by Brent Evanger
from The Elusive Foe
***
Grada pulled his hood tight against the cold, steady rain. Mud squished beneath his boots and he could see his breath hanging in the air in front of him.“Please, kind brother, alms for the poor?” The dirty beggar’s hand closed on Grada’s forearm. Feeling the city watchman’s mildly curious gaze upon him, Grada suppressed a string of curses. Through gritted teeth he forced a convincing gentleness into his reply “But of course, my son.” Pressing a silver piece into the destitute’s palm, Grada silently studied the man–he would get his coin back later, after wetting his dagger with the foolish vagrant’s blood. As quickly as seemed natural, Grada separated himself from the thankful urchin. The bored watchman continued his rounds, oblivious to the true threat concealed beneath the kindly Grey Friar robes.
For some time the Knives of Erebus had used the goodly garb to move freely in the open. It was particularly useful when meeting, as now, at the grandmaster’s villa in the heart of the city of Carlisle. Grada felt the deception–deadly assassins for hire concealed as gentle advocates of the poor and downtrodden–was devilishly ingenious, but he hated playing the part as was sometimes required. He hurried onward, consoling his simmering rage with thoughts of the revenge he would exact later. Turning down a side street he neared his destination.
As he approached the wooden door, Grada glanced up and down the narrow alleyway. Seeing no one, he rapped a secret code against the door frame. A tapped reply came quickly, Grada completed the coded sequence of knocks, and the door opened into warm darkness. Stepping inside the musty gloom, he sensed a dangerous presence lurking in the darkness nearby.
He spoke a greeting in the secret Cant and moved toward the open archway ahead. Emerging into a chamber lit by a crackling fire, Grada removed his wet traveling cloak, fully revealing the grey tunic tied with a white cord. He produced a pipe from a pouch on his hip and sat down heavily on a wooden bench near the hearth. As he smoked, he warmed his hands and feet, settling in to wait for his master. He couldn’t help but be thankful he wasn’t at the camp in that wretched marsh.
“Grada, my son.” The voice startled him as usual. Grandmaster Floin appeared from the gloom, close enough for dagger work. It was unsettling to have a trained assassin constantly remind you of his skill. Grada tried to calm himself as he began his report on the recent events at Turnberry Castle. Floin listened impassively–an unmoving, disconcerting grin fixed on his face. After Grada finished, Floin did not move for a long, quiet moment. Finally, he spoke, “Then we shall silence our brother in prison. You will lead the raid.”
Grada got to his feet, trying to suppress a smile. “Thank you, my master,” he said as he turned to face his superior, but elusive Floin was already gone.