It was getting altogether too hot in Bruma.
Oh, no, not the temperature. The Jerall Mountains were just as high and frigid as they’d ever been. Sedor was still full of ice. The air was the kind of cold that froze moisture from a person’s breath before it had left his nostrils. He, personally, was working as hard as he could to keep his teeth from chattering together loudly, right that very moment. If not for the bath at the Jerall View Inn in the city he’d have frozen solid several times over in the last few weeks.
No, what was getting hot was his pursuit.
He crouched in his rooftop perch, silent, trying to bring his breathing under control. Below him, guards scurried about like insects scattering at the sudden shining of a light, while the street walker wailed over the small corpse and a female guard examined the large one. It should have been almost silent at this time of night, this deep into the dead hours, but between the shouts and slapping of feet against cold stone, and the howls of the street walker mourning a child that wasn’t even her own, it was a wonder the entire city hadn’t emptied into the streets, cold or not.
You’d think the world had come to an end for all the caterwauling. It’s just one more child, for the love of the gods. We’ll make more, all of the men with their never-ending needs and the women who humor them for love or money. I’d thin the herd even more if I wouldn’t put myself in danger of being found out, nasty little things that they are.
Was it my fault the little bastard got in my way? I had no choice but to slit his throat, or he’d have given me away.
His mouth curled into a grimace, and he shook his head and squelched the urge to sigh loudly at himself. It was too easy to make excuses. He knew better. He’d been careless.
This should have been the easiest job in the world. I should have been soaking in the bath by now. But I rushed it and didn’t check the area thoroughly enough. I should have waited till I had a completely clear head.
He’d been at this job for a decade, since he was not much more than a child himself, since the largest things he killed were cats and dogs. He’d been trained by the best, in Bravil, before it had fallen to the ravages of the skooma wars. She had been a tough taskmistress who suffered fools not at all, particularly not attractive, smart-mouthed boys who thought they were much better at the art of killing than they actually were, and much more appealing to the opposite sex than they actually were. She had her favorites, and he had not been one of them. But he had worked hard, and had refined his arts until they never knew he was there until it was too late; and he had performed his job impeccably. For years. He learned all the right things to say to her and his brothers, about sending souls to Sithis and the like, but in truth he didn’t much care about gods and such. He just wanted to make money doing what he’d always enjoyed the most, and if he managed a smile from her or a night in the sack with one of the brothers, he considered it a bonus.
He looked down and tried not to think about the muscles cramping from his crouched position. The shouting had tapered off, replaced by the unintelligible murmuring of guards sharing information. They were beginning to leave for warmer areas, now that they’d determined there was no killer skulking in the corners or waiting in a doorway. For some unaccountable reason, nobody had looked up. He was fairly certain they wouldn’t see him even if they did; from below he would appear just a slightly darker spot against the dark skies. It had worked this way many times in the past. But they didn’t look up. They just wanted out of the cold. A few of them, though, were doggedly examining the scene, trying to comfort the wailing woman and get her away from the smaller of the two corpses.
He shifted, just the tiniest bit, just enough to relieve the aching of his calves as they gripped the edge of the roof, and shivered as the change in position allowed more cold air up into his armor.
I know what she’d be saying. You’re a fool, Vitus. You weren’t careful. You were sloppy.
Back when he’d first met her, he’d been a wee bit too close to the center of the conflict in Bravil for comfort. When you grew up in a family of skooma dealers, even one not directly affiliated with either of the two competing families, you were close to the problem – even closer than you probably ought to have been given nimble fingers, a talent for taking what didn’t belong to you, and a taste for the stuff. Even after most of that family was wiped out in the early stages of the conflict, you were still too involved. But you also had contacts, and friends, and lovers, and people who would slip you information and goods on the sly.
He’d escaped Bravil just a breath ahead of the final paroxysm of violence that took out the Lucky Old Lady. He had heard of the demise of the Listener from a safer haven, here in Bruma, where nobody would expect the Dark Brotherhood to still have any presence at all following the destruction of its former Sanctuary. It seemed that the Night Mother’s coffin had been brought out of the chaos of Bravil and taken away, but to what part of the world – and by whom – he didn’t know.
Somehow, though, even though the Listener had fallen, the contracts kept coming, through what channels he did not know and didn’t expend the energy to research. It was always the same: a messenger would find him and hand him a note and a coin purse. Just a name, on the note, never more than that, but he knew what it meant. If a person knew enough to seek him out they knew that he would complete the job. And he’d been all over the Empire doing just that, in all the years that had passed between then and now.
