Darian crouched low behind the uneven wooden fence surrounding the inn’s yard. He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, trying in vain to ease the dull ache in his legs and lower back. He’d been lying in wait for hours, hidden in the small, withered cluster of thornwood abutting the yard. He longed to stand and move again, to stretch out cold muscles and stiff joints. The discomfort didn’t bother him; his childhood and training had burned all of that out of him. But if the plan, Alaric’s plan not his, he noted grimly, turned sour, he didn’t want tired, cold muscles hindering his escape. He was already weighted down by the shirt of mail his benefactor had forced him to wear, against his own strenuous objections.

Nothing about the situation sat well with him. But that seemed to be a common theme in his life as of late. Anger welled in his chest as he recalled his apprentice’s betrayal and how he had been so easily caught up in Alaric’s schemes again. Darian had believed that he was finally in control of his life. Finding out that all of that had been an illusion. Nothing! Nothing but a brutal pretence designed with the sole purpose of snaring him deeper in Alaric’s webs of intrigue had broken him, more thoroughly than any of the constant beatings and deprivations of his upbringing in the guild had.

The muffled sound of the soldiers’ boisterous singing drifted out through the back door. Darian sighed, and rolled his shoulders, renewing his effort to distract himself from the cold and growing ache in his lower back. He listened intently, trying to identify the ballad the men were currently butchering more soundly than they had their enemies. Badb, that bastard must have a bladder of iron! He cursed softly under his breath as he gave up trying to figure out the melody.

Darian’s instincts told him that something felt off, he just couldn’t see what. He ran through Alaric’s plan in his head again, lingering on the details, as his mind worked through his own contingencies and options. Alaric, despite their differences, was a master of deceit and intrigue. It wasn’t the plan that Darian would have put together, but as best he could tell, there were no weaknesses to it, obvious or otherwise. Just calculated risks. Then again Alaric wasn’t the one sitting in the cold, waiting for the rebel prince to take a piss.

What was it that was bothering him?

He peered through the gap in the fence again. The yard lay in shadows. The only light coming from the small brazier burning by the door. The few small windows were shuttered tight, and the crescent moon had drifted behind a thick bank of clouds, that looked heavy with snow. He shivered involuntarily at the thought, and went through the motions of clenching and unclenching his muscles.

In and out, that’s all this was. He tried to reassure himself. The thought felt hollow.

There was just too much that he didn’t know.

How many soldiers were inside with the Prince? Twenty? Thirty? They shouldn’t be an issue unless the plan went to shit. But without knowing, he was blind. He knew most of the troops were camped outside the town. He could hear their distant celebrations when the wind shifted. But how tight would the net be if things went wrong? The troop presence inside the walls of the town had been minimal when he got into position, but that had been hours ago. There had been no time to learn patrol routes or patterns either. He’d barely had enough time to plot his own escape route. Alaric had got him past the guards easily enough, but he didn’t trust the man enough to use his escape plan. Hell, he didn’t trust him at all.

And where had the intel come from? Intel so enticing, that Alaric had altered months of planning overnight. That alone was enough to concern him. Who did he have on the inside? What was the endgame if that insider was too valuable to risk on an assassination? There was more at play here than simply removing the Prince from the board. What was Alaric playing at?

He resisted the urge to check the knife in his chest sheath again.

There was no room for error, but neither was there any room for uncertainty. He was as prepared as he could be. Nerves fluttered uncomfortably in his belly at the thought. He was a thief, not an assassin. This was unfamiliar territory for him. It wasn’t like he hadn’t killed before. Far from it. The thought of ending another life didn’t faze him in the slightest. If someone was unlucky enough to be in his way, then that was their own gods damn bad luck. He didn’t court violence, pulling off a job with no one the wiser was a point of pride for him.

But he felt uneasy with the entire proposition, there was far too much politics involved in such a move for his liking. There was a big difference between killing an unlucky guard or servant, and assassinating royalty. Not that he was in any position to argue the finer points of morality. But politics? Politics was something that he tried to avoid at any cost. Thievery was one thing. Politics got people killed.

He cursed softly to himself and his mind flicked to his last memory of Dog. The anger swelled in his chest again.

Unfaithful, conniving, greedy, runt of a wretch. He thought, as he remembered the night of his betrayal. No wonder the boy had avoided him during his time in the Guild Hall. The boy was right though. Darian didn’t think Alaric cared whether that lying piece of shite lived or died. Dog would find out very fast how hard life was in the guild when everyone knew you would turn your back on your patron that easily

But it was the rage that concerned him. The anger he felt towards his former apprentice was almost embarrassing. He had always prided himself on his self control. But that betrayal still stung him. Fuck, it infuriated him. He had never thought that his apprentice would betray him. But he couldn’t shake the look of shame and guilt on Dog’s face as he was dragged off by the local constabulary. The boy knew what he had done. He had known that it was wrong. And he would give his last penny that he known the consequences for Darian. The man who had taken him off the streets, put clothes on his back, and given him a vocation. As morally and ethically questionable as that vocation was, he had saved his life. There should have been value in that.

That last job had been a complete setup, from start to finish, and he had run right into the trap. All because he had trusted someone. The one person above everyone else he thought that he could trust. It was a hard lesson to learn. Alaric had always ruled through fear, and a certain amount of respect, but most of that was born from fear in the first place anyway. The man was clever, very clever, but also ruthless and prone to outbursts of violence. People who crossed him rarely lived very long.

