sweet lies, sweet lies, sweet lies
The letter arrives in the dead of night.
As they always do — the ones cunning enough (desperate enough) to request the Illusionist’s services know full well his preferred hours of operation.
Caine slices through the envelope with a flick of his blade. The messenger hawk who had delivered it — a handsome creature, the sort of breed only the wealthiest of the merchant houses can afford — rustles its wings at him impatiently.
He ignores it, and skims through the creamy paper’s flourishing script with an offhanded glance. And sighs. Of the utmost urgency. Abazar means to move tonight, if the rumors are true.
They are always urgent, Caine thinks with a withering glare, before he swiftly folds the paper smaller and smaller. Until a paper crane hovers delicately in front of him: the Illusionist’s wordless agreement.
He ties it back on the hawk’s awaiting leg, and watches as it flies silently into the ink-black night.
He knows that something is wrong even before he sees the sprawling mansion’s padlocked gates ajar. It is too quiet — deathly quiet.
Frowning, Caine slips past the gates and slinks towards the estate’s back entrance, dagger never far from his reach. He makes it halfway up the servant’s stairs, keeping carefully to the shadows, before he hears her.
“The others are waiting for you. Go, find them, and get out of here.”
Footsteps — light, anxious footsteps — scurry down the hall above him, and he folds himself ever tighter into the dark. Puzzling over the presence of another.
His job tonight had been peculiar. As efficient an assassin he is, Caine’s services lie in something far more enticing: secrets. The blood and butter of the shadow world.
There is nothing Caine can't find out, for the right amount of coin, and his contacts know it. Depend on the Illusionist’s uncanny talent. For prying secrets from dead men’s lips, and for doing so without leaving the slightest hint there had ever been anyone present.
As formless as the shadows he dwells in, the rumors whisper.
He has never bothered to correct them.
Caine had come to Abazar’s mansion tonight to siphon the secrets of the man’s most recent black market deals from his dreams. And his paperwork — oftentimes that was far less cryptic.
Abazar is a name Caine has heard uttered time and time again in taverns and alleyways alike — the merchant famous for owning a fifth of Solterra’s harbors, and taxing all the ships who docked in his waters.
A man whose secrets offered more coin than taking his life ever would.
Caine listens through the dark, waiting until he is sure there is no one left. The female voice doesn't come again, though he is certain she is still near. Who is she? Why is she here? His mind swirls with all the possibilities — but one in particular concerns him the most.
It was a well known fact that the sly merchant with a penchant for cruelty had no shortage of enemies out for his head. And perhaps tonight, Caine thinks, almost amusedly, one of them has come to take it.
He heads straight for the bedchambers — he had taken the liberty of memorizing the layout of the merchant’s home before coming. After a short detour to Abazar’s office to slip a few confidential papers (always left haphazardly strewn on their desks — the merchants of Solterra were as arrogant as they were cruel) into the folds of his cloak, Caine pushes the doors of the bedroom softly open and steps inside.
The tang of freshly spilled blood greets him, an old friend.
Well, he thinks, drily, Abazar won't be doing any sort of moving tonight. Caine sighs and runs an agitated wing through the silken braids of his hair. “Looks like I’ll only receive half of my promised pay, despite all the trouble I went to," he mutters, striding over to the bloodstained sheets of the bed and staring at the smiling gash on Abazar’s throat. A clean, efficient job.
But it is not the work of a hitman — the scene is too disheveled for an impassive killer to leave. She has not even bothered to clean up after herself, he thinks, and he does not know if he admires her arrogance or not.
Caine stares once more at the dead merchant, gaze as cold as ice, before he steps carefully over the blood and tangled sheets and vaults through the open window.
He drops to the ground, light-footed as a cat. His wings flap once to cushion his fall, and a gust of wind rustles the nearby rosebushes.
Straightening up, Caine flicks dirt from his midnight pelt while he ponders what to do next. The papers he stole press against his chest.
As far as his involvement goes, the Illusionist’s job is finished. But Abazar’s assassination leaves a sour taste on Caine’s tongue. Not that he holds an ounce of pity for the man — he is sure he’d deserved it — but never before has another gotten in the way of Caine’s business. Perhaps his pride is just a little tarnished.
In the corner of his eye, a shadow moves. Swiftly, Caine draws back against the wall of the mansion. It’s her. The assassin, he realizes, at the same time he realizes that she is heading towards him.
Saints. I can't leave without being spotted.
With each second of hesitation, the woman draws nearer and nearer. His remaining options die, one by one. Until the boy has one card left to play.
With eyes raised heavenwards, Caine pushes himself out from the shadows (before he can regret his decision) and plasters a silken smile on his lips.
"Good evening, miss.” His eyes glow far too bright, far too keen. "I admit, I never thought I would meet another here tonight. What a coincidence, wouldn't you say?”
