Cloak, Knife, Laurel

"Strangers approach ! Sound the call !"

The watchman lowered his palm from his brow, continuing to squint into the distance at the telescoping plume of dust raised by the caravan cresting the hill two miles away. The plains of Calaxuatl were broken with gently undulating hills (mere mounds, really, in comparison to the true hills of Dodenaxuatl further to the east) covered in green, velvety grass that swayed in the region's gentle breezes.

There was a flurry of activity as the call was sounded from rampart to rampart, and brown-skinned warriors scurried up ladders to the wooden towers perched as hawks every 50 yards along the wall. The wall itself was impressive, towering twenty feet above the plains floor, and wide enough to drive a chariot on (presuming a skilled charioteer, of course !).

The core of the wall featured rectangular chunks of stone and testified to the craftmanship of the peoples who had once built this settlement, now vanished from the earth. The site of Calaxuatl - the city - had a long history. The immediate future of its current inhabitants, though, hung in the balance. The face of the wall was daubed inside and out with a chalky, stucco-like caulk.

On its northwestern side the plains road abruptly ended its eastward journey from Pyrae before a ten-foot-wide gate which was half as thick again, and securely shut. Within minutes the caravan had pulled to a stop before the solid wooden gate. For a short instant, all was silent, as if even the beasts of the field had paused from their diurnal pursuits to observe an unfolding drama.

The caravan consisted of six covered wagons, embroidered - in the custom of merchant conveyances - with the emblems and flags of the guilds whose goods they carried. The middle wagon bore the red and white flag, with hammer and silver anvil, of the metalshaper's guild.

Flanking these wagons were armed men on horseback. They were lightly armored in vests of toughened leather, similar to those worn by their horses. Their long black hair flowed uniformly down the center of their backs, and almond-shaped eyes peered from beneath the brows of their black leathern helmets. Their spears were sheathed and bows were slung over their backs. The Ciangu-atl, skilled men-at-war.

There was no movement, no reaction from beast or man within the caravan, as thick ropes were slung over the gate before which they stood. Brown-skinned men in full warpaint shimmied down the ropes; four, five, then ten. The first to hit the ground ran toward the rear of the caravan, then, two-by-two, they encircled the entire company. Their shortswords were sheathed.

"Whom do you seek ? What is your business in Calaxuatl ? Speak ! Or return whence you came."

A casual glance upward would have revealed the row of archers poised on the wall on either side of the gate. Each had spied and found his mark, each had notched his arrow to bow.

"Peace upon you, brother. We come to trade, to buy and sell of your people. We have come every third moon since your lord was a young whelp, we come again and hope for profit, both yours and ours."

The one who had first spoken nodded acknowledgement to the reply of the elderly one seated in the first wagon. Indeed, he was well known in the streets of this city, and his silver ware was in high demand on account of its outstanding quality.

"In truth, Rammarin-anen, we have mutually profited of your visits in the past. But have you not heard that times have changed ? The sons of Rama have twice this season tried to take us by force, even though we continue to pay tribute. Their armed men are never far.

Do you swear that you come with no ill intent ? Swear to me, now."

Rammarin extracted himself from the sideseat of the wagon, from behind the two horses which drove it, and limped on his cane toward the one who addressed him. He bowed before that one, and with his right hand grasped the inside of the other's left thigh.

"By Ixcthu, I do swear."

"Then I grant you entry. Save me some of your silver and tonight you feast at my house !"

Rammarin laughed and the company of brown-skins relaxed, grins stealing across their handsome faces. The warpaint had turned their features into fierce masks, but the smiles spoke to the decent hearts that beat within.

Their leader extended his left arm outward, then skyward. Presently the groan of winches sounded as the gate to Calaxuatl was opened, slowly.

-----------------------------------

A soft drizzle of rain began to fall as the caravan rumbled through Calaxuatl's gate, though the sun shone unabated. The street through the gate broadened and bisected the hexagonal town before dividing to curl back in either direction along the opposite wall. It was paved with shards of broken and beaten pottery, an earth-colored mosaic bordered with verdant greenery and shrubs.

