Boroka

By GJ Kelly

Boroka. Northernmost city-state in western Carpidia, where once upon a time Albionus Eventyde famously blew the mighty doors off the southern fort and liberated the land from the iron grip of a warlord.

Boroka. Rumoured home of The Black Rose.

The Black Rose, the so-called guild of assassins, a deadly sorority of female killers for hire; killers with a reputation for infallibility. And even though people believe Boroka is where the headquarters of this vile death-cult can be found, nobody knows exactly where, and few, if any, are prepared to look.

Yarmian Eventyde believes he knows where the secret lair is located, and since Boroka is only a stone's throw from his final destination, the Isle of Sinnock, he sets himself a simple task: Go to Boroka. Find the secret lair of The Black Rose, and destroy them all.

They have it coming.

• Language: English
• Publisher: GJ Kelly
• Release date: Jan 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798215300480

GJ Kelly

GJ Kelly was born near the white cliffs of Dover, England, in 1960. He spent a significant part of his early life in various parts of the world, including the Far East, Middle East, the South Atlantic, and West Africa. Later life has seen him venture to the USA, New Zealand, Europe, and Ireland. He began writing while still at school, where he was president of the Debating Society and won the Robb Trophy for public speaking. He combined his writing with his technical skills as a professional Technical Author and later as an internal communications specialist. His first novel was "A Country Fly" and he is currently writing a new Fantasy title.He engages with readers and answers questions at:http://www.goodreads.com/GJKelly and also at https://www.patreon.com/GJ_Kelly

Book preview

Prologue

She’s still coming!

She was. And drawing a wicked-looking knife from her thigh-length black patent leather boots. I hadn’t noticed them before, but now a distant part of my mind saw the skirt, cut very short for quiet mobility, the expanse of tanned thigh, and then the boots and the weapons tucked into them. My recent friend from Farakand, Spud, would’ve been impressed by those thighs and that skirt and those boots…

I managed to push myself up onto my knees, my hands pressing into my abdomen, trying to massage away the pain, trying to force air into my lungs, eyes fixed on her casual approach. She moved like a cat, slinking along, smoothly, effortlessly covering the ground. She the cat, and I the mouse, and the knife in her hand as cold and as hard and as sharp as those reddish-brown eyes of hers.

And my stick was still nowhere to be seen…

Run, Wizzen. A distinctly feminine voice breathed in the darkness, a little throatily and, shockingly, faintly alluring. Run. I am Nira. I am death.

oOo

1. A Faint Breeze

The Tamarind sails for Boroka with the tide tomorrow afternoon, Master Ye. Are you sure you really want to leave so soon? It seems like only yesterday that you and the men returned from Tuksmount.

It’s July already, Ranquin, and I don’t wish to outstay my welcome.

After everything you’ve done for me and my business, and indeed for Carpidia? You’re welcome in my house whenever you like, and for as long as you like. I hope you know that?

Thank you. And I truly appreciate it. But I still have much work to do, and it begins in Boroka. Besides, in this particular month, the winds at sea are very light, as I’m sure you know. Ships’ captains often curse the lack of steerageway out there when the winds drop to next to nothing.

Yes, that’s true. July is notorious for seeing ships becalmed in the middle of the Carpidian Sea.

And it’s two hundred miles from Farakand to Boroka, as the pigeon flies. It could take days to get there. When in the afternoon will the Tamarind leave?

"According to Captain Furst, shortly after two o’ the dial. We will have lunch before you leave, Master Ye?"

Will you ever call me just plain old Ye, Ranquin?

I’m sorry… It’s not that I’m a stickler for formality, you understand… but you are, or possibly were, a Retributioner of the Isle, and deserving of respect.

Well… as long as you know that I’ve long regarded you as a friend, Ranquin.

I do, and thank you for that.

Has there been any more news from the Isle?

Not since Master Verner and I last spoke, no. At least, none that I’m aware of.

I nodded, and a comfortable silence ensued while we sat drinking tea in the shade of the tree in Dutt’s garden, listening to the gurgling of the nearby fountain and the chirping of birds bathing and splashing in the water’s edge. It was hot, unsurprisingly given that it was July, though only the second day thereof. Friday afternoon in Farakand, and tomorrow I would leave on one of Dutt’s affiliated ships, the Tamarind, bound for Boroka… I did indeed have business there.

