Aril dropped the letter on the desk, a folded piece of parchment. The man sitting on the other side took it, unfolding it, and looked up at Aril. His hood shadowed his eyes, and the man could not determine the look on his face. It was a contract, detailing a target with a name, description, occupation, and whereabouts.
Aril was an assassin by hire, one of a few who made a living through a guild that specialized in taking lives. Each man, or woman, had done something worthy of death in someones eyes and were now getting away with it. It was an incredibly impersonal job, fuelled and paid for by very personal hands. Aril, and those like him, were nothing more than the knife in the hand the strikes its victim.
The man thumbed along the written contract before reaching the end, where three drops of blood stained the yellowing paper. He nodded slowly before going into his desk and retrieving a coin purse, Aril’s reward for this contract. It was a hefty sum, enough to feed any man for two weeks. He pocketed it after weighing it in his hand, and nodded to his superior before turning to leave.
“Aril…” The man adressed.
He stopped mid step.
“Do you have a moment to speak?”
“What is it, master?” Aril said, turning to face him.
“These contracts, how do you feel about them?”
Aril shrugged. He didn’t feel one way or another, as long as he got paid, and didn’t get caught. He’d been doing this job for five years already, it seemed like an odd question to ask.
“No, no…” The master eyed him, knowing what he was thinking, “This job suits you, you’ve become very good at it. I have a special contract…”
Aril removed his hood and sat down in the chair across from the master.
“I do what is necessary, master.” Aril said plainly.
“I’m aware, and you’re turned out to be quite the young prodigy.” The master smiled.
Aril nodded, accepting the compliment. Though his contracts were simple, he had excelled past many of his colleagues here in the guild. In five years he’d managed to surpass rookie status, something most people took twice as long to do. Assuming, of course, they weren’t killed, caught, or scared off. He was only a few years off joining the elites at his current rate, and all at the young age of twenty-two.
“Your success rate is incredible, you’re catching a lot of attention, even if you don’t know it.”
“Fifty-seven reconnaissance missions, thirty-five shakedowns, sixteen support missions, and nine kills.” Aril recited as if reading it off the wall behind the master’s head.
“Even in your few failures-“
“Six.” Aril interrupted.
“… You were never caught.” The master continued.
The master went into his desk once again, this time a different drawer, and pulled out a stack of papers. He slid them over to Aril, who eyed the front page. He didn’t need to look through every page to know what he was looking at. This was the result of many months of stalking, the paper work on a new target. There was more than just the odd weekly schedule and housing location, this was quite clearly a complicated job.
“Hensen Bills.” The master said.
Aril pulled the top page closer, getting a good look at the guild illustrator’s rendition of the man. He had a pudgy face, and was apparently bald. His thin eyes hidden behind a pair of glasses. The listed information indicated that he was a business man, a merchant. Aril frowned, as if the look of this man left a bitter taste in his mouth.
His contracts all before this were for petty criminals who’s hit had most likely been placed by another petty criminal who couldn’t have the law deal with their dispute. Regardless, one of them paid the fee, and the other paid the price. All of it fulfilled by Aril’s blades. This man must have been different, somehow.
“You’re interested, I can tell.” The master nodded.
“What did he do?” Aril asked, turning to the next page.
“Who knows…?”
Aril looked up at the master, could he not just have a straight answer? However, he couldn’t argue, it wasn’t his job to know what he did, it was his job to kill him because someone had enough coin. He kept flipping through the pages.
Hensen Bills, age forty-six, married with two kids. Owner of the Bills Outfitters Company, founded by his grandfather Kenneth Bills in 1506. A popular clothing company with a good public record. Hensen was a popular man, himself, well known and liked around the city by all. No known family troubles, both children successful business owners in other cities. He had no competitors within the city, no rivals. The details were all the same. Aril frowned.
“What’s the matter, Aril?” The master asked, coyly.
“Nothing.”
“I know what it is, I’ve read the papers.” The master said, “What do you think?”
“No one wants another man dead for no reason.”
“This is true.”
Aril sat back in the chair, eying the papers.
“Will you accept it?” The master asked.
Aril said nothing.
“If you complete this contract, it could put you right on the track to joining the elites of this guild.”
Aril raised an eyebrow. That caught his attention. The elite had numerous benefits here. Their own houses in the city, their own team, a pay raise. It had been his goal from the beginning, and killing this man wouldn’t be a problem. Still, he wondered, what did he do?
Letting the question go, Aril took the stack, and flipped to the end where the contract itself lay. He reached for the quill to his right and signed his name on the dotted line, marking the L sharply down like a knife. He folded it and tucked it into his pocket, taking the stack with him. The master nodded, dismissing him from his office. For now he had time to rest and study the information on Hensen, tomorrow he’d begin watching.
