Post by thepolygotnerd on Oct 2, 2006 2:29:05 GMT -5
This is the prologue of my story, after a serious prune and rewrite which occurred over the summer.
I hope people like it, and can offer some comments.
Prologue
"And last of all, one final piece of news.
Another of our number has been killed - the representative for India. She is the ninth this year. Ambajit is dead. This is the end of the protectorate. The council decided this morning.
As of 6pm, we are in hiding."
Rupert Wellington closed his diary, slowly and carefully, so as not to smudge the ink. He hadn't kept one so religiously for...it must be 40 years now. Not since the great adventure of his youth. Not since the Shemboryn...
He shook his grey head, and smiled ruefully. He was in a rather mournful mood this night. Unsurprisingly, he thought. His work, his life, were over. And Ambajit was dead.
There was a jerk in the old man's chest, somewhere in the region of his stomach. He closed his eyes, and for a long while simply sat, his grey head bent over the old wooden writing desk. When he opened them again, his face looked different. A new crease had appeared between his eyebrows, to join the many others on his face. He had once joked that there was one for every book he'd ever sold. The woman hadn't laughed. She'd simply given him an odd look, and walked away. She hadn't bought anything either. But then, Rupert hadn't needed the money.
The old bookshop he had run in Luxor had not been the town's most profitable business, by any stretch of the imagination. He had only ever bought books which he'd wanted to read, so the little place had been full of fantasies, magic, and the occult. In an extremely god-fearing nation, it hadn't really gone down that well.
But that was all in the past now. He'd sold the shop 15 years ago. To a butcher. It was a shame to let the old place be corrupted like that, but...there you were. Times were changing. Maybe it was better that way.
He sighed.
Standing up, he pulled off his battered silk dressing gown, and hung it on a hook for that purpose. Looking at the frayed sleeves, he sighed again. It was probably time he threw it away. His housekeeper was always complaining about it - 'making the place look scruffy', she said, but he had never been able to bring himself to do as she suggested and 'burn the thing'. Maybe now, with Ambajit gone, he could.
Rupert shook himself out of his thoughts, and pulled back the maroon duvet. Really, it was too hot for it, but he'd gotten used to having something to cover him. Maybe it just made him feel safe.
There was a kind of clatter outside. Instantly, the old man was transformed. Every movement tight and controlled, he padded over to the window. He placed two hands on the glass, and pushed his senses out, as Jessvinder had first taught him, so long ago. He searched high and low, even amongst the trees which bordered his estate. But there was nothing. It had probably been a cat, or some such.
Somewhat reassured, he moved back to the four-poster, and clambered in.
All the same, the moon was high in the sky before Rupert Wellington got any sleep.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The assassin crouched on the edge of the roof, holding his breath. He’d only just made it up here before the old man got to the window. He almost hadn’t got his shield up in time. He hadn’t seriously expected the old man to have any magical ability, but it was as well to be sure. Better to be safe than sorry, as his mother had always said.
It was lucky she had, really. Otherwise, the assassin might not be here.
It was quite boring sitting on a roof. It may have been an Egyptian roof, but it wasn’t really very different from the many roofs the assassin had sat on before. Plus, the area around the house had grown eerily dark recently. He supposed that was natural, this being the countryside and all, but he didn’t like it.
The assassin had grown up in the city, where there were always lights. All his previous jobs, also, had taken him to various cities. He smirked. He’d never had so much business from one customer, not in the 5 years he’d been doing this work.
The money would buy a lot of shoes…
He rolled his violet eyes. Always thinking about what the money would buy, and never focusing on the job in hand. He grew more serious. He would have to concentrate before he went in. This old man was magical. Admittedly, so had every person he’d killed in the past year, but this man was stronger. And he had Sight. The assassin would have to be very careful indeed.
For what seemed like an eternity, the assassin sat there, waiting for silence to fall over the mansion. He grimaced as the familiar tingling set in. He was getting cramp. Surely, the man must be asleep by now…
In that second, it occurred to the assassin that he didn’t know the old man’s name. He could be about to kill anyone. Not that it mattered.