Dutt’s earlier mentioning of my being a Retributioner, or having been one, was a direct reference to news given to him by one of Farakand’s five resident Permanentus Wizzens. Master Verner, the youngest of them, had informed my host and benefactor that the Isle had quietly sent word, requesting that Verner look into the identity of the alleged Retributioner who’d recently destroyed the WarWizzen of Tuksmount, Paracellus, the now-deceased Master o’ the Robe and former Beldane Councillor. It was just another reason for my wishing not to prolong my stay here in Ranquin Dutt’s luxurious villa.

The Beldane Council had, as I and Ranquin had suspected it might, put it about that the warlord, who with his ‘army of malcontents’ recently threatened four lands and spread fear throughout north-eastern Carpidia, had in fact been put down by a powerful Retributioner. The relatively new Philostrate, Kurster (the murderous bastard), had thus taken credit for ridding the region of the very real WarWizzen of Tuksmount, though the army of malcontents had in reality been nothing more than a large band of hill people, dangerous at the best of times, and even more so when cowed and commanded by Paracellus. Paracellus, permanently disfigured as the result of a youthful mischant, really had been quite mad.

Yet, Kurster was no fool; he had learned, by one means or another, that it was one Master Ye, a powerful young Wizzen, who’d ventured out into the Jumtuk wilds, and set about destroying that insane WarWizzen, decimating the army of malcontents in the process. Nowhere, of course, in the registers of Wizzenry there on the Isle of Sinnock, was the name ‘Ye’ to be found. It was merely a hastily-invented acronym of mine, derived from the initial letters of my real name, Yarmian Eventyde, back when Ranquin Dutt and I had first met; that had been more than a decade ago… thirteen years, in fact.

Kurster had wanted me dead for a long time, even though he’s never known who I really am. I’d learned Kurster’s name for the very first time when, while in Thellesene and in my naïveté, I’d sent a message under the name ‘Ye’ to the Isle of Sinnock:

MP.Pulgar and MBR.Albionus murdered by a Wizzen.

MP.P in April, MBR.A in June.

Leaving Thellesene. Following scent of killer.

Jaws in Arpane. Maharis actively hunting Wizzens.

MT.YE

Master of the Temparus, YE. I had received a reply, too, from Kurster, and I remembered it all very well in spite of the intervening years. The message from the Isle of Sinnock had been simple and concise:

Stay where you are.

Kurster, MBR.BC

I wasn’t that naïve, not even back then when I’d first left home. I’d promptly gone looking for The Idalina down at the docks, and finding her not, I’d taken a room in The Golden Parrot, a very large and very popular dockside establishment with a reasonable reputation among mariners. There, I’d decided to wait a day or two for Tiresian and his ship to put in.

While in Thellesene, I’d discovered the identity of my father’s murderer… stepfather, you snot-nosed toe-rag! Yes, master Albionus… The murderer, Evrard, Master o’ the Robe, and Retributioner of the Isle of Sinnock. I’d also discovered in his abandoned house the Volume Two of the Permanentus Permanentarium, and had liberated it from his possessions. I’d also found hidden there a slip of paper bearing the name Ranquin Dutt, Farakand, and determined to discover who this man Dutt was, and what he had to do with the murder of Albionus.

Thus had been set in motion a chain of events which had led me to this very garden, and to this very fellow, without whose aid I might still be hunting for my stepfather’s killer.

Thus too had Kurster set in motion events which had seen his name firmly stamped at the top of my ‘list’. No sooner had I taken that room at The Golden Parrot than my door had been kicked in by a bunch of murderous goons in the employ of a Thellesene ganglord, Bruud Hawgarth…

Since I could remember all of that perfectly clearly, I had no doubt that Kurster could, too. He might be suffering some confusion from the fact that his initial (and only) contact with a Wizzen named Ye, or YE, had come from a humble Temparus all those years ago. Now, though, he’d been told that a Wizzen named Ye had gone toe-to-toe with Paracellus, and had destroyed the wretched WarWizzen. Possibly it had been that confusion which had seen Kurster quietly, sneakily even, asking Verner, Permanentus of Farakand, to sniff around in order to positively identify me.

However… since the Beldane Council had in fact contracted The Black Rose cult of witchery-assisted female assassins to murder me a little more than ten years ago, they’d long believed me dead. That small but not insignificant fact had been confirmed to me by none other than Beardy, one of the Isle’s Inquisitors, who’d stumbled upon me on the cliffs above Bayham. Now though, in light of recent events, Kurster might not be so sure of The Black Rose’s claim to infallibility where murder was concerned.

