"Tricks of the Trade (Wyverns Project 3)" by James K Bowers

     It was, by any reckoning, an old trick – one that Scorpion had used to his advantage on many occasions.  He was a skillful assassin, of course, but not the one whose name and visage he now assumed.  Tonight he was the Grey Fox, an assassin long past his prime whose once-feared name had been replaced by the names of younger men.  It was a name no longer whispered in the shadows of Silva’s alleyways, no longer feared by Silva’s citizenry.  Having given to the guild the best of his service and most of his life, the Grey Fox had been dropped from the guild’s official protection and now eked out his lonely autumn years in as much anonymity as his skills allowed.  That, however, did not preclude him from some infrequent contact with the guild and its members.  On the contrary, most young assassins learned their trade from former practitioners whose skills and prowess had dwindled in proportion to the growth of their experience and wisdom.  The Grey Fox was one such mentor of the dark guild and Scorpion was nearing that age himself, though he rarely acknowledged the fact.  Consequently, a bargain made with the Grey Fox, involving less gold than Scorpion would have imagined, was providing Scorpion an invaluable and anonymous look at several of the guild’s most promising students.
     “By all that’s holy and unholy, Scorpion!  Why teach anyone this craft?” inquired the merchant.  ‘Patch’ Gundren begged an answer, but none was forthcoming from the master assassin.  The old merchant’s fine clothes were stained with his old blood.  The business end of the arrow protruding from his chest glinted in mute testimony of Patch’s final moment.  Patch shook his head, resigned to the fact that either Scorpion could not hear him or would not hear him.  “I can bear witness to this no longer.”
     Scorpion was deeply engrossed in presenting his lecture on the techniques of quick disguise but was having great difficulty convincing this newly acquired apprentice of the worth of those particular skills.  His pupil, a brash youngster brimming with potential, half-listened to the aging assassin, yet all the while idly toyed with the small crossbow on the table between them.  The youth had chosen for himself the moniker of a legendary slayer, but had thus far displayed none of the control and focus of that elder Pit Viper.
     As pale blue as the day she had been drowned, Mynorra wandered over and sat daintily on the bench beside the apprentice.  She picked a strand of seaweed from her dripping hair, gave the young man an appraising look, and then, smiling suggestively at Scorpion, stated simply,  “Oh, he’s cute, Scorpion.”
     Increasingly displeased with the nonchalance and indifference of his pupil, Scorpion slammed his fist on the table to regain the lad’s attention.  “If you ever want the world to take ‘the Pit Viper” seriously, my boy, you had better pay attention.  Living your life as an assassin isn’t all games and child play.  It’s all about death.  When you’re out in the real world, people die.  Sometimes it’s a mark, but sometimes it’s the assassin.” Scorpion scowled, waiting from the fingernails lightly clicking a catchy rhythm on the crossbow to halt.  He leaned closer to the youth as he continued.  “It’s a serious business, boy, and a moment’s stupidity will earn you a cold and lonely bed for all eternity.  As craftsmen in our less-than-honored profession, someday we’ll each find our own unmarked graves, but why rush the occasion?  Listen and learn.  Don’t trust your life to luck.”
     “Learn?  Learn?  From the Grey Fox?  You can’t be serious.  Old man, there are only two or three slayers in Silva whose names really mean something.  And yours ain’t one of ‘em.  The Black Weasel would carve you up before you could soak your breeches.  And the Scorpion… well now, there’s a legend for you.  Bookies wouldn’t even post odds.  Who’d bet on you anyway?”
     Scorpion sighed, and then sat down across from the aspiring assassin.  “Perhaps you’re right.”  The room was silent for a few moments before the arrogant, young Pit Viper began tapping on the stock of the crossbow once again.  With a shrug, Scorpion said again, only softer, “Perhaps you’re right.”
     Mynorra, amused by the youth’s defiance, continued to smile.  “Of course he’s right, Scorpion.  Anyway, why fill his head with death when he should be strutting the streets with nothing on his mind but pert breasts, slim waists, and inviting hips.  Surely you could leave this fine specimen to the ladies and find some loathsome wretch more inclined to listen to you.”
     “Fair enough then, lad.  Let’s forget about disguises for a while.  Maybe it would be better to discuss what it means to be an assassin.”  Scorpion’s suggestion was enough to brighten his student’s eyes and regain his interest, if not his complete attention.
     “Finally we’re getting somewhere with these lessons,” groused the apprentice.  “I was beginning to wonder if I was studying to be an actor instead.”
     “Hmmmph.  A bad performance in my profession won’t get you jeers and rotten vegetables – it might, however, get you dancing for everyone’s entertainment… in Justice Square… at the end of a rope…  So let that be today’s second bit of wisdom for you to commit to memory.”