And now here he was, back under his thumb. It was like he had never escaped the guild. How had he ever been naive enough to think Alaric’s tendrils stopped at the walls of his home city. The man was fucking everywhere. He had a hand in everything from smuggling and gambling to petty theft and brothels. Politics and assassination too, as it turned out.

He should have known that leaving the Thieve’s Guild, even leaving the city, would never have been enough. Now he wasn’t sure if leaving the kingdom would have been. Was this it for him? Living the rest of his life as a pawn for Alaric? Suicide mission after suicide mission until death finally caught up with him and his neck was stretched like a plump goose?

Darian had no pretensions of climbing the guild hierarchy again. His leaving had done away with any hopes of that. The only chance he had of any standing and respect now was through fear. And, he thought wickedly, as the anger burned hot in his chest, they would fear him.

He snapped back to the present as the back door to the inn creaked open. His hand went to the knife, fist tightening around the hilt as he steadied himself. It wasn’t the rebel leader;

A young boy walked out into the dark, carrying a pail in one hand and a lantern in the other.

He set down the bucket briefly as he reached to light a torch next to the door from the flame. The boy looked around uncertainly then continued out into the yard and stopped just shy of the fence Darian was hiding behind.

The boy glanced around nervously, then looked directly towards Darian, and gave an almost imperceptible nod. Then with a grunt he flung the pail full of waste grease from the spit onto the midden heap next to where Darian hid.

It was still hot as it splashed through the gaps in the fence and splattered across Darian’s face and hands. His anger blazed anew, and the knife slipped a few inches forward in the sheath.

He suppressed a curse, when had his grasp on composure become so tenuous, but the boy was already gone. He had known from the stench that he had spent the better part of his evening hiding behind the waste heap, but that was no consolation. He was certain that little runt had smiled as he flung the contents of the pail towards the fence. Had he fallen so low?

But that had been the signal. His target was on the move.

Despite the rage heating his face, years of training took control and Darian slowed his breath, bringing his pounding heart under control, the hot flush in his cheeks and ears cooling. He let his mind expand into the yard, his awareness peaking as he opened his mind and senses.

He could hear the hot grease sizzling on the frost that crusted the decaying pile of waste and the shuffling and breathing of the horses in the stable across the yard. The raucous singing inside grew clear to his ears, Dance of the Fishwives, the name of the ballad flashed distantly across his mind. The stinging on his face where the hot grease had landed faded to a distant tickle.

He heard footsteps inside and the door opened again.

The latrine was dug at the side of the yard opposite the door, better to keep the stink away from the inn. Ten yards, by his measure. A moderate distance between the makeshift facilities and the door. The fence Darian crouched behind was to the left, and he himself was about halfway between the inn and the back wall. Roughly ten yards again for him to cover.

He watched the figure cross the yard, his shadow dancing in the torchlight. He waited for him to pass the halfway mark before carefully taking hold of the plank he had loosened and drawing it aside.

He slipped through the gap and crouched low beside the pile of refuse. The pungent odour both intensely vivid and a faded memory. He waited patiently for the man to tug at his pants before he made his move.

Darian closed the distance between them quickly, sliding the knife from his sheath as he moved. He stopped a few feet from the target, raising the knife to strike, when he hesitated, something about the set of the man’s shoulders slowing him for a split second. But that was enough to give him away. The Prince’s shoulders stiffened, and his hand shifted to the sword still hanging at his hip.

He tensed, preparing to lunge at the target while he still had an advantage. But he stopped in his tracks for a second time as the man turned and he saw his face. Darian saw his own look of surprise mirrored by the target. He saw confusion in the man’s eyes. His own eyes. The target looked just like him.

The prince was about to say something when a knife sliced deep across his windpipe.

He fell to the ground clutching his throat, and Alaric, his one time mentor, stepped over the body. The man didn’t hesitate or break his stride as he approached Darian and struck out with his palm. Striking him in the windpipe.

Darian staggered back in surprise, the blow hadn’t been hard enough to kill. The cold calculation in that move distracting him for a second before the pain and shock from his damage throat flooded his senses and he crashed to his knees.

Alaric moved quickly and Darian watched, helpless and confused, as he strode calmly across the yard to take the torch from next to the door.

He hefted the torch, and considered the flame briefly before walking back across the yard and standing over his former apprentice. Alaric looked down at Darian, and nodded once, before thrusting the burning end of the torch into face, as casually as he might have branded a prize bull.

Darian tried to scream as the flames seared his face, but the shock of the burn stole the air from his lungs, and all he could manage was a harsh croak through his ruined throat.

He fell backwards, clutching at his face, a silent scream contorting his face into a mask of agony. Alaric turned dismissively from him and rolled the prince’s body into the latrine with the toe of his boot.

He looked back towards Darian, a smile of triumph on his face and dropped the torch in.

Flames erupted from the pile human waste and the stench of burning hair and flesh filled the yard.

The hard earth was cold against Darian’s face as he watched on in horror.

What was happening? Why was he still alive?

He heard a rising commotion inside the inn through the ringing in his ears, shouted orders and the tramping of boots.

He tried tried to raise his head from the ground, but the word swam violently around him and he spewed the contents of his stomach.

He coughed harshly and gasped for breath as the pain from his injuries reached a crescendo.

Alaric knelt beside him, looking distastefully at the pool of vomit. He leaned in close, his lips brushing against Darian’s ear as he spoke.

‘I needed someone on the inside’, he said, ‘we’ll talk more when you wake’. The last thing Darian heard before he blacked out was his mentor calling out to the troops, then the world sank into shadow.