Photo by curtis powell on Unsplash By W. C. Busch Meza crouched in the shadows of an abandoned tavern. Well, not abandoned, shuttered. The crackdown on alcohol in the city had pushed out more than a few establishments. A squad of constabulary soldiers dashed past, running toward the Office of Prohibited Materials. Riots had broken out after the Duke sent his own royal guards to dump a recent shipment of Dwarven whiskey into the harbor. The city of Seras, capital of the Duchy of Serasco, was on the brink of disaster. Fucking Royalists, Meza grumbled inwardly. Bad enough they started this war, now they're in bed with the Templars of Temperance. And people thought the nobles couldn’t get any more pretentious. He pushed the thought aside. Fortunately for Meza, the riots and unrest provided the perfect cover for his work. He peeked around the corner. He held his breath for a moment, listening to the sounds of the streets. Wooden window blinds clapped against their frames. A cool breeze hummed through the alley to his right. Meza slipped out from the shadows and ran across the cobblestone streets. The complex of buildings before him occupied a full city block. A series of warehouses and public halls, the Seras Repository had been a public auction house before the civil unrest set in. Now it stood dark and silent. But even in disuse, it held items that were highly desired by many collectors and patrons in the city. Meza slipped into a narrow alley between two of the buildings. He drew a small vial from a pouch on his belt and pulled out a dropper. He let a drop of the liquid, night-sight it was called, fall onto both of his eyes and blinked a few times to let it sink in. For a moment nothing happened. Then the world grew lighter, as if someone behind him was shining a light into a mirror and then projecting it in front of him. “Warehouse Seven,” he read quietly. Meza pocketed the night-sight and pulled a small syringe out of his pocket. He yanked off the cork stopper at the end of the needle and flicked the syringe to dislodge a stubborn bubble. “Here goes nothing,” he whispered, sticking the needle into a plump vein ion his forearm. He pushed the plunger down and the serum entered his bloodstream. Heat raced up his arm and spread out across his body, a little painful, like standing too close to a bonfire. He held his hands up to the lock of the warehouse, a complicated contraption that required both a key and the correct code by dial. Pressing one palm against the keyhole and the other against the combination dial, Meza closed his eyes and focused his energy toward his open hands. Heat coursed through his body, racing through his palms and out into the lock. Under his hands, the metal softened. After a few moments, something plunked inside the lock and the door opened with a soft groan. Meza pushed the door wide. If someone happened upon him, there’d be no hiding his presence, not now. He moved through the room, eyes darting all around at shelves full of gold, sacks of jewels, fine crafts from across the world, and racks of ancient weapons. Everything in Warehouse Seven was of high value and small size. Something glistened on a shelf at the far end of the room. Meza smiled. The dagger was seven inches long, set in a silver handle covered in the purest rubies he’d ever seen and covered by a matching scabbard. Not that Meza had much experience with high end jewellery, but he was certain this dagger was worth more than he’d probably ever earn in his lifetime. Now he understood why his employer was offering so much for the job. He shoved the dagger into his sack and hung it over his shoulder. He still had one more item to retrieve. The auctioneer’s desk beside the door was locked tight, but a few moments of pressure was all it took to melt through. He pulled open the drawer, careful not to let any molten metal fall onto the paper contents within. He pulled a glove onto one hand. It was lined with drakescale, normally to protect hands. Now it shielded the auctioneer cheques from the heat running across his skin. He slipped the cheques into his belt, beneath his tunic. He emptied the rest of the contents from the drawer, secreting various pieces in the pockets of his tunic and in his sack, then pushed over a stack of books. Nobody would be looking for the dagger with the desk broken into and the cheques gone. He slipped out of the warehouse and ran to the wall he’d scaled to get in. Not wasting any time, he pulled himself over the wall and dashed back toward the abandoned tavern. He knocked four times, two sets of two knocks separated by a short pause. The door opened and he slipped inside. Most of the heat had retreated from his veins, the effects of the arcanium wearing off. His eyes, however, could still clearly make out the figures in the darkness before him. Six men regarded Meza, all with glowing eyes to match his own. Three stood, one in each corner of the room facing the door. These were obviously enforcers, big men with billy clubs at their belts. Two of the remaining men stood behind the third. Their faces were hidden by full face masks that left only their eyes showing. They showed no sign of weapons on them, but Meza recognized the one defining mark on the men; broaches the shape of a crescent moon with a sword stuck through the middle between the points. Yisari Assassins, Meza thought. Not good. The sixth man sat between the two assassins. Meza knew exactly who he was. The Gentleman, Master of the Thieves Circle. “Back so quickly, young Meza,” said the Gentleman. “I trust that means you encountered little resistance.” Meza didn’t reply. He pulled off the sack, slowing his movement with one hand out as he saw one of the Yisari tense and shift his weight. The assassins were known for their ability not only to kill anyone their client required, but also to protect their client, even to their own death. The last thing Meza wanted was a Yisari blade anywhere near him and he had no doubt they could kill him with a throw from across the room. Slowly, he pulled the dagger out of the sack, holding it by the scabbard. The Gentleman smiled and nodded, indicating a table beside the door. Meza placed the weapon on the table then stepped back toward the door, throwing his sack over his back again. Something rustled and Meza winced. The Gentleman narrowed his eyes. The two nearest thugs grabbed him by the arms, lifting him off the floor completely. The third enforcer patted down his legs. As the man patted up around his torso, he stopped and grinned. He pulled the cheques out from behind Meza’s back and walked back across to hand them to the Gentleman. “My, you are as ambitious as they say, Meza,” the Gentleman said with a grin. “Auctioneer cheques are a rare commodity in the city. Quite the enterprising lad. Were these why you took my job?” “They were just a cover, sir,” Meza said finally. “It all was.” Every window and door exploded inwards, men yelling as they charged into the room. The two thugs holding Meza dropped him, pulling their clubs to face off against two of the attackers. They were skewered before they could swing their weapons. The third thug dropped his club, flattening himself to the ground. Meza dove under a table in the far corner of the room as more attackers entered the dark tavern. The Yisari fought to defend their master, but even they were overwhelmed as they cut down two opponents. They died silently as a trio of swords impaled each of them. The tavern was instantly quiet, except for the heavy breathing of the dozen men in the room. The Gentleman, to his credit, remained seated throughout the fight, his face an unreadable mask. Two men guarding the door stepped aside to allow another to enter. He hauled Meza to his feet and slapped his shoulder with a gruff laugh. “My thanks, master thief,” he said. “We’ve been trying to track down this bastard for a long while.” He pulled a pouch from behind his belt and handed it to Meza. He also handed him a small envelope. “Payment for services rendered. That note will get you a berth on any ship or in any caravan leaving the city this week. Get out while you can, things are going to get worse here before they get better.” He handed another small note to Meza. “We also think we may have a location on who you’re looking for.” Meza smiled and nodded thanks, then walked out the door and disappeared into the shadows of the city. AuthorW. C. Busch writes fantasy and military fiction. He works in online entertainment by day and writes tales of adventure by night. You can find his historical short fiction anthology, Across the Battlefield: Extended Edition, on Amazon. He can be found on Twitter at @wcbusch.
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