It was a dark and stormy night. Thunder and lightning rolled off into the distance, punctuated with bursts of sharp bitter rain and howling gusts. Perfect for meetings in dimly lit taverns. Perfect for what was about to take place. Perfect for conspiracy. Two men sat across from each other in one such establishment. No one came to The Copper Dragon for the ambiance. They came for the cheap ale, easy accommodations, and even easier serving wenches. It was near enough to the docks and warehouse district to be convenient. Far enough away from where anyone respectable would want to be seen by others. Even with the weather a fright, there were still several sailors and dock workers drinking away the pain of another day's labors.
Hidden in the gray gloom of a back corner were two men, sitting across from each other at a rough plank table. One was small decrepit and bitter looking. He wore the look of a man who enjoyed the sound of coins clinking together more than a lovers laugh. He reminded one of a cranky over grown gnome, if such things truly existed, and who knows? They might after all. The other was a man whose most distinguishing features were that he had none. He was of average height, of average build. He looked vaguely like someone you might know, but would forget about soon after seeing. He may have been twenty-five, he may have been forty-five, it was hard to tell. He wore nondescript dark forest and dun colored clothing. The hood of his well worn traveling cloak covered his head and obscured his face. He may have been a cooper, he may have been a dock worker, he may have been anyone or noone at all. Nothing about him stood out in any way. That was how he preferred it.
In some circles he was known as the signet assassin. He specialized in nobility, in killing hard to reach, well protected targets. Kings, Queens, young, old, it didn't matter to him. What mattered was the job. And the gold. Once he dispatched his victim, he collected their signet ring as proof of the job having been completed. He had amassed an impressive collection. He was the best paid most feared assassin in all the kingdoms, and rightly so. If he accepted a job, it was completed. His skills had started and stopped wars, ensured the outbreak of two revolutions, caused royal dynasties to collapse, and founded new ones. There were enough rewards out for his capture, or better his head, that they could finance a small kingdom for a decade. He prided himself on being able to make history, and yet no one knew his real name.
Scuffed wooden tankards of cheap sour ale were set before the both of them, contributing to the illusion they were there to quaff a few pints and enjoy eying the buxom serving wenches. The assassin's ale lay untouched, alcohol dulled the senses. He always kept his wits about him and rarely drank. The other man's drink was also unconsumed, but only because he couldn't stomach such vile swill, and it showed on his face. In fact, he looked upon the surroundings and the man in front of him with poorly masked disdain. The assassin didn't care, it bothered him not at all. This man was simply another contract, a means to further his own ends and a source of more golds for his purse. He would listen to what the little weasel had to say. If he didn't like it, well, he'd walk away. If the little weasel didn't like it, well, the little weasel wouldn'twalk away.
The wizened little caricature of a man, finally leaned in closer to him and said, "This is what I require of you." The cloaked figure listened attentively as the old man outlined his plan.
"That is beyond what I am usually required to do, he said. My fee will be adjusted upwards 100%."
"What? That's preposterous! I wont pay it" the old man rasped.
"Well then, that's going to be a problem, he replied. I don't like problems, I solve problems. Are you going to be a Problem?" he said softly.
The old man was chilled to his very core, this wasn't turning out the way he had planned, not at all. There was no mistaking the intent of his words, despite their benign delivery.
"Very well he mumbled, very well," obviously not liking it.
"Ah, good" replied the cloaked man, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. Lets get the technicalities out of the way, shall we? He quickly produced a small well oiled leather bound portfolio from one of the many interior pockets of his cloak. It proved to be a small, yet well appointed writing set. From it, he withdrew all the accoutrements required to craft a document.
The old mans eyes popped wide in horrified surprise, "surely you don't intend to put this in writing?" he hissed.
"Oh but I do," purred the assassin. This will insure that all of the terms of our agreement are well understood by both parties and that there are no misunderstandings. We don't want any misunderstandings now do we? Consider it a form of insurance, for the both of us, that the agreement is fulfilled.
It only took a few minutes for the agreement to be drawn up. The old man read it thoroughly. All that he had discussed was written down in small tight elegant script. It looked cold blooded in writing, even to him. He signed it, then pressed his own signet ring into the cooling red wax next to the drying ink of his name. He thought rather ironically that the assassin collected signets from his employers as well as his victims. Very clever, very clever indeed. There was no going back now. He handed over the down payment as specified, thinking that this was a small investment for the riches he would make after the nasty deed was done. He now looked at the man who now held his future in his hand and whispered, "when will you start?"
"I'll get started immediately" smiled the assassin. "I hear Arendelle's lovely this time of year."