Re: Angels on the Sideline
Thank you.
IC:
Section II.
“No, and for the last and final time, I don’t want to buy a wrist sundial, and if you ask me again I will stick that sundial where the sun does not shine. Comprendes?”
The flabbergasted merchant, held up in the air by his collar, gulped and nodded frantically. Kellson sighed and threw him away. Why would somebody want to buy a sundial anyways? It’s not like you couldn’t look at the sun and find out what time it is. And any time you see someone holding timekeepers attached to the inside of his coat, you know something’s up.
He sat back down at his table and replaced his booted feet back on the polished hardwood. Five minutes since he had got here and he was already impatient. He took some long breaths and closed his eyes.
“hOffendi Kellson?”
Kellson cracked an eye. A short man was standing before him. He looked…well, he looked like your average Arab. Black hair, beard, darkly tanned skin, turban. No distinguishing features, which would make it hard to pick him out in a crowd if Kellson decided he needed to die.
“Yeah?”
“Hello. Call me Ghnobi. Yes. I am the one that will take you to the castle.” ‘Ghnobi’ had a strange ‘h’ sound preceding most words beginning with vowels. It grated on Kellson’s nerves.
“Just like that? What about my fee?”
“Your…fee?”
“Yeah,” he said, swinging his feet off the table and standing, looking down at the little man. “This is a living, yes? I’m not doing this for my health.”
“Your fee will be as promised, hwun third now and the other two thirds after the job,” said Ghnobi tossing him a bag that clinked. Kellson detected a smidgen of hesitancy as he snagged the money. Ah-hah.
“Well, lead on, pal,” he said in the sardonic tone of anyone who isn’t your pal, but rather stuck the word ‘moron’ in the seemingly innocent word. Ghnobi noticed it, too: Kellson heard him darkly muttering, “Pal…” as they exited the tavern.
***
“This is it,” Ghnobi whispered, gesturing towards the palace. Kellson rolled his eyes. Why –did- everyone whisper to a regicide when they were at least half a mile away from the castle itself? It bothered him. That would stop with one quick trigger pull or sword slash. He ignored the little man and began walking to the east. They wouldn’t see him with the sun in their eyes. He started running. Let’s get this over with.
***
Fortuitously, there were no guards posted on the wall, which was not to say they weren’t around. Kellson cautiously flew up over the wall, crossbow in hand. Oh, there was one, leaning on a halberd, probably asleep and definitely not looking. He crept up behind the guard and cut his throat with one deft knife swipe. Before the body could fall, he propped him up against the battlements so that it would seem like he was asleep. Now, to find the sultan.
Leaving the body but taking his scimitar, he flew up to a minaret and poked his head in the window. No one yet. The call to prayer was probably earlier or later. He didn’t care. Christians and Muslims were not a good combination in Armenia and thus probably not here. He scuttled in, quietly walking down the steps to the main building. Some assassins, and he used the term loosely, because he did not consider himself to actually be an assassin, would climb on the ceiling or dart around in the shadows. That was not how Kellson rolled, to say the least. He’d just walk through the palace until he found a guard or servant, forced them to tell him where the current monarch or ruler was, kill the guard or leave the servant, go to the ruler, kill him or her, and leave. Much quicker, but still quiet.
He did find someone. A pretty woman was quietly combing her hair by a large window. He tapped her on the shoulder, making her jump.
“’Scuse me. Where’s the sultan?”
She understood the word sultan, at least; she shakily pointed a direction. Kellson touched his brow and departed.
This castle, at least, was fairly easy. Not many traps or guards. He remembered one lord somewhere near the Mediterranean Sea. Talk about paranoid. Kellson had to back track out of the castle to escape the traps and hordes of guards, thus having to wait for a week and a half until the lord went into the troop’s barracks outside. Then he had to kill the lord and almost the entire barracks. All he had met here was some woman, probably part of the fabled harem, and a sleeping guar- good grief.
A score of guards turned the corner, standing stunned, staring at him. He waved.
“Hullo,” he said, and flew through the ceiling.
It was old wood, but it hurt, nonetheless.
Nursing his aching shoulder, he examined the surroundings. A storeroom or attic or something. Some clothes. He carefully walked to the door, trying not to move the shoulder to much, and opened it, entering the hallway, looking for the stairs.
***
“My lord,” said one of the sultan’s advisors. “An assassin has entered the palace. We must get you to safety.”
“Non, on, lon, nonsuns,” slurred the sultan. The advisor looked questioningly at his compatriot advisor.
“His imperial lordship was a bit heavy with the wine last night,” he said, sighing.
“Don’t just stand there, you fleabitten nephew of a camel! Help me with him!”
Together, they half lifted, half dragged the sultan to the door. It opened for them.
“Is that you, Adal?”
Kellson grinned and raised the scimitar.
“Good try.”
Several seconds later, he was bounding back down the steps, scimitar dripping blood. Decapitation was a messy business. People sprayed everywhere. He’d have to get himself an axe to use, to make things messy but official. ‘Twas the official regicidal weapon, the axe.
He was flying high off of the adrenaline rush. He’d pay for it later and be exhausted. It would be better to get the hell out of here before that happened.
He ran smack dab into a group of guards. Plowing through them, he raced past. Their shouts echoed behind him, and he knew they were chasing. Frantically, he looked around…
Ah. Perfect.
He stopped until they rounded the corner and saw him before waving and falling backwards out of the window.
The guards rushed to the balcony to see the impact, and those who couldn’t listened intently for a loud smack. Both impact and consequential sound failed to reach them. In fact, there was a conspicuous lack of blood and guts on the ground.
“Well, that’s that,” one said in their native language. “I’m not bloody going to go look for someone that can bounce off a balcony without splattering. That’s supernatural, that is. No way.”
“But suppose he’s still out there,” another said doubtfully.
“Don’t be daft. What, did he grow wings and fly away like a little bird?” a third said. “I’m going north. I don’t want to be around when the revolution starts.”
“Good idea.”
“Bloody well didn’t splatter.”
The voices died away. Kellson grinned and flapped his wings gingerly. Time to leave.
CONGRATULATIONS, a voice said. I DON’T SUPPOSE YOU’LL BE KILLING ANYONE ELSE IMPORTANT TODAY? I HAVE A BUSY SCHEDULE.
Kellson blinked and turned around.