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“All right. I’ll give you a reprieve. Let’s see what you’re capable of. Show me you’ve got some value…” Here he smiled, a sort of leer. “…and I’ll make you my successor.”
Beghura reflected on that conversation in the manor—it could have gone a lot worse. She could be dead, or stripped bare and thrown in a cell. Instead, she felt she’d been given a potential lifeline. She had come to the Western Capital in search of her mother, and once found, had realised she was an unwanted spawn. A tactical calculation to preserve her mother’s cover in a foreign land. It hurt, but she was too hungry, body too frail, to have time to ruminate. The man who had captured her had given her what he called a little task, what she knew to be an exam. She had been given a name—that was all. It was up to her to deduce what the man wanted her to do with it.
She hoped it would not be too hard to find her target, given she had found her mother based on nothing more than an old scrappy portrait and good fortune to ask the right people the correct questions. She just prayed the name was identifiable enough. The man seemed at least curious about her, to at least consider the story of being her mother’s daughter. Surely it would not be a fools errand? She was headed to the docks, it would be the best place to start, most people entered or left through there.
Beghura found it a difficult balance to strike—how to get information, but not draw unwanted attention towards herself. Yet another skill she had to improve. However, some luck favoured her, the man continued to be the only person who could tell from her voice that she was foreign, so she did not draw suspicion. The man was confusing to her. He seemed very astute. She had managed to sneak into her mother’s mansion remarkably easily till he caught her, so he had more awareness than the paid guards. He seemed dangerous. Her mother was a spy, Beghura could not deny it, why else would the man refer to her being undercover. Was he one too? Is that how he knew why her mother was far out west? The scarier question was if they were spies, who were they spying for? The governor of this province? The big mansion complex seemed like it could already be their home. A part of her feared they were spying for an even higher power, could it be for what this land called the ‘Emperor’? She had heard myths and legends of a shadowy clan operating in his name, enforcing his will upon his populace. There was only one thing she knew for certain, it was a risk to get caught up with the man. But maybe it was worth the risk. Beghura was not one to take reckless decisions, but her patience for living on scraps had long worn thin. Perhaps the man was her chance for something better. Her heart must think so considering she agreed to this task before she could even process what was asked.
She should stop getting distracted. She had learnt from a longshoreman that a merchant in the city shared the name of her target, thus was headed towards a warehouse in the merchant’s control. The reason for being given the name would hopefully lie within, if correct. She wandered through the dockside markets, traders yelling prices at passers by. Beghura was rather famished, so skulking past the stall of a distracted purveyor, she snatched a duck skewer for herself to eat. It had been a while since she had scored something as sumptuous as this. Hopefully it would keep her going for a couple of days.
The warehouse she had been informed of was old and worn, with creaking timbers and leaking roof. Walking by with indifference in order to blend in with the crowd, she sharply observed a surprisingly ornate lock barring the door. An unassuming, abandoned-looking warehouse would be rife for illicit activity, the lock was calling her for entry. She scampered into an alleyway to the side, noticing a broken window reachable from a stack of crates. Her time with the circus had taught her not only sleight of hand, but also had trained her balance to be superb, so climbing the shaky crates was no issue, reaching the window’s height. Peering within the dimly lit space, sheets covered barrels and baskets, dusted with sand. A door tempted her on the far end of the passageway of the higher walkway this window serviced, but blades of glass of the shattered window barred her progress. Being mindful of people on the street, a stone used to hammer it away was her solution, and, careful of her bare feet, she swung herself within. The floor on this upper walkway was rotten and splintered, requiring caution to tiptoe towards the door. Fortunately, it was unlocked, and it groaned on its hinges as she cracked it open. Within was an office, adorned with a single ornate desk, and a ledger spread atop.
The warehouse thus far had remained silent, heartbeats of life absent. Yet this room looked worked in, recently. She crept inside, towards the menacing tome, and what it detailed made her recoil in horror. Pages upon pages of people trafficked, by number, kidnapped from village to mine. It totalled in the hundreds. It made her sick, to read life be callously recorded as a good, the victims stripped of all humanity—a number, a statistic. While slaves still existed in Li, the forceful enslavement of peoples was not, according to her teacher. The scribe was foolish enough to sign a name on several of the pages, implicating her target directly to the wickedness. This surely the evidence required, and the man must want this heinous crime dealt with. Beghura was unsure how best to accomplish this, the city guard would not care for a scrap of a girl accusing an affluent merchant of such a crime. However, she had no time to reach a decision, as a strike of metal echoed through the desolate warehouse—the door below unlocked. Beghura panicked, frantically scanning for a place to hide. Above her rafters crisscrossed, straining against the sagging roof. She stood upon the desk and launched herself upwards, clutching at the wooden brace before hauling herself above. For once, she was grateful for her starved form, her lightness aiding her escape.
Moments later, the ledger’s keeper entered. He was a short, stout man, unkempt hair and matted, bristly beard. His face was obscured from her hiding place, as he moved towards the desk, stooped and hobbled. Fine silk robes hung awkwardly from his frame, their beauty wasted on this craven man. He spent an unsettling amount of time writing into the ledger—more foul deeds no doubt—before depositing coin within a drawer, his pale hands clutching each greedily as he counted them into his safe. His deeds remorselessly documented and gains deposited, he vacated the office, limping out towards a street unaware of the dark deeds being perpetrated in their neighbourhood.
Beghura dropped from the rafters to the desk, finally able to read the new additions. It detailed the kidnap, movement, and transaction of children from church to coalmine. Many must be orphans, such as her. He had moved within this space as if devoid of life or purpose, what reason did he have to commit such acts? No matter, her resolve had steeled, the sentence for the named one determined. Quickly, she evacuated the warehouse from whence she came, focused only on her task, gold—enough to support her for months—abandoned and ignored. She stalked her prey through the streets, a blade claimed under her possession, swiped from a butchers stall as she went.
After a series of turns through side streets and alleyways, her mark stopped at the entrance of a small shack. As he entered the door, Beghura’s heart sunk as she stared at the wooden cross nailed crudely above its frame. After a moment, a mask infected her features of a studious pupil, breaking her free from her deliberation. She approached slowly. The dark interior within was unlike the holy places of her youth. A single candle flickered, gasping for air, casting long shadows across the space. Her target was hunched over the altar, in prayer. Beghura entered silently, pulling free the butcher’s blade, feeling the weight in her hand. She raised her arms, rhythmic chorus of hymns from the being beneath her filling the air. The rays of sunlight behind her framed her visage, adorning her with horns upon the altar ahead. Under the sibilant chorale of her claimed faith, Beghura wrenched her arms downwards, the blade sinking deep into flesh before striking bone—the solitary candle extinguished from the air driven from the torso’s lungs. The form before her crumpled upon the holy stone.
Beghura was shaking in the enormity of the ritual she had performed, sinking to her knees. Blood stained her hands a crimson red, unknowingly marking her an asset to the seat of heaven. The room went dark, a form swallowing the doorway behind. Footsteps approached, a hand clutching her shoulder in possession. The man leaned down beside her and considered her for a splinter of time. She kept her eyes forward as he passed his judgement—“Adequate.”—was all he uttered. The man freed her and walked from chancel. Maachue rose from the ashes of her own making to pursue her master.