Six years ago, Luskan.
Things got better over the next few months. Dayven found a patroness, a wealthy ambassador wed to one of the most powerful nobles in Luskan at the time. It meant less tension in the Circle, but also more work for the assassin and his apprentice. With the money that came from the first couple of jobs, Dayven was able to keep himself supplied with the drug, Cyric's Madness, that kicked him into overdrive, increasing his bravery and speed. It was good he did, because Bishop had sworn off killing prostitutes. Not because he had scruples, of course, but because he'd come far too close to being on the wrong end of a dagger the last time he'd tried. The last thing he wanted was a face known to the whores of the Luskan docks. That's how a boy wound up in the river floating face down.
And it was mostly prostitutes that the ambassador wanted killed. It was odd, he thought, how such a clever woman could not deal with her own jealousy. He didn't really understand it, himself. He understood lust and even love, or something like it, but not the possessiveness that seemed to drive so many. After Arky, there was Anahay, a beer wench, and after her Malin, a ranger who started out helping them track down out-of-town targets and just sort of stayed. Both of them, he noticed, loved trying to provoke him. Anahay liked to describe her late husband's size and technique in great deal while Bishop pretended to listen. She always seemed disappointed when he didn't react. Malin was constantly worrying about getting pregnant and lamenting how that meant she would just have to find a richer husband. It was like they both wanted some kind of reaction, they wanted him to get angry. But he wasn't.
He made the mistake of telling Dayven about it one night at the Cuckoo's Nest.
"I don't fucking get it," he said, "What do they want out of me?"
"They want you to care," Dayven replied, "It's the most power you can have over a woman, when she wants you to give a fuck and you just don't." He took a belt of whiskey that would have bowled over a lesser man.
"Your wife spreads her legs for coin on the docks," Bishop said, his heart beating faster, knowing he was risking a beating by saying anything, "Doesn't it bother you?"
"Not really. She still loves me. She cries when I slap her," Dayven replies, "Oh, she cares."
You are the second worst person I've ever met, Bishop thought. He glanced up to where Dayven's wife was slumping against the corner, dead drunk, her arm around a man wearing the colors of a Ruathym navyman. She was smaller than he remembered her. Someone had given her a scar, a tendril of a cut lividly white above her left cheekbone. He saw, a moment, Dayven's fist, his signet ring of the Circle of Blades as he caught her in the eye.
"You don't care about her johns?"
"I don't give a fuck about whatever stinking jack tar she takes money from. Long as she doesn't like it."
"So you're all right as long as she's miserable?" He asked.
"Don't say it like that," he said, "All's I'm saying is, what she does is business. Just business. She takes a lover, I cut both their heads off."
Dayven got up clumsily, slamming his barstool to the ground.
"Dayven, sit back down," Bishop demanded, grabbing at his master's cloak.
"No, no," he said, tottering a little, but regaining his feet easily, "You asked me a question, my young disciple, and it's up to ::hic:: me to show you the ways of the world."
Fuck.
He strode over to his wife. Bishop saw for a split second that her eyes widened in fear as he approached, before Dayven stood between them and him. He reached out and plucked the black rose from her bodice.
"Dayven, not here," she cried, putting her arm up to ward off whatever blows she anticipated. Bishop winced
"Sing me a song," he demanded, grabbing her arm and twisting. He used his other hand to shove the sailor, "Fuck off, you sailor wank. She's off duty tonight."
"Hey!" The sailor protested. Dayven held up his hand as though the backhand him. The sailor
caught a look at the Circle of Blades ring on his third finger, "Fine, OK, I don't want any trouble." He sat back down at the bar, and immediately a silverhaired moon elf girl swooped in, happy to take his money. "Fucking Cyricist nutjobs," he muttered into her neck.
"Dayven, I have to," Addie stammered, her voice sounding as though she'd swallowed it, "I have to… they need to be paid, I have to work so I can pay…"
"I'm your fucking husband and I told you to play me a fucking song," he demanded. He dragged her, nearly lifting her clean off of the floor, over the stool in the corner, where she sat, still suspended by one skinny arm.
"Then you're going to have to l-let my arm go," she said. Behind the bar, Kath tensed up, her hand going to the hilt of the crossbow she kept between barrels of ale.
"Dayven!" Bishop barked, "Come back, leave her alone, and sit the fuck down. I'll buy you a whiskey." Dayven turned reluctantly, then all but dropped her on her ass, and came back to his bar stool. Bishop slid coins across the bar to Kath, and motioned to the bottle.
"Make sure he's too drunk to beat her by the time he leaves."
"Heh!" Kath laughed, "If she's wise, she'll play something long and boring, put us all to sleep so's she can slip out." But, she took his money, and put down the bottle of whiskey in front of the two men.
Addie had struck up a tune on her mandolin. Major key, but it was sad. She sang high and plaintive.
