Nightfire | The Whispering Wall #1

Forty Nine: A Mission

"What if the drug doesn't work?" he asked.

"It will."

Arlen had had one experience before with the drug in question; Tuka in Tochk, more aptly known in layman's terms as arsewort, had once been slipped into his drink. He had been with the Devils for a few years by then. Marick was poised to take over the guild, and the whole had split into factions, backing their favourite for the takeover. Someone slipped the powdered root into the drinks of several of Marick's followers, and Arlen vividly remembered the week of burning hellfire that erupted from him afterwards.

He'd returned the favour by finding out who had done it and double-dosing their food. He and Usk had worked together ever since.

"What if Eril doesn't go to the back privy?"

This was where they'd planned to kill him. Behind the temple stood a small brick outhouse. Its only security consisted of latches on the doors, which Arlen thought was stupid considering anyone using the outhouse was vulnerable; it was far easier to threaten someone with their trousers round their ankles. He guessed it spoke to Orthanian complacency that they thought nothing could happen to them just because they were taking a shit.

"Are there other privies?" Arlen asked, a warning note in his voice. He had grilled Silas on the layout of the temple for just this reason; if their victim wasn't exactly where they planned, things got complicated. He didn't trust Silas to improvise without getting them caught; the last time he'd improvised, he'd had to be rescued from the scaffold.

"No," Silas said quickly, "but he might be late, or...or decide to go in the chamber pot."

"Nobody with any sense is going to relieve themselves of the burning shits in their own bedroom," Arlen snapped. He couldn't believe he was having this conversation. It wasn't the most dignified method of killing someone, but a victim as well-surrounded as the Head of Orthan had to be dealt with in a way that separated him from his guards. If it was anyone else, if there were any other options, Arlen would never have done it this way.

He almost hoped the Orthanians got held up and had to stay at the castle for the night. It would mean putting it off for another day. At the same time, he wanted nothing more than for it to be over already, and his nervousness warred with his impatience. He itched for a stiff drink. He should have had something before he left; a shot or two of whisky or a blackweed pipe. He had wanted to have a clear mind, but now he thought it would be clearer if he had taken something after all.

The first sign of the returning delegation was a moving column of torchlight appearing along one of the streets nearby. Arlen watched the household approach with clenched teeth.

"Get ready," he muttered. "As soon as we see Eril head inside, we start moving."

"They're here?" Silas craned his neck. "Where?"

"Just move when I do," Arlen said, slipping back behind the chimney as the first guards of the entourage entered the courtyard. Silas shuffled up behind him and squatted low.

"You stink, Arlen," he muttered. "Has anyone ever told you?"

"No, because it's none of their business."

"When did you last have a bath?"

"Not the time, kid," Arlen growled. "Also, fuck you."

The procession crossed the courtyard. It was a small delegation; only the highest ranking priests were invited to the Hallow dinner at the castle. As a result, they had a disproportionate number of guards escorting them. Despite the numbers, it was easy to pick out Eril; dressed in ostentatious gold and moving like he was hurrying over hot coals, gaze darting everywhere. The illegal liquor, stolen from Eril's stores, that Arlen had slipped to a servant earlier that day had reached its intended recipient, by the looks of things. Arlen waited until the last guard disappeared inside, and then gestured for Silas to follow as he slipped out from behind the chimney and leapt to the next roof along, where he slid down a drainpipe and landed on the wall of a private courtyard. Foliage overhung the wall, blocking much of the light from the temple and blurring his shadow. He edged along it, and when the wall ran out he dropped down and darted the last few yards to the cloister corridor.