     “Second?  What was the first?”
     “The first, my boy?  Well, perhaps you weren’t listening.”
     A ghost of frustration lurked in the lad’s voice.  “More riddles?  Why don’t you just spell things out, old man?  How am I supposed to learn if you won’t teach?”
     “Yes, I suppose I should be teaching you something,” mused the equally frustrated Scorpion.
     Mynorra, appearing as bored with the proceedings as the young Pit Viper, feigned a yawn.  “Oh, dear!  Think, “old man”… you were young once, weren’t you?  Think young.  Just make the connection and he’ll listen to every word you say.”  A look of disappointment crossed her pale blue features.  “Though I still rather hoped you’d let him connect with the young ladies instead.”
     “Alright, then.  As I was saying before, let’s forget about disguises and I’ll tell you a little about an assassin.  A story from many years ago.  Then, when I’m’ finished I’ll ask you a question, so pay attention.  Do we now have an agreement?”  
     A nod from the young man.  “Agreed.”  Attentiveness then washed over the Pit Viper’s face replacing, at least for the moment, his sullen contempt for his tutor.
     “This tale begins on the arid plains, leagues from Silva, as a gargantuan trade caravan lumbers toward our city bearing Uurjalkan spices, furs and gallak tusks, gold from Kendralka, perfumes, Terkadian tapestries, carvings and artworks from afar.  Riches beyond imagination, all to be sold to the merchants and sea captains of Silva.”
     “There has never been a caravan such as this,” interrupted Scorpion’s troublesome pupil.
     “Precisely.  And if you will keep your thoughts to yourself, now, I will continue?”
     The young man pursed his lips tightly, his argument shattered by his teacher’s blunt affirmation.
     “Let’s see, then.  Oh, yes… riches beyond imagination.  This was what one boy thought as he rode in one of the wagons as they made their way slowly toward the markets.  To be sure, it was not nearly as magnificent as he had perceived it, but in the mind of a young boy on the brink of manhood, adventure rarely centers on the small or the mundane.  So, he was content with his own embellished perceptions.  These perceptions, as fate would have it, were shared by one who was not so young and innocent.”
     “The assassin?”
     “Uhh, no. Not an assassin, not in the truest sense, but just as effective under the circumstances.”
     “But I thought this was supposed to be a story about an assassin,” complained the Pit Viper.
     “Well, it may just turn out that way if you could simply apply your ears to it rather than your tongue.  At any rate, the merchant caravan had been noticed.  A man named Bahrgathi, a notorious and particularly cruel bandit, listened as one of his scouts told him of a new prize for the taking.  As much as a child might puff up reality to suit his needs, one can only imagine the scout’s report.  He must have given a convincing, yet misguided, estimation of the caravan’s worth to have gathered Bahrgathi’s interest.  All who traveled the overland trade routes to Silva knew the bandit’s reputation and he was, by all accounts, a very clever and resourceful marauder.  He was no fool.  Over the course of his flamboyant career, he had honed his skills.  Whatever flaws of character one might attribute to Bahrgathi, his intelligence and drive could never be questioned.”
     “So is this bandit your hero, or what?”
     “That, young lad, is something you will have to judge for yourself.  Now, this landlocked pirate had at his disposal a troop of some fifty or sixty hardened raiders, each as savage as their leader.  Their heartless greed knew no bounds and, thanks to that scout’s report, that greed was now focused on a merchant caravan worth far less than they envisioned.  Bahrgathi and his band of raiders set off across the plains, the scout leading them unerringly toward the unsuspecting merchants and their inadequate squad of guardsmen.”
     Scorpion paused momentarily.  He rose and took the few steps needed to reach the small cupboard.  He gathered two wooden cups and returned with them to the table.  Pushing the crossbow aside, he placed them on the table.  From the mantle of the small hearth, he brought down a wine bottle and poured from it into each cup, filling them only halfway.  The pupil eyed the liquid warily and made no move to drink the offering.
     “Don’t be so dramatic.  It’s safe.  I am an assassin after all – killing is a business – where would be my gain in killing you?”  Scorpion took a drink from the nearer of the cups, placed it next to the other, and poured wine into it once again to replace that which was now warming his stomach.  He gestured to the young apprentice to choose which cup and waited patiently as the young man took the one from which Scorpion had just drank.
     With a sigh of disappointment, Scorpion took a drink from the remaining cup.  “I was just thirsty and thought it impolite to drink without offering the same to a guest.”  He regarded the dark liquid in the bottom of his cup for a moment.  “There’s a subtle but true art to winemaking, and that’s one truth you can count on.  This, however, hardly deserves to be called wine.  Now, to continue… the boy, who was the adopted son of one of the caravan’s lesser merchants--"
     “Hey, wait a minute.  What happened to the bandit?”
