The Business of De'Rus Sa'lim (1011 hits)
Category: NoneLabels: assassin
Rating: 2 on 26 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Stagger Lee (View user info) at 2006-03-19 07:13:58 EST
Part One
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I am sitting in my stall in the main market area, where all manner of business is conducted. Spice merchants, butchers, fruit-and-vegetable stalls, hawkers of strange and useless trinkets, medicine men, purveyors of perversion and many more. All of them share one trait; they scream at all the passers-by without distinction or favour, selling their wares at all costs of dignity or morals. They are all jackals.
I am the exception to the afore-mentioned rule. I do not shout my wares or my business. I merely sit and I wait. There is only one discreet sign above my stall, as discreet as my business itself: De'Rus Sa'lim. This is my name, and it is all the advertisement I require. If a customer does not know what services I perform, then I have no interest in his custom. I receive all the business I can handle, and more, on the mere word of my customers.
I am perhaps the finest assassin in all the Northern District. I say this not as a boast, but as a matter of professional pride. My name is widely known among the people, from lowly peasants to the highest Padishah. This can occasionally be a burden, though more often it is of great service to me.
From the multitudes of screaming customers, on this unremarkable day, comes a man. As soon as I spy him, I know he will be coming to see me. Something about the way he strides uncertainly through the crowd, without being interested in or distracted by the mob around him. Looking for a specific stall. He is a man who will be doing business with me.
Indeed, the man comes to my stall and stops. He looks me up and down, and smiles in greeting. "You look exactly as described," he says.
I incline my head.
My lack of reply seems to disconcert him slightly. He reaches into a bag and fumbles around. His hand eventually emerges holding a sketched portrait of a man. I recognise the image instantly. The man in his portrait is the second in command to the local Padishah. Umir L'lasia. L'lasia had attracted a lot of attention recently due to his disregard of local crime power structure. He has been making unheard-of arrests all over the District. This man is doubtless one of the crime barons that has suffered from L'lasia's brand of uncompromising justice.
"You wish me to kill this man?" I ask, and he shudders at the mere mention of the word. His appearance and demeanour thus far make me feel he is not a man accustomed to performing his own acts of debauchery. This is not a trait to inspire respect in my mind.
He nods. He cannot even bring himself to say it, wretch that he is.
"Very well," I state, with some briskness, "You will pay me half my fee now, and half upon delivery of his head."
"Is that all?" he asks, a little taken aback, it seems.
"What else is there to discuss? You wish this man to die. You wish me to kill him. I will kill him for my usual fee. That is indeed all there is to it." I try to keep from openly sneering at this man, for whom I am rapidly losing respect and patience.
"Ah," he says, confused and out of his depth on a simple commercial transaction. "Is there not even an additional charge because of who L'lasia is?"
I resist an urge to throw my hands into the sky. "No, he is one man. One man is the same price as any other." Heaven defend us, he is actually trying to argue the price for a service up.
"Oh," he says, "Then I shall pay you the first half of your fee, and be on my way. I do not care for the market area."
I do not reply, but merely extend one hand. After some more ineffective fumbling in his bag, he produces a small leather purse that jingles with coin. He counts out half of my fee and hands it to me. He also presses a scrap of paper with his name and address upon it. I do not chide him for writing this information down; I am now thoroughly sick of his presence and I do not wish to bother explaining this to him. I make a dismissive gesture and he leaves.
I read the scrap of paper. He is De'Mial Petrus. I recognise the name. He is some sort of merchant, as I recall. I believe he deals mostly in luxury commodities and consumables: jewellery, wine, and the like. I had not previously been aware that he was involved in any form of dealings that L'lasia would take offence at.
I pocket his money, portrait and note. I will burn the latter two as early as is convenient; complete secrecy of target and employer are part of my service. I leave my stall. I have no security precautions, as most people would never dream of so much as touching it, and there is nothing in it to steal. The only thing that is ever in the stall is myself. I take the coin; remember the name of the victim and the employer, and that is all that ever need take place. If I am not in my stall, it is because I am unavailable for business. I only ever have one client at any given time, and I will not take on more business until that client's needs are met. This is the manner in which I operate, and I do not compromise.
I retire to my quarters in the heart of the city to await nightfall. My home is three streets north of the markets, and I keep it well appointed, as befits a man of my standing. I sit upon my balcony and observe the dusty street below. As usual when I pass the time in this manner, I am filled with disgust and contempt for the people thronging their oblivious route through the city. This city truly is a place for the dregs of humanity to congregate and replicate. Their feet beat the same, irritating patterns in the dust that millions have before them.
