Chapter 4 The Hand

The clamoring fell silent, and the young students turned in the direction of the voice. Standing at the door to the roof was another Disciple. He stood like a statue, hands clasped in front of him, his blue robes billowing in the dusty breeze. He was tall, much taller than any of the Apprentices, and even the Disciple on sentry duty. His face was long, and elegant, and absolutely expressionless as he stared at the boy with the spyglass.

At first, the boy was speechless, and many of the other children either watched the Disciple in awe and respect or looked back and forth between the two. Finally, the boy sputtered, not actually managing to put together a coherent sentence.

The Disciple took a single step closer. "I said, let her look."

"Of course, Disciple," the boy said, quietly, and handed the spyglass to the girl.

The Disciple nodded and stepped closer still. "Shouldn't you all be sleeping? You have a long day of training ahead of you tomorrow."

Another of the Apprentices, a tall girl with pale skin and pitch black hair, said, "We were watching Master Zorrik on his mission." She said it quickly, a mixture of excitement and nervousness in her voice.

The Disciple nodded again, and he and the sentry exchanged the same hint of a smile. Then he looked back at the children, the seriousness returning to his face.

"I understand your enthusiasm, but you've seen enough for one night. Go to bed."

There were a few groans of disappointment, but the Assassins-in-training did what they were told. The Disciple stood by as they filed past him and through the door, all but the small Novice now holding the spyglass. She looked down at it in her hand, a hand so small she could barely wrap it around the glass. She'd been smiling, but now it was replaced by a sad pout. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes, but she tried to hold them back, knowing that an Assassin should be stronger, but being too young to do anything about it. She sniffed and looked up at the Disciple, pleadingly.

He waited as the last of the other children went through the door and down the stairs, then he shut the door behind them. The hint of a smile returned to his face as he walked toward the girl. She was tiny compared to him and could barely crane her neck far enough to look up at him. They looked at one another for a moment, and then the Disciple scooped her up and set her on the rampart wall. She turned and grinned at him, and then the two of them watched as Zorrik finished off the Grendval and snuck into the merchant's house.

Back in the bedroom, Zorrik froze. The silk sheets of the four poster dragon bed had been disturbed. Someone had definitely been sleeping there, but they weren't there now. Holding his knife high, he turned to take in the room. There was more light here than there had been in the living room. He could see a table by the bed, with an unlit lantern and a closed book with reading glasses on top of it. To the other side of the bed was a roll top desk and chair. Zorrik turned his head, to see a large wardrobe on the other side of the room, its surface sleek and curved. More dragons were carved into its doors, their bodies covered in scales and feathers. And next to the wardrobe was the source of the room's light; a large window with delicate, hand-made lace curtains looked out on the street below.

Standing at the window was the merchant, oblivious to Zorrik's presence. He was glancing out at his neighbors, apparently roused by the noises in the street after all. He was exactly what Zorrik expected him to be. Though his house was filled with opulent furniture and exotic wares from across Aquilara, no one would have ever known it looking at the man who owned it. He was incredibly average. His height, his face, everything about the man was absolutely forgettable.

Zorrik took a breath and then deftly closed the distance between them. Only at the last minute did the merchant realize something was amiss,but as he turned from the window, Zorrik grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to the bed. He tossed the man onto it and was on top of him a split second later, staddling him. The merchant let out a yell of surprise, but Zorrik muffled it with a hand over his mouth. With the curved blade still in his other hand, he held a finger to his own lips, indicating that the man should stay quiet. He watched, smiling under his mask, as the man's eyes went to the blade. Then the merchant nodded emphatically.

Zorrik moved his hand away from the man's mouth and moved it to the folds of his black shirt. Pinned to his chest was a small adornment made of a gleaming blue and golden metal. Zorrik made sure that the merchant could see it. When he saw the terror in the man's eyes, he knew he had.

"Do you know who I am?" he whispered.

"The Hand!" the man underneath him whimpered.

Zorrik nodded and let the word hang in the air. He could feel the merchant starting to shake and squirm beneath him, but he still didn't say anything.

When the merchant could take it no longer, he said, "What do you want? Why are you here? I haven't done anything."

Zorrik cocked his head and "tsked." Then he wagged his finger in the merchant's face.

The merchant sucked in a breath and watched the blade in Zorrik's hand go back and forth as if mesmerized by it. "Are you...please don't kill me."

Zorrik smiled again and slowly backed away. As he did so, the man scrambled up in the bed, pulling his sheet around him like it was a shield that would protect him. Zorrik stepped off the bed, never taking his eyes off his quarry. Then he held up his knife, admiring it as if he'd never seen it before.

When he looked back at the merchant, he said, "You're the merchant Ablan, correct?" When the man nodded, he added, "Am I going to kill you? I don't know, Mister Ablan. That'll be up to you."