The assassin preferred to work like this. No names, no background. Just in, murder, out. It made it easier. If you started to think of the targets as people…well, you were in trouble. Then you would hesitate. And if you hesitated, especially with targets like the ones he specialised in, you were dead.
Survival was paramount. Preferably his, if he was given a choice.
As the assassin retreated from his thoughts, something struck him.
It was finally silent.
It was time.
Pulling a small blue crystal from an artfully concealed pocket, the assassin closed his eyes, and muttered a few words.
When he opened them, he was inside.
He didn’t pause as he made his way over to the four-poster bed. Nor did he think. Thinking made killing hard. Slowly and carefully, he climbed onto the bed, and knelt astride the old man’s torso.
“Ambajit…” The old man whispered, blearily.
The assassin was frozen with horror for a split second, but then his brain kicked into action. Leaning forward, he did an uncanny impression of a woman’s voice.
“Hush, darling. You’re safe. I’m here.”
A tranquil smile came to the old man’s face, giving him an almost childlike appearance as he lay there.
The assassin was almost sorry for what he was about to do. That didn’t stop him.
He placed his gloved hands on the old man’s chest, whispered a few choice words, and let the magick flow.
When it was done, the assassin rose. Moving silently to the middle of the floor, he took out his crystal again.
He glanced around, and caught sight of a picture of three people.
One of them was clearly the man the assassin had just killed. The other was a lovely young woman, with golden brown hair, and beautiful blue eyes. But it was the small child she was holding that caught the assassin’s attention.
Her eyes were the colour of Lapis Lazuli, with a startlingly dark ring around them. They sent a shiver down the assassin’s spine, even though it was perfectly obvious that they couldn’t see him. That child was magical. And she had power, lots of it. She might even be an exceptional. When she grew up, she could destroy the world, if she wanted to.
The assassin smirked at himself. He was being overdramatic. Everyone knew that exceptionality didn’t run in families. It was just this country, with all its folk tales, giving him the creeps. The sooner he was away from here, the better.
Gripping the crystal tightly, he muttered the words which he knew would take him home.
The next instant, he was gone.
I hope people like it, and can offer some comments.
Prologue
"And last of all, one final piece of news.
Another of our number has been killed - the representative for India. She is the ninth this year. Ambajit is dead. This is the end of the protectorate. The council decided this morning.
As of 6pm, we are in hiding."
Rupert Wellington closed his diary, slowly and carefully, so as not to smudge the ink. He hadn't kept one so religiously for...it must be 40 years now. Not since the great adventure of his youth. Not since the Shemboryn...
He shook his grey head, and smiled ruefully. He was in a rather mournful mood this night. Unsurprisingly, he thought. His work, his life, were over. And Ambajit was dead.
There was a jerk in the old man's chest, somewhere in the region of his stomach. He closed his eyes, and for a long while simply sat, his grey head bent over the old wooden writing desk. When he opened them again, his face looked different. A new crease had appeared between his eyebrows, to join the many others on his face. He had once joked that there was one for every book he'd ever sold. The woman hadn't laughed. She'd simply given him an odd look, and walked away. She hadn't bought anything either. But then, Rupert hadn't needed the money.
The old bookshop he had run in Luxor had not been the town's most profitable business, by any stretch of the imagination. He had only ever bought books which he'd wanted to read, so the little place had been full of fantasies, magic, and the occult. In an extremely god-fearing nation, it hadn't really gone down that well.
But that was all in the past now. He'd sold the shop 15 years ago. To a butcher. It was a shame to let the old place be corrupted like that, but...there you were. Times were changing. Maybe it was better that way.
He sighed.
Standing up, he pulled off his battered silk dressing gown, and hung it on a hook for that purpose. Looking at the frayed sleeves, he sighed again. It was probably time he threw it away. His housekeeper was always complaining about it - 'making the place look scruffy', she said, but he had never been able to bring himself to do as she suggested and 'burn the thing'. Maybe now, with Ambajit gone, he could.