As they always do — the ones cunning enough (desperate enough) to request the Illusionist’s services know full well his preferred hours of operation.
Caine slices through the envelope with a flick of his blade. The messenger hawk who had delivered it — a handsome creature, the sort of breed only the wealthiest of the merchant houses can afford — rustles its wings at him impatiently.
He ignores it, and skims through the creamy paper’s flourishing script with an offhanded glance. And sighs. Of the utmost urgency. Abazar means to move tonight, if the rumors are true.
They are always urgent, Caine thinks with a withering glare, before he swiftly folds the paper smaller and smaller. Until a paper crane hovers delicately in front of him: the Illusionist’s wordless agreement.
He ties it back on the hawk’s awaiting leg, and watches as it flies silently into the ink-black night.
—
He knows that something is wrong even before he sees the sprawling mansion’s padlocked gates ajar. It is too quiet — deathly quiet.
Frowning, Caine slips past the gates and slinks towards the estate’s back entrance, dagger never far from his reach. He makes it halfway up the servant’s stairs, keeping carefully to the shadows, before he hears her.
“The others are waiting for you. Go, find them, and get out of here.”
Footsteps — light, anxious footsteps — scurry down the hall above him, and he folds himself ever tighter into the dark. Puzzling over the presence of another.
His job tonight had been peculiar. As efficient an assassin he is, Caine’s services lie in something far more enticing: secrets. The blood and butter of the shadow world.
There is nothing Caine can't find out, for the right amount of coin, and his contacts know it. Depend on the Illusionist’s uncanny talent. For prying secrets from dead men’s lips, and for doing so without leaving the slightest hint there had ever been anyone present.
As formless as the shadows he dwells in, the rumors whisper.
He has never bothered to correct them.
Caine had come to Abazar’s mansion tonight to siphon the secrets of the man’s most recent black market deals from his dreams. And his paperwork — oftentimes that was far less cryptic.
Abazar is a name Caine has heard uttered time and time again in taverns and alleyways alike — the merchant famous for owning a fifth of Solterra’s harbors, and taxing all the ships who docked in his waters.
A man whose secrets offered more coin than taking his life ever would.
Caine listens through the dark, waiting until he is sure there is no one left. The female voice doesn't come again, though he is certain she is still near. Who is she? Why is she here? His mind swirls with all the possibilities — but one in particular concerns him the most.
It was a well known fact that the sly merchant with a penchant for cruelty had no shortage of enemies out for his head. And perhaps tonight, Caine thinks, almost amusedly, one of them has come to take it.
He heads straight for the bedchambers — he had taken the liberty of memorizing the layout of the merchant’s home before coming. After a short detour to Abazar’s office to slip a few confidential papers (always left haphazardly strewn on their desks — the merchants of Solterra were as arrogant as they were cruel) into the folds of his cloak, Caine pushes the doors of the bedroom softly open and steps inside.
The tang of freshly spilled blood greets him, an old friend.
Well, he thinks, drily, Abazar won't be doing any sort of moving tonight. Caine sighs and runs an agitated wing through the silken braids of his hair. “Looks like I’ll only receive half of my promised pay, despite all the trouble I went to," he mutters, striding over to the bloodstained sheets of the bed and staring at the smiling gash on Abazar’s throat. A clean, efficient job.
But it is not the work of a hitman — the scene is too disheveled for an impassive killer to leave. She has not even bothered to clean up after herself, he thinks, and he does not know if he admires her arrogance or not.
Caine stares once more at the dead merchant, gaze as cold as ice, before he steps carefully over the blood and tangled sheets and vaults through the open window.
He drops to the ground, light-footed as a cat. His wings flap once to cushion his fall, and a gust of wind rustles the nearby rosebushes.
Straightening up, Caine flicks dirt from his midnight pelt while he ponders what to do next. The papers he stole press against his chest.
As far as his involvement goes, the Illusionist’s job is finished. But Abazar’s assassination leaves a sour taste on Caine’s tongue. Not that he holds an ounce of pity for the man — he is sure he’d deserved it — but never before has another gotten in the way of Caine’s business. Perhaps his pride is just a little tarnished.
In the corner of his eye, a shadow moves. Swiftly, Caine draws back against the wall of the mansion. It’s her. The assassin, he realizes, at the same time he realizes that she is heading towards him.
Saints. I can't leave without being spotted.
With each second of hesitation, the woman draws nearer and nearer. His remaining options die, one by one. Until the boy has one card left to play.
With eyes raised heavenwards, Caine pushes himself out from the shadows (before he can regret his decision) and plasters a silken smile on his lips.
"Good evening, miss.” His eyes glow far too bright, far too keen. "I admit, I never thought I would meet another here tonight. What a coincidence, wouldn't you say?”
@Vendetta | "speaks" | notes: this was an absolute joy to write