They never knew what name he would use at any given time, and neither did he, but they did know that he wore a black mask that hid his face, and that his services did not come cheaply. They also knew that if they tried to turn him, the messenger, or anyone remotely connected to the contract over to the authorities, they would die, gruesomely. It had happened a number of times, over the years. There had been several partially-disassembled bodies found in close conjunction to an attempted contact. He remembered watching the horrified reactions to his work from a safe vantage point, and remembered the pride he had felt when observers turned green or stumbled for the nearest bush to deposit their most recent meal.
He was among the best, and had been for a decade.
But this time, he’d gotten careless.
It had become obvious in recent months that he was in danger of ruining his reputation as the best of the best. The escapes had become narrower and narrower. This time he’d done his usual impeccable work taking out the target – silent, disappearing into the shadows as if he was made of the same stuff as them — only to turn and find the red-haired boy staring at him, about to open his mouth and alert the guard. It had been one of those exquisite moments of time standing still, as he tried to process the knowledge that he’d been caught, and by a child to boot. He’d had to act fast. He’d done the obvious thing to do, without hesitation, and then had dashed for his escape route just ahead of the authorities.
By the gods, I was sloppy. I can’t afford to be sloppy. Time to move, Vitus, you’re losing your touch.
He reached up under his mask and rubbed his eyes.
Damnable blurry eyes. He could just hear it, the nagging. “Too much of a good thing, Vitus. You have a problem, and you know it, and it’s going to end up killing you if you don’t get a handle on yourself.” He sighed. And that’s probably true. At least I’ll go out handsome.
Beneath him, it began to settle. Someone wrapped an arm around the shoulders of the street walker and led her away toward the rougher part of town. Going to rent one of those appalling little stalls at the Restful Watchman, no doubt. Buy her a drink, give her a little comfort, get to work on the next generation of the appalling little creatures, yes? Well done. I’d help you out with that myself, but I am a little bit preoccupied at the moment.
A pair of guards bearing a litter set it down next to the mark and rolled the man onto it, then picked the litter up, one of them at each end, and left the area. He waited until everyone was gone, and then a good bit longer, shivering but knowing that silence was his partner and darkness his friend. Oddly, nobody returned for the corpse of the boy.
Finally, he coaxed cold muscles into motion and moved to the back of the building, making certain there were no signs of life in any direction, and then dropped down into the shadows next to a group of crates and barrels. He reached into the nearest barrel and pulled out a set of quilted clothing, which he put on over his armor, grateful for the additional insulation. He peeled off the masked hood, rolled it up and slipped it into a pocket, then shook out his hair and double-checked to be sure none of his armor showed beneath the clothing.
He made his way along the back passageways, hugging the shadows under the eaves of the buildings, until he got far enough away from the crime scene that he would, if anyone even noticed him, look like just another tourist coming back to the higher-end inn after slumming in the low-rent district a bit. He made sure to weave unsteadily, just the slightest bit. He didn’t see another soul anywhere, but he’d been at this game long enough to know that eyes could be hiding anywhere, just as his own had been just a few moments earlier.
He was just about to round the last corner, to head for the Jerall View, when he spied it. A small form, reaching into a barrel behind one of the shops, looking for whatever he might be able to steal and eat, or use, or sell. Vitus sneered, but kept walking toward the figure. A moment later, as he passed the spot, the child slumped over the barrel. A dark stain spread down the sides of the wood.
Vitus bent quickly and ran his blade through a pile of snow to clean it.
Sorry, kid. Wrong place, wrong time, bad mood. One fewer nasty little vermin in the world.
He made his way to the room he’d rented earlier and locked the door behind him, then peeled out of his armor, rubbing his arms. He’d saved some of the brandy for this moment. He downed it, and it warmed him from the inside.
That was really a stupid thing to have done. I can’t believe I did it. What if someone was watching that? Vitus Perdeti, the idiot assassin. I really need to clear out of here before I’m my own next victim by mistake.
Then he pulled the pack out from under his bed and pulled out the note he’d had just enough time to look at earlier.
Ondolemar.
Well it surely won’t be any warmer in Skyrim, but that’s a good thing. A little less heat will do me good.
He took the note to the fireplace and dropped it into the flames.
What shall I call myself this time? Easier to remember if I at least keep my initials the same. How about something like Vinnus Pettellia. That will do.
He stretched and yawned.
All right, Vinnus. Let’s get ourselves some sleep. We’ll head north in the morning.