The Rose and the Azalea - Chapter Three

• Posted by The Sunflower Manual April 10, 2018 - Filed in TSC: Short Story - #Harrow  #Sabina  #Rose/Azalea  - 1,151 views

  

   

   

  

   

   

   

   

   

  

  A surprising amount of Shadeclaws have made use of roses as assassination tools. Fourth Grandmaster Satsujin has a confirmed kill count of thirty-seven kills using the thorns on rose stems.
  

  *Footnote: Of course, this is the Fourth we are speaking of.
  

   

   

   

   

  

   

   

   

   

                  Little Whiterun was not very little. The Iron-Tooth Clan’s headquarters had started out as a Nord restaurant that specialised in Eastern Skyrim cuisine, but now encompassed an entire three blocks in Anvil’s Market District.

   

                  I had scoffed when I first heard the words ‘Skyrim cuisine’ – what did the Northerners know of proper food, anyway? – but I had to admit, the butter-cream meatballs and blueberry soup I was being served were flavourful, hearty and had a lingering aftertaste that was strangely enjoyable. It wasn’t Breton fine dining, but it was delicious in its own, homely way. And perhaps that was the point.

   

                  ‘My compliments to the chef,’ I said, dabbing at my lips with a napkin.

   

                  ‘Thank you,’ Fjorn Iron-Tooth rumbled as he passed me a horn of mead. ‘My wife prepared the meal personally.’

   

                  I paused for a moment as I took the horn. This was the turning point. Fjorn had been extraordinarily accommodating by inviting me to the restaurant, the heart of his operations, and now it turned out that his wife had actually cooked my dinner herself. I, in return, had also been extraordinarily accommodating by removing my helmet in Fjorn’s presence, even though I did request for our bodyguards to be stationed outside our dining room. This, then, was the final gesture. Accepting the drink.

   

                  The Flavanas need this, I thought resolutely as I drained a great gulp of the mead. If not an alliance, then at least a permanent truce.

   

                  Fjorn was studying me with approval and amusement – respectful amusement – as I laid the horn back onto the table. ‘You handle that mead better than most of my men, Lady Flavana.’

   

                  ‘Such a worthy repast must be washed down with an equally worthy drink,’ I shrugged, and put my helmet back on.

   

                  ‘You have excellent taste, Lady. That was from a barrel of the finest Honningbrew ’77.’

   

                  I actually found the pungent mountain drink far too harsh for my tongue and would have preferred a mulled Surilie Brothers Vintage, but I wasn’t about to say that to Fjorn’s face.

   

                  ‘Yes, it was richer than most anything I’ve ever drunk,’ I said. ‘Tell me, though, Mister Fjorn, isn’t Black-Briar mead more popular around these parts?’

   

                  Fjorn snorted. ‘Maven is a businesswoman. Her breweries tailor their mead to suit the palate of milkdrinkers all across the Empire. The fluids they spew out are nothing like true Nord mead.’

   

                  ‘I see. Well,’ I said, letting a note of steel slip into my voice. ‘This isn’t Skyrim, and pleasant as it may be, we’re not here to talk about mead.’

   

                  Fjorn’s voice hardened too. ‘This is my little corner of Skyrim, Lady Flavana. But we are indeed not here to talk about mead.’ He clapped his hands, and an aide of his – even bigger and burlier than he was – pushed into the dining room with a map.

   

                  Our families’ feud had begun, as so many troubles often did, with a whore. It had been almost a year now.

   

                  On the Nineteenth of Sun’s Dusk, 4E 196, one of S’hni’s enslaved prostitutes escaped from her chains while being ferried to a bawdy house we owned in the Meat Street. The girl was a twenty-year-old Dunmer refugee from Caldera, who had been snatched up by Flavana slavers in Dunmeth Pass and subsequently branded. Probably because of the rough journey, her shackles had come loose in their sockets, and she had jumped straight out of the carriage into the city.

   

                  Most of Anvil’s high-ranking guardsmen were in our pockets. We only owned about a quarter of the city magistrates, though, so there might have been a little trouble if the girl had gone to a Legionnaire. Unfortunately, the little slut caused even more trouble by catching the eye of a young Iron-Tooth lieutenant.

