13. Invisible Hand (3)
After the auction ended, the path leading out of the caravanserai was shrouded in the pale blue haze of dawn. Zaid had assigned a few guards to follow me, but I was more bothered by the gazes slithering across my back like the air itself than by their footsteps. The successful bidders would be drunk on victory, while the losers seethed with venom. Especially that young knight who had nearly lost his jaw to Miriam's mace—his eyes hadn't been sane.
At the same time, in the shadowy, dilapidated back alleys on the outskirts of the souk, secret passages between them.
"I'll pay whatever it takes. Make it clean, before this night ends. Do that, and I stake the honor of House Letel on your reward."
Yustus slammed a heavy pouch bulging with deniers onto the table, his hand trembling with barely contained rage. Facing his fury-filled glare were two men clad in black. They were fidais of the Nizari Ismaili sect.
"Remember, before the sun rises. Bring me the head of that arrogant bastard, and every blueprint he's hidden away."
One of the men murmured low, as if reconfirming Yustus's words.
"We've already heard Damascus's soldiers are swarming the area."
"That's for you to handle! Why do you think I'm throwing my house's deniers at scum like you? Fail, and there's no bonus—you get nothing!"
Yustus's outburst made him look like a man wagering his life, but even he had his aces: the armor and weapons to block the blades before him, his flimsy house name meaningless to assassins, and his own feeble strength. The fidais' eyebrows twitched at his nagging, but not from anger at his tantrum.
Assassinations normally followed formal requests, acceptances, and staged commands timed perfectly. Yustus's demand was more suited to street thugs or a butcher. The fidais showed no reaction to being treated as mere tools for the elite. The massive deniers he offered and the feasible—if rushed—target left them no choice.
It wasn't some untouchable giant; just one blacksmith artisan. No reason to refuse outright, no accusations of caution or poor timing against the client's wishes. Under that colossal pressure, the two fidais yielded. Lacking perfect timing or observation, the employer's impatience forced them into a speed war over precision. They melted into the darkness soon after.
After spending some quality but brief time with those around me, exhaustion weighed down my heavy limbs as I reached to shed my outer robe—and froze.
Now at the forge, we were in the darkest hour before dawn.
...What the hell? Why does my back feel like it's burning?
That foreboding kept the robe on; even with the Sirion armor beneath, unease stabbed my spine. My instincts thrashed to save me.
No usual pre-dawn chirp of insects. Instead, faint friction on the forge's rough ceiling snagged my senses, along with muffled breaths under masks—from the roof.
Levant ceilings, unfinished and coarse stone, were too rough to fully silence sounds. I yawned loudly on purpose, flopping onto the bed. My hand gripped the custom mace hidden under the pillow.
Pretty cautious bastards. Not like third-rate thugs who strike and run. They waited for full sleep, holding still on the ceiling even as dawn neared.
But impatience won; sunrise spelled their failure. They struck.
Swoosh—the intrusion slipped through the awning gap above the window. Assassin-silent, but Yustus's prodding laced the blade with raw killing intent.
Clang—!
The sharp metallic ring shredded the silence.
"……?!"
A shocked grunt erupted from the dark. The dagger, meant to slice obliquely between ribs and rip the heart, bounced powerless as if hitting a steel boulder.
Unbelieving, he thrust again with his weight into my side—same result. Tough leather and linen over riveted steel scales dispersed the dagger's force, jolting his wrist with heavy recoil.
"I don't know what's going on, but if you're assassinating, time it better!"
With that shout, I used the rebound to kick one with my leg, rolled up swinging the mace like a backspin elbow.
"Gah!"
The kicked assassin rolled groaning—better off than the one whose skull caved under the mace, twitching lifelessly. Beside him, his dagger's tip bent from one stab.
No emotion at the gruesome sight. No time in the frenzy, and I'd braced for this since arriving in this era—body moved before mind.
Down to one, risk downgraded; I eyed the fallen thug dagger and tsked. Contrasting its bend, the Sirion gleamed softly through the torn robe in torch and rising sun.
Thought cut short—I turned to the last, scrambling up, but he crumpled before rising. My iron flail smashed his head from the door-side window.
The torch-bearer was Miriam.
"Teacher, you okay?! Who the hell do they think they are?!"
While I downed one, she'd caved in her intruder's skull. No time to question her arrival before worry and explanation poured out.
"Ah, well... Rashid said rest till sunrise! I was heading to an empty room when I heard noise—close call!"
Her natural explanation laced with concern and relief; suspicious now, but her help secured safety. I sighed relief, patting her head.
"I'm more worried about you. Smashing thugs' heads with a mace barehanded? Problematic."
I dusted the torn robe, yelling outside.
"Damascus brothers out there! Crusader gift delivered—come collect!"
Horseback soldiers swarmed instantly. Fight over.
Two thugs dead, skulls caved by our maces. An officer flipped a corpse roughly—no identifying marks. Just pouches of fresh, markless deniers.
"Markless silver. Thorough."
He bit one—pure, but sourced anonymously, hinting at a wealthy, powerful client. Not common coin; 'clean money' for the hit proved their professionalism.
"No live ones means hard to trace. We'll take gear and silver for investigation."
I nodded, shedding the rags. Sirion's steel scales gleamed coldly in morning sun—no scratches from the dagger. Soldiers' eyes filled with awe.
"Teacher, can't they catch the perp with these coins? Obviously that knight!"
Miriam fumed. I nudged the bent dagger.
"No proof, just suspicion. Hashashins work that way—their value includes shielding clients."
Partial pouches kept, traces erased. Yustus's haste killed them here, but their 'nothingness' complicated my calculations.
Not hopeless. Knowing the perp and convicting him were separate. Unrevealed guilt would rile Damascus bidders with unease.
"Catching him's their job. We do ours."
Calming her, I unrolled blueprints inside.
The dagger-bounce sensation lingered.
Daggers can't pierce. So, what will?
Artisan instinct stirred. Its defense saved me, but testing it sparked ideas to breach such 'unfair' protection.
If armor defied common sense, spears needed fiercer evolution. Weapon history's cycle and curse.
"Miriam, wake Rashid. Hammers ring louder from today."
"Huh? Assassins just left, and work now?"
Her brows furrowed—beautiful even narrowed, but her actions rough. She blocked my workshop path, shoved me to bed.
Resistible with size difference, but fatigue betrayed; I flopped onto the pallet against my will. She lay beside, sinking deep, arms brushing.
Hashashin tension gone; her small, firm hands kneaded my shoulder.
"Teacher, stubborn much? Near-death, and hammers?!"
Her shadow blocked sun atop me, brows knit angrily—but eyes swirled worry and relief, not the skull-crusher's ferocity.
Her faint sweat and forge soot tickled my nose. Thin fabric warmth erased cold scales.
"Idea hit. Quick fin—"
"No. You need sleep, not blueprints. I'll watch—no dreaming."
She buried her head on my chest, limbs entwining like a beast guarding treasure. Her rough life made 'worry' so bold, certain.
"Hey, Miriam. This is a bit—"
"Shut it. Rashid okayed rest today. Sleep, or I'll knock you out."
She flexed a fist; I chuckled, relaxing. Unthinkable rudeness normally, but today her shield felt safest.
Her breaths evened—fatigue from clash hitting her too. Her heat seeped through Sirion's plates; my taut mind blurred.
Fine, weapons tomorrow won't hurt.
Outside noise faded. Sun baked forge walls. On the small bed for two, I slept deep, cradling Miriam's warmth.
It was, perhaps, my first true rest in this era.