Amelia & Athers Read online

  Amelia & Athers

  A Crata Velden Short

  Timothy S Currey

  As they sat waiting to kill a man, thick fog gathered on the streets. It came with the smell of nearby Ghelder bay, one of seaweed and fishmongers. It came dense, damp, and cold. Amelia took it as a blessing. The lanterns of the patrols became blurred circles of orange floating through the fog. The two assassins sitting in an alley on a rough cobblestone wall, well out of the light, became nothing more than shadows. Nobody would see them. In and out. Uncomplicated.

  Athers shifted beside her, probably folding and refolding his arms under his heavy cloak. The man was a fine enough companion, if a little overly keen on rekindling their bond. Amelia, being restless by nature, hated displays of restlessness. They set her off.

  “Could you sit still?” she murmured.

  “Pommel's digging in my side. Should have gone with my shorter knife, it does the job just as well.”

  “Let it dig in and be uncomfortable like the rest of us.” Her own thigh had begun to tingle from the pressure of the uneven wall.

  “Very well. Thoughts?”

  She took in the spacing of the guards and the shifting fog, which opened little portals in whorls and eddies through which the street could be seen clearer, and in other places closed up thick and opaque. The heavy-booted guards planted a steady rhythm on the cobbles, and gave a faint rattling of mail and scabbarded swords wherever they went.

  At least five were gathered at the farthest corner of De Brouwer’s manor, judging by the cluster of lanterns. The rest made their rounds, again and again, none dawdling or stopping for chatter. Amelia had long observed that cheaper guards idled about, spat, complained, even snuck in a bit of drinking. These men had clearly cost De Brouwer a fair sum.

  One patroller was immense. A nine-foot tall Wittewolder. The Forgotten God alone knew where De Brouwer had procured that titanic mercenary. Amelia watched his comings and goings closely, for he would prove the biggest hurdle if it came to hurdles. It was Athers who would have to ensure, by force, that Amelia remained undisturbed as she infiltrated the manor.

  “Careful with the big one,” Amelia said at last.

  “I’m not out of practice. The fog will obscure the flashes of Momaentum, in any case,” Athers said.

  “I mean in hiding the body. If it comes to fighting, you’ll have to drag that mountain into the bay before you’re seen. And then the splash. You’ll be heard and seen and stuck in deep trouble before I’ll be able to get there and unstick you.”

  “You’re worried,” he said. He had shifted again under his cloak while she spoke.

  “You’re fidgeting,” she said, shooting him a look.

  It wouldn’t do. They were well past the affection and tenderness they had once shared, yet the thought of him getting into danger while she wasn’t around to keep an eye on him made her unbearably restless. She knew how stupid the feeling was even as she went on feeling it. It wouldn’t do. They had worked well together up to this point but a change was coming.

  “So how will you get in?” Athers asked.

  “All those guards standing at the far corner—they’ll be watching De Brouwer’s room on the top floor,” she said. “I’ll get in by that window closer to our side, where it’s dark.”

  “And if it’s locked?”

  “I’ve a new formula—well-tested, this time.”

  “That’s the Amelia I know. Except being prepared enough to test it before our lives are imperiled. I seem to recall an experimental poison that only gave the target hiccups.”

  “Shall we sit nattering and waste the whole night, or shall we get going?” she said, a little more heatedly than she had intended. The warmth in his voice had an unpleasant way of stinging her. That's the Amelia I know. Not for long. The Amelia he knew was ready for change.

  “You know the layout well?”

  “Yes, yes. Enough with all that.”

  “It’s just there have been times … if we cause a ruckus and commoners spread rumors about a bloodbath at De Brouwer’s manor, it’ll be more than a caution and a stern word.”

  “I am the very essence of stealth and grace. How dare you,” she said dryly, falling almost against her will into their old pattern of jesting. “I can walk along spiderwebs. My feet fall softer than clouds—”

  “Alright, alright. I’d tell you to be careful but you’ll scoff. So, see you back around the corner when it’s all done?”