For me, this was all good enough reason for my intention to leave my friend Dutt’s house sooner rather than later, in spite of this month’s notorious reputation amongst Carpidia’s mariners. I really didn’t want to be the cause any trouble which might come knocking on his doors as it so often had on mine.

Jok and Kalen… I mean Spud… wish to accompany you to the docks and see you safely aboard the Tamarind tomorrow. I would have ordered them to do so even if they hadn’t asked. I hope you don’t mind?

No, not at all. As long as they understand we shan’t be stopping at any dockside taverns along the way.

Dutt chuckled. No, they wouldn’t dream of doing that. They’re well-used to escorting valuables for me, and wouldn’t dream of jeopardising their duties with drink.

"Oh, so I’m a valuable now, am I?" I smiled before taking a sip of tea.

In their eyes? Yes, you probably are. In mine, too, if I’m honest. These days, it’s rare to meet a righteous man, Master Ye, especially a young one. Besides, it takes a great deal to impress those two fellows, and you certainly impressed them.

They’re good men, I declared, and earnestly at that, for they certainly were.

That they are. They’ve truly appreciated your dining with them on occasion, these past weeks, and they certainly appreciated your trust in them. You need have no fear of any breach of confidences which you may have shared with them during your adventures together.

I know. They’re nothing like I’d first imagined them to be. Spud’s particularly erudite. I rather got used to having them around during our short time out in the wilds together. I think I’ll actually miss their company, in spite of Jok’s deliberately dropping his aitches to annoy me.

Must you go? So soon?

Yes. I believe I’ve mentioned to you that the Philostrate has no love for me, nor I for him. His making enquiries of Verner about me set alarm bells ringing, and you should take care, Ranquin. If it weren’t for the fact that the Isle has so few Inquisitors at their disposal these days, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if one didn’t turn up outside your door.

I keep my ear to the ground as you know, Master Ye, and I’m fairly sure I’d know in good time if an Inquisitor had been sent to interrogate me. You say there are few of them?

There were only three, ten years ago anyway. One on the west coast about his duties, and two still in training on the Isle. I suppose it’s possible that the trainees might have qualified by now, but even if they have, I understand that the Isle likes to keep one permanently employed in the business of vetting prospective candidates for the Cloisters. Still, my friend, you mustn’t be complacent where the Isle and its interest in me is concerned. I’m not sure you should entirely trust Verner and the other Wizzens of Farakand either, but that may be my own prejudice speaking.

I appreciate and understand your concern, my friend. I’ll advise Evangelina to be particularly cautious of any strangers requesting entry. Mind you, she always is.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Dutt smiling to himself, before he confirmed my suspicions about his relationship with the Maharran beauty by adding quietly:

Long has she been the jewel in my crown.

He hid the smile by taking a sip of tea, before uttering a faint sigh and returning his cup to the silver tray between us.

I hope my library has served you well, Master Ye?

Thank you, yes. At least I know something of what to expect when I get to Boroka.

"It is a strange place, but not without its charms. Its coastlines provide a good living from the sea, and on occasion strange things, and rarely strange people, are found washed up on its northern shore. Dusty, arid even in places, with a great rocky expanse to the west slowly bleeding into sandy, almost desert-like terrain."

You’ve been there yourself?

Oh yes. I travelled in my youth, taking ship to learn all the business of trade.

Ah, of course.

"I don’t know if the books mentioned it, but you’ll find two modes of dress among the locals there. The more traditional folk wear jillabas, ankle-length robes which the Maharrans call thobes, together with a long-tailed cloth headdress or turban, and sandals. Others have adopted rather more modern garb, such as we’re wearing now... they call it southern garb. And, my friend, don’t judge a fellow by his clothing; wearing the traditional garb does not always indicate poverty, and wearing southern garb does not always indicate wealth."

Thanks for the advice.

Dutt shrugged. The Sultan of Boroka himself is said to wear both, according to whim and to circumstance. Sometimes he’s seen in trousers, shirt, and a formal jewel-studded tunic, and at others, in the simpler jillaba and the turban-like headdress, though his are of course magnificent, trimmed in purple and gold. Oh, don’t wear anything purple there, that colour’s reserved for the Sultan and his extended family. Where you see purple, you’ll also see guardsmen armed with scimitars and with stout truncheons in hand.