To the left, an enormous fenced meadow dotted with the tents of poorer citizens who tended their cattle within its confines. The rain-dusted blades of grass shimmered and framed flocks of white-backed sheep against the high wall that continued into the distance. To the right, the first dwellings rose from the ground, first mud-brick huts thatched with dried straw, then weathered stone dwellings as the street approached the town center.

Calaxuatl was quite large, covering as it did some three-and-a-half square miles. Engineered by the plain peoples of [ed.: ???] in antiquity, it had suffered but a pair of intervening owners before the nomadic Calaxuatl had seized its ruins as the site of their new home. They had rebuilt the walls and the aqueduct system which distributed precious water throughout from the two central wells. Adding their own mark, they had also built covered trenches alongside the aqueducts to pipe sewage and storm water outside the city walls.

With their levels and by the measure of the stars, the Calaxuatls found the exact center of this town they had built, and there had constructed their temple to [ed.: ???], the pastoral deity and god of the hunt now repurposed as god of the cattle farmer.

The caravan and its protectors were diverted right, on to a narrow street within stone's throw of the temple, and drew to a halt. Pretty brown faces peered from the two-story stone buildings which lined the street, as mothers and their children paused from washing and playing to observe the merchants. The street terminated in a wide-open space devoted to the pecuniary pursuits that sustained a sizable merchant class. Despite the continuing drizzle of rain, the stalls of the grocers, the fishsellers and the butchers were all surrounded by fluid knots of customers. Like the gentle undulations of a many-armed starfish, the clusters around each booth ebbed and swelled, then spilled from one to another. Throaty cries filled the air as prices were declared, challenged, modified (but just this one evening, wife of Twenty Hare, and only because I owe your husband for the rabbit meat he brought me last week !).

The rain continued to fall as cloaked figures disembarked the caravan and set to work erecting their own stalls at the edge of the throng. Eager eyes diverted from fresh cuts of meat and just caught - just this morning ! - fillets of dead-eyed fish to the makers and fixers of silver.

One figure moved more slowly than the rest. Hobbled by a limp but curiously muscled underneath the gray cloak, this one threw his hood back to let black hair glisten in the falling rain.

--------

Kyle selected a spot away from the other apprentices and as far away from Rammarin as he could manage. There he unfolded the small chair - a hinged crossbrace of wood with a seat of thin leather strips - and propped open the large wooden case that held his weighing implements.

He surveyed the crowd rapidly materialising around his cohort; brown faces and an excited babble overwhelmed the space which had moments before sat quietly on the market's edge. Kyle brushed the wet hair from his eyes and peered upward. The clouds were being blown southwest by the winds off the eastern mountain ranges, the showers would not last long.

Good, he thought. Tougher to climb wood slick with rain.

This was his third trip to Calaxuatl as an 'apprentice' of the guild. He knew already his target and the environs of his target's abode. Aimless meanderings through the town center after each day's work had assured that.

"Annichai'e, so-be, " a shy, dark-haired girl said by way of introduction. She was the only one speaking to him directly, the rest of the crowd having focused their silver-seeking attention on those who had, unlike Kyle, unveiled their silver wares as well as their scales.

"Amichaie'ee, " Kyle smiled back, using her own language. She was pretty and young, with a face like an angel and straight black hair. She wore the smock of a craftman's apprentice, unusual for a girl in this town.

"I remember you, " Kyle said, "from my last trip. How is your papa ?"

A slow blush curled upward from her pretty cheeks as she realized she had held some space in his memory over the last month. Her eyes were lowered but her smile was infectious; Kyle could not help but smile with her.

"Pretty girl, how is your papa ?"

"He is doing well. We have silver to shape. Will you weigh ?"

"Of course ! For you, princess, anything."

The blush threatened to envelop her entire face, and Kyle laughed. "You are a princess, see how easily you redden !"

She raised her hand to her face but her eyes betrayed the grin as she grew more comfortable in his presence. "And you are too clever a salesman !"

"Well, what would you say if I offer you and your papa a discount to let me bed at your house tonight ?" Kyle asked. He was only half-teasing, he had a definite aim in mind.

The black-haired girl cocked her head to one side and pretended to think as she drew a handful of beaten silver pieces from the pocket sewn into her smock.

"Why don't you ask papa yourself ?" she teased back.

"Why not, indeed !"