  “See you there. Shan’t take long.”

  The two rose from their seat, pulling their cloaks tight against the cold, and took off in opposite directions.

  Crouching on the eaves by the upper floor window, Amelia wondered how Athers would get along without her after tonight. Some laggard guard down below was taking his time in passing her by, so she had little option but to wait in a deeper shadow and reflect. Reflection was dull at the best of times. Now, it prickled at her nerves like a nest of ants. She decided to tell Athers later that night, after the blood had settled. The poor man wouldn’t see it coming. That was the part of the night she was dreading. She had no qualms about gutting De Brouwer, and yet she couldn’t bear to see Athers’ face fall.

  How strange.

  The guard on the ground finally made it around the corner, his lantern bobbing through the fog along with him. She peered out through the fog, stupidly, as though she would be able to see Athers. Before long she caught herself and shook her head. He would be fine.

  The potion she had made for the infiltration was clever. The best kind of cleverness—she had invented it. She took it out and unstoppered it. In the dark the liquid could not be seen, but she knew it had the silver-green color of a mirror. When it was poured over the window, all the glass turned to fine sand, which fell into soft piles inside and out. She was in.

  The chief source of light was candlelight from the hall that leaked in under the door. Before long the room she had come into resolved for her eyes; soft, velvety chairs, each with their own small tables, and cabinets filled with bottles lining the walls. The rich, it seemed, needed multiple rooms for their drinking and smoking. This one carried the leathery tang of goud root smoke—a forbidden substance. A little smoking with friends was the least of this man’s crimes. Not that Amelia concerned herself overmuch with who had done what. The writ told her what to do, and she did it. De Brouwer’s fortune was an ill-gotten one, involved in steep loans, and the trade of fraudulent goods in distant Gweidor. He was the sort to order beatings often, and the occasional killing. Worse than most, but not quite the depths of human depravity.

  She stole across the room, then ensured the hallway was clear. It was straight and simple, with evenly spaced doors on either side, connecting with another hallway at right angles halfway along. By her count, De Brouwer’s door was the tenth on the right.

  She made her way with silent steps, extinguishing the candles as she passed.

  Something stirred in the room beside her—the fifth door along—and she had barely time to draw her dagger and think ahead to the next steps past killing this first guard. If he was silenced quickly, she would hide him and nothing else would go wrong. If he called for help first, then what?

  Footsteps approached the other side of the door; the soft scuffing sound of bare feet on floorboards.

  “Papa?”

  It was no guard. Amelia sheathed her dagger just in time to see the door opened by a young girl, perhaps of four or five, in a nightgown that reached her toes. The girl was just the kind Amelia hated, doubly so on a night like this. Puffy cheeks and wide, innocent eyes. Soft, curly hair.

  “I want my Papa,” the girl said. It came out like the girl was ordering a servant.

  Amelia
blinked, struggling to think of a way to react that would not end with this girl shrieking for the guards and needing to be—Amelia worked her jaw for a moment—silenced. Why couldn’t the little shit have stayed in bed? She couldn’t help that the wicked often lived alongside the innocent.

  “Your Papa’s away. He’ll be gone for a long time,” Amelia said. The words spilled out, unplanned.

  “He’s away?” the girl said. “Who are you?”

  “I’m your new nanny. And you must be little …” Amelia’s thoughts raced among all the possible names this girl might possess. Surely it had been on the writ? Surely Athers had mentioned it while they prepared? “Little miss De Brouwer.”

  “If Papa is gone you must tell me a story. It helps me sleep. Papa always tells me a story, but not when he’s away. So, you must do it,” the girl said. Her little, shrill, piping voice would likely be carrying all the way down that corridor and the next.

  As she had spoken, Amelia had adopted the kind of smile she imagined a nanny would. She nodded patiently, softly shushing in a vain attempt to stop the child. But you cannot stop a child of this age from talking and talking. You cannot simply tell them, “No, go away, close your eyes and don’t rise from your bed.” You could tie them up and stuff them in a cupboard somewhere.