Bodyguards?

Precisely. It’s ceremonial, of course, rather than a necessity. But Boroka has a long memory, and I’m sure you’re aware of events leading to the intervention of Albionus Eventyde? How General Makhtoul rose up, slaughtered the then Sultan and almost his entire extended family?

I am. The family all wearing purple must’ve made it easy for the General’s men to mark them for death. I’m also aware that The Black Rose was hired by Makhtoul to dispose of the three resident Wizzens of Boroka, and that was why Albionus was sent to dispense retribution.

"The Butcher of Boroka. Yes, I recall our first meeting, and your mentioning Albionus. I was terrified that you’d been sent by the Isle to act on Evrard’s behalf, and do away with me."

That was a long time ago now, Ranquin.

I know. I am, however, still ashamed by my panicked reaction. I had thought myself made of somewhat sterner stuff after all my youthful adventures aboard ships.

Ranquin, anyone finding a Retributioner of the Isle unexpectedly in their house would be terrified, and so they should be.

Perhaps. But it was a seminal moment for me, and I am a better person now for the experience. I’m far more relaxed, and far less driven than I used to be. D’you know, I’ve even contemplated retiring. Certainly I’m wealthy enough.

But?

Dutt sighed. But too many people now depend upon me for their livelihoods. From spies to ships’ crews, managers to messengers… there are people all over Carpidia who depend upon my business, just as my business depends upon them. I cannot simply walk away and abandon them. And you, Master Ye? Have you not considered settling in one place, your wielding to provide you with a stable living?

Dayna Reyalis of Coldharbor…

Once I did, yes. Once… a long time ago. Maybe further on down the road another chance for me to settle down might arise, who knows? But not now. Not while I have business in Boroka to attend to, and then, once that is completed, well then I have to address matters on the Isle of Sinnock, matters which have long required my attention.

A faint breeze rustled the leaves in the tree under whose shade we sat, and it seemed like my words, which had sounded a little hard even to my ears, had made the boughs shudder…

oOo

2. The Bridge

After dining well with Ranquin Dutt on this the last night in his villa (possibly the last night ever, for me at least), I retired to my room to prepare for my impending departure on the morrow. Good clothing had been provided for me, including both modern garb and that traditional variety Dutt had declared would be found in Boroka. I packed both into my backpack, together with fresh beefsticks courtesy of one of Ranquin’s esteemed Farakand butchers.

I also had the brass telescopus, collapsed to its smallest size, stuffed in there too; Jok had gifted it to me, and though I didn’t expect ever to need it, it would’ve felt decidedly churlish to leave it behind. There were other bits and bobs, a bag of wooden Corky-coins should I need to make money on my travels, some keepsakes (like the green stone fishhook I’d held on to for some reason, all this time), a couple of slender books… well… I suppose most of these things were mementos of times gone by. My inventory of personal belongings made for a short list.

Naturally I also had the contents of my pockets, which had journeyed far with me, and which I would miss if ever I lost them, and I had Ranquin Dutt’s new ‘coin’ dangling from a sturdy copper bracelet fitted securely about my left wrist. The copper band ought to last a lot longer than the thong I’d used for the medal I’d lost somewhere out in the Jumtuk wilderness. Sitting on the bed and looking at the token, holding my hand up before me, I found myself wondering if I’d ever need one of Ranquin’s affiliated messengers and their services again...

Probably not. If I survived going up against The Black Rose in their own territory, why then it would be but a short hop across the water to the Isle of Sinnock, and the final confrontation with Kurster, Philostrate of all Wizzenry, and his equally culpable comrades in the Beldane Council chamber, Arrapthane and Norridus. I knew all about those three, thanks to my ten years held captive in a gilded cage by Marragus, the greenwood entity. Similarly, I’d known about Paracellus too, and his powerful Scimitar of Izen, which had almost done for me during our battle at Amalfud…

What I did not know, and neither apparently had Marragus, was how all the other Beldane Councillors, MBRs, Sinnithans and Permanentus Wizzens on the Isle of Sinnock might react to my going up against their Philostrate, Kurster. And that was why, of necessity, The Black Rose took precedence over the Isle on my ‘to do list’.