Sunset falls over the city, blood red, like an omen. I am neither a truly superstitious nor a religious man, but something about the way the crimson light infuses these streets fills me with peasant-like dread. I don my black robes. I only wear these robes when I am to kill. I pull on my black headdress and conceal my face with a dust-muffle. I sling my blade on my back and take to the streets.
The crowds outside always thin out come twilight. Most people make their way back to their homes, or into their favourite taverns. As indeed my target has. It is well know that L'lasia nearly always retires to his tavern when his day's business is concluded.
As dusk deepens to dark, I arrive at the tavern's door. I remove my dust-muffle and enter. Inside, the tavern is pleasant. It is a small-time establishment, the sort of place where the clientele are well known by the staff and all business is conducted in orderly and relaxed fashion. These are the qualities that make it the perfect haunt for a man like L'lasia, whose position is one of immense pressure. They have a fountain for a centrepiece, and three men with stringed instruments play soft music. I am not familiar with the instruments that they play, for music is not my business.
I am halted by a guard, who gestures for me to remove my sword. This does not surprise me, as most establishments within the richer quarters of the city require this. Especially when a man of stature is in regular attendance.
I acquire a table in the corner and order a drink. Service is slow. I spy L'lasia, sitting in the corner of the room opposite to mine; indulging in small talk with a man whom I believe is another governing functionary. He cannot be of great importance, because I do not recognise him easily. It is part of my business to be aware at all times of the identities and the actions of the city's powerful men.
I consider the proposition before me. I am to kill a man for whom I have respect, if not for his actions, but then at least for the conviction and willpower with which he performs these actions. I am to kill this man on the will and coin of another man, who I only met briefly and whom I detest in spite of the brevity of our conversation. My conscience is allowed no sway here, however. I deal in death, not politics or morality.
I allow time to pass. L'lasia is not a man who is by nature late to his bed, and this is borne out when he arises from his table a mere two hours after sunset. He bids farewell to his companion, and heads for the door. He travels with two guards, each of which looks competent and assured. The three men leave the tavern.
Once they have departed, I count fifteen minutes before following them. There is no rush to chase them; I can guess quite easily at the route that they will take on their way to L'lasia's quarters. I collect my sword and don my dust-muffle once more. Then I begin the pursuit.
The streets are deserted at this hour, and catching them does not take long. They are walking the very route that I predicted. The two guards are walking one behind L'lasia and one in front. As competent as they are, it is too easy. I come from behind and they never hear a whisper of my footfalls. I unsling my sword and planted a vicious kick into the side of the drogue guard's knee. He howls as his knee dislocates and he falls into the dust.
L'lasia and the remaining guard turn almost as one to confront me. L'lasia pulls a short blade and takes a swipe at my face with it. I duck under his clumsy swing and glide past him, to where the other guard stands. The guard thrusts his blade at my stomach, a thrust that rings with a distinct lack of composure and precision. I deflect it with my own blade and punch him in the throat. He appears to lose interest in keeping his footing, and he falls to the ground, making choking noises.
I turn once more to L'lasia, and an expression of calculation is evident on his face. His gaze flicks from me to the downed guards and back again. He turns and flees. I saw no fear in his eyes. His decision is not one of cowardice. It is one of intelligence. He means to survive, and he knows that I am obviously here for him, not his guards.
While his decision is the only one available to him, it is still not enough to save him. I keep pace with him as he runs, and as I close the distance I reflect once more on the bizarre nature of my work. Then I swing my blade, two-handed as I run, and I am as precise and deadly as ever; the sword cleaves easily through his neck and sends his head flying. His body takes three more steps and then collapses, sending a terrific jet of blood into the warm night air. Some of his blood splashes onto me. This is unavoidable, yet I have a profound distaste for it.
I snatch his head from the dust by the hair. I remove my specialised pouch, that I had made for this very purpose, from my belt and secure it within. I wipe my blade on his body. As I make my escape through the darkened alleys, I am struck again by that curious sense of foreboding that I experienced at sunset. Perhaps this time my business will not be simple. However, if this is the case, I will deal with the problems at hand as I have always dealt with them: one at a time, as they present themselves. This is my only way to live.
User Reviews
Submitted by darko (user info) at 2006-06-21 02:13:55 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I don't like you, but Orgasmatron does.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-04-06 01:42:20 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Thanks, you two.
Submitted by Beano312003 (user info) at 2006-04-05 05:52:26 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Super. Have read one and two now, just going off to read three and four. Can't wait.
Submitted by MyTeeOne (user info) at 2006-04-04 16:06:48 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I'm hooked.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-04-04 11:47:46 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Thanks to the nine people below this review that I didn't thank earlier.
