who owns the night? (narrative)
Callimar managed the ascent with little problem. Night in Terestai was not something with which he would have any difficulty dealing, no matter the time or place. Pressed against the side of a building. Scents charged into his nostrils, whether he wanted them to or not. Rotting food. Lilac and water. Sky-watcher's powder. He knew all of it as well as he knew the scent of his own people, the tribe with which he was left. Not ten feet away two elves were walking arm in arm, drunk, and whispering lines of a song to one another. They wouldn't have seen or noticed him if he'd been standing in the street. Yet another reason he was angry with their employer for waiting so long to put them to use. But the night had arrived, and he was on his way to see the fellow again.
It was far too cold.
Legs churned as he quickly climbed the rear ladder, fingers and gloves scrabbling over stone and steel. When at last he reached the top of the ladder, Callimar peered into the darkness below. The guard was just finishing his patrol of the garden. He cared nothing for the bell tower and who might disturb it. Perhaps that was the reason that his employer had chosen this place. As long as the bells themselves did not ring, no one could hear and no one would see. Callimar still kept a hand on the sword hilt over one shoulder out of habit as much as fear. There was no shame in admitting fear. The shame would be in succumbing to that fear.
The guard did not turn.
Callimar began his ascent of the stairs.
Their last job had been more than dangerous. Several good members had been lost. New recruits, of course, but he did not spurn them or value their lives any less because of that relative inexperience. In their old lives they'd been scholars and bookkeepers and even farmers, not mercenaries. The Breaking had forced a change in all of them. Some could adapt to the change, and they were the legacy of that spirit in their people. Some could not adapt to the change. Some saw themselves only as what they were, what job they had done, and they could not clear themselves in their minds to do something new. The goddess loved, but she did not love those who did not love themselves.
The goddess helped, but she did not help those who did not help themselves.
"You're early."
Callimar's sword was out, held in one hand and pointed ahead of him like an extension of his body. Knees bent, arms extended, teeth flashing to intimidate. There was nothing on this, the highest tier, except Callimar himself. And yet he heard the voice of his employer quite clearly on the narrow walkway. Not even a whisper of steel had come out of his movements. And yet every movement felt exposed, despite the shadows he wore as a cloak. He knew that he was being watched. And he did not like it.
"It's not a problem," the voice went on with a subtle laugh. "I don't want to fight about it, Callimar."
"This is the time and place arranged," Callimar replied; only reluctantly did his sword ease back into its scabbard. "I have come. What do you have for me?"
"In the south corner you will find a box," his employer's voice was light, even still. "Open it and you will find all that you need."
"I hope the compensation is higher, this time," Callimar spoke as he walked. "The bastard actually killed one of mine in public, you know. Made quite a commotion. We had parties in the underground searching for us for nearly two weeks."
"Your troubles have not gone unnoticed," his employer was closer now. "One of the most wretched facts of life in this world, Callimar, and one not even I can change. If you do not perform quickly and accurately you will be discovered and killed. I believe your people call it Sha'ballib, do they not? 'The Way of the Spider'?"
"You simplify it," and Callimar's hands caught the corners of the box. "But yes, essentially. I say it only because I know that my remaining companions will want additional funds for their trouble. There are few in the world so hard to kill as Ilúvatar Voronwé."
"You are not being tasked with killing Ilúvatar Voronwé," his employer's voice rang out as the box opened. "I have not lost confidence in your abilities, Callimar, and I mean no insult. It is simply that the number of persons I require dead has multiplied considerably. Right now the tools at my disposal are limited. I come to you when I must pay exorbitantly because I want to be assured of the excellence inherent in those I contract with."
"A bit flowery," Callimar tugged the loose wooden lid away from the box. "We aren't whores, sir. You do not need to tell us how pretty we are."
"You aren't pretty," his employer laughed again. "I think you're ugly as sin, Callimar. Just good at your job. You will see several sketches in the box. Their names are written beneath those sketches. I also left a weapon for you, so do not discard it as flotsam."