   

                  The fool of a Nord was instantly smitten. Fancying himself the hero coming to his damsel’s rescue, he spirited the whore away into his stronghold in Little Whiterun, where, I assume, the two fornicated frantically for three weeks straight.

   

                  Everything would have been fine if the whore had left straight back for Morrowind or Skyrim. S’hni wouldn’t have cared much about one wayward slave so long as word didn’t get out. But the girl had somehow decided that she actually loved the boy back. She went and got herself settled down in Little Whiterun as a waitress.

   

                  It took her barely two days to get spotted by a Flavana. One of Rhansan’s skooma smugglers had been stopping by the Market District for a snack, and he recognised S’hni’s mark on the girl’s neck. Idiot didn’t even cover her brand. Two of S’hni’s overseers were dispatched to take her back. They must not have asked very nicely, because the Iron-Tooths refused.

   

                  The overseers left, then returned the next morning with three of my enforcers.

   

                  By the time it was noon, the lieutenant was a corpse on the ground, along with two of his best men and all five Flavanas in Little Whiterun.

   

                  ‘And now here we are, ten months later,’ Fjorn murmured, running a finger down the map, across the divided territories of the gangs of Anvil. ‘Eighty-seven dead. Hundreds of thousands of septims up in smoke.’ He glanced directly up at me. ‘Something like that… Lady Flavana, blood is not so easily washed away.’

   

                  ‘We have only ever fought as a response these past months,’ I said ominously. ‘We could have done far worse, Iron-Tooth.’

   

                  Fjorn’s hackles rose, but he calmed himself. Good, I thought. Provoking him was a risky move, but the Nord understood. In terms of militant strength, the Flavanas might be lesser in number, but we were far superior in gear and organisation, thanks to my father’s contributions and training.

   

                  Be that as it may, prolonged fighting with Fjorn’s people would bring nothing but harm. I had cowed him just a bit – enough for me to extend my olive branch with the terms swayed firmly in my favour.

   

                  ‘Here, then, are the terms of the treaty,’ I said. ‘All fighting within the contested Districts will cease immediately. Clan Iron-Tooth will hand back all conquered outposts, strongholds and other marks of territory to the Flavana family, and Iron-Tooth foot soldiers will retreat from those areas.’

   

                  ‘And in return?’ Fjorn said sharply, his eyes narrowing.

   

                  ‘In return, and because we bear at least partial responsibility for initiating this conflict,’ I said. ‘The Flavanas will pay Clan Iron-Tooth a sum of three hundred thousand septims as recompense.’

   

                  Check and mate.

   

                  Fjorn’s beard twitched as he leant backwards into his chair and sighed. ‘You have that much money,’ he chuckled, his voice hollow. ‘Picking a fight with your family was a foolish notion in the first place, Lady Flavana.’

   

                  In truth, paying a fee like this would take a great chunk out of the family’s gold reserves, but Denholm would have no trouble mitigating our losses. This is why Father left him where he was, I realised. Denholm is necessary for our family’s continued growth, but he doesn’t have the vision or the courage to make bold moves like I just did.

   

                  Fjorn sighed again, but his defeated air didn’t last long. He raised his head. ‘Very well, then, Lady Flavana. I want three hundred and seventy-five thousand.’

   

                  I didn’t bat an eye. ‘Done.’ Denholm would probably have a stroke, but I had every confidence in his financial wizardry.

   

                  Fjorn was similarly straightforward. He reached down to the map and pulled all Iron-Tooth pins from the contested regions between the Market District and the Meat Street. ‘The entertainment districts remain yours,’ he said.

   

                  ‘Even as the markets and shops remain yours,’ I replied, feeling a great load lift from my chest.

   

                  ‘And the docks?’ Fjorn grinned, reaching forward with a hand.

   

                  ‘The docks,’ I grinned savagely myself. What a funny man. ‘Remain a bombastic shit-storm.’

   

                  We laughed and shook, sealing the deal. Rather disturbingly, Fjorn’s laughter faded away as suddenly as it came.

   

                  ‘And the girl?’ he asked darkly.

   

                  ‘We’ll take her,’ I replied, letting my voice drop. ‘Examples need to be made.’

   

                  ‘Right here?’

   

                  I shook my head. ‘Lard’s signpost. The middle of the street.’

   

                  Fjorn nodded.

