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It's my birthday! Also a good day writing. I've known all along that a desire for revenge was what motivated Harali, but I hadn't planned on making her an assassin. However, I also had no other plans for her, and when I sat down to type and planned to start her out in Ironhall, she made it clear that I was wrong and she had different plans.

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Chapter 10: Harali

The corridor was long, but not brightly lit. She could see the guards outside the door, four of them. They should not be a big problem. The most difficult part was that, if possible, she did not want to kill them. Her Master wouldn't be pleased at the waste.

She went back into the larger hall from which she'd just come and stood thinking about the problem. Taking out two guards would not be difficult for her. Even four guards would be doable if they were the usual, unintelligent kind. But she could be sure that her Master had placed at least one canny soldier there.

Behind her, she heard a soft sound, and she at once faded into the shadows in a corner. A serving girl was coming up the stairs, her head with its veil emerging first into view, then the tray she carried. The tray had a jug of ale and four tankards. Nothing could be more fortuitous. Harali stepped out into the light, her leveled sword flashing.

The girl gasped and stopped. Harali shushed her with a gesture, murmuring, "One sound from you, and it will be your last. Set the tray down. Quietly."

The girl obeyed.

"Now, get out of your clothes."

"My... lady?"

"Just your outer clothes. Take them off. The veil, too. Now, or I'll be removing them from your corpse."

Terrified, the girl did as she was told. Harali pointed to the stairs up which the girl had just come. "Go."

As soon as the girl turned her back, Harali hit her at the base of the skull with her sword hilt, hard enough to stun but not kill. Satisfied, she stripped herself of her own outer clothing and put on the serving girl's. Her sword sheath was on her back, so the veil hid most of it, falling as it did over shoulders and down to her hips behind. Her other weapons could be concealed as well, although not as conveniently, as the uniform of her Master's serving wenches was in two parts and had no waist covering. Dressed, she picked up the tray and carried it to the guards, letting her hips sway and her mouth smile beneath where the hem of the veil was cut away over the face.

Three of the guards were grateful for the drinks and wanted to flirt with her, but the fourth was suspicious. As she handed him a full tankard, he gripped her left wrist. She remembered not to pull back, but instead let him yank her off balance, giving a small, high cry of surprise. This made him less sure of himself, but he regained his suspicion almost at once and reached up to grip her bicep. "You're no kitchen maid," he growled. He pushed up her sleeve, revealing the sheath strapped to her forearm. "And what's this?" he sneered.

"A fist," she said coolly, and hit him full in the face, just above his nose with her right fist. He went down with a grunt. The other three were already on her, but a swift jab with an elbow put one temporarily out of the fight as he fought for wind. None of them seemed to think it worth calling for help to deal with a woman, so her luck was still favoring her. The tray made a handy weapon, and she swept it into the neck of the nearest man. He fell back, choking. The fourth man groped for his sword, which was a mistake, as she was far too fast for that. One of the tankards was at hand, so with a spray of ale, she flattened him by swinging it against his temple. Using the momentum, with the same movement she catapulted herself over the prone body of the first guard, kicked him in the head to be sure he stayed down, and was at the door.

She had taken the precaution of obtaining the key that morning, but the door was unlocked and she didn't need it. She swung the door open just enough to get inside, her eyes scanning the bedroom for threats. She saw only her Master, seated at a small round table, a bottle of wine at his elbow. She shut the door and locked it, then jammed it with one of her small knives in case one of the guards had a key. Her escape route would be out the window and over the roof, later.

Her Master eyed her with mild approval. "So, you made it this far. Now what?"

"Now, I kill you," she said, dragging off the veil and drawing her sword. Before she approached him, however, she swept back the bedclothes and ran her sword swiftly under the bed. She had been caught like that before, but she never made the same mistake twice. Then she turned to face her Master. "Sir, if you have a weapon, draw it. Otherwise, I shall run you through cleanly."

"I have a weapon," he smiled, and gestured with one hand.

The garrote fell neatly around her neck and drew tight. Strangling, she reached up and grabbed the thin rope, pulling to drag the other person down from his perch above her. Dimly she knew her mistake – she had forgotten that beds had a top – but her focus was entirely on getting her hands on her would-be killer and getting the garrote loose. Whoever it was, however, he was either too heavy for even her strength or he was secured to the bed in some way, for she could not budge him. She fought against the instinct to grope at what was around her neck, and groped instead for one of her blades. Better to take a chance of cutting her own throat than to strangle. But dark spots were before her eyes, and she felt her consciousness slipping.

She spread her arms wide, hands open, palms facing toward her Master, in surrender.

The garrote instantly loosened, and she fell to the floor, sucking in huge gasps of air. Her strangler leaped down lightly, a woman, not a man, another student, one Harali knew to be skilled. She gave the woman a weak wave of acknowledgement. When she could get words out, she said, "Why couldn't I get you down? You weigh very little."

The woman said cheerfully, "Tied my foot to one of the posts. Sir? Do you need me any more?"

"No, I think not. You may go. Harali, you did well, just not quite well enough. Can you stand?"

"Yes, sir." She got to her feet shakily, leaving her sword where it had fallen. She staggered to the table and half-sat, half-fell into the other chair. "Unfair, sir. You knew because of last time that