  This girl—this stupid, innocent, far-too-young girl—was drawing close to either witnessing the slaughter of the guards and perhaps her father, or to a swift and decisive silencing. If they came out into the corridor, she would have to act. Time already was short. Athers could do nothing about the guards inside the house. He only watched those patrolling the outside.

  “Hop along to bed, little miss, and I shall be back soon,” Amelia said. She made to close the door, still smiling, and then caught sight of a rapidly brewing storm on the child’s face.

  “No! Now! I want my story now!” the De Brouwer girl shouted, punctuating each word with a stomp of her little foot.

  Far on the other end of the house, someone paced with heavy boots. The steps were slow and calm—not yet the racing of an alerted guard.

  “Alright, alright! Hush, now. I’ll tell you a story,” Amelia said, smiling with her teeth and speaking sweetly as she imagined a nanny would. From the little girl’s recoiling reaction, she realized it may have come out a little manic. The girl did not move, but thankfully was shocked enough to be silent.

  “Come along, time for a story,” Amelia said in a pained singsong.

  Nothing stirred in the darkened corridor around her, but it was only a matter of time before someone came along.

  The little De Brouwer girl affixed an imperious pout to her face, turned smartly, and padded toward her bed. It was the kind of bed with a lacey canopy and generous stuffing, the kind that Amelia had grown up with and then forsaken in favor of the hard Mordenari cots. There were four windows across the far wall, and a small table beside the girl’s bed which held a single bright candle.

  Just as Amelia drew up beside the girl’s bed, a blue flash came from outside and lit up the room. Her breath caught. She was supposed to be done with De Brouwer by now. Nothing could be seen at the street level but fog. No bobbing lanterns marked the passage of guards. Had Athers been forced to take them all down, or had this been just one?

  Breathless moments passed, the De Brouwer girl forgotten. No shouts came from guards. No footsteps rang out across the cobbles.

  “Hurry up,” the girl said, far too loud for Amelia’s liking.

  “Just a moment longer my … darling,” Amelia said. She closed the curtains, as though it had been her intention all along.

  She considered using Sleeper powder to place the girl in a silent sleep. But hadn’t one of those inexperienced Mordenari used it on a child and killed them? It could be too powerful for a child’s heart and lungs. The De Brouwer girl might never wake. What that left was gagging the girl, binding her, leaving her in her bed. Seeing the fear shining from her eyes. Hearing her muffled cries.

  “Coming,” Amelia breathed, forestalling the girl’s impatient fussing.

  Perhaps there was time. She had to believe there was time. Another blue flash came from outside. Athers had downed a second guard.

  Amelia knew she had delayed long enough that chaos could now break out no matter what she did. If she could just get this brat to drift off she would be free to work her talent on De Brouwer and his guards. Nobody else among the Mordenari would understand why she refused to truss up the girl. It would be such a simple thing. What was stopping her?

  She sat beside the De Brouwer girl, and smoothed her sheets with nervous hands, still wearing an overly taut smile.

  “There was once a … princess, who lived in a peach orchard,” Amelia said haltingly.

  “I don’t like peaches,” the girl said.

  “And there were apples trees.”

  “I don’t like apples.”

  “And field after field of strawberries,” Amelia said, almost hissing it through her teeth.

  The girl raised no objections. She did, however, turn her head and commanded Amelia to brush her hair.

  “You don’t want your story?” Amelia said, a great rage building. She thought darkly that she was on the verge of testing just a little dose of Sleeper powder.

  “I want my hair brushed.”

  In for a copper, in for a crown. The girl’s brush was across the room, nestled on a table among silk ribbons and other frippery. As Amelia rose, her face plastered with a deferent smile, a series of blue flashes came up through the windows. She drew the curtains wide. Down through the fog there were glinting swords, reflecting alternately the orange light of the lanterns and the piercing blue of Momaentum. Half a dozen guards were converging on the cloaked figure of Athers.