   

                  We made the handover one hour later, in a dark alley between the markets and entertainment districts, under a signpost set down by Edmund Lard, first proprietor of the Meat Street.

   

                  The Dunmer girl had been beaten. She had a black eye. Her hands were bound behind her back, and she walked with a crooked limp. Most of the Iron-Tooths seemed happy to see her go. A few almost looked angry they wouldn’t get to kill her themselves. I didn’t blame them. In a way, she was the one responsible for all they had gone through.

   

                  The handoff was a small affair. Only a dozen from each side. Fjorn and I supervised the trade from either end of the street, and ten or so men accompanied us. S’hni was standing next to me. She had a vested interest in the girl.

   

                  The runaway slave took one look at the Khajiit and screamed, digging her heels into the ground desperately.

   

                  ‘No,’ she begged. ‘No no no no no, please, don’t take me back, anywhere, anywhere, I’ll go anywhere, please, not her, anyone but her…’

   

                  ‘Walk,’ one of the Nords said harshly, yanking her by the arm towards the signpost. The girl wailed and screamed some more, but the man was twice her size and three times her weight. He dragged her along the ground like a creaky oaken chair.

   

                  ‘There,’ he spat as he dumped the whore across the invisible line of Lard’s signpost. ‘The little greyskin bitch is your problem now.’

   

                  ‘NO!’ the whore pleaded for one last time, clambering up and trying to run back towards the Iron-Tooths. I felt just the slightest twinge of pity. Ten months ago, the Nords had taken her in with open arms. Now they were spitting her back out just as easily.

   

                  S’hni lashed out with her whip. The bullhide cracked and snapped around the Dunmer’s ankles, tripping her. She fell to the ground face-first, breaking her nose. As she whimpered, S’hni strode over. I could hear her giggling under her helmet.

   

                  Keep watching, I told myself. You have to stay strong in front of your men. This is the price of peace. This is the price of business.

   

                  My underboss reached out with one gauntleted hand and grabbed the slave by her slender, dark-skinned throat. With strength disproportionate to her short stature, she raised the elf high above her head with one arm, cutting off her cries for mercy.

   

                  ‘You shouldn’t have run,’ S’hni said sweetly, notes of imbalance dancing under her lilting voice and innocent eyes – the only part of her visible underneath her heaume. She drew a dagger from her hip using her free hand.

   

                  ‘You are S'hni's PROPERTY!’ The Khajiit let out a piercing shriek with the last word, startling everyone in the area. She plunged the dagger between the girl’s legs, and even then the Dunmer’s screams failed to mask the insane laughter spraying from S’hni’s mouth. ‘And PROPERTY! DOESN’T! RUN!’

   

                  S’hni stabbed her three more times in the same spot, then gutted the girl slowly, sliding the dagger up to her abdomen. The screams soon petered out into gurgles. ‘That can only mean you’re defective, no?’ she panted, still giggling in twisted little puffs of breath as she worked the blade further upwards, showering us in the stink. ‘And defective property… needs to be liquidated, no? No? NO?’

   

                  The Khajiit pulled the dagger out when it reached the girl’s neck, and the slave fell lifelessly forward into a pile of her own innards, unseamed from groin to chin.

   

                  S’hni let out a satisfied sigh as a Nord and a Breton on either side of the signpost both grasped at their bellies and lost their supper. ‘Isn’t that what they say, milady?’ she said happily.

   

                  ‘Quite right, dear S’hni,’ I said, as casually as I could, even as my own stomach churned. ‘They also say to clean up your own mess.’

   

                  ‘Can S'hni play with it a bit first, milady? Please? Pretty please?’

   

                  ‘Do what you want,’ I said, gritting my teeth under my helmet.

   

                  ‘Yay!’ The Khajiit slavemaster skipped towards the disembowelled corpse like a schoolgirl attending a recital.

   

                  Another Nord lost his supper. I turned my men around and began our march back towards our territory before any of my enforcers could follow suit. By the sounds of it, the Iron-Tooths were doing the same.

   

                  ‘Until next we meet, Mister Fjorn,’ I called without looking back.

   

                  ‘It has been a pleasure, Lady Flavana,’ came the answer, fading away into the depths of Little Whiterun.

