Diffraction

Interlude - Assassin

The twin sung-wood doors gilded with golden Suns of Aulis swung wide to reveal the Ministerial Conclave of Aulivar. A cacophony of voices rushed through the gap and washed over the pair of soldiers as they marched through the entryway.

Thirteen civic leaders of Aulivar filled seats reserved for Speakers, arranged in a semi-circle facing a raised platform occupied by The Lord Mayor. A few dozen wealthy citizens sat in plush seats that ringed the wall of the Conclave, and twice their number occupied the balcony seating above.

The assassin dressed in the armor and uniform of a Ministry Warden dutifully followed the soldier assigned to guide her in her new post.

"The public's been invited to watch proceedings, milady," the young soldier whispered at her side. "And by public I mean them with enough money as to buy a seat and have a voice. You can expect this one or two times a tenday. In private meetings of the Conclave, it's the Speakers what sit around the edges of the room. You'll prefer those days—less unfamiliar bodies to worry about shuffling through the Conclave, and more exciting debates between the Ministers."

The assassin nodded as if carefully committing all this to memory. She rummaged through a list of names that mattered little to her. "Thank you, Jastrob."

Jastrob no doubt held sway in the Militia to earn such a prestigious position. Perhaps she should know him—with so few officers left in the City, a new Warden would have no excuse. But if she chose the wrong name and gave away her disguise, she would get it right the next time around. Or the next after that.

Her guide gave no indications of concern, so the assassin focused on the speakers inside the Conclave.

The chief noble among the dissenters rose to his feet, and a hush fell over his allies. He surveyed the room with gleaming eyes and an expression of nonchalance. The sparse gray hair at the top of his head, slicked and styled, jutted forward like the point of a blade. His rotund form stuffed a fashionable maroon coat embroidered with gold, and balanced precariously on stick-thin legs in snug silk trousers. Despite his appearance, he held sway with ease in the Conclave. Second of the name, and sole heir of a popular Lord slain during the Great Siege, Lord Balthasar Antonin Peledor thrust a finger toward the high-backed chair where the Lord Mayor oversaw the ongoing debate.

"Lord Tenegar," he said, "I don't think you appreciate the danger we are in right now."

The assassin followed her unwitting escort into the hall and suppressed a chuckle. You have no idea.

"On all sides," Peledor continued, "our fair city suffers violence. Fields lay forgotten, crops wasted. Trade goods sit in warehouses, for none will risk the roads to make deliveries. It has been weeks since any merchants arrived from Aelwyn or Mirelenai, let alone from the granaries of Lanaloth. Our people wither from famine, and their courage falters from shame. And you would tell us wild tales of strange goings-on in the East beyond Tiernalen's Wall."

Several voices shouted agreement from the balcony and the edges of the room. The other twelve Speakers remained silent. Aulivari propriety at its finest, the assassin thought.

Her polished armor clinked as she took up the guard's post to the right of the Speakers. She snapped into a posture of vigilance, extending her halberd forward with her right hand and folding her left behind her back.

"Don't worry, Lieutenant," her escort Jastrob whispered. "When the Lord Mayor scowls like that, you know it'll be a quick departure. On good days, he likes to mingle with the commoners that come to witness the proceedings. That's a lot more nerve-wracking, because..."