     “I’m getting to that.  And here I thought you were interested in the assassin.  Now, the boy, the adopted--”
     “But, I am interested in the assassin!”
     “I’m getting to that, too.  The boy, the adopted son of one of the caravan’s lesser merchants, had been told to ride ahead of the caravan some distance and see if he could do a bit of foraging for their supper – some small game, roots or berries, anything to supplement what little was carried in the wagon.  This was but one of his duties as he traveled with the caravan.  I might add, at this point, that the boy had enjoyed a childhood that was, on the whole, pleasant.  His younger years were filled with travel, adventure, and learning.  By the age of five, he could recognize every city and town on the caravan's route, and knew every major merchant by sight and could name them all.  By six, he had begun learning to read and write, use the bow and dagger, and count money.  His exposure to various cultures, customs, and dialects along the trade route made the boy worldly beyond his years.  Wisely, his adoptive parents also demanded that he spend a number of hours each day working.  It built not only coordination and strength, but also instilled the discipline necessary to develop a good work ethic.  It was fortunate… no, you must decide whether fate was kind or cruel.  It was – simply a fact, then – that the boy was away from the caravan when Bahrgathi’s bandit horde swept down upon the caravan.  The guardsmen, though they attempted to fend off the raiders, were slaughtered.  With their only defenders swept away like so much chaff in the wind, all who remained of that caravan were slain.  No man, nor woman, nor child did he spare.  Those who attempted to flee across the barren plains were ridden down to be speared in the back or trampled beneath the hooves of the bandits’ horses.  Then, with the heat of the carnage still burning through their veins, the thieves set to plundering the wagons, overturning them, spilling their contents on the hard ground.  They took what few things they found of worth or interest, but found little of either.  One can only guess at Bahrgathi’s rage as he discovered there was little real plunder for his bandits.  All that is certain is that the scout paid the dearest price for the gross inaccuracy of his words.”
     “And of this, you’re certain?” scoffed the young apprentice.
     “Most certain.  Hours later, when the caravan did not catch up to him, the young boy returned with a few desert hoppers for supper.  He found the shattered caravan and but one living soul – Bahrgathi’s former scout.  The bandits, in their anger, had blinded him and nailed him to one of the wagons.  It was from him that the boy learned who had been the cause of the carnage and looting.  With revenge on his mind, the boy squeezed every bit of information he could from the scout, then he left him for the buzzards.  He listened to the man’s screams as he rode away.  He cautiously paralleled the trade route until he came to the nearest city.”
     “How old did you say this boy was?”
     “I didn’t.  He was fourteen.”
     “A bit young to be so heartless, don’t you think?”
     “Oh, I don’t know.  A bit young to be orphaned twice, perhaps.  More wine?  The story is not quite finished.”
     “Sure.”
     Mynorra smiled triumphantly.  “See, Scorpion.  He really can pay attention.”
     Scorpion poured two more half-cups of the wine.
     “One morning, some two years later, Bahrgathi’s bodyguards found their chieftain's head and body occupying separate sides of his tent and, attached to the central tent pole, a note signed ‘Scorpion’.  No tracks were found.  Sentries swore they saw and heard nothing.”
     “Ha!  I knew this story was familiar.  The boy is the ‘Scorpion’, right?”  The gleam in the apprentice’s eyes had nothing to do with the wine and everything to do with pride in his deductive skills, meager as they were.
     “Yes. Well, Bahrgathi became the Scorpion's first victim -- and for his payment, the Scorpion gladly accepted the satisfaction.  Fear permeated the bandit camp, for the note promised the Scorpion would sting again if the bandits did not disband at once.  Oh, of course they didn’t, trusting in the safety and protection of superior numbers.”
     “Fools.  All of them.  The Scorpion comes and goes like a phantom.  Didn’t I say before he’s a legend?”
     “Hmmm… You may have mentioned that.  For the next seven months, death dogged the bandits.  An arrow through the chest of a sentry as his rounds took him into the light of a campfire.  A lieutenant clutching his throat and gasping out his last breaths after a sip from his waterskin.  Sometimes two or more deaths in one day.  Sometimes nothing but the fear for a week at a time.  The last thirty men could not sleep.  They feared the night.  They feared each other.  They relented, scattering to several cities, carrying with them the tale of the Scorpion's sting.”
     Scorpion drained the last of the wine from his cup, thought briefly of finishing the bottle this very evening.  The bitter aftertaste convinced him otherwise.  “So, then, are you ready?”
     “What?”
     “Are you ready?”
     “Ready for what?”
     “The question I promised you I would ask at the end of the story.”
     “Oh, that… Sure, ask away, old man.”
     “Why is Scorpion a legend?”
     “That’s simple.  He’s the best there is, maybe the best that ever was.”
