Cold
The woman once called Fuar carefully hid the ice-blue eyes that were in part responisble for her name. The tall man sitting three table away from her didn't notice-she doubted he noticed her at all, but she certainly saw him. He was tall with ruffled dark hair and expensive clothing hung askew on his lean body. The long sword that hung at his side and the dagger not far from it were a reminder that he was not to be messed with-even in the Alley, as dangerous as it was. He seemed drunk-but Fuar could see through that carefully maintained guise without difficulty.
She glanced away for real, turning back to her own grubby table and the glass of liquore that was before her. She touched the glass, ran her pale finger over it's rim, but did not drink. She glanced up and saw-through a veil of long, dark lashes-the tavern keeper watching her. He noticed that she didn't drink, yet she payed for the liquore, and so he let her stay. Fuar recognized this, but did not change her ways. Let him wonder.
Glancing back at the table where the handsome man was, Fuar noticed that he had stood and was donning his woolen cloak with a clumsiness that was practiced. He stumbled towards the door, and Fuar rose. She dropped a silver coin that would pay for almost twice her drinks on the table and pulled her shabby cloak tighter about her, obscuring her face as much as she could.
Fuar navigated the tavern's patrons easily and was soon on the dirty street, which was just as aromatic as the smoky tavern had been. Outside it was cold-Fuar noticed this grimly, but it didn't bother her in the least. Even if she had not had the threadbare cape pulled around her so tightly-even if she had not the cape at all-she would not have been bothered by the nip in the air.
She looked around the street in search of the man from the bar. She spotted him-once outside of the tavern, he had thrown his disguise and walked proudly, not a hint of drunkeness on him. Fuar knew that he-like herself-had not even touched the liquore he ordered, yet no one noticed this, since his companions were more than happy to drink it for him and too drunk themselves to wonder why he'd allow it.
He was heading away from her, so Fuar followed. She stepped over a body without pause or contemplation, intent on catching up with the man in front of her. As she neared, she saw him turn into a doorway.
Here Fuar paused, but only long enough to glance up and read the name of the tavern-"the Griffin's Claws." She entered it quietly, not bothering to wonder what type of place it was.
Once inside, Fuar was assaulted by a blast of heat and smells-she could smell the smoke and mead, the roast from the kitchen, the men who sat around tables laughing in their drunkeness, but most of all she could smell the alcohol. Squinting slightly against the smoke that stung her eyes, Fuar looked around for the man she had followed. She spotted him as he disapeared up a set of stairs to one side-evidently, he had rented a room at the Claws.
Fuar stepped further into the room, letting the door shut behind her. Almost immediately, one of the drunken man-a large bearded fellow with only one hand-approached her, smelling strongly of the liquore that he held in his hand. He gave her a grin, revealing blackened teath.
"Come here, wench," he commmanded, as though Fuar were his slave. "Come make Neeri happy," He put forward his hand to grab her, but he was none to swift in his drunkeness, and Fuar sidestepped, knocking into his outstreched hand and spilling alcohol all over him. She wrinkled her nose at the stench while Neeri's companions laughed and chided him.
She skirted around the table-ignoring the hands that shot out to grab her, and the false promises the men made-and finally reached the stairs. With a short backward glance over her shoulder, she started up them, unnoticed to all in the room-unnoticed by all in the room, and forgotten by those who would.
As she went up the stairs, Fuar found herself glad to be out of the smoke and noise of the main room, though some followed her up. She could feel a headache starting, but pushed it away.
At the top of the stairs was a long, uncarpeted corridor-grungy like most other places in the Alley-lined with wooden doors. Save a few, all were closed-though from the sounds emenating from the rooms, there was no mistaking what was happening. The man she followed hadn't entered with anyone, though, so Fuar assumed that he would be alone.
She didn't bother to be quiet as she made her way through the hall, pausing at each closed door to lay her ear against it and listen. All types of sounds reached her ears, but the sound she was listening for-silence-was not found until the next to last room.
Fuar straightened herself and knocked boldly on the door. After a moment, it opened and Fuar faced the man she had followed. He stared at her in slight confusion and Fuar gave a small smile. "Do I know you?" he asked at last.
"No," Fuar answered, shaking her head as though she were the shy girl she pretended to be. "But I noticed you, and I wondered." A dark eyebrow raised on his handsome face. "Why do you feign drunkeness?"
For a moment, the man looked startled, then opened the door wider and nodded his unexpected guest inside. The room was small, bare and just as grubby as the hallway. The only furniture was a thin bed. "Who are you?" The man asked as he sat on the bed and took off one of his leather boots.
"Sheena Despari," Fuar answered, her eyes lowered. For a moment, she wondered if he would notice their odd color in the dark.
"Your very observative, Sheena," the man commented, and Fuar decided to take it as a compliment. "Come over here, I don't bite. My name is Gur Jort."
Fuar permitted herself a small smile at his name and moved closer to him, shedding the cloak as she did. She hung the cloak over her arm and sat down on the bed beside her host as though she were shy. She was very aware of Gur looking her over-her bare arms, dirty dress, snaggled hair, finally coming to rest on the scar on her wrist.
