218 Poisoned Dagger (1/2)

Songs. He had always despised songs and this cursed Kingdom is all about songs. Songs in the taverns, songs in the streets, hummings in barns and stables, even when they eat. These people are crazy. But he took a little joy in knowing that soon, his mission would be over. A success or a failure, same side of the coin. It would all be over.

He pulled the sheepskin cloak he was wearing. The dark cloth pressed firmly on his skin. His face was hidden, rightly so as his looks would shout his identity as a Wismarine. He stepped, silently in the darkness. It wasn't really dark. The night was day because of the festival of songs.

He caressed the dagger on his hip. The handle was made of Shirewood, the grip was rough and the balance was right. The blade was coated with Firelizard's venom. Once kissed, a person would only have ten blinks left.

He wasn't going to use the dagger though. Paintings depict assassins as dagger-wielding, cloak-wearing, shadow men. The part about cloaks was only true for his situation. He needed to hide his Wismarine descent. The smooth steps were only true when attacking at night when people's eyes were shut in slumber. But the dagger? Only amateurs and wannabes use daggers as their main weapon. A man can be killed in many ways. A scratch or even a small break in the skin would be enough.

He went inside the tavern. This fine establishment was just a few steps away from the Cathedral- specifically the paved road he thought the King and the Queen would take on their way to the Cathedral. From there he could strike with poisoned arrowheads from his crossbows. He had already paid for the room overlooking the Cathedral.

The tavern was filled with people tonight. Most were men, drinking and singing bad songs. Once he did the deed, he would have to fight his way through these men. Many of them were wise enough to run of course. But many men are foolish.

”A lot of people outside eh?” The bartender asked, old man with white hair combed towards the front to hide the baldness.

He didn't answer. Although his accent wasn't heavy, he couldn't risk being discovered. There were Wismarines living in Heraldshome. He had seen a few and they have migrated here, forgetting their old home which is Wismar. Being of a Wismarine descent wouldn't automatically make one their enemy. But he couldn't risk it.

”Still not a talker huh?” The bartender smiled, crooked teeth showing ”Well your choice” The old bartender's expression grew grim”Don't do it. Once you aimed that crossbow towards them, you will be executed no matter what. Your head would say goodbye to your neck like how you would say goodbye to your life”

He stopped. The boots under his feet grabbed the wooden floor. His hand started reaching for his dagger.

”Poisoned, yes. I know you have poisoned dagger under your cloak. But I assure you lad, you wouldn't be able to present your small dagger”

The men chattering and singing just now stopped. All grim expressions. He saw hate in their eyes- directed towards him. They rose in stiff manners.

Soldiers, he thought, and not just ordinary ones. He had seen those faces. No, not these specific faces but the kind. Castonians. Rooster legion from the looks of it. He gave a small chuckle directed to himself. He was done.

”You knew” He said, accent becoming thick with each words ”Since when?”

”Since you entered the city” The bartender said ”We are not fools. The royal guards are paranoid. You are lucky these lads are not royal guards. But make no mistake, one wrong movement and you will kiss their blades”

”Rooster? All of you?” he asked

”They are. Not me though. I am a mere scribbler, mouth to feed but hands without blood. I write history, gossips and truths. I would have loved to see the festival and record it in my notes but that tale pales compared to this. Assassination...” The scribbler smiled ”Nothing is more an interesting tale than assassins and spies and men in the dark and conspiracies”

”What will happen to me” He asked, half accepting his imminent death.

”I don't know” The scribbler said, shaking his old head ”Only they would know, the people you nearly tried to assassinate”

**********

At long last it was over. The festival would go last until the break of dawn, when roosters crow and people yawns their eyes open. The entire night would be shrouded in songs and melodies of both new and old. But the guests of honor, he and Lucia, were permitted to go home early.

In the end a young lad won as the year's Earsoother. Timothy cast his vote on another bard though, a middle aged who sang 'The Fire in the Castle's Wick'. Although his favorite didn't win, Timothy was happy that it was over.

”The musicians that played last” Lucia suddenly said while walking with him towards the carriage ”They are from Westlime”