     “Ahh… Well, not a particularly original answer, but one given with conviction.”  He motioned to the apprentice’s cup.  “Better finish that.  Lesson’s over.”
     “So, that’s the right answer, right?”
     “Let’s save that for later, lad.  Right now, I’d rather you met someone at The Brass Dragon to deliver a message for me.  Do you think you can do that without difficulty?”
     “Of course.  I know where it is.”
     Scorpion produced a sealed square of parchment.  The black wax sealing it bore no recognizable symbol.  He handed it to the young man saying, “You are to go to The Brass Dragon.  Inside you will find the proprietor, Jank Threefinger.  By the time you reach the Inn, there should hardly be anyone left inside.  In any case, just remember his name and he won’t be difficult to identify.  Do you understand?”
     “And I give him this envelope, right?”
     “No, you do not.  You answer my question.  Do you understand?”
     “Yes, I find Jank Threefinger at The Brass Dragon and I don’t give him this envelope.”
     “Now we’re getting somewhere, I think.  When you find Jank, you will ask him ‘She’s here?’ after which you will meet the woman to whom this envelope must be delivered.  Have you got it?”
     “Yes.”
     “Yes, what?”  Scorpion asked as he gently herded the young man toward the door.
     “Yes, I find Jank Threefinger at The Brass Dragon and ask him ‘She’s here?’ then I give the envelope to the lady.”
     “Very good, lad.  Don’t make a disaster of this.  You do want to become an old assassin, don’t you?”  There was a startled look in the apprentice’s eyes, but Scorpion didn’t give the youth a moment longer to think about it.  “Off you go then, and do hurry,” he prompted him as he pushed him out the door into the darkened street.
     The Pit Viper shrugged then set off at a brisk pace.

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     Hardly anyone left?  In a pig’s eye.  There was scarcely room to breathe in The Brass Dragon’s great room.  Thankfully, the Pit Viper had remembered not only Jank’s first name, but his oh-so-accurate nickname as well.  There at the base of the stairway stood one of the ugliest bald men the boy had ever seen with exactly three fingers on his right hand.  Well, the old fool seemed to know what he was talking about even if he couldn't judge the popularity of the place.
     He wove through the crowd to the bald-headed proprietor.  As the young Pit Viper drew near, Jank took the initiative with a gruff, “Whatcha want there, pup?”
     It was enough to jar his thoughts for a moment, then he remembered what he was supposed to ask.  “She’s here?”  For all that he had tried to be bold and confident, his voice betrayed him with a slight quaver.
     “She who, lad?” asked Jank.  “The Princess of Alskanaar?”
     “But, he said I was supposed--”
     “Who said?”
     “Well, the Grey Fox told me to--”
     “The Grey Fox?  What kind of skullrot are you taking, puppy?”  Jank grabbed the Pit Viper by the collar, calling, “Brakk!  Mind the stairs for a minute, will you?  And, you… well you just come with me, boy.”  The young man found himself being alternately pushed and dragged to a dark corner of the great room.  Two figures, shrouded in the darkness, sat at a table.  Food platters and empty mugs littered the top of the table, forgotten by the serving maid just as the corner was forgotten by the light.  As he was shoved closer he could tell the one facing his direction was a woman, auburn haired if the light wasn’t playing too many tricks on his eyes.
     “Pardon the intrusion,” Jank said apologetically, “but is this yours?”  The man turned to look at the young man held tightly in Jank’s eight fingers.  “Says you sent him here.”
     “Afraid so, Jank,” said the Grey Fox.  “Have a seat, lad.”
     Jank pulled him close, nose to nose.  The smell of garlic and alcohol was overwhelming as the burly proprietor warned, “Interrupt my evening with your nonsense again and see what it gets you, puppy.”  Then Jank set him free as violently as he had snatched him up.
     The Pit Viper stood watching Jank return to the base of the stairs. He didn’t know how many times the Grey Fox had to repeat himself before ‘Have a seat, lad’ registered.  Numbly, he sat down at the table with the two.
     “Met any legends lately?” asked the woman, and all the answers fell into place.
     “I… I think I might have a message for you, ma’am,” answered the Pit Viper.  His eyes were adjusting to the dim light and he couldn’t help but notice how beautiful she was.
     “Oh?  What message might that be?”
     He fumbled for the envelope and handed it across the table to the woman.
     “Hmmm… unopened.   That, at least, is a good sign.  We can keep you around.”
     “Uh… He did say to hurry… Don’t you think you should read it now?” asked the apprentice.
     “No, there’s nothing – it’s blank inside,” she replied.
     The Grey Fox spoke up then.  “Because everyone believes it.”
     “W-what?”  The word stumbled from the Pit Viper’s lips.
     “The answer he was looking for.  You got it wrong.”

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