Beloved Assassin
Standing coyly at the edge of the room, Belinda parted her dusky lips suggestively. Her skin powdered to a cloying white, a green square over her mouth and noise, another such square covered one perfect ear. Her teeth glinted in the light; a perfect contrast. Her mask was pearlised gold fading to glittering amethyst. Her gown of purple and green satins was encrusted with golden sea pearls. She was a Courtesan.
She was a Beloved Assassin, whose school of thought held that nobility would fall in love with known danger. What they had failed to tell her was of the risk to the assassin. Not counter-assassins nor guards but love itself. Assassins were chosen by the victim themselves once a contract was made. The Courtesan then lived a year and a day as the victim’s companion. Doing their bidding and entertaining.
Most often the aristocrat would fall in love and could not bring themselves to kill the beauty that has been by their side. Counter-Assassins were employed at the beginning of a contract and could not be rescinded. Belinda watched Shamish sail in a graceful arch across the dance floor, golden hair streaming down the sides of a dark blue metallic mask fading to baby blue at the cheeks. This was a masked death ball. It was in her honor. Could she kill that which she had come to love?
If she did not, the Guild would hunt her down and use her for training. Belinda regretted the things she had not said but it was too late now.
A strange ringing began as she took a knife from a feathered glove. The dancers whorled by once more, on reflex she threw. Not at the torso – where there would be armour – but at the neck. It was a glancing blow, she never missed, but this time she had. Shamish slumped anyway. Belinda stepped forward, the counter-assassins blade narrowly missing her. She spun reflexively, crushing their wind pipe. Sorrow filled her as she saw it was a maid-friend.
She knelt beside Shamish. ‘You going to finish the job?’ the girl laughed through bubbles of blood duller than the make-up.
‘It was finished as soon as the blade touched you,’ she whispered. The girl nodded. Belinda lent down, kissing salted blood away. ‘I love you’ she whispered. They held hands, as Shamish began to fit, body contorting and twisting into a shallow slumber.
‘Assassin, go’ said a harsh voice, Belinda turned; the Supreme Lady Shamish’s mother shook in rage.
‘No’ she said simply and lay down on the floor next to the dying girl.
‘I will have the guards kill you’ she hissed.
‘That is against etiquette,’ she murmured, ‘It does not matter, I am dead, the poison’s in her blood.’, she said quietly and closed her eyes. She hoped the fits where not painful.
She heard the Supreme Lady sobbing and another voice, that of the contractor. She threw her second knife. She never missed.
Posted: Thursday, June 9th, 2011 @ 6:18 pm
Categories: Flash Fiction.
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