Page 64 of Null & Void

Beans whips out some Oferdu pins for us, red diamonds with fake Patron numbers in black rhodium. Beans tells me that not too many Patrons mill about Erdu Castle City, so it will be best to keep our hoods up and eyes down, bringing as little attention to ourselves as we can despite the small security of having fake Oferdu Patron pins. The numbers obviously won’t match our tattoos, which requires both of us to ensure they’re fully covered.

I rub my tattoo with the memory of getting it. It’s like being slapped over and over with a switch while simultaneously having a pin scraped along raw flesh. A blue-black set of ten numbers in thick bold writing is tattooed from one side of the widest part of my left forearm to the other.

Some people get tattoos for pleasure or cultural significance, like anyone Oflaguz. Assignments to that country were always fascinating, as I saw how people had permanent pictures inked into their skin and wondered what made them decide on their designs.

I suppose freedom of any kind, including freedom of expression or bodily autonomy, would be fascinating to someone who has none of their own.

Ofosraed people don’t tie themselves to any one country or culture, no matter where it might look like you’re born. Leian doesn’t have Laguzborn tattoos. In the children’s compound, the Sadoriborn head cook, Mastudo, doesn’t have pierced skin with bone or wooden embellishments. Nash, the stablemaster, isn’t covered in jewelry like someone Erduborn.

An exception to this might be Dell, who is Erduborn and the current commander of the Ofosraed peacekeepers. Dell was always decked out in Nemoris leather regardless of whether they’re on duty or not. To be fair, Nemoris leather is the best leather.

We’re faceless, shapeless, ready to mold into whatever country bids to own us.

It’s not often I’ve seen a Patron who fully embraces any one culture, not the one they’re born of nor the one they are sold to. But I recently saw a Nemorisborn Ofmieva Patron draped in extravagant furs—the preferred attire for the Ofmieva people—and it was a sight to behold. I loved it, they looked spectacular. Adding to the allure I suppose, was the fact he was an Ofmieva Patron despite that country’s reluctance to purchase Patrons of the Divine.

Bitty and I make a good pair for the task at hand. They listen for anyone who begins to gossip about us, or if the peacekeepers stationed around Castle City begin to talk. I know how to be a sneak, spotting the best places to hide or disappear as needed. Plus, I can disable someone quietly without them realizing, which unfortunately does happen more than once.

We leave most of our Nemoris leather back in the room as it would have brought too much attention. Being in a hooded cloak while everyone else is in the Erdu style of soft, light fabrics—not to mention that we have no jewelry—is already a risk. Fortunately, we’re rarely given a second glance.

Three times we have had to lure men and women to dark pathways so we can deal with them following us. I knock them unconscious and steal any gold or weapons they carry. Better to make it look like a random act of theft than anything else.

Eventually, a man recognizes me. Apparently, he has an acquaintance who pointed me out to him during a bi-moon market they both work in Osraed. The acquaintance told him I was the Silent Assassin and that if he ever saw me, I was up to no good. Asshole. He’s correct of course, but still, what an asshole.

Bitty says his wife doesn’t believe him, however, he has plans to go to peacekeepers in the morning and let them know. We need to tell the others, and since it’s getting late, we head back to our rooms.

I ditch Bitty before they even walk through the door.

We would have had to discuss what to do, debate, and decide, risking the man changing his plans and going to the peacekeepers early. He needs to die; that’s all there is to it. What is the point of a discussion when I know the result will be the same? We cannot risk him alerting the peacekeepers and losing our chance to find the princess.

Murdering an innocent person is not something I want a witness to, nor do I want the man’s blood to be on any hands but my own. Chances are this man has a family, further requiring a monster for the job.

I’m already a monster. What’s one more piece of my soul so the three of them can keep theirs intact?

I’m sitting on a roof—not in a sneaksuit since I haven’t had a chance to replace it—watching through the window of their little mud brick house. No children, thankfully. I’m still mulling over if I need to kill his young wife when I see him grab her by the hair and yell in her face. I can see the spittle fly from his mouth onto her.

The wife gets to live.

The moon is bright and far enough along the sky that I’m uncomfortable with the amount of time left to do this. I make my way undetected toward the back of their house, which is in the moon’s shadow. He’s inebriated and angry that she doesn’t believe him about me. Of course, she’s saying she believes him now, though it doesn’t matter to him. I can hear his slurred shouts and her whimpers, my blood boiling and rage thrashing.

I have some knives and blades stowed, but using them would raise suspicion, or cause the wife to be the one arrested. It needs to look like an accident. He’s large, as all Erduborn are, and if he could fight, my plan wouldn’t work.

I kick a few things in the back alley, making sure that something hits their back door. Hoping that none of his neighbors are interested, I hide beside the steps, waiting in the darkness. My first problem is that the lazy fuck sends his wife. She opens the door and stands with her arms folded. After a few seconds, she steps down and out, and I grab her.

With a hand over her mouth and a blade to her neck, I whisper in her ear, “You have two choices. Scream and die. Or stay quiet, and your piece of shit husband has an accident. Nod if the second option is more appealing to you.”

The woman gives one shaky nod, and I let her go. Wide-eyed, she turns back to me, her eyes scanning over my silhouette. Tears welling, she melts into the darkness of the alley, and my rage flares as I note a fresh bruise already blooming across her young face.

This whole time, he’s been yelling her name and asking what’s going on. She remains silent even after I let her go. It’s a risk. She could be going for help. But something in her eyes as she backed away tells me I answered a Divine prayer.

Eventually, he stomps to the back door looking for her, grumbling threats. Standing on the top step, he looks out. His wife must be hiding around the corner now, and he hasn’t spotted me right beside him. I need him to take another step down. One step forward.

Go one step forward, you bag of moldy dicks. Tovi would have appreciated my insult. My heart seizes briefly at the thought of her.

When he takes the final step forward, I kick the back of his knees. I lunge onto the top step behind him, jumping to grab the door frame, as my arm hooks around his neck. I let momentum and my weight drag him back, using the force from pushing myself down from the door frame. The resounding crack as his head hits the sharp edge of his concrete step is loud enough to cause me concern about his neighbors.

But no one sounds the alarm. The only sounds are from the man gasping softly as blood gushes from his head. I pull my hood back slightly as I stand over him, making sure he sees me. His eyes widen a fraction. I look up at the sound of soft footfalls. It’s the wife. When she comes closer, she’s shaking, staring in shock at the man who was her husband. I look back down, and his eyes are unfocused. He’s dead.

“What a shame. Your drunk of a husband slipped and fell,” I say pointedly, slipping back into the shroud of darkness, ensuring I am fully cloaked by my hood.