   

  
  

   

                  I couldn’t get out of my armour fast enough by the time I finally got back to my own room. I tore off the straps as if they were snakes, flinging my bracers and pauldrons away like they burned me. When my chestpiece came off and I unbound my breasts, it felt like I could breathe again. I gasped once, twice, then sat down heavily on my bed.

   

                  ‘Edwin,’ I said when I felt like my lungs and ribs had loosened enough. ‘Get me a bottle of malt beer from the icebox. You know what; I don’t even care. Just bring me something chilled and strong.’

   

                  Edwin stalked into the room, as quiet as a panther. He only ever spoke when we were both sure nobody else was around, and he spoke now.

   

                  ‘Lady Sabina, you already had a potent mead while dining with the Iron-Tooths,’ the Imperial bodyguard said. His voice was strangely soft, with a warbling, babyish lisp – part of the reason he never spoke in public. ‘Having another drink would not be wise.’

   

                  I growled, irritated, but I had to admit that was true. I sprung off the bed and plopped myself down in front of my desk. ‘Fine. Prepare the board, then. I need something to take my mind off today.’

   

                  Edwin beat me five games in a row.

   

                  ‘Tower to E-3, check.’

   

                  ‘Mmph,’ I grunted, feeling a black temper rising in my gut.

   

                  ‘That’s checkmate, Lady Sab-’

   

                  ‘I’m not blind,’ I snarled, sweeping out with my arm and sending the board clattering to the floor. Pawns and knights rolled about in the carpet.

   

                  With almost motherly patience, Edwin stooped, collected all the pieces, and set them back onto the board. His stoic calmness was even more infuriating than his consecutive victories. I felt like knocking the board over again out of pure spite.

   

                  Edwin knew me all too well. He waited fifteen minutes for my anger to subside before he spoke once more.

   

                  ‘If I may, Lady Sabina, if it’s simple entertainment you’re looking for,’ he said pleasantly. ‘You do own the entire entertainment district.’

   

                  I cocked an eyebrow. ‘A night at the theatre sounds interesting, but I don’t really feel like going to a play right now. Maybe tomorrow night.’

   

                  ‘I was actually thinking of a brothel, ma’am.’

   

                  ‘A brothel,’ I repeated. ‘Edwin,’ I sighed, putting my palms to my face and rubbing my temples. ‘If I wanted to see more of S’hni’s handiwork, I’d sit her on my chair and name her the head of the family. I have had enough of crying whores today.’

   

                  ‘This brothel is different, ma’am,’ Edwin said, still with a peaceable smile on his face. ‘It’s legitimate. Miss S’hni doesn’t have anything to do with it.’

   

                  ‘A legal brothel,’ I said dubiously. ‘Are those any fun at all?’

   

                  ‘Oh, Lady Sabina.’ Edwin’s smile widened. ‘I guarantee you, this one is exquisite.’

   

                  ‘I see,’ I said, feeling a small surge of anticipation. ‘Well, ready my coachman, then. Does this brothel have a name?’

   

                  ‘Of course, ma’am. It’s called the Bouquet.’

   

  

   

  

  Most azalea flowers have a distinct and rather unusual feature: the anther and stigma, the male and female structures of the flower, are positioned quite far apart from each other. This makes general pollination and reproduction a considerably more convoluted process. Studies by scholars of the Imperial University seem to indicate that it involves butterfly wings.
  

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

                  The Imperial between my legs was approaching his peak.

   

                  I could feel his movements growing wild, frantic. I could hear his desperate grunts, hear his pulse building, hear it pounding against me. I could see the sweat beading on his skin. I snaked my tongue out onto his shoulder and licked one of the droplets, tasting his salty desire.

   

                  My wrists were bound behind my head, tied to a bedpost with the pink silk ribbon that I had been using as a hair ornament. Part of me wished I had my hands free, so I could better stoke his fire… but the Imperial did not need much encouragement. Unlike the Redguard I had serviced six nights prior, this one was still an active warrior – and a competent one, a strong-armed swordsman, of a respectable position in the Legion’s chain of command. All this I gathered from the scars on his body bulging against me, the calluses on his fingers scraping me as he gripped me by the waist, the firm lines of his mouth pressing into me as he nuzzled the valley between my collarbone and throat.

   

                  Master Haruka’s target description helped too.

   

                  Ah, yes. I was supposed to kill this one.

