Blackbird

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This page describes or alludes to topics that may be uncomfortable or upsetting to readers. Please avoid this page if you are sensitive to medium violence or **uncensored curse words**.

A short Evensol story by Tilan, featuring the amazingly sensible assassin system in Levispolis.

*Blackbirds singing in the dead of night...*

## Begin Reading

The blade, grasped by a gloved hand, slipped seamlessly into the wall.

The gloves were black and leather, with a slightly tattered lining of silk inside that just about suggested that their owner didn't fully consider the full practicality of such gloves in his profession before buying them and was, by now, slightly regretting it. They were fingerless, but only because the fabric for the fingers had been crudely scissored off some time in the past.

A loose strand from the glove flapped in the air as the man levered up the rest of his body. His movement, if that word could be used, resembled that of a sloth. Time was not of the essence here. The night was young and so was he, and it wasn't as if he hadn't done this before.

...Well, it depended, really. Climbing up walls in the middle of the night? Yes, of course, definitely, thousands of times. Having a contract on an actual client that he needed to make unlive? No.

Not even Steven ever had to do something like this. Probably. Steven did a lot of things that he only ever pointedly hinted at, things that Steven had declared would never be known to Jackdaw for the rest of his life. Until he reached twenty, that was.

But still, *imagine*... he could be the first! He could be making history here. Hell yeah, that'll go down in the books all right.

Jack Dawkins, the first assassin to *kill.*

Assassins didn't kill people, everyone knew that. One of the fundamental requirements for being one was that you knew the 101 Things a Person Could Do to Kill, but once you got past that mark all the job required of you was to hang around at parties, dress fashionably, and admittedly, if you were not formally an assassin, occasionally attempt to murder one of the three people were.

Sanders was of course out of the question. And to say that Steven was as sly as a fox would be a grave or in fact even tombful underestimation. This left, of course, Jackdaw himself, but who could try to ambush him tonight? He was out. If they wanted to get him they could bloody well try someday else. Make the whole thing easier for everyone.

Concentrate. He couldn't just hang here on the wall forever.

Another dagger, grasp, test, pull. Another foot upwards. He realised that his breathing was six over five times his normal, and ventured another half foot before waiting several minutes to get his heartbeat sorted out.

He was excited, but who wouldn't be? The world would know his name, and all he had to do was to creep into a room, press the trigger, and *shazaam*. Ending one life is but a small price to pay for the glory that would undoubtedly ensue.

It'll be fun too, even if the person to kill in question was a child. A toddler, with no means of defending himself. Shame, that.

Shame indeed.

He swept his rapier along the windowsill. There were no traps, naturally, because no one would have expected it, but still. It paid to be cautious.

Strange though, why they chose to have him kill a toddler. Jackdaw would have imagined somewhat... older clients. After all, what's the point in having a kid die? The parents could always make more babies, no problem. It was the grown-ups people usually wanted to get rid of, the people with actual power and stuff. Not the youngest kid of some merchant family that even *he* had never heard of. What was it again? Mascheriff? Maezsheriv? Whatever. It was not like he needed to know.

The whole thing was all done very properly. There was a dark alley, shushed whispers, a hooded guy who handed the contract papers to him before disappearing into thin air, all the stuff that one would expect for assassinating. Mystery! Style! And, of course, Mr Cox's signature in his meticulous handwriting at the bottom of the papers. Perfection.

Perfection, just like what he would execute his duty tonight.

He unslung his crossbow, slid an arrow into the shaft, aimed, and -

A cloud passed, the moonlight shifted. Jack, bow in hand, stared down at an empty cradle.

wip :p

## Notes

1. ↑ Jack counts his pulse subconsciously. It is a habit.