead as her mother now was, and getting her sent to the orphanage, and finally deciding not to care about this person one way or the other.

He wasn't her father, or a soldier, or someone she wished she'd known.

He was just some guy.

She couldn't wait to be outside this shit pit of a city. But she couldn't leave yet. There was something she still needed to do. Another regular job (believe it or not, huh Astrid), but it had to wait until nightfall. Taking a room at the inn was pointless (she certainly didn't intend to stay the night in this festering pustule), so she spent the day outside of the city, taking a walk and looking at the horses in the stable just outside the city. When night fell, she entered the city again and bought a meat skewer at one of the stands, eating it as she sat on a bench, with the orphanage across the street, glaring at it as she ate, hating the rotten building from the deepest of her heart. She remembered hearing the bonking of flesh and bone on wood as Grelod grabbed a child by the shirt and pushed it off the stairs. It was Grelod's preferred punishment, and she loved saying that kids were resilient anyway so they weren't really hurt when she did it. A few had broken bones from the falls, and one, a young boy not older than ten, had simply landed at the foot of the stairs and never moved again. She remembered seeing him at the foot of the stairs, one leg twisted into an awkward position, and blood trickling from his ear. Tragic accident, Grelod had told the guardsmen who'd come to remove the body. They didn't investigate. The Thieves' Guild was running rampant in their city, stealing from rich fatheads, so who cared about a raggedy orphan? They didn't give a shit about kids being chucked down the stairs, or caned across the ass in front of everyone, or forced to stand in the freezing cold for hours on end, with nothing but ragged linen, trying to collect a septim or two for the 'maintenance of the orphanage'. They didn't give a crap about children being sold off to rapists and whoremasters, not even if they turned up dead, abused and with signs of torture. There were rich people to protect from the Guild's cheekiness, after all. They'd fished one of her friends, a Redguard girl, out of the water with unspeakable injuries in unspeakable places, and ruled it accidental drowning. Twelve-year-old girls drown all the time, was their reasoning.

Only one person seemed to have cared at one point, the Thieves' Guild woman who'd helped her escape. Said she'd lost her entire family as well, and though she'd never been stuck in the orphanage, she knew it might as well have been her in there, being treated like vermin by Grelod and her buyers. Siari hadn't seen her since she'd escaped, but she hoped she was alright.

Her meat skewer finished, she flicked the stick away, towards the orphanage. The place was empty ever since Grelod got murdered (strangely, that death had apparently been investigated, she'd heard), but where the children were now, she had no idea. It didn't matter. Any place was better than there.

Nobody had cared about her back then, and she no longer cared about anyone now, including her mark. It was getting late, around midnight, and it was time to strike. Nazir had included a map indicating where the mark lived. Siari didn't know who had ordered the murder, and she frankly didn't care. Probably petty squabbles, as it always were in this town.

She followed the map towards the house. Best time would be now, as the mark got ready for bed. She saw a candle burn in a room on the top floor. Casting a furtive glance over the empty streets, she snapped the latch off one of the shutters, let it creak open, and slithered inside.

The lower floor was dark, and she'd landed in the kitchen. A table stood in the corner, and there was a single bowl on it, oatmeal porridge clinging to the sides. Crossed swords hung above the arch that led to the living room. She made her way there, still quiet as a mouse.

The sound of a woman singing came down from the staircase. It wasn't terrible, but still pretty off key. She stopped as one of the stairs creaked, but the singing didn't stop, so she crept on, hearing the sound of water gently splashing. She was on the landing now, her dagger out. Creeping towards the light that came from the bathroom, where the singing was.

Without a sound, she kneeled by the door jamb and peered inside, looking at the back of a woman with long blonde hair, sitting in a bath tub. When her arms came up to soap her hair, they looked powerful and muscled. Siari swallowed. This mark wasn't defenceless. It had to be fast and unnoticed. She had to wait for the right time.

The head went down and knees came up as the woman rinsed her hair, the powerful arms going back and forth as they wiped the soap out. The knees went down and the head came up again, and the singing resumed, an old folk love song, still off-key.

Water splashed again as the entire body came out of the water, the muscles across the woman's back and buttocks glinting as the candlelight reflected off them. There were numerous scars as well, further making it clear to Siari that this wasn't a defenceless beggar. Still, she'd killed her type before, feeling the powerful bodies kick and buck in her arms as they died, their bodies against hers. This would be no different.