"Whats that?" He asked, confirming Fuar's suspicion as he took her hand and turned it over. The scar-branded deeply into her skin-was much like a slave mark, yet it's design completely different.
"Nothing," Fuar turned her hand over-but not until she was certain Gur had gotten a good look at it. "An old scar. Why were you pretending to be drunk, Gur?"
The young man gave her an odd look and shrugged. "I don't like to drink, but around here if you don't, your fair game." He gave her a strange look. "You don't seem drunk either-though your clothes reek of it,"
"Close assosiation," Fuar answered as briskly as her name, then steered the conversation back to Gur. Her excitment was building, she could barely contain herself. "Why are you in the Alley? You seem too rich,"
"I'll make a deal," Gur offered. "I answer a question, then you answer one of mine?" Fuar pretended to hesitate, even though her mind had been made up before he asked.
She nodded slowly. "You first."
"All right," Gur nodded, pushing a strand of his fine hair out of his face. "I'm in the Alley because some men are trying to kill my father and would use me against him. They won't look for me here." Liar! Fuar thought with vengence, her esteem for the man lowering a notch. He had not kept his bargain, he had lied-but Fuar, she was honorable, and would speak the truth. He could not hurt her.
"Your turn," Gur was saying, his strong hands finding Fuar's wrist once again. "Whats this?" He made as though to tap Fuar's brand, but stopped before actually making contact with her flesh.
"The brand of the assassin," Fuar answered slowly. For a moment, Gur looked confused, then abrubtly dropped her hand as realization of her words flooded his brain. Fuar saw the truth dawn on him and threw off her own disguise, straightening immediatly, pushing her hair from her face. "It was burnt into my skin when I became what I am-had I failed in my training, it would have been burnt on my heart."
Gur gawked in horror, then flung himself from the bed, snatching his sword as he did-but his fear made him clumsy and he stumbled, nearly fell. Fuar didn't move, just looked at him. "Your turn, Gur," she said in a friendly tone, though she knew it sounded otherwise to the man not far from her. "Why is there a price on your head?"
Gur looked confused. "What, don't you know, assassin?"
Fuar shook her head. "It is not your turn, but i will tell you this anyhow. I am not an assassin any longer-just a bounty hunter. I don't know why, I just know that I am supposed to kill you. Now come back over here, Gur, your quaking in your boots,"
Gur refused to move, he crouched there staring at Fuar in astonishment. "You want me to go over there?" he asked, as though he had heard her wrong.
Fuar nodded. "Yes, I do. I want to know why there is this price on your head."
"I'll tell you from here," Gur hissed. "I cheeted someone-someone important,"
"Racd Eich." Fuar supplied.
Gur nodded. "I'm in the Alley hiding. My turn-who are you really?"
Fuar shook her head. "I don't have a name. I was once called Fuar, though," Gur, understandably, didn't recognize the name-after all, no one who had heard it had ever lived to tell, and if they were, they were assassins themselves.
There was a boom of laughter from downstairs, interupting Fuar's thoughts. She glanced away for a moment then turned back to her prey. "My turn. What is your greatest accomplishment, in your eyes?"
Astonishment returned to Gur's face. "What?" he stuttered, his composier almost entirely gone now. Fuar opened her mouth to repeat her question, but Gur shook his head in order to stop her. "My greatest accomplishment would be dodging the bounty hunters as long as I have."
Fuar smiled briefly, and thought that remark over. She had chosen the question carefully, it let her know much of the person. It was-just as the eyes-a window to a man's soul, for it let her know what he loved, he cared about, he valued. And the eyes. For a moment Fuar stared at his eyes. Her eyes had given her a name, his eyes told her his story. She didn't like them. They were clouded with fear now, but in the tavern, they had betrayed greed and decite-and when Gur opened the door they had shown lust and desire. No, Fuar didn't like them a bit.
He was still watching her, as she sat calmly and quietly on his bed, his eyes growing ever more dodgy. Finally Fuar stood, her hands at her side, but even that threatened Gur, who backed away like a caged animal.
"I've enjoyed our conversation, Gur," Fuar said, and Gur quivered, fearing the worse. His fears were justified.
Faster than he could follow, Fuar raised her arm, a throwing dagger clutched between fingers, and let the weapon fly. It lodged itself in Gur Jort's throat. He collapsed with a faint gurgle, dead as he hit the ground.
Fuar walked over slowly and knelt beside the body. With one plae hand she shut those deciteful eyes, then turned away from them. Her hands carefully searched the dead body, until she had found what she had wanted-a amulet hanging around his neck on a leather thong. The amulet contained a drop of his brother's blood, and Gur would never part with it in life. Fuar took it, proof of the kill.
For a moment the young woman let her thoughts focus on Fuar. Had he not lied to her, had his eyes shown something more than conceit, Fuar would have let him live. But he was cold-just as Fuar was cold-and so he was dead.
The bounty hunter stood, leaving her cloak and the body, left the room. Gur was pushed from her thoughts for now-and when she got the money, forever.
End
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