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2006-03-22 12:21:53 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
You are one of the writers whose work forces me to pay more attention to a series. It's my problem, but I'm working on it. Very good.
Submitted by thecaes (user info) at 2006-03-21 07:26:47 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Derka derka AWESOME.
Very very nice. I think the idea of an assassin having a little booth in the market place is a bit silly, but I liked the way you presented it. I liked the way you fleshed out his character and personality, and the exchange between him and his client.
Very cool.
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2006-03-20 16:50:00 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
MOLA RAM
SULA RAM
Submitted by Merlina (user info) at 2006-03-20 15:40:33 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Snark (user info) at 2006-03-20 15:27:46 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by shadow (user info) at 2006-03-20 08:53:09 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Damn! Another assasin writer! Guess I'll have to step it up a notch...
Submitted by Nellypaal (user info) at 2006-03-20 07:03:08 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Really enjoyed this.
Submitted by wardy (user info) at 2006-03-20 04:56:45 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
+2 because i can't pronounce the title.
woo.
Submitted by Davros (user info) at 2006-03-20 04:23:38 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
You are Good.
I hate you.
-Dave
Submitted by redskieslookfake (user info) at 2006-03-20 03:42:32 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Scourge, Stagger - what the unholy ballsack are you two gibbering about?
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-03-19 22:27:16 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-03-19 22:16:18 (#)
Ranking: 2
The reference escapes you? Aren't you currently engaged in
a poetry contest? Perhaps my humor is too droll. . .
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Ok, check. I thought perhaps it was a literary reference to a man in a jail who becomes a poet, some book I wasn't familiar with...didn't realise where you were going with that....
Submitted by scourge (user info) at 2006-03-19 22:25:00 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Very well Bill Shakespeare.
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-03-19 22:16:18 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
The reference escapes you? Aren't you currently engaged in
a poetry contest? Perhaps my humor is too droll. . .
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-03-19 22:12:48 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Arr, don't fret about the time, scourge. At least I'm not mystified and frightened anymore.
Submitted by scourge (user info) at 2006-03-19 22:06:30 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I had said I was taking a short couple days break from Uber, but since the violent blowout that was Methods post I have since reneged on that promise.
It's from a long running Chris Farley skit on Saturday Night Live.
He was a motivational speaker. Who lived in a van down by the river. In the first one
he asked David Spade what he wanted to do with his life. David said , 'I want to be a writer.'
Chris Farley then said....
Then he called him Bill Shakespeare. I was too lazy to come back and review again to do that.
So much typing to explain a stupid American television reference. I feel dumber now for having taken the time to do it.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-03-19 21:52:32 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
It's time to play answer the reviewers again...
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Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-03-19 19:39:48 (#)
Ranking: 2
You remind me of me when I first signed up.
I'd just say that if you want hits, don't post only writing.
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I've got nothing else to post, and hits don't bother me. Thanks for reading. As long as the other people who are actually writing are reading my stuff I'm happy.
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Submitted by ghola (user info) at 2006-03-19 18:12:29 (#)
Ranking: 2
fabulous.
i look forward to reading the rest sir
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Thanks a lot.
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Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-03-19 09:02:45 (#)
Ranking: 2
And in part two, the protagonist is captured and sentenced to
life in prison, where he becomes a poet. :)
Good stuff.
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Thanks, Bubba, but the reference escapes me...
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Submitted by scourge (user info) at 2006-03-19 08:27:25 (#)
Ranking: 2
'Well, la dee frickin' da. Looks like we got ourselves a serious writer here...'
Van
River
etc....
bah, nevermind
This was up to par with the standard you've set for yourself. Good show.
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Cheers, scourgey. Just like Bubba, though, the 'Van' and 'River' stuff eludes me...
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Submitted by redskieslookfake (user info) at 2006-03-19 08:23:40 (#)
Ranking: 2
An interesting start
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Cheers, Geordie. Fulham 1, Chelsea 0, ho ho ho.
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-03-19 19:39:48 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
You remind me of me when I first signed up.
I'd just say that if you want hits, don't post only writing.
Submitted by ghola (user info) at 2006-03-19 18:12:29 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
fabulous.
i look forward to reading the rest sir
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-03-19 09:02:45 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
And in part two, the protagonist is captured and sentenced to
life in prison, where he becomes a poet. :)
Good stuff.
Submitted by scourge (user info) at 2006-03-19 08:27:25 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
'Well, la dee frickin' da. Looks like we got ourselves a serious writer here...'
Van
River
etc....
bah, nevermind
This was up to par with the standard you've set for yourself. Good show.
Submitted by redskieslookfake (user info) at 2006-03-19 08:23:40 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
An interesting start