All around Carpidia, according to Dutt, Wizzens returned from their self-imposed exile during the purge were doing their duty where Lesser mystics were concerned; a duty which previously I’d undertaken alone. The Black Rose, however, employed witchery to aid them in their foul business, and no other Wizzen but me (or so I believed) would dare go up against them. Me, Yarmian Eventyde, trained by Albionus Eventyde, the Butcher of Boroka, and trained to do the right thing at that.

I’d toyed with the idea of revealing my true name to Ranquin Dutt during my stay here in these luxurious quarters, but I soon realised that it would put him in additional danger from Kurster and the others on the Isle; it was still entirely possible that Kurster would send that one Inquisitor I’d known to be active over on the west coast, across the Carpidian Sea and here to Farakand. Dutt would stand no chance of keeping secrets in any interrogation by one of those. No. Maybe, one day, I might reveal the truth to my benefactor. Maybe. But until then, what he didn’t know, couldn’t hurt him.

Kurster had occupied too many of my thoughts of late, and I knew I needed to set him aside until after Boroka. Only once I’d destroyed the vile cult of assassins known as The Black Rose should I even allow Kurster to occupy the smallest of spaces between my ears. The Black Rose would be troublesome enough, after all, and there was no guarantee of my surviving any encounter with them.

They should have been eradicated a long, long time ago. I wondered if in fact Albionus hadn’t visited some kind of retribution upon them; or at least tried to, after the would-be warlord Makhtoul had hired the Rose to kill the three Wizzens of Boroka when they’d attempted to depose the General and reverse his military uprising. Maybe my stepfather had been too preoccupied with blowing the bloody great doors off the southern fort and slaughtering the 200 men within its walls. He’d certainly never mentioned going up against the Rose to me.

Still, the cult remained. I got the impression from snippets of information gleaned from Dutt’s library, and a few conversations here and there, that the rulers of Carpidia were all so deathly afraid of the Rose’s reputation for infallibility that they’d tacitly decided to leave well alone. It was believed, though never proven, that members of the deadly cult might even be scattered far and wide, and would only be summoned into action when necessary by instructions sent to them from Boroka.

Certainly the one who’d been sent to kill me hadn’t been dwelling in Brenneth when Dutt had sent word there, warning me that the Rose had been hired to kill me. It’d been Master Iarnus, the one-armed Permanentus, who’d adjured me to run, and to head out into the snow-covered wilds, the better to be able to spot the assassin from a safe distance…

Remain in Brenneth and they’ll find you. And you won’t know who the beesh is that’s sent to kill you. A barmaid? The girl in the bookshop? A lass in the bakery, that lady in the street with the shopping-basket, a fisherman’s wife, the cook’s kitchen-maid, or that pretty young thing giving you the eye in the butcher’s shop? You won’t be able to trust any woman in Brenneth!

And he’d been quite right. Out into the wilds I’d gone, with Pandan the marvellous mule, and it was there that the Rose had killed that faithful and noble animal friend of mine. Because of that foul and calculated deed, intended to leave me to freeze to death in the frozen wilds in bleak midwinter, the Izengate within me had first flown open…

It was also there, in the aftermath of Pandan’s cruel and senseless death, that I’d tortured that foul beesh to within an inch of her wretched witchery-assisted life, learned where to find The Black Rose in Boroka, and left her to perish in the snow. She’d had it coming. So too do all of her foul cult. It’d been from Iarnus of Brenneth too that I learned something of their history…

The Black Rose was formed a very long time ago. It’s said, or rather rumoured, that their founder was an adept witch, and though it’s also said she wasn’t of the evil variety, still she was persecuted for her witchery when she refused to serve men and warlords who wanted to use her powers for their ends. She fled, and took her coven of mystic healers with her. This vague history I only vaguely recall myself, from my time in the Cloisters. The library’s books spoke of this coven taking in waifs and strays, girls every one of them, to protect them from predation by men… the beginnings of this secret coven were back in the dark times before the Isle’s supremacy over the Lesser Mystics brought some kind of civilisation to the region…

But the witch-leader never forgot the persecution she’d suffered, and took to training her expanding coven in the ways and means of defence, then attack, and this naturally inclined them later to secretly disposing of their enemies, silently and efficiently. Thus was born The Black Rose. Once adept in the healing arts, it became adept in the use of poisons as well as common weapons. It remains still, secretive, their lair hidden away somewhere, and no-one, not even the Isle, knows where for sure...