   

                  This is rather enjoyable, though. I bit my lip. Maybe just… mmm… one more minute. I squeezed him playfully with my pelvis. The target shuddered in response, his body jerking with renewed force. Military men like him were very energetic, and Legionnaire life could very easily lead to sexual frustration. All I had to do was become a receptacle. I wouldn’t have even needed to move at all… and besides, there were plenty of techniques I’d learned at the Chapel that didn’t require the use of my hands.

   

                  I curved my neck and blew gently into his left ear, caressing him with my lips.

   

                  ‘Gods,’ the target roared as the stream of warm air left his earlobe red. ‘Oh, gods, you...’ He wrapped both arms around my back, engulfing me with his muscles, his hips hard against the soft flesh of my thighs.

   

                  ‘Your little Azalea is a sweeter treat than any girl- inhnnn! So rough!’

   

                  The target was barely more than a rutting beast by this point. His eyes were bloodshot. His grunts became animalistic pants. I undulated my torso and kept mewling, kept whispering tender nonsense into his ears to bring him closer to the brink – and also because it was rather amusing to see him lap it all up like a dog.

   

                  With a great, gasping twitch, the Imperial started shaking like a man with palsy. I reached out and stroked his cheek. ‘Good boy…’

   

                  In the heat of his passion, it took this supposedly professional soldier one full second to realise that my hands were no longer bound. By the time he did, I had already looped my ribbon across his neck, over his thoracic vertebrae.

   

                  I snapped my hands to either side and began strangling him.

   

                  The target scrabbled belatedly at his neck, but right now the strength of his body was occupied… elsewhere. I tightened my legs around him and pulled the ends of the ribbon further. The target’s face began to blacken.

   

                  ‘N-n-n-ga-gk…’

   

                  The target pushed weakly against me and I could bear it no longer. I flung my head back, biting my lip, and released a single, moaning sigh. The Imperial was slipping away, his body was failing, but he was still trapped against me, trapped inside me, and the spasms of his pleasure were melting into the convulsions of his death into the most delicious thing I had ever experienced-

   

                  And then with one final, massive thrash it was over, and the target slumped into me with his eyes wide and blank. We stayed like that for a few minutes, my thighs still squeezing his waist, his broad chest sticky against my own, barely a third its size. When I was sure his heart had stopped beating, I unfurled the ribbon around his neck and slid him off me.

   

                  I wrapped the body in bedsheets and carried it over to the dumbwaiter in the corner of the bedchamber. It led down to the laundry room, where Shi and Sho were waiting. As I slid the compartment open, I felt a Po’ Tun cone of silence creep around me.

   

                  ‘We could hear your lovemaking from down here,’ Shi grinned up at me. ‘Having a little fun on the side?’

   

                  I smiled coyly, then nosed the dead Imperial into the dumbwaiter shaft. ‘Target neutralised.’

   

                  ‘Technique?’ Sho asked, always the more serious of the twins. He was the one to write up the report this time.

   

                  ‘Garrotte,’ I replied, releasing the corpse. Shi caught it deftly on the other end of the shaft. ‘Kill confirmed.’

   

                  My senior made a jaunty salute with two fingers. ‘Good work, kit,’ he said, and slid out of sight, carrying the body away to be incinerated.

   

                  I snapped the compartment door shut, then tied the ribbon back around my hair and slipped into my furisode. The advantage of Akaviri robes was that you didn’t wear undergarments beneath them, so putting my clothes back on was as simple as two sleeves and a belt.

   

                  The bedroom we had been using was on the first floor, so I had to take the stairs back down to the living quarters. Master Haruka was seeing to a young Nord girl there – I remembered that her flower name was Dahlia – who was sniffing and hiccupping on one of the beds, rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hands. A few of the other boys and girls were clustered around her, murmuring words of comfort.

   

                  ‘There, there, shh,’ Haruka said gently, rocking the girl back and forth. ‘If you keep crying, your eyes will get all puffy, you know?’

   

                  ‘They k-killed her,’ Dahlia choked, burying her face into Madam Nightshade’s shoulder. ‘And the guards just… watched!’

   

                  ‘Shh, shh…’ Haruka’s mouth tightened as she hugged her, stroking her back.

   

                  ‘What’s happened?’ I asked, frowning.