Siari withdrew her head as the woman stepped out of the tub, reaching for a towel. The singing resumed, and listening intently, Siari could hear which way her mark was facing. When the sound became at its most dampened, Siari stuck her head back in, seeing the woman stand in front of the window, drying herself. The window looked out on the canal, and on a blind wall on the opposite side, so she could stand naked in front of it safely.

Only this time, it wasn't safe for her, but for Siari.

This was the time. Siari crept inside, holding her dagger ready. She tiptoed around the bathtub, her boots making no sound.

The woman stood in front of the window, singing softly, drying her hair, the locks pulled to one side, and over her shoulder, so she could dry them with both hands.

Siari came closer.

The woman shook her head, letting her blonde hair fall over her shoulders and onto her back again, and began drying her arms.

Siari raised her arm and the world shrunk to just her and the mark, and her power to end its life.

Her body uncoiled like a spring, and her knife came down, an explosive rush going through her as she heard the first wet click of the blade piercing the mark's wet, pale skin, the sharp steel severing blood vessels, ripping tendons and muscles as it, along with Siari, became the ultimate power in all of creation: the power to end life.

A shock went through the woman, but before she could even move, Siari's arm had begun pumping, ramming the knife into her back again and again, blood spurting from the wounds, mixing with the bathwater on her body as locks of blonde hair flitted down, severed by the knife that severed the thread of her life.

Siari stabbed and stabbed again, her fist, and the knife in it, ramming down again and again, puncturing the naked woman's back, shoulders, and a few stabs even went into the back of her skull. The woman stood there, unable to even defend herself, her arms spread, jolting from every shock that went through her, every stab that went inside her, blood running down her legs and pooling around her bare feet, making a puddle on the floor she would never again walk on. Blood spattered into Siari's face, against the walls, the cupboards, in the water of the bathtub, and across the mirror that would never reflect her face again.

Only when her knees buckled and she crumpled to the floor did Siari stop stabbing.

She stood over the body, her knife still in her hand, panting from the exertion and the rush of power. This woman had been mighty, proud and terrifying to her enemies. And she'd had no chance against Siari, who had ended her life over and over again. She'd died naked, alone and unable to defend herself. Probably not a bad person (bad people don't tend to sing in the bath tub), but Siari just didn't care.

The pool of blood underneath the body expanded as the woman bled out, and Siari felt the rush fade, until all what was left, was the realization that she didn't feel bad over killing, and that that was not normal. There should be some sort of guilt, some sort of empathy with her victim, with this woman who'd died alone and naked, not even knowing why, or not even knowing who'd killed her. But there was none of that. Nobody had cared about her in the orphanage, and now she cared about nobody.

And this, this was just a carcass that needed to be disposed of. The contractor had stipulated that the body had to be found floating in the canal, so that was what was going to happen. Good thing this woman had decided to die in the bathroom, where there was a window overlooking the water. Having to drag her across town would have been, well, a drag.

Ignoring the metallic smell of blood and the acrid stench of urine, Siari hooked her hands under the cooling body's armpits, bent her legs and tried to lift her up. The corpse came off the ground, but Siari's muscles howled in exertion.

She'd have to throw her out the window in stages. Dismembering was likely to be forbidden, so she'd have to haul the corpse over the windowsill somehow. Grunting as her muscles tensed, Siari got the woman's torso off the ground, and lifted it as high as she could, letting go in direction of the window. The two arms went through, as did the head, the collarbones striking the wood, and now the carcass hung half-outside, slumped over the windowsill, the arms and head hanging out, the rest inside, draped in the window like a piece of meat.

Siari stuck her arms under the woman's belly, feeling the hard abdominal muscles against her forearms, and growled again, jerking the body to the side, getting it a bit further. Another exertion, and the entire ribcage was through.

Then all it took was a casual lift of the ankles and over it went, plummeting down and hitting the water with a loud splash.

Bubbles still rose from the canal when Siari had left the house and looked over the railing.

Then she ran for the alleys, took off her mask, washed the blood off at a pump, and casually strolled out of the city, happy to leave the stink pool behind.