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Entering the kitchen of the Tavern which he has made his home for recent days, almost the last hand, he feels a note pressed into his hand by one of the kitchen slaves, dressed in a coarse brown smock. He notices that her looks suggest that she is more than just scullery drudge, but knowing that such treatment is often used as a punishment for those who displease while serving in the Main Hall, he says nothing.... Reaching his room, he unfolds the note... "Master, do not be concerned with how I know where you are, just be aware that if I do, then so might others. I have news and need to talk to you... previous location no longer safe. Meet at Tarnsman's Fountain, 19th Ahn." He returns to the lower floor, glancing at the water clock he notes that there are a few Ahn before the appointed time. He enquires of the Tavern-keeper the quickest way to the Circus, which is about the same distance but in the opposite direction. A 15-20 ehn walk it appears. He asks to be called at the half-Ahn mark and orders a serving girl to bring chilled water, slices of meat, bread and fruit to his room. together with parchment, quill and ink. He retraces his path up the stairs ands settles to wait. He takes out the documents taken from Ornoth's casket and spreads them on a table. He sorts them into different piles, first based on location, then on trade, Caste, trying to find some sort of key to unlock this puzzle and to explain the roles which even Ornoth had not fathomed. He is interrupted by the serving girl, bringing his meal. He ignores her alluring eyes and soft smile, dismissing her brusquely. He takes a piece of parchment, listing names and places, he connects dates with events, people with times and adds to the growing pile of discarded paper as each idea reaches a dead end..... there is a pattern to this, there must be, where is the damned key to all this ? .... A timid rapping on the door, which opens a fraction.... a soft voice calls.. "Master, you asked to be informed when it is time for your appointment." The door opens and the same girl enters, seeing the scraps of paper littering the floor, she bends and starts to tidy.... "Leave them!". The Assassin snaps... " I will dispose of them, just take the tray and go. Tell the Master that no-one is to enter the room until I return." He rises and puts on his cloak, hauling the cowl over his head. He waits until the girl has picked up the remnants of his meal and bustled out of the door. He collects the screwed up pieces of paper and throws the into the hearth, waiting until they catch. He gathers the evidence from Ornoth and hides them deep inside his pack. Arranging a shirt over the top of his pack, in a seemingly careless way, one which he has used since realising the need to know whether anyone has been tampering, he takes up a long dagger, and sheathes it at his waist, he secures the metal spike to the leather mounted spring which is wrapped round his right forearm. He adjusts his cuffs and cowl and starts down the stairs after locking the door and placing a single hair from his head across the crack between the door and frame. As he leaves he notices the serving girl watch him from the corner of her eye, he also sees a man in Kaldor's collars watching him from the main doorway. The man seems not to recognise him... a turn of luck. The Assassin strides through the door and out into the brightly lit street. He turns, no-one seems to follow.... a movement from the rooftop catches his peripheral vision, he does not look up. Hunching into his cowl against the night breeze he walks off. "Either the Thieves watch me ... or the vultures gather. We shall see soon enough." On intuition alone he pauses, and slips into a narrow alley, removing his cowled cloak he reverses it, and swings it again around his shoulders. The scarlet of a Warrior, if they seek an Assassin they will not find one. His face is not known, he can disguise his voice. Through the deserted streets of shops and food vendors, the path occasionally lit by the light from a baker's, the smell of new-baked bread pervading the air. Past the raucous Taverns and Inns, the Houses of Pleasure from which the sounds of music and laughter spill. He reaches the Square of Tarns and looks up at the statues which surround the Tarnsman's Fountain, the sound of the cascading water drowning out the normal noises of a city at night. A few in the garb of Warriors and mercenaries sit on the stone benches, passing round bota of paga, on closer look they seem too old.... he moves closer and listens, acknowledging their silent greetings with a slight nod. Tall tales, exaggerated memories.... at least he can blend into the background.
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Chapter Eight-
"Speculation"