From Highlord Ariakas,
Greetings:
It is your distinct honor to abandon your current enterprise and report immediately to the Northern Army Encampment on the plaza of the Temple of Luerkhisis.
Kith looked up, frowned a moment at his bald companion, and said, “You’re right. I’ve got to go.”
A pudgy-fingered hand clamped onto Kith’s arm. “Let’s see your cards first.”
With no sign of his former reluctance, Kith tossed down a whole lot of nothing, not a crown or a digger anywhere in his meld. The fat man’s tight grimace turned into a broad smile as he showed his winning hand: three gold crowns and two silver. His corpulent fingers snapped up the coins before him.
Kith watched in what might have been dazed disbelief. “Thank you for the entertainment, my friend-”
“Jamison’s the name,” the fat man replied, and he scraped the last of his coin pile into his bulging purse. “Remember it.”
Kith repeated the name, nodding. “Jamison, yes. Jamison. I thought I’d finally found you. My true name is Bulmammon, Aurak assassin. Don’t write it down. You’ll have no need of remembering it.”
Jamison raised his astonished gaze in time to see Kith’s sword descending. It was the last sight he saw. The sword cleaved through bone and muscle. Kith snipped the purse strings dangling beneath a loose hand. The sack dropped, was caught short by Kith’s darting hand.
Gasps of breath from the messenger and the barkeep, and the taproom went deadly quiet. The young man took another step back, and a third, until he ran up against an empty table.
Kith tied the purse of gold to his waist. Turning, he glanced at the shaken youth. “Oh, come now,” Kith sneered. “You were told I was an Aurak assassin, weren’t you?”
The young man nodded a stunned confirmation.
“You were told I was the best, right?” Kith continued.
Another nod. “Absolutely the best. That’s what Colonel Armon said.” He added lamely, “It’s just… I’ve never seen an Aurak draconian before.”
Kith gestured with irritation. “So stop shaking like an elf maid who’s seen a spider! You’ve seen one now.”
Somewhere in midsentence, the assassin had ceased to be a tall, lean human. He had transformed, changing into an imposing, gold-tinted draconian. Toothy jaws snapped once. A riffle of pleasure ran from the tip of Kith’s snout, shivered his distinctive red coxcomb, and rippled down a leather-plated back, all the way to the tip of the creature’s muscular tail.
“Well,” he said, his voice deeper, coldly reptilian, and dangerously sober, “Ariakas said immediately. Let’s
go.” The Aurak’s clawed hand snagged the youth’s
unchevroned sleeve and brusquely propelled him toward the door. As the pair made its exit, Bulmammon grinned at the barkeep. “It’d be best for you to get a mop and a shovel and forget what you’ve seen.”
The man nodded eagerly and scurried away to comply.
Outside the tavern, in the dusty slum street, Sanction’s ever-present tang of sulfur and steam hung in the air. The draconian strode rapidly up the sloping road, his tail tip sending a snake of dust coiling into the sky.
The young messenger was having a difficult time keeping up with the Aurak. He broke into a run. “Master Krowly, don’t forget. I was ordered to accompany you,” the messenger said, panting.
“Master Krowly does not exist anymore. He was a yokel I killed so that I could take his shape and hunt down Jamison. My name is Captain Bulmammon, elite assassin for Highlord Ariakas. What is your name?”
The last time Bulmammon asked for a person’s name, the person ended up in two hunks of meat on the floor. The youth’s hand fell to the oversized dagger he wore conspicuously at his belt.
“Karl,” he said warily. “I am Private Karl Baeron.”
“Private Baeron,” the draconian snapped, “your orders are to accompany me. My orders are to report immediately. I’m responsible only for my own compliance.”
Private Baeron flushed at the rebuke. An uncomfortable silence fell between the two. Uncomfortable as far as the private was concerned. The messenger tried to make conversation. “Is Bulmammon your family name, or your personal name, Captain?”
“I have no family,” the Aurak replied curtly. “No friends. One cannot be an assassin otherwise.”