Callimar's eyes pierced the darkness and found what he wanted. The sketches were done by a skilled hand, he thought, but it was the names that concerned him. The first was a narrow face with blond hair, pinched back and against the skull to reveal pointed ears. Her blue-green eyes seemed to cast a curse upon the one who looked even though it was a lifeless drawing. How strange, that his employer had thought to add color. There was no emotion in the face, or the high cheeks, but in the eyes it was there. Callimar grinned at that face. He knew a High Elf when he saw one. And he always enjoyed killing them.
"Fiaethe'tari, House of Yávlindelë," Callimar looked up from the drawing. "I do not know the name."
"She was once a queen," now he could see the dark outline of his contractor, though nothing of the space between lines in the form. "In a land to the south. It was called Ordaezel. They did not like your kind there. I once was concerned that Ilúvatar might stumble upon some useful information through sheer stubbornness. Yet I see now that she is the reason he's come this far, and though it is not far, it is far enough. Without her he is nothing. You know Maeglin's residence, don't you? She is there."
Now the second portrait. The fellow was wearing a dark hood. It did not cover his blue eyes, which stared murder, and it did not hide the lines and wear upon his face. He wore every fight on that angular face of his. And the eyes... once again, perfectly captured, Callimar thought. They were vicious little lights in the center of a murderer's face. He knew that gaze all too well. Here was a man who killed not for pleasure or fascination, but because he aimed to accomplish things which people would die to stop. Those were the most interesting kind. And the name, of course, revealed much.
"Skandra Tyullis!" he nearly shouted. "I have heard of him. They say he fought the Champion of the Spider and killed her. They say he slays Drow as a Sylvan, though he is not of them."
"This man," and now the employer's voice took on a special intensity. "Is the single biggest danger to what I have done, and what I will do. Like you, Callimar, he is a professional in the employ of someone else. Someone I had thought would simply watch and wait a while longer. If you thought Ilúvatar was difficult to kill, you must treat this man as though he is three Ilúvatars. Both of them are dangerous in their own way, but Tyullis possesses cunning such as you have never seen."
"I understand," Callimar nodded slowly; the two pages were rolled together and stuffed beneath his tunic. "I approach all of my contracts with care. Is that not why you employ me?"
"I already said why I employ you," and it was impossible to miss the smile in the fellow's voice. "Don't forget the weapon, Callimar."
The box had one last content which he had failed to explore, sitting on his heels in that corner. Callimar felt his fingers close around something dense. Something wooden. With surprise the Drow lifted a wooden stake from the box. It was quite obvious that the stake had been manufactured for use in the hand, but Callimar had never used something like this in a fight. The box, now empty, he discarded. Proudly the Drow stood up. A few experimental jabs with the stake. It spun smoothly in his hand, allowing him to reverse his grip as necessary. Fine quality. But he was not a hunter of Amasa's children, and even if he were, there was no sport in it. He had never used wood against them.
"I do not-"
"It will work on Skandra Tyullis as well as a vampire," and now footsteps; his employer was walking away. "Put that in him and he will be easy meat, Callimar. Good as he is, Tyullis is no elf. He won't hear you coming, and when he's aware of you, he won't be able to do anything to stop it."
"He is no vampire," Callimar protested. "How can this be?"
"Check the box again," this was the last he heard from his employer. "I left your money there, too, Callimar."
The stake was shoved through a loose section of his belt. The purse was shoved down, into the top of his boot, and then the laces were tightened. Each of these actions as soundless as the first breath he'd taken in life, when the spider-goddess had chosen him for this task in life. To take a man's breath, to steal the vitality of his soul, was best in life. A queen and the spider-killer, all in the space of a week. He would send some to eliminate the woman. Skandra Tyullis looked to be the more challenging of the two, and that was precisely where Callimar always wanted to be. The climb down the ladder was less eventful. In ten minutes' time, he was safely underground.