   

                  ‘Ah, hello there,’ Haruka said, looking up. She seemed tired. ‘Good work today. If you’ll excuse me, Khajiit will go and mix Dahlia here a hot drink.’

   

                  ‘The Flavanas, Zelly,’ Orchid growled, his dark Bosmeri eyes glittering with hate. ‘You didn’t hear?’

   

                  ‘I was working,’ I said. ‘Why? What’d they do this time?’

   

                  Orchid clenched his teeth. ‘Daisy’s dead.’

   

                  I narrowed my eyes, remembering the cheerful, upbeat young lady who had welcomed me to the brothel on my first day.

   

                  ‘It was my fault,’ Dahlia sobbed. ‘He wouldn’t pay after he was d-done but I d-didn’t realise who he was- and he just… Daisy…’

   

                  ‘No, no, of course it’s not your fault,’ Orchid said immediately, gripping her by the shoulders. ‘Don’t ever think that. The only one to blame here is that pig.’

   

                  ‘Enforcer?’ I said coldly.

   

                  One of the other girls shook her head. Violet, a Redguard like Daisy. ‘Smuggler,’ she said. ‘Even worse. At least the enforcers follow some kind of criminal code.’

   

                  Orchid spat. ‘Code. Don’t make them sound so romantic. They’re animals, every single one.’

   

                  Glory rubbed her bare arms, her golden Altmer skin paling as she shivered. ‘They killed again just now.’

   

                  ‘Who?’ Orchid asked.

   

                  ‘Some Dunmeri waitress down the Market District. Part of this… peace offering between the Iron-Tooths and the Flavanas.’

   

                  ‘A waitress? That doesn’t make any sense. Why would they-’

   

                  ‘I only know what I heard, okay? This was barely half an hour ago.’

   

                  Orchid shook his head in disgust. ‘In broad daylight.’

   

                  ‘It’s seven in the evening right now,’ I pointed out.

   

                  ‘You know what I mean,’ Orchid said impatiently.

   

                  ‘At least there’ll be less fighting in the streets now that the two families have made their peace,’ Violet said tentatively.

   

                  Orchid snorted bitterly. ‘If only they’d torn each other to-’

   

                  Master Haruka returned with a steaming mug of chocolate. ‘A pinch of Moon Sugar in this, to help with your nerves,’ she purred, handing the mug to Dahlia. The girl brightened up a little, taking the mug and warming her hands with it.

   

                  ‘Azalea,’ the Madam said as she gave Dahlia one last hug. ‘Khajiit would like a word in her office.’

   

                  ‘Of course, ma’am,’ I said, and followed her out of the staff bedroom.

   

  
  

   

                  ‘You have a new target,’ Haruka said immediately as she closed the door to her office and dropped a cone of silence around us. ‘Set out in fifteen minutes.’

   

                  I blinked, a little surprised.

   

                  ‘I know you’ve just finished one assassination, but I believe you can handle another tonight just fine.’

   

                  ‘Of course, Haruka-ko. Who do you want me to kill?’

   

                  ‘Your target is the captain of the guard patrols in the entertainment district,’ Master Haruka said. ‘He will be expecting a girl his underlings have picked out for him to join him for dinner in a restaurant near his guard post.’

   

                  ‘Captain Patrice, son of Lord Fluegel Patrice, distant cousin to the Count of Anvil,’ I recalled. ‘The man receives sixteen hundred septims a month from the Flavanas to look the other way.’

   

                  I trained a steady gaze on Madam Nightshade. ‘Haruka-ko, is this revenge?’

   

                  She did not answer.

   

                  ‘…Master?’

   

                  ‘I told you not to call me that,’ she said, not quite as calm as she had been earlier. She sat down in front of her desk and sighed dully. ‘I’ve known Daisy for five years now. She’s not a shinobi, not even combat-trained, but I was as responsible for her as I am for you and my two baby brothers. Everyone in the Bouquet is my responsibility… but despite that, I wouldn’t have done anything if the mission order from the Council hadn’t come down.’

   

                  Haruka met my gaze. ‘Sometimes, kit… just sometimes, I understand how Jorra-jo feels. Our village… we don’t treat people as an end. We are all assets… some of us more expendable than others.’

