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There was one downside to Havelock's... unique practise of concealment, and that was how very, very peculiar the greasepaint covering all visible skin felt. Inwardly, he made a note to spend more time experimenting with the stuff, to lessen the unusual sensation when he needed it. He had travelled overground, under cover of darkness - or at least the nearly-black shadow that fell over a city that never quite sleeps when the sun is down. There were underground passages that were formerly sewers, that were more usually utilised by the Assassin's Guild, but he preferred open space to somewhere he could be trapped, if possible. Even if nobody but the assassins knew about them, that was still more traffic through his route than he liked. He waited a little way from the house, rather than trying to enter immediately, watching the place. He had planned to wait for Cartwrightson to exit, but it didn't seem likely just then. One of the smaller side doors was open, with a dark shape lying half-inside, half-outside.
This is how assassination was usually practised by the students and alumni of the ancient and noble Guild of Ankh-Morpork. The clothing you wore was black. It was good concealment in shadow, it marked your trade fairly, if for whatever reason you revealed yourself, and it also went with everything. All your skill went into stealth and accuracy in order to inhume your victim, after which - or before which, if at all possible - you let the victim know your identity and who sent you... in general terms. Usually, this could be done by way of a receipt. You tried not to kill servants. You tried not to get engaged in anything so plebian as actual physical contact. That was not what you had trained for. Yours was an honourable trade, and you had nothing to be ashamed of, unless you got caught. Really, you'd be better off dying than caught in the act.
Or at least, that frequently seemed to be the feeling among those who kill regardless of the reason, and purely for the price and ensuing fame. Havelock's code was just a little different. It went: Honour is all very well, but it's far better to not get killed. And... well. It's not as if he truly needed the wealth. And he certainly didn't need fame, at least not in this. He looked emotionlessly at the sprawled corpse of the former R. J. Cartwrightson, who, while being an exceptional assassin had clearly gone wrong somewhere, and that point had been that he was expected. Of course he was expected. The major qualifying point for any political figure in this city was rampant paranoia, after all. You win some, you lose just one, and that one ends the game.
Havelock waited for almost half an hour, listening to the stillness. No sound of uproar, or even wakefulness that might have indicated that those inside knew there was an open way into the house. Only then did he carefully make his way to the endtrance, noting the emergence of a steel bolt through his former colleague's neck, and tracking the line up to a point on the ceiling. There. Tiny and hidden, but visible - a crossbow rigged to fire when the door opened without being disconnected first. Inwardly, he winced. That was one of the oldest tricks in the book. Just as well the wound had been fatal, really. He would never have heard the end of it, otherwise.
He checked briefly to make sure the other assassin was fully and definitely dead before he searched him, swift and careful, took two things that the other boy had been thoughtful enough to carry with him, then moved on down the corridor, heading for what should have been the Master bedroom. Sir Chorley had made a mistake in that respect. He'd assumed that only one killer at a time would be sent... which in general, to be fair, was the rule. But when one assassin died, another was permitted to follow. Havelock was merely... speeding the process along somewhat.
Politeness would have been waking the man up before he died, so he's at least aware what happened to his comfortable, dull lifestyle. Mercy was leaving him asleep so he never felt a thing, if that's something of which Havelock was aware. It was also sense, however, and a precaution that the man died silently, slim dagger through the base of his skull. The blade was plain but custom-made, enough to mark who it had originally belonged to, for those who knew what to look for. And for those that did not, the handy reciept - already filled in with Cartwrightson's name plain as day, and no trace of tampering - was left helpfully on the dresser.
It wasn't honourable, not by Guild standards. But adjusting the lock of the open door so it seemed to have been broken from the inside, and turning the corpse about so it faced the other way covered tracks so well that he might as well not have been there. And that suited Havelock just fine, and perhaps Cartwrightson, too - should he be aware that even though he failed, his last assignment was remembered as a success by all but one.
This is how assassination was usually practised by the students and alumni of the ancient and noble Guild of Ankh-Morpork. The clothing you wore was black. It was good concealment in shadow, it marked your trade fairly, if for whatever reason you revealed yourself, and it also went with everything. All your skill went into stealth and accuracy in order to inhume your victim, after which - or before which, if at all possible - you let the victim know your identity and who sent you... in general terms. Usually, this could be done by way of a receipt. You tried not to kill servants. You tried not to get engaged in anything so plebian as actual physical contact. That was not what you had trained for. Yours was an honourable trade, and you had nothing to be ashamed of, unless you got caught. Really, you'd be better off dying than caught in the act.