It came on a day, on a fine holiday, as many there are in the year
Lady Arnol came to the church, the gods' words for to hear
Bishop could tell what Kath meant. The song was in some remote dialect he'd only heard once before, saying "church" instead of "temple." This was probably going to be the long, boring, ballad Kath had called for.
She looked at Dayven, hoping he had given up on her. He hadn't, so she took another lusty breath, and continued.
Mattie Grove stood at the old church door, while the rest heard the mass
But he had more a mind on the fair ladies than he had for our lady's grace
The first lady came all clad in green, the next was clad in pall
And thirdly came Lord Arnol's wife, the fairest one of them all
She was eying Dayven warily, her yellow eyes bloodshot. He would never entirely lose his admiration for how she managed to handle herself even when she was absolutely out of her head drunk.
She cast her eye on little Mattie Groves, as bright as the summer sun
And then bethought did little Mattie Groves, this lady's heart I've won
She looked at Kyrwan then, meeting his eyes. He felt a jolt to the base of his chest, just below his breastbone. He was flooded with a sudden desire, wanting nothing more at that moment than to crush Dayven's skull with the whiskey bottle that sat in front of them, grab her hand, and take her away. It was an entirely new sensation. Sure, he'd wanted girls before, but he'd never felt it quite so... so physically. It was as tangible as a wasp sting or a dart in his back. It was pain, but he didn't want it to go away.
What the fuck is this, he muttered to himself. He looked around him to see if anyone else felt it. The only other person at the bar who was even paying attention was Dayven. Dayven's face, though, was closed, his mouth set in a hard line, glittering anger in his eyes.
Quoth she, I have loved thee Mattie Groves, as long as the summer's day
Quoth he, I have loved thee fair lady, but never one word durst to say
Something broke in him then, the wasp sting of longing he felt before spread cracks through him and a flood of emotion rose his heart to his throat. He was paralyzed, he could hear nothing more than the barmaid's voice, husky but darkly sweet like aged whiskey with honey in it. The words she sang were old and foreign, but something in the way her voice and the plaintive mandoline twined together wove a portrait. A woman in an unhappy marriage, a jealous husband, and a handsome youth who couldn't help but fall into bed with her. He looked at Dayven and his hand moved of its own accord, searching for the knife at his belt.
Good day good day you handsome youth, god make you safe and free
What would you give this day Matty Groves, to lie one night with me
I dare not for my lands, lady, I dare not for my life
For the ring on your white finger shows, you are my master's wife
There was that longing again, but he felt that he could reach out, touch her fingers, and perhaps she would let him. He glanced back at Dayven then, who was drunker, his eyes drooping a bit more, but the fury in them was fierier than before.
My husband's to the hunting gone, and I hope he never returns
And you shall slip into his bed, and keep his lady warm
There's nothing for to fear my love, you have nothing have to fear
I'll set a page outside the gate, to watch til morning clear
His hand closed around the handle of his hunting knife. He struck out with his left hand and grabbed at his right wrist, leaving it in its sheath. What the fuck is happening, part of his brain thought. It was quickly silenced by another voice - not a voice, but a feeling. And overwhelming desire to stick his knife into the man beside him. If you kill him you can have her.
And woe be to the little footpage, and an ill death may he die
For he's away to the green wood, as fast as he could fly
And when he came to the green wood, 'twas dark as dark can be
And he found Lord Arnol and his men asleep beneath the trees
Rise up rise up master he said, rise up and speak to me
Your wife's in bed with Mattie Groves, rise up right speedily
She gaed then at the sailor she had been chatting up before. Bishop followed her gaze and saw the sailor had the elfin whore up against the wall, his face in her bosom. What in the fuck is going on here?
Go saddle me the black he said, go saddle me the grey
And sound you not the horn said he, lest our coming it would betray
I think I hear the morning cock, I think I hear the jay
I think I hear your husband's horn, and I must away
Lie still, lie still, my Matty Groves, and keep me from the cold
It's nothing but a shepherd boy, driving his flock to the fold
So he's turned him right and round about, and he fell fast asleep
And when he woke, Lord Arnol was standing at his feet
And how do you like my bed, young man, and how do you like my sheets
And how do you like my fair lady, that lies in your arms asleep
It's well I like your bed he said, and well i like your sheets
But better I like your fair lady, that lies in my arms asleep
Dayven hit him from behind first. He heard the the whiskey bottle crack before he realized what it had made contact with. The stars dancing before his eyes told him it was the back of his head and the rush of adrenaline before he hit the floor was the only thing that kept him conscious. He broke his fall with both fists and rolled.
"What the fuck Dayven?!" he growled, springing to his feet. The look in Dayven's eyes was distant, like he didn't know exactly what he was doing or why he was doing it.
The mandolin tinkled, a distant sound over the blood rushing in his ears.