They laughed together, and her beauty grew with each flush of her precious cheeks.

--

Kyle and his black-haired princess turned right, onto the main straight. She walked slowly to accommodate his limp, her eyes fastened to the street underfoot and a handsbreadth separating them. She was terminally shy, but she would serve his purpose.

He had convinced her to ask her father if he could have dinner at their house that night, but before this to escort him to the house of the town chief where he had been requested to gather some silver for repair.

For long minutes they walked silently. The palms waved fronds in the night breeze, playing at hide-and-seek with pinpoints of light in the starscape above. Even toward the city center and separated by two blocks of stone buildings, the clamor of the crowd as it surrounded the stalls of the silversmiths could still be heard. They approached the temple, passed by its impressive towering stone columns. The flickering of the sconced torches around its perimeter threw Kyle's face into crazy relief, giving him the slightly demented look of a children's pantomime puppet. His dark eyes reflected the flames but also hinted at the secret fire he tended within.

The battle was close. He began to pray, drawing deeper within himself as he waited on [ed.: ???]'s aid. His companion noticed nothing.

"I do not know your name !" she suddenly exclaimed.

Kyle turned his head sharply at the unexpected outburst.

"I must know your name if I am to ask my papa to let you stay the night," she explained, almost apologetic.

Kyle smiled at her, a genuine smile. "Call me Iss."

"Iss." She turned the word over in her mouth as she would a foreign delicacy, and briefly sought his face with her eyes.

"Emmas Quiverfull lives to the right, beyond."

"Ah !" Kyle feigned surprise, though he was well familiar with the house's location due to his previous reconnaisance. "What a lovely house !"

It was indeed. Quiverfull's home was a stone villa set on a raised mound of earth and protected by a low encircling guardwall covered in white, stuccoed plaster. The entire house was lit to pleasant effect by unseen torches hidden in a beautiful garden behind that wall. The multiple windows were rectangular, with arched tops, and covered by ornate lattice casements woven from cedar strips. The garden itself boasted fragant rose and bougainvillea, an explosion of pinks, purples and blues blending seamlessly in the unsteady light.

Even as he scanned upward Kyle marvelled at the wealth it must have taken to build and maintain a dwelling such as this. Bougainvillea was hardly native to these plains, poised as they were in the foothills of the mountain ranges to the east. It must have been transplanted from the Mediterranean at great expense, not to mention the continuing cost of watering and feeding such a topiary.

There were three stories, not including the shallow cellar dug into the earthen mound on which the whole structure stood. Each level was set back from the street to create a stepped effect. No light emitted from the windows of the top floor; Kyle surmised it to be the shrine to the household god. The windows of the other two levels were lamplit but the casements were closed, so he could not determine the number of occupants.

And here, before him, stood two guards. Like their brethren who had met his caravan outside the gates, their faces wore warpaint and they sheathed swords at their sides. As the personal guard of the chief's household they would be the biggest, brightest and best of Calaxuatl's fighting men. Rippling, heavily sinewed arms and six-foot stature testified at least to the former.

The black-haired girl murmured a soft good evening, but their eyes were fastened on Kyle.

"Tanner's daughter, what is your business here this evening ?" the seeming elder of the guards asked.

There was no hint of relaxation in their pose, Kyle noted. Each rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. He was sure they were expert swordsmen, but he would give them no -

Phhhhhhhhhht! was the sound the flying metallic object made as it sliced through the fragrant air, too quick to catch a glint from the hidden torches...... the elder guard's half-severed throat gurgled loosely as his lips moved without noise and he grasped both hands to his neck. Kyle had hurled the throwing star clasped in his palm from his right hand while resting his weight on the cane in his left. Suddenly unlame, and now leaning forward in the aftermath of his quick throw, he arc'ed the tip of that staff from earth to the open throat of the other guard. There had been no more than a flicker in the eyes of that guard as he realized that Kyle was foe, not friend, but it was enough. He never did more than tighten his grasp on the hilt of his weapon before he was kneeling before Kyle, clutching a crushed larynx.

Kyle looked upward, scanning the house again. The attack had been noiseless, there was no response from within. Quickly stepping behind the kneeling guard, he too knelt, crossed his forearms from behind around the head, twisted quickly. The neck was dislocated with a satisfying snick! and now there were two lifeless bodies before the entrance to the outer wall, one outlined by a slowly growing shroud of crimson.

