From the rooftop, Flint looked out over the estate. It hadn’t always belonged to House Welk. Caran was old, older than memory, old enough that those who claimed lineage back to the city’s founding had no real proof of their assertions. House Welk was not among those with a rich and long history, and it was possible it wouldn’t be at the top table for long, headed as it was by a bitter and twisted man too distrustful to beget an heir.
After Flint had been sheltered and subsequently used by Adrinn Welk, he made discreet enquiries about his then employer. He pieced together the sorry story of a man beset by greed and envy, which culminated in the bloody end of House Althrin. Welk’s sister married into House Althrin, and Adrinn Welk was not a man to forego such an opportunity. In a sustained campaign of appalling genius, he tricked his way into inheriting the family’s fortune before arranging their deaths.
The other noble families condemned the usurpation of House Althrin, and its reincarnation as House Welk initially laboured under the weight of embargoes and sabotage. It was to Welk’s credit, Flint allowed, that he rescued the situation through a combination of undercutting the opposition and the veiled threat of violence. The other noble houses, it appeared, preferred him within the game than without.
Flint had spent the last year carefully and systematically taking apart Welk’s ring of assassins, toughs and thugs to allow for tonight’s assault to be a success. What remained wouldn’t be any match for what Flint was about to bring down upon House Welk. He’d brought Jollin and Portala, two of his best. It never hurt to be careful.
The perimeter of the estate had proven to be serene. It was possible Welk had heeded Flint’s earlier advice and fled the city, but it was more likely he’d gathered what remained of his protective ring into a defensible location.
He checked his weapons and gave the signal for his companions to follow, then lowered himself down from the slate roof to land on a balcony. Jollin tackled the lock on the window and they were through. Flint landed in a soundless crouch, his boots sinking into a decadent rug from some far-flung land. The bedroom hadn’t been inhabited for some time; it didn’t have that lived-in feel or smell. Adrinn Welk wasn’t one for visitors.
As they passed from the bedroom, he paused. The bodies of Houseguards littered the floor in the hallway beyond, throats clawed raw, faces blackened and bulging. Milkmouth venom, unless he missed his guess. If there was a person in Caran with the requisite cruelty and resource to acquire something so unpalatable, it was Welk.
Flint reconsidered his initial assessment of the situation. It looked like Welk had done Flint’s job for him, killing off his Houseguards to be certain of eradicating any trace of his future intentions. Or maybe it was punishment for allowing the present situation to materialise; they were paid to protect him, after all. Nor could he rule out the possibility of a third party, especially after his encounter with the damned Patron of Assassins only the other night.
The foundations of the operation were shifting under his feet, and he didn’t like uncertainty. A stone knife appeared in his hand as he crept further along the corridor, dimly lit by lamps in their sconces along the walls. Jollin and Portala followed in gratifying silence at five pace intervals. Something nudged his senses as they passed a stairwell. Over the years, he found he had a certain sensitivity to danger. Some might call it instinct, and Flint was happy to think of it as such. He couldn’t understand or explain it, and nor did he want to. Not all questions had a palatable answer. He’d learned to trust this instinct by now; it had kept him alive on several occasions.
The stairs wound down in a tight circle, far enough that Flint judged they were below ground level. They arrived on a stone landing before plain wooden double doors. Nothing so grand as a dining hall; more likely to be some sort of storage room. He waved his companions forward to inspect the doors for hidden traps or wards while he maintained a watch against any surprises. Satisfied there was nothing untoward, he nodded for Jollin to open the doors.
He should have been appalled by the sight which awaited him within. However, death was such an intrinsic part of him now that the appearance of fifty choked and bloated bodies caused nary a ripple in the pool of inner calm. Bodies were inane things; chunks of breathing, bleating, shitting meat simply existing through dull, mostly squalid lives. Fifty or so falling by the wayside was incidental. After the obligatory grieving was over, the dead were forgotten.
He gave himself a shake, forcing himself to ignore the expectant looks from Jollin and Portala. How long was he in thought? He peered closer, seeing Houseguards and servants both. Most had fallen close to the door in a futile attempt at escape while others had retreated to a corner, accepting of their fate, dying with dignity and calm.
‘They were locked in, then,’ he began. Any fool could see this, but followers expected leaders to speak, if only to confirm their own conclusions. He waved his killers inside. ‘Search for Welk.’
Flint knew Welk wouldn’t be among the dead. The man had told him he’d look for a way to slip through the net. As far as Flint was concerned, that merely meant Welk would go down fighting. The mass murder of his entire household was a small surprise, even with Welk’s history, but there was no prospect of the man escaping him if he was still in the city. The net Flint had woven was too tight and too clever for that.
A scuff of boots on the stairs caused him to turn. Slowly, because a trained killer wouldn’t have made such a mistake. Adrinn Welk appeared around the curve of the stairwell, cradling an ornate crossbow that looked more dangerous than it truly was. Only, the tip of the bolt gleamed with the poison which had accounted for the Houseguards upstairs. Even a graze from that bolt would kill, but Flint fancied he could evade the bolt and open Welk’s throat in little more than a heartbeat.
Welk’s long face warred between satisfaction and trepidation. Flint smiled as he observed the latest fool to misunderstand the gap between springing an ambush and murdering the target. He cocked his head to one side. ‘What did I tell you, Welk? I thought you more pragmatic than this.’
‘And what did I tell you?’ the man sneered in riposte. He motioned with the crossbow to the room beyond. Flint ignored the opportunity to disarm him; there would be others. ‘My late brother-in-law insisted this used to be a temple of Ompic, hence the earthen floor. Said it had drunk deeply of sacrifice over the centuries. I never found a use for it until tonight.’
Flint scoffed. ‘I hope for your sake, Welk, that the Stony God grants you his favour.’
‘I need not the favour of an indifferent god. I heeded your warning, assassin. I made my own arrangements to escape the city. I merely wanted to leave by reminding you I don’t take kindly to threats made against my person. That sort of thing can’t go unanswered, and so here we are.’
‘You’re far too late, Welk. I told you this was bigger than you.’ At a raised eyebrow from the man, he continued. ‘I have teams at all the Noble estates tonight. This isn’t about House Welk, fool. This is a cleansing. Come the dawn, there will be no nobility.’
Welk tossed his head back and laughed. ‘It is you and your accomplices who are the fools. One day you’ll come to realise the world runs on greed and inequality. It is by its very nature unclean. I don’t know who you’ve tangled yourself up with, but…’
Flint sighed, bored with the empty assertions of a desperate man. ‘Are you going to shoot that thing or…’
He cut off at a strangled grunt from behind him, staring into Jollin’s stunned expression. Flint followed the man’s gaze downwards. The earth churned, the bodies slowly sinking, and trapping Jollin’s feet in a tight grip. Portala’s eyes danced like a spooked mare as she writhed to free herself, only hastening her demise.
‘Guess that god isn’t so indifferent tonight, Welk. Drop the crossbow, you damned idiot. I’ll get you out of here. One last favour that I expect to be repaid. Let’s move!’