"Pleasure and Duty" by Réka Szabó

He was sitting on the dazzling white stone stairs of the wharf, elbows on his knees, chin set in his hands, eyes somewhere up the sky, where swifts whirled before the bright blue background, shrieking in euphory, much like his thoughts did. His glowing eyes clearly showed that his soul was up there, high above the surging city, among the birds that darted across the light, transparent air with such graceful ease.

He was in love, after all! Even he could afford a little sentimentalism now and then...

He released a deep, sorrowful sigh towards the pulsating blue sky and the swifts. The birds remained untouched by his sorrow and went on chasing the flies nurtured in the filth of the mighty Taorna. Under his feet, in a tiny crack of the white stone, a lone daisy grew. He tore off the fragile plant with the hesitant slowness of a sleepwalker, and beheld it with a curious but distand look. He wondered at the little plant's delicate beauty - then, with another heavy sigh he threw it into the water with a theatrical air that only a man in love can have. Through the pathetic tears of sentimentalism he watched the flower slowly washed away by the filthy brown stream towards the south, Larina and the sea - and death.

He sat on the stairs till nightfall. He had nothing to do in the afternoon, but a mission awaited him in the night. Maybe, he thought, maybe he could catch her for a few words before going off to work. As the clamor of the riverside slowly retreated to the dirty taverns of the quarter of Taorna commonly known as the Pub District, he stood up hesitantly, and headed towards one of the outer districts. He had work to do there, and the chance to see her was also there. He glided through the streets of the inner city, now alive and packed with people, like a shade. The people, the careless, merrimaking, laughing and chattering ordinary people did not even notice him as he passed. It was his thorough training, and maybe that he indeed felt like a shade, a floating, blissful and tragic ghost of love. Yes, he was in love, and all his soul was preparing for the meeting. If only he could forget his duty! The Oath was about to spoil his night.

It took him half an hour to reach his destination. He walked on a street flanked by splendid villas and gardens. The street itself was dark, the only lights came from the hearts of the gardens and from behind the tall, narrow, arched windows of the houses of the rich.

Mosquitoes buzzed around him. He chased them away angrily, and started his search. He examined the high stone wall that hid the nearest garden party from his sight. On the other side, sounds of music and laughter launched towards the sky; sounds which only made his melancholy deeper. Finally he found the ruined corner. That part of the garden needed much tidying: dense bushes and tall grass grew around the old and sick sicamore tree that stood behind the opening in the wall like a silent guardian. The new owner of the villa moved in only a few weeks before, and so far there was no sign that he would do anything about the southwestern corner of the garden. The man crept through the opening without a sound, but only after he had made sure that no one was watching the broken wall. He was an uninvited guest and did not wish to be kicked out like a thief.

He moved on stealthily towards the house. The party was held near the house, around the marble fountain. A few paces away from the fountain a well-trimmed evergreen hedge blocked the light of lanterns. He hid in the dark behind the hedge and watched the one he came here for; the one for whom he thought of defying the Oath and risking more than his own life. What he wished to do was terribly dangerous, but love is not only blind: it is also rash. He did not consider the danger.

The priestess was simply beautiful: her ivory skin wore a gentle touch of pink on the cheeks, her raven hair floated around her face in graceful locks, her eyes were a deep, thoughtful shade of brown, her movements soft, nimble and almost ethereal. She wore a yellow dress of the finest silk, over that a dark green robe with delicate golden embroidery, and yellow sandals on her graceful little feet. Emeralds and topazes glittered on the golden necklace she wore, speaking clearly about the young priestess's wealth. She laughed. Her voice, like a swift stream jumping from rock to rock, leaped straight to his heart, and filled it with the fresh joy of her youth. He would have paid any price just to have this night together with her. But duty called, and he knew that soon he had to be on his mission.

The priestess gave a smile to someone he did not see, excused herself, and walked towards the far edge of the circle of light. He sighed and withdrew. He wanted only a kind word, a kiss!... But duty called.

As he hurried back towards the unkept corner, he noticed the priestess. She was alone, strolling towards that very corner he entered the garden. His heart pounded. Now was the time! Now he could get close to her, if only for a moment. The urge of the Oath grew stronger in his head, but he did not listen yet. He approached her stealthily, and whispered her name into the darkness. She stopped and stared towards the sound with a sudden keenness. It is I, he whispered. He thought he saw a smile on the adored woman's face. He, too, smiled, so awkwardly as only heroes of romantic comedies could. So she did have feelings towards him...

A few hurried, trembling words, and they were kissing feverishly. Every touch of her lips was bitter, for he knew he would have to leave in the next moment. He could not ignore the call of the Oath any more, and it was calling him to things far more important than kissing. Sorry, my love, I must leave, he apologised. So soon, she asked with disappointment. I risk my life if I'm late, he replied, and stuck the poison-filled needle into her marble neck. His love fell without a sound; the old alchemist did a very good job with the poison. As she fell, the man felt her vanish like a blightful dream within another, dark and cruel dream.

The assassin fled from the cursed garden like a lunatic. He hardly cared to depart unnoticed; at the opening he stumbled over the remains of the broken wall. He fell and the rough pebbles on the street grazed his hands; the wall beat his shin black and blue, but he did not care. He stood up and stumbled on, back to the inner city, back to the Pub District. His commander awaited him in the basement of a huge tenement. The assassin entered the room in turmoil. He reported his success in a voice trembling with anger and pain.

The priestess had to die. She knew too much.

The assassin no longer listened to the Oath. The torment of his soul finally broke the magical shackles, but it was too late. She was gone beyond redemption.

It took no more than a twinkling. The assassin had an excellent training. The gang leader's bodyguards only realised what was going on when his small throwing dagger already bathed in their commander's throat. The assassin stood unstably, watching what he did with bulging, blank eyes, empty and paralysed.

He remembered how beautiful she was that evening, how sweet her kisses felt upon his lips, but in fact he felt nothing. He felt nothing even when his stabbed heart jerked in its last effort. He was cold and empty like a brass statue on a freezing winter night.