Get up, get up young man he said, get up as swift as you can
For it never will be said in my country, I slew a naked man
He barreled into Dayven and knocked him down. He reached back and up to the bar and found the neck of a wine bottle, which he swung like a club, and missed, shattering it on the ground. They grappled for a second before Dayven's drunken disregard for his own safety and the muscle memory of the eight years he had on Kyrwan won out and he had him on his back. He had the broken whiskey bottle raised in the air, ready to jab it into his jugular. Isn't this where my life's supposed to flash before my eyes?
"For fuck's sake, Addie, stop the fucking song!" He heard Kath's voice ring out over a barroom that was silent but for the minstrel's tune.
The room fell entirely silent as Addie put down her mandolin. He felt Dayven's grip on his shoulder relax, saw the consciousness come back to his eyes, and him put the bottle down. "What the fuck am I doing, Bishop?" He asked, his voice high and calm. He got up, extended his hand to his apprentice. He took it and got up, rubbing the goose egg on the back on his head.
"What the fuck was that?" He asked.
"I don't know," Dayven said, and Kyrwan believed him.
"She doesn't know her own power," Kath muttered, bustling over with a broom for the broken glass and a rag for the blood that was trickling from Dayven's face where some of the glass had caught him, "She needs to be careful, sing happy songs. You ain't the first two as have come to blows."
Dayven opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out but a dark gout of blood. Kyrwan looked down, and saw that the neck of the wine bottle he'd improvised to a weapon was still clutched in his hands, so tightly that his knuckles were white and waxy around it. Dark blood and something else dripped from the jagged edge. He must have driven it into Dayven's stomach while they were struggling on the ground.
I should have finished the job, he thought.
"Gods almighty," Kath said, "I'm sending a kitchen boy for a priest, I'm not having him bleed out in my fucking bar. Go find his wife."
He found Addie outside sitting against the outside of the bar, sucking on a smoke.
"He dead yet?" She asked, not looking up.
"Kitchen boy's gone for a priest," he replied, not letting his voice betray his surprise at her reaction.
"Shit," she muttered, "Shoulda waited til he came here with someone stronger."
"You have no clue who I am do you?"
"Some fucking assassin," she said, waving her hand in the air vaguely.
"Next time you want your husband dead, do it yourself," he said.
"Why? I let men dictate every other fucking thing in my life."
"How did you do that?" He asked.
"Do what?" She countered, taking a long pull of smoke.
"You… you made me think I was in love with you. You nearly had me throwing the first punch."
"And how do you know you're not?"
"You're a manipulative cunt."
"Never stopped anyone else," she chuckled.
They were silent a moment. He lit his own smoke and joined her, sitting against the edge of the bar.
"So what happened to them? At the end?"
Addie paused. She picked up an enormous bottle of whiskey she'd been holding in her other hand and with impressive strength for her skinny arms, tipped it back and took a long drink. She put it down, burped loudly, and put her hand to her mouth as though she were afraid she would vomit.
"He killed them both," she said, "The husband. He fought the lover and killed him, then asked his wife which she liked better. She said she liked the lover, and he cut her head off."
"Is that what would have happened?"
"It's just a fucking song," she slurred a little too loudly, "It's not real. Not the love, not the anger. It's fun to pretend for awhile that you've got some great romance and a boy as'll love you real even if it leads to his grave and never comes home to knock your fucking teeth out…. But it ain't real. It's a song, it's a dream."
"You're not going to remember any of this, are you," he remarked.
"It's the only way to keep breathing," she said, shuddering and taking another belt of whiskey, "If I don't remember it didn't happen. I just hope he fucking dies."
"Let's make a deal," he said then, taking her left hand. The fingers were thin, calloused on the end where they met the strings of a lute or a mandolin.
"Don't fucking touch me," she said, but didn't pull her hand away.
"Next time I have a chance I will," he said.
"Will you now," she chuckled.
"Have you met him?"
"Who the fuck are you, anyway?" She asked, "You asked why I didn't remember you. Where do I know you from? Are you a client of Alista's?"
"It's me, Kyrwan," he said.
She laughed out loud, "No you're not. He's only a little boy."
She coughed loudly then, a gravelly, sickly noise. "Whoever you are, I suppose I'm sorry. I don't have so much time myself, girls in my line of work don't last long."
Kath emerged from the bar, her hands red, "He'll live," she said, "Addie, get your ass back in there and scrub the blood from my fucking floorboards. Boy, get your friend out of here, his belly's fixed, but he can sleep it off somewhere else."
"Such is my life," the girl said, grumbling over her husband still living, "Play a song, Addie. Scrub my floor, Addie. Suck my cock, Addie," she ranted.
They two of them, Dayven and Bishop, loped through the streets of Luskan, the wounded man over the healthy boy's shoulder.
"She's going to kill me one day," Dayven slurred, "If I don't kill her first."
"You'll deserve it," Kyrwan replied.
"I'm sorry I hit you, You didn't deserve it that time."
"We'll work it out soon," he said, "Don't we have a job tomorrow night?"
"We do," he said, "I think I'll let you have a hand at it. You're old enough."
"I'll never be old enough for this shit."