   

                  ‘That’s not such a bad thing,’ I said. ‘Reducing our lives and the lives of others to factors in an equation makes executing missions much simpler, and simplicity means efficiency.’

   

                  ‘Not a bad thing…’ Something in Haruka’s eyes died, and then we were, once more, two shinobi of Tsukikage. ‘Of course, kit. You don’t think you’ve gotten to a point where you can give lectures to a senior, have you?’

   

                  I smiled lightly and bowed. ‘Of course not, Master.’

   

                  ‘I told you not to call me that,’ Haruka grumbled. ‘Anyway, no, not revenge. This is part of a much larger operation. The Emperor is cleaning house.’

   

                  ‘I see. Corruption cannot be allowed to stand while the Empire prepares for war.’

   

                  ‘Yes, and plenty of corruption has seeped into the major cities of Cyrodiil in the aftermath of the Great War. Weakness invites exploitation, and the Legion had become quite weak indeed. To build up, one must first break down.’

   

                  ‘And the Empire cannot afford to spend time on diplomacy and politics when dealing with corrupted officials with close connections to nobility… and other officials,’ I nodded, understanding. ‘Captain Patrice must die.’

   

                  ‘The Council would no doubt turn their focus to the criminal families of Anvil as well,’ Haruka said thoughtfully. ‘We cannot have them remain in control of import and export.’

   

                  ‘There has been a recent power vacuum in the Flavana family with Danton Flavana’s death…’ I tapped my chin. ‘They would prove much easier to destroy right now. But first things first, Haruka-ko, the Captain is expecting me, correct?’

   

                  ‘Yes. And keep in mind, he is expecting a girl. I have an evening dress ready for you in the wardrobe. Go wash up and change.’

   

                  I slid out of my furisode and did so in under a minute.

   

                  ‘What did we do with the girl he was actually supposed to meet?’ I asked, slipping the straps of the dress over my shoulders. It was a simple purple dress, of thin silk a similar shade to my hair, tailored to emphasise the swell of my hips and curve of my back.

   

                  ‘Sho intercepted her this morning and paid her twice the sum the guardsmen offered. She’s probably enjoying herself somewhere near the coast.’

   

                  I stepped back out of the wardrobe to see Haruka opening up the armoury.

   

                  ‘I’ve got special gear in mind for you tonight,’ she explained, setting up an alchemy stand.

   

                  ‘Poison, Haruka-ko?’

   

                  ‘Yes, and this is a relatively new one. Even we Shadeclaws haven’t used it much yet, so this assignment also doubles as a field test. Pay attention – this is potentially one of the most fast-acting poisons in all of Nirn according to our laboratory tests, and learning how to produce it could be very helpful to you in the future.’

   

                  She took out three vials of solid reagents. ‘Potash,’ she said, pointing to a vial containing reddish, copper-hued rocky salts. ‘Green vitriol,’ she said next. This vial contained a fine, turquoise powder. ‘Dried pig’s blood,’ she said, pointing to the last vial.

   

                  Haruka mixed the reagents together on a pan, swirling them together and heating the pan as she lit her palm on fire. As the reagents bubbled, they turned into a vivid, brilliant shade of blue. She took the reactant and poured it into a still, then produced another flask. As she unstoppered it, I caught the familiar, sulphurous stench of vitriolic acid.

   

                  My instructor poured the acid into the blue mixture inside the still, then snapped a condensing cap over the resulting, bubbling liquid. As it foamed, the steam produced by the reaction became trapped at the top of the cap and collected into droplets, dripping slowly down into a ceramic dish Haruka had prepared. She carried the dish over to me and I took a curious sniff.

   

                  ‘Bitter almonds,’ I noted.

   

                  ‘A distinct scent,’ Haruka nodded. She took a dollop of red wax and dumped it into the dish, mixing it thoroughly. The result was a shiny, elegant scarlet.

   

                  ‘Lipstick?’ I said, amused.

   

                  ‘As a matter of fact, the mixture is quite glossy, making skin seem almost wet in appearance. Perfect for seduction. Pucker up!’

   

                  I leant forward and Haruka applied the lipstick directly.