To hire them, word is quietly put out through the Slaver’s Guild, and eventually, the person seeking to hire the Rose is contacted, the target named, a price agreed and paid. And then later, the target dies.

No-one knows where their secret lair is? Not true, Master Iarnus. Not true. I know. Why else would I be travelling to Boroka tomorrow?

When I woke on the morning of Saturday, July 3rd, it was with sunlight knifing through a narrow gap between the curtains and shining directly in my face. I shuffled about on the bed to avoid it, and tried to return to sleep; it was extremely early, or so I judged by the silence of the villa. In the two weeks or so that I’d been a guest in Ranquin’s household, I’d become accustomed to its routines, the regular comings and goings, mealtimes, and so on. Knowing that I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep again, I rose, donned a robe and slippers, and with my trusty stick in hand, took myself downstairs for an early bath before anyone else was up and about.

It was, I judged when I’d freshened up and returned to my room to dress, well before six o’ the morning dial. Still, I knew that the ship due to carry me to Boroka might find itself becalmed out there in the middle of the Carpidian Sea, and thus it might be days before I could next enjoy the comforts that a freshwater bath and good soap might provide. I dressed in comfortable, airy summer clothing, confirmed that my backpack was as I’d left it last night, and carried it downstairs.

It was cool outside, and sitting on the bench under the tree near the gurgling fountain was pleasant, not simply for the gentle breezes, but for the silence. For long moments I simply sat there, enjoying the morning, the peace, and the solitude.

The calm before the storm.

Yes.

You could give it up. Forget your list. Abandon Carpidia, and find a new life for yourself.

No, I really can’t. Marragus had given me that new life, a blissful life lived with Sylvee of Corf, on an island out in the ocean, or on an island which had existed only in my mind and put there by the greenwood entity. That life hadn’t simply been a distraction from the ten years he’d spent teaching me so that I could go up against the Isle, but also as a reward both for entertaining him, and for what I was going to do. He’d given me what I’d dreamed of so many times, so that now, sitting in Dutt’s garden on a balmy Saturday morning in Farakand, I wouldn’t listen to the voice in my head wittering on about finding a new life for yourself. I’d already had it.

In truth, the names on my ‘list’ had dwindled somewhat; names being struck off along the way, some of them fairly promptly after being added. Who was left now?

Fillius Oban, the wretch who’d set me up for capture by Silman Barr of Narrespoint, all those years ago. Oban could well be dead already for all I knew, and Silman Barr, the lunatic, certainly was. Besides, I was pretty sure that Tiresian of the Idalina would have Fillius Oban on his list, and T’resian was far more likely to encounter the bloke than me now.

Then there were Brenka, Kroner, and the crew of the Threllbane. I’d done for six of Brenka’s crew when they’d attacked a homestead near Bayham, and sent the ship packing with a few iBalls up its transom. Brenka, and his first mate Kroner, were also far more likely to fall foul of T’resian than me now, and for all I knew, they might well have done so already. Maybe I’d ask one of Ranquin Dutt’s messengers to check their registers when I got to Boroka, and find out if Threllbane was still afloat. Maybe. The Threllbane and its crew really weren’t important to me now.

That left the Portlord Maharis of Arpane, for setting two Izenjaws on me. That’d been thirteen years ago now too, and I’d since learned that the Isle had taken action on that account; Maharis had disposed of his Izenjaws by having them towed out to sea on a hulk, and the hulk fired and sunk. Did I really care about Maharis now? To tell the truth, not really, though if I happened to bump into him in a dark alley in Boroka there might be a reckoning. It was of course unlikely, though.

And who did that leave? The Black Rose, and the Beldane Councillors Kurster (now Philostrate, for carpsake), Arrapthane, and Norridus. It’d been those three MBRs who’d ordered Evrard abroad to seek out and kill Albionus Eventyde, as well as any and all of his former apprentices. For why the apprentices? For they couldn’t take the risk that Albionus hadn’t taught his students of the misdeeds of those three murderous bastards on the Isle.

So then… Everyone else except the Rose and the trio of MBRs were either dead or no longer important to me now. And though it seemed decidedly incongruous to me in the here and the now, sitting in the shade and listening to chirping birds and the gurgling fountain on this beautiful Farakand morning, I thought about the many I had killed since leaving home. As I recalled, the number had risen to 62 before my imprisonment on the island in Greenwater Lake. But even that number was approximate. I’d sunk The Elkin, and Thresher had been sent to the bottom too, so I had no idea how many of those crewmen’s lives I’d been directly responsible for ending. Then there were the hill people recently, out in the wilds of Jumtuk. In the Battle of North Hill, I hadn’t been counting, as busy as I was fighting for my life, while Jok and Spud were taking their toll too.

