Assassin

A Hundred Year's Pardon

It didn't make sense.

The convoluted, twisting feeling inside of her over-spilled and threatened to poison her heart and stall her lungs. The rancid air seemed to seep through her tattered clothes and send a fiery chill up her pale skin.

It was dark. The moon had just risen over the treetops a few hours ago, and she was already feeling the lack of the warm sun behind her back. Reaching behind her, she took out a leathered knapsack and began to count the provisions for the day: two apples, one half-torn banana, a city guide book. She would've been able to add a few more goodies to her bag, if it weren't for the swindlers who chased after her and almost brought her to the court.

She gritted her teeth. She was pathetic; there was no other way to describe her dismal state—no other rational reason for her lack of supplies now—she had no one to blame but herself. Shouldering her load again, she stood up and quickly called through her fingers.

A few miles away, the crows lit up the night with a cascade of angry noises, turning the lights of the city on as the wicker candles were lighted and glowed dimly from their secluded dark rooms.

She sneaked down the roof with light footsteps, and made her way across the alleyway, turning and twisting within its hidden mazes, until she finally saw the low light glowing softly from the edge of a narrow strip. She gazed at its bedraggled state with a sort of quiet sympathy. On top of its tall and rickety window-frames, a single phrase was tacked on to a bar of faded lacquered wood. "The Tavern", it said, and thudded nervously in motion with the wind. She glanced around furtively, made sure that her hair was tied in place, then ran up the stairs and slammed open the door.

She paused for a moment just beyond the door-frame, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. All around her, the tavern was staring at her—no not staring, she corrected herself, they were glaring with heated eyes; eyes that showed that she was what they feared, eyes that gave her power in the most unlikeliest of places. There were five tables to her left, each seated with five or so burly men; they were playing poker, but it was a very silent and unusual game, one where no one saw their cards and no one moved. The right was loud and rowdy, the opposite of the cold and calm composure of those at the other end, but they too, seemed to sneak glances at her. She scanned over the faces on both sides, but couldn't find the one she was looking for.

"Hey!" a voice called, from the right side of the bar, "Ai, Over here!"

Ai's eyes quickly discerned a mop on what seemed to be a very skinny, freckled face. She smiled to herself and strode ahead slowly.

"How d'you do, gentlemen?" she asked, when she reached the table. She bowed forward slightly. "I hope I haven't disturbed you."

After half a second, a half-second too short for polite company, she looked up.

The table was around five meters by ten meters long; there was a decorative object in the middle, with its rusted gold and metallic images glinting under the harsh light of the lamps. There were five people seated around the table, and by force of habit, Ai took note of their faces. There was one with a long, busy and unkempt mustache and a stony expression. She judged by his rough hands that he was a servant. Another had long, straight blonde locks, and had the features of an aristocrat. She quickly assigned him the name, Blonde-locks. Two more were sitting side by side, with faces like identical little imps. The twins. Charles, the boy who called her over, sat just to her left. That left a boy with deep brown eyes who stood with one hand on his sword. Hawk. 

Charles, upon seeing her, immediately jumped up from his chair and waved at her enthusiastically. "Come here, come sit!"

But Ai didn't move and turned to Hawk; though his clothes were commonplace, his gaze was direct and clear. Here was someone who naturally took control, and didn't bother hiding it.