Tanto dal Trevison was an Elector Count. While Spiro and Contanto were both at least equally as powerful in their own ways, they were self-made men. Dal Trevison had been born to his power and wealth, and while no more powerful or dangerous than the other two men, killing a noble had altogether more dangerous connotations. It was breaking the unwritten rule of the city; only noblemen could kill other noblemen, which they often did in duels of honour. The assassination of any noble would draw attention. The assassination of one so powerful as dal Trevison would draw a great deal of it.
Dal Trevison had visited a brothel on every evening that Soren had followed him. It was not an unusual thing for aristocrats to visit prostitutes and no one would give the fact a second thought, but Soren would have expected a man with dal Trevison’s wealth to keep a mistress, or even a personal harem, rather than to use normal brothels. They were all very high-class brothels, but brothels nonetheless. It made him want to get the job over with quickly, nauseating him to think that some night he might follow the man to Alessandra’s apartments in Oldtown.
As with the others, Tanto dal Trevison kept a personal bodyguard with him. His bodyguards would be of a different calibre to those employed by the others though. A man of dal Trevison’s position attracted a large number of court followers. He would have lesser nobles and the younger sons of greater nobles joining his retinue in the hope of advancement. He would also be a man who would, like Amero dal Moreno, sponsor promising young fighters at the Academy. What it meant was that his bodyguards would certainly be bannerets, and most likely very good ones.
He recalled a tenet from one of his classes at the Academy, that the best way to win a fight is to avoid it altogether. It was not an approach that had ever made sense to him before, but it seemed to be appropriate to his present needs, so he made his plans accordingly. He was quite sure that the bodyguards would not be in the room with dal Trevison when he was with the prostitute. That would be the time to kill him. The only question that remained was how to get in there also.
Soren had always seen the rooftops as being an ally. In a city as old and crowded as Ostenheim, buildings tended to grow upward, the only direction usually available to them. The result was that the roofs of the city were almost as much of a warren of nooks and crannies as the alleyways below. There were half roofs and extensions everywhere, hiding places, forgotten windows and blocked up doorways to balconies that no longer existed.
Soren made his way onto the roof of the brothel and took his bearings. Like most of the buildings in the city the roof was of dark orange, ridged terracotta tiles. The tiles stopped short of the front of the building leaving a small flat roof that had a round table with four chairs around it, and a large plant in a pot with big, wide rubbery looking leaves. The prostitutes must come up here to relax when they are not working, Soren thought. It was actually a nice spot, peaceful high over the city. The building was tall enough that Soren could just glimpse the sea over the roofs of the city, with the sun setting on the horizon. He suddenly felt like an intruder, invading the unfortunate women’s small sanctuary.
There was a trap door in the corner of the roof. He went over to it and knelt down beside it. He listened carefully for several moments before gently lifting it open. There was a flight of rough wooden steps leading down into a darkened corridor. He silently descended the steps and into the corridor. He drew his dagger; the sword would be useless in such a confined environment, and quietly advanced.
The top floor seemed to be small bedrooms, where either the girls or the staff lived, but it was certainly not where business was conducted. The corridor was quite shabby; it had not been decorated for some time and was not nearly luxurious enough for entertaining customers. He made his way down one floor and the décor changed significantly. Instead of unvarnished floorboards, there was deep, plush, scarlet carpet. Expensive looking paintings lined the walls, and there was so much gilt that Soren wondered if it crossed the line from classy to gaudy. From the sounds coming from behind some of the doors he could tell that he had descended to a level on which the brothel’s business was conducted.
Identifying what room dal Trevison was in was the only obstacle left. The working practice of the brothel would help to some extent; the girls placed a red tassel over the door handle of any room that was in use. Only one of the rooms on this floor had a tassel on the door, but Soren knew from a previous scouting visit that the higher profile clients were entertained on the lower floors. They didn’t want to be fatigued from climbing up too many stairs.
He made his way down to the next floor, which was the last one above the ground floor. It was here that he thought it most likely that he would find dal Trevison. There were eight doors lining the corridor, and three of them had tassels on their handles. Taking his chances, he reached for the handle on the first door, and opened it slightly.
‘This one’s taken, can’t you see!’ said a young woman in a state of undress, standing by a bed occupied by a man that was not dal Trevison. He had not opened the door enough to reveal his face and he had decided to wear a mask on this job so he would be unrecognisable if seen. On the other missions, a mask was either inappropriate or not needed, as there would be no witnesses alive to identify him. On this job, there was a likelihood that he would be seen by one, or several of the courtesans. They were innocents, and he had no desire to kill any of them. He hoped the mask would make this possible, but being seen wearing one before completing his task would cause the alarm to be raised and destroy any chance of him successfully carrying it out. He closed the door quickly with a mumbled apology and moved on to the next door. What he saw when he opened the door left him mouth agape in surprise.
Surprise subsided quickly to an uncomfortable amusement. In his investigation he had heard rumours of dal Trevison’s tastes, but the forewarning was still not enough to prepare him for the ridiculous scene before him. Dal Trevison was strapped to a wooden frame, arms and legs outstretched. A courtesan stood next to him with a light whip in her hands. His entry caused her to pause in what she had been doing, and she cast him a stern gaze.
‘What is it? What’s going on?’ said dal Trevison. He was strapped to the frame belly first, and the restraints prevented him from turning his head far enough to see what was going on behind him. He strained at the leather straps and his frustration was evident as he twitched and twisted, the wooden frame creaking in protest.
‘Get out! Can’t you see we’re busy!’ screeched the courtesan.
Soren couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight. It was not a very fearsome introduction, but was completely unavoidable, and he hoped his appearance would be menacing enough despite this. He pushed back the folds of his cloak to reveal his blades, which had the desired effect of shutting the courtesan up.
‘If you remain very quiet, you may survive this night,’ Soren said to her, as menacingly as he could, although he felt its effect was diminished by his earlier levity.
‘Who the hell do you think you are bursting in here like this? Do you know who I am? Do you have any idea what I can have done to you for interrupting me like this?’ said dal Trevison furiously. He continued to rage, spittle flying from the corners of his mouth as he twisted and jerked against the leather restraints. The pasty white skin of his back was streaked with pink lines where the courtesan had been flogging him. She had retreated to a corner of the room where she had adopted the foetal position and was whimpering in terror, her earlier bravado now well and truly gone. Soren suppressed another laugh as he returned his stare to dal Trevison, who at that moment was perhaps the most ridiculous looking man he had ever seen. He stepped forward and spoke, interrupting dal Trevison’s stream of vitriol.
‘I know who you are,’ said Soren, in a low throaty voice, ‘and that is the reason I am here.’ In a smooth movement he stabbed dal Trevison through the ribs, just where the blade would puncture the heart and cause a swift death, more than he deserved. From what he had heard, dal Trevison liked to reciprocate the treatment he was receiving, but with far more vigour.
‘You can start screaming in five minutes,’ Soren said to the cowering woman, ‘any sooner than that and I will be back for you.’ As an afterthought he threw her a purse containing five crowns, more than she would have earned from dal Trevison, before turning and leaving the room.