“Step forward,” she tells the swordsman and his grin widens as he complies, his sword digging into the Council-man’s back. The scream is long as he plummets to the ground. She doesn’t bother herself to view the result, waving a hand at each of the swordsmen in turn, the Council-men forced over the edge with varying degrees of panic and terror, some begging as they fall, as if their pleas will conquer gravity. In a few moments only one remains. He stands with his back straight, staring fixedly at the northern suburbs where his villa burns, the ornamental lake that surrounds it providing a fine reflection as the air is still tonight.
“Nothing to say, Arklev?” she asks him.
He doesn’t react, not even to turn his head. She moves closer, finding his posture oddly noble, stoic in the face of death, refusing to acknowledge his enemy. A classic Volarian pose, worthy of any statue. “I’ve always wondered,” she says, resting her arms on the parapet beside him. “Was it you who proposed the Council employ me to assassinate my father?”
The question is pointless, she knows. He will not speak to her. She is an unworthy enemy, bereft of consideration, deserving of no more respect than the tiger that eats the unwary traveller.
Instead, he chooses to surprise her. “It was not a proposal,” he says, face still composed and voice free of any quaver. “It was an order, conveyed by the creature you call the Messenger.”
She stares at him for a moment then laughs. Was it reward or enticement? she wonders. “I ordered your wife and most recently spawned brats be killed quickly,” she says. “I felt I owed you that much.”
He says nothing, his composure still fully in place. She toys with the idea of letting him stand there for a full day, curious to see how long it will take before his legs buckle, but yet again finds her appetite for indulgence diminished this night. “Take him to the vault,” she tells the swordsman standing at his back.
Arklev casts an appalled gaze at her then lurches forward, trying to launch himself from the parapet, but his guard is too swift, catching him by the legs and dragging him back. “Kill me!” Arklev rages at her. “Kill me you pestilent bitch!”
“You have too much yet to do, Arklev,” she replies with an apologetic smile. He continues to rage as his guard drags him to the stairs, his cries echoing all the way down.