Rupert shook himself out of his thoughts, and pulled back the maroon duvet. Really, it was too hot for it, but he'd gotten used to having something to cover him. Maybe it just made him feel safe.
There was a kind of clatter outside. Instantly, the old man was transformed. Every movement tight and controlled, he padded over to the window. He placed two hands on the glass, and pushed his senses out, as Jessvinder had first taught him, so long ago. He searched high and low, even amongst the trees which bordered his estate. But there was nothing. It had probably been a cat, or some such.
Somewhat reassured, he moved back to the four-poster, and clambered in.
All the same, the moon was high in the sky before Rupert Wellington got any sleep.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The assassin crouched on the edge of the roof, holding his breath. He’d only just made it up here before the old man got to the window. He almost hadn’t got his shield up in time. He hadn’t seriously expected the old man to have any magical ability, but it was as well to be sure. Better to be safe than sorry, as his mother had always said.
It was lucky she had, really. Otherwise, the assassin might not be here.
It was quite boring sitting on a roof. It may have been an Egyptian roof, but it wasn’t really very different from the many roofs the assassin had sat on before. Plus, the area around the house had grown eerily dark recently. He supposed that was natural, this being the countryside and all, but he didn’t like it.
The assassin had grown up in the city, where there were always lights. All his previous jobs, also, had taken him to various cities. He smirked. He’d never had so much business from one customer, not in the 5 years he’d been doing this work.
The money would buy a lot of shoes…
He rolled his violet eyes. Always thinking about what the money would buy, and never focusing on the job in hand. He grew more serious. He would have to concentrate before he went in. This old man was magical. Admittedly, so had every person he’d killed in the past year, but this man was stronger. And he had Sight. The assassin would have to be very careful indeed.
For what seemed like an eternity, the assassin sat there, waiting for silence to fall over the mansion. He grimaced as the familiar tingling set in. He was getting cramp. Surely, the man must be asleep by now…
In that second, it occurred to the assassin that he didn’t know the old man’s name. He could be about to kill anyone. Not that it mattered.
The assassin preferred to work like this. No names, no background. Just in, murder, out. It made it easier. If you started to think of the targets as people…well, you were in trouble. Then you would hesitate. And if you hesitated, especially with targets like the ones he specialised in, you were dead.
Survival was paramount. Preferably his, if he was given a choice.
As the assassin retreated from his thoughts, something struck him.
It was finally silent.
It was time.
Pulling a small blue crystal from an artfully concealed pocket, the assassin closed his eyes, and muttered a few words.
When he opened them, he was inside.
He didn’t pause as he made his way over to the four-poster bed. Nor did he think. Thinking made killing hard. Slowly and carefully, he climbed onto the bed, and knelt astride the old man’s torso.
“Ambajit…” The old man whispered, blearily.
The assassin was frozen with horror for a split second, but then his brain kicked into action. Leaning forward, he did an uncanny impression of a woman’s voice.
“Hush, darling. You’re safe. I’m here.”
A tranquil smile came to the old man’s face, giving him an almost childlike appearance as he lay there.
The assassin was almost sorry for what he was about to do. That didn’t stop him.
He placed his gloved hands on the old man’s chest, whispered a few choice words, and let the magick flow.
When it was done, the assassin rose. Moving silently to the middle of the floor, he took out his crystal again.
He glanced around, and caught sight of a picture of three people.
One of them was clearly the man the assassin had just killed. The other was a lovely young woman, with golden brown hair, and beautiful blue eyes. But it was the small child she was holding that caught the assassin’s attention.
Her eyes were the colour of Lapis Lazuli, with a startlingly dark ring around them. They sent a shiver down the assassin’s spine, even though it was perfectly obvious that they couldn’t see him. That child was magical. And she had power, lots of it. She might even be an exceptional. When she grew up, she could destroy the world, if she wanted to.
The assassin smirked at himself. He was being overdramatic. Everyone knew that exceptionality didn’t run in families. It was just this country, with all its folk tales, giving him the creeps. The sooner he was away from here, the better.
Gripping the crystal tightly, he muttered the words which he knew would take him home.
The next instant, he was gone.