The clock in his head was inching dangerously close to zero, the point at which the girl would scream. The entire attack had taken about three seconds. On the fourth Kyle had flown to her, covered her mouth with his rough palm, unsheathed the dagger on his hip. Her eyes were comically wide with disbelief.

He paused before the kill, though, something he had never done in battle. He had never held a woman so close before killing her. He searched her eyes for a second longer, lowered his palm. Later, he would struggle to understand exactly why he let her go. Was it that he saw something there, in her eyes, this pretty thing whom he'd flirted with an hour earlier ? Was it excitement ? Or was it the absence of something - the absence of fear ?

"Go !" he hissed, and pointed back down the street. "Your town will fall within the hour. Make haste !"

She sucked in a breath and began to pant heavily, like an animal in shock.

"GO !"

Kyle turned on his heel and pulled the two-toed climbing slippers from his pouch as he ran up the four steps to the doorway of the house.

--

Tenuaxtl nursed the child at her breast, unaware of the terror to come. A slight breeze ushered the fragrance of the garden below through the half-open casement and into the large room. She thought the rustle outside the window was that of a roosting bird, paid it no mind. The low hiss, punctuated by a small pop, did draw her attention. Her head swivelled leftward. She was astonished to meet the eyes of an insect-like beast from a child's feverish nightmare. No, this was not an insect, it was a man. A masked man..... what she had taken to be a predatory proboscis was actually some sort of hollow tube held to his lips - a cane ? The eyes were the only orifice uncovered by the mask and they glittered cruelly, staring straight through her.

She opened her mouth to scream - big, ragged gusts of air left her lungs in a terrified wail. There was a thud behind her as an armed guard fell to the floor, unconscious. The blowdart had found its mark, piercing the vein on his thigh like a mosquito's razor mandible. Within one stroke of his doomed heart the venom would begin to suffocate that critical muscle and paralyze his nervous system.

He was through the window now, this insect-man, crawling noiselessly and with feline grace. Tenuaxtl saw the baby she hugged close to her breast reflected in the flawless mirror of the dagger in his hand, held along the inside of his wrist.

One one side of the assassin's wrist lay the skin of man; supple, pliable, Merciful. On the other side lay hard steel sharpened to a fine point, Death.

Kyle was not coming for her, though. He let her continue screaming, raw with primal fear, to draw the other armed men into the house.

Emmas Quiverfull was the first to enter the room, drawn by his wife's cry. His sword was drawn and the battle instinct had twisted his handsome features into a rictus snarl. Quiverfull launched himself, propelled by powerful thighs, toward the black-clad figure crouching before his wife and newborn. His sword was raised overhead. Sword against dagger. Steps before he drew within range, Kyle had launched into a tightly bunched roll over a forearm planted transverse on the smooth stone floor. He emerged from a ball right at Quiverfull's feet, began to roll again, past him. As he tucked into the second roll, the sword descended downward; the dagger flashed once, severing Quiverfull's left Achilles tendon.

He was now out of range, the sword had reached its nadir and Quiverfull was toppling forward without the expected support of his left leg. His face registered no pain, only bewilderment at this masked man who flitted like an insect. Kyle was fully behind him now, rising from one knee. The red-slicked blade plunged once, twice: first into Quiverfull's back, twisting and severing muscle in the lower back. Then again, severing the jugular as his body married hard to the ungiving stone floor.

One by one, the four armed men who entered the room would be dispatched in similarly efficient fashion as Emmas Quiverfull's widow cowered, rooted to her chair, observing the upending of her neat world with each killing blow. Her lips moved but no more sound issued, her secret cry to the household god passed seemingly unheeded. It would have given her no comfort to know that even now Asakin son of Nor stealthily led a battalion through the sewers of Calaxuatl and below the city walls, or that an army ten thousand strong lay in wait in the fields beyond those walls.

After Kyle secreted himself at the bottom of the well near the temple - using his hollow cane as a breathing device - the terrors from within and without the walls would spring forth, and within the hour would take her life and the life of her child.

Now, she prayed. Would that death were quick, for both widow and infant.