  Shortly after, heavy boots thundered along the floorboards of the upper floor, faint and distant now. Would they be racing to De Brouwer’s defense, or would he have ordered them to check on the girl in the case of danger?

  The girl’s eyes were shining, wide open, looking to Amelia for comfort.

  “That’s just Papa’s men, my darling,” Amelia said.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Nothing! Nothing at all! But before I brush your hair it’s time to—to play a game!” Amelia said, struck with a sudden inspiration.

  Out on the street, Athers was still working Momaentum on the guards. Flash, flash, flash.

  “Have you ever heard of the shy ghost?” Amelia said.

  The guards were down the corridor from their door. The De Brouwer girl would either take Amelia’s suggestion, or see the blood of these mercenaries painting the walls.

  Her little, innocent eyes were intrigued. “The shy ghost?” she whispered.

  “Yes! There was a shy ghost … and when she felt shy, she wore a sheet,” Amelia said, bundling up one of the girl’s bed sheets as she spoke. “And she could see nobody, and they could not see her. Do you know the best part?”

  “What?”

  “Once she was hiding, nothing could scare her,” Amelia said. “Can you be the shy ghost for me?”

  The De Brouwer girl giggled as Amelia draped the sheet over her. Boots and voices sounded in the hall. At least one guard was nearly outside the door. Amelia’s hands fumbled to tie a makeshift belt out of the bed sheet’s corners around the girl’s waist, trapping her arms within the sheet and hopefully buying Amelia the time she needed.

  The girl blundered about the room, thrilled with the game. Amelia’s pounding heart was soothed half a measure. Praying was not her usual practice, but still she thought to nobody in particular, Let the girl see nothing.

  “Check the girl’s room,” came a reedy, forceful voice outside.

  “What are Papa’s men doing?” the girl’s voice came, fearful.

  “They’re playing too. But hush, or you’ll spoil the game! The shy ghost doesn’t speak!” Amelia hastened to the candle by the girl’s bedside and snuffed it. “Now, quick. Try hide in the
corner of the room. If I catch you the game is lost.”

  In the total darkness of the room, Amelia took her place by the door. The girl giggled and felt her way around the bed, knocking into furniture. The men outside spoke in tense and hushed tones. No flashes of Momaentum from the street. A dagger and a short sword in each of Amelia’s hands, the kind that were enchanted to cut through the mail shirts the guards wore as easily as a tailor’s shears will cut through silk. It was not the fight that worried Amelia. It was the girl.

  The blunt steps of a heavy-booted guard attempting stealth approached.

  “One of the windows has been melted away. There are piles of sand in the next room over,” one guard whispered. “One of them could be inside.”

  Amelia sensed rather than heard the guards on the other side of the door tensing, then quietly draw their swords. One shifted nervously on his feet. They made her restless. Her calf muscle quivered. Her fingers dug into her weapons’ handles. How absurd it was to wait for these men.

  Sod it, she thought.

  She turned the door handle and gathered the blue sheen of Momaentum about her body. It was an invisible river, a flow of energy accessible to those with talent. While you were joined with it you could strike like a viper, quicker than the eye could follow. And in Amelia’s case—unfortunately for those guards waiting outside the door—most Mordenari had no hope of matching her talent.

  She slipped through the gap in the door and snapped it closed behind her. That gave the first blue flash. Six guards crowded there in the hallway, some with weapons ready, others with slack jaws. She struck the nearest guard’s neck with the tip of her short sword, and the crimson fountain issued sluggish from his arteries. Turning, she struck the heart of the next with her dagger and left it there, then plunged her sword point-first under a third guard’s chin where it pierced his tongue and then his brain. Each motion came with a burst of blue light. So fast did she slip through the air, she could see that the remaining three guards had yet to blink from the first flash of light. The three she had struck were still standing, and would not fall until she left the flow of Momaentum.