Or at least, that frequently seemed to be the feeling among those who kill regardless of the reason, and purely for the price and ensuing fame. Havelock's code was just a little different. It went: Honour is all very well, but it's far better to not get killed. And... well. It's not as if he truly needed the wealth. And he certainly didn't need fame, at least not in this. He looked emotionlessly at the sprawled corpse of the former R. J. Cartwrightson, who, while being an exceptional assassin had clearly gone wrong somewhere, and that point had been that he was expected. Of course he was expected. The major qualifying point for any political figure in this city was rampant paranoia, after all. You win some, you lose just one, and that one ends the game.
Havelock waited for almost half an hour, listening to the stillness. No sound of uproar, or even wakefulness that might have indicated that those inside knew there was an open way into the house. Only then did he carefully make his way to the endtrance, noting the emergence of a steel bolt through his former colleague's neck, and tracking the line up to a point on the ceiling. There. Tiny and hidden, but visible - a crossbow rigged to fire when the door opened without being disconnected first. Inwardly, he winced. That was one of the oldest tricks in the book. Just as well the wound had been fatal, really. He would never have heard the end of it, otherwise.
He checked briefly to make sure the other assassin was fully and definitely dead before he searched him, swift and careful, took two things that the other boy had been thoughtful enough to carry with him, then moved on down the corridor, heading for what should have been the Master bedroom. Sir Chorley had made a mistake in that respect. He'd assumed that only one killer at a time would be sent... which in general, to be fair, was the rule. But when one assassin died, another was permitted to follow. Havelock was merely... speeding the process along somewhat.
Politeness would have been waking the man up before he died, so he's at least aware what happened to his comfortable, dull lifestyle. Mercy was leaving him asleep so he never felt a thing, if that's something of which Havelock was aware. It was also sense, however, and a precaution that the man died silently, slim dagger through the base of his skull. The blade was plain but custom-made, enough to mark who it had originally belonged to, for those who knew what to look for. And for those that did not, the handy reciept - already filled in with Cartwrightson's name plain as day, and no trace of tampering - was left helpfully on the dresser.
It wasn't honourable, not by Guild standards. But adjusting the lock of the open door so it seemed to have been broken from the inside, and turning the corpse about so it faced the other way covered tracks so well that he might as well not have been there. And that suited Havelock just fine, and perhaps Cartwrightson, too - should he be aware that even though he failed, his last assignment was remembered as a success by all but one.
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Date: 2007-09-26 11:12 am (UTC)From:The operative word here is 'was', because now the pale spirit that was one Sir Bertrand Chorley rather thinks he looks like a fragrant dead prat. With no body left in which to feel shame, he doesn't turn any redder, but he does find himself hoping that blood seeping into the white satin pillows will wash some of that away before the maid finds him.
"That's going to be a bugger to wash out," he says.
Yes, his companion agrees.
"I mean, they could at least put a towel under, or something. Bloody inconsiderate, that is, not putting a towel down. It's Gladys' day off tomorrow, and she won't like coming in to day old bloodstains. He could at least have woken me. I'd've told him, I would of."
I imagine you'd have other things to say, Death remarks.But his attention isn't really on the state of the pillowcase. He's watching the door through which the Assassin left.
"'It's Gladys' day off,' I'd've said," the shade continues. "'Show a little thought for the servants, won't you?' I always showed thoughts for the little people. That's why I'm so popular."
Professional courtesy is the least one can do, Death agrees. Now, if you'd like to step this way?
"What? Oh yes, sorry to keep you waiting, Old Bean," Sir Chorley responds, following Death genially. "Terrible habit of mine, wittering on. Still, it helped my professional manner, didn't it? Everyone like me when I was... 'ere, who sent him, then?"
If Death has an answer, it's lost as they fade into the unknown, leaving the room completely empty.
Well, sort of.
Rather suddenly, Cartwrightson leaps lightly to his feet with cat-like grace, and equally cat-like nonchalance. Fall? the Assassin's entire poise seems to suggest. What fall? I completely meant to do that, and anyway, you saw nothing.
Cricking his neck silently, which is suddenly rather sore, Cartwrightson looks over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't observed, and slides forward to complete the transaction.
It is perhaps lucky for Cartwrightson at least, that he remains blissfully unaware, not only that someone else left his contract dead in bed, but that his own body remains motionless at his feet.