Then there were all the Lessers, the witches and sorcerers, and the sea-goddess Tripitane, Kallamallakaya. Four masters o’ the Robe too, and those of course I could name: Evrard, Kordellen, Beardy, and most recently Paracellus. Three Izenjaws had I done for too, and one embryo thereof, as well as the Snapjaw in the wilds most recently.

A busy three years then, after subtracting the ten spent in the clutches of the greenwood entity. Should I feel ashamed? Bugger that, they’d all had it coming. Besides, it was still barely a month since I’d left Coldharbor, and the shock of losing not one but two loves in one fell swoop still left me feeling emotionally numb. Perhaps that too was just as well, since going up against a cult of allegedly infallible assassins was hardly a task to be contemplated, much less undertaken, while suffering any kind of emotional turmoil.

And so there I sat, shrugging off such thoughts, silencing the voice in my head by concentrating instead on listening to the birdsong, watching the birds splashing and chirping in the shallow basin of the fountain, and enjoying the peace and quiet of the morning. I’d have plenty of time aboard ship to ponder my future (or lack thereof), my past, and how I’d go about tackling matters once I’d reached Boroka. After all, I knew where the secret lair of The Black Rose was located. What I didn’t know yet was how to get in there.

Cross that bridge when I get to it.

oOo

3. Death Wish

Thank you for the breakfast, Ranquin. Marvellous as usual. I doubt it’ll leave much room for our last lunch together, though.

Bah, he smiled and waved an airy hand. And lunch will be light, given the heat of the day to come. Besides, you might be stuck eating ships’ rations for days on end out there on the Carpidian, and I wanted to give you at least one decent meal to remember on your journey.

I smiled, and nodded, and dabbed my lips with a napkin before taking a sip of tea.

You know, he offered quietly, There’s still plenty of time to change your mind. Stay a while longer? The winds will pick up again towards the end of the month.

I know. Thank you, my friend, but I daren’t surround myself with comforts for too long, lest I become soft and slow. There’s a reason for my travelling to Boroka, and I’ll need all my strength and my wits about me there.

You never did tell me how you escaped The Black Rose I warned you about.

!

Shrug, as nonchalantly as I could. "She’s dead, I’m not, what’s to tell? And what in sight o’ the sun made you suddenly think of that on this fine Farakandian morning?"

"Ah, Master Ye, you know I’m no fool. And while it’s true I know little about the politics of the Isle, I do know that once a Retributioner, always a Retributioner was something of a common saying in days gone by. Though I don’t think it was intended as a compliment?"

Probably not. I’ve never heard it said myself, however.

Actually, neither have I, except in conversations and in books. Fabletales, mostly. But still, here’s you, quietly sipping Maharran tea, packed and ready for a journey to Boroka, where The Black Rose is rumoured to maintain their secret lair. You, Master Ye, a Retributioner, whether officially or not now that Kurster is Philostrate, and you, once a target for assassination by the Rose. My business empire, such as it is, relies on my ability to spot links, trends, and patterns.

Hmm. Well, apparently, they never take the same contract twice, or so I’ve been told. It’s why I’ve not been constantly looking over my shoulder.

"And it’s true. The Rose has a reputation to uphold, you know. But even if they were still hunting you after all these years, you’ve changed greatly, probably far beyond their recognition."

?

It’s true, Ye. Although you don’t appear to have aged physically since the last time I saw you, there is a hardness in you now. A kind of steeliness. Gone the feigned limp you adopted in the past, gone too the hints of youthful humour around the eyes. You are become a serious fellow, about a very serious business.

I was about a very serious business when first we met, Ranquin.

Evrard, yes, I know. But you forget, I have eyes and ears all over Carpidia, and I confess I have kept something of a watchful eye on you, up until you disappeared in Coldharbor.

A fatherly eye?

I wouldn’t dare to be so presumptuous. Avuncular, perhaps? Yes, avuncular, I think.

"You’ve been leading up to something, Ranquin. Simply say it. There’s no need to beat about the bush with me, I