   

                  ‘Very kissable,’ she smirked when she was finished. ‘Now, be cautious. The chemical I just synthesised is capable of inducing near-immediate atrophy of the central nervous system when ingested. Because of Rendanshu, you yourself are immune, but have a care what you touch with your lips. Since you will be dining with your target, make sure you wipe off your cutlery and drinking glass. If you can, avoid eating entirely.’

   

                  ‘It would be simpler to stab the target with a fork,’ I said.

   

                  ‘But more conspicuous,’ Haruka countered. ‘And this is a field test, remember? Use the fork if the poison somehow fails. Which I very much doubt it will.’

   

  
  

   

                  The poison did not fail.

   

                  Captain Patrice had been even more taken with me than I had expected. Half his food was falling out his mouth as he ate. I helped his passion along with little hints… a twist of the waist here, a slide of the leg there. We made small talk as we dined, and he told me with exaggerated hand motions all about his dashing life as a city guardsman. I nodded and gasped and giggled at all the right parts, asking excited questions like the starry-eyed girl I was playing, feeding the man’s notion that I found him interesting – which he had been delightfully eager to believe in the first place.

   

                  By the time we were done with the meal, the good Captain was thoroughly infatuated. My hearing might not have been on a Po’ Tun’s level, but I could hear the faint thuds of his heart hammering away.

   

                  Good, I thought. An accelerated heartrate would help spread the poison so much more quickly.

   

                  When he offered to walk me home with a gallant ‘Allow me to escort you, milady’, I was all too happy to accept. What a gentleman!

   

                  I named a random hostel nearby as the place I was staying, and Captain Patrice promptly took my hand. No doubt he was expecting me to lead him straight to the bedroom.

   

                  Well, unfortunately for him, I was feeling quite sated already from my first target of the day.

   

                  As we stopped outside the hostel, I spun around, letting the dress swish out over my legs, and flung my arms around the Captain’s neck. As he stammered, flustered, I wet the poison on my lips with a little revolution of my tongue – which only excited my target more – and kissed him deep and sweet. His mouth was warm and salty.

   

                  I broke away slowly, after a full ten seconds, and watched the target mischievously, injecting promises of lust and pleasure into my eyes.

   

                  ‘By Dibella, woman, you are-’

   

                  The Captain’s eyes bulged out as he grasped at his chest and began to foam at the mouth. I retreated to a distance and observed his death throes. It was dark outside and until the target’s body started shaking uncontrollably, most passers-by seemed to think he was simply drunk. Then they started running.

   

                  Most citizens in Anvil knew not to look to the city watch for help, but there was always the chance some guards would come along. Or Legionnaires. That would complicate matters. I checked the target’s pulse for thirty seconds, not as long as I would have liked – then left the scene.

   

                  Master Haruka seemed satisfied with the mission report I gave her, even though my kill confirmation hadn’t been the most thorough. She let me change back into the furisode, then dismissed me from her office after she made sure I’d wiped away all traces of poison on my lips. I took the stairs down, heading for the staff quarters.

   

                  And then I saw the girl in the lobby.

   

                  She was a light-skinned Imperial who had fiery red hair that flowed down to her shoulders, and her features had a rich, earnest beauty to them that spoke of Breton blood. At first I thought she was a new hire, but her bearing didn’t match. The way she carried herself was both haughty and alert – this was a warrior, not a whore. She was wearing a buttoned shirt and belted trousers, which covered most of her body, but I could still see the outline of lean, firm muscles rippling under her modest clothes. Ample physical conditioning. Her hands were bare and I could see bruising around the knuckles, as well as the signature calluses around her right hand that suggested considerable training in swordsmanship.

   

                  A customer, but not a regular one. And by the looks of it, her tastes were quite particular. A selection of boys and girls stood before her – Orchid, with his intense, brooding glare; Dandelion, with his dreamy golden locks; Glory, with her lithe, flexible frame; Iris, with her smile of pure sunshine – and she sent them away one by one.

   

                  The young woman shook her head, then turned and saw me coming down the stairs. There was a fierce, almost angry pride in those hazel eyes that reminded me rather fondly of Ambarro, though I would be found dead before I ever admitted it to the dunce. We locked stares for a brief moment, then I looked away so as to be polite. She had noticed me, though, and pointed at me with a jab of her forefinger.

   

                  Her voice was loud, authoritative, almost military – a voice accustomed to barking orders, to being followed.

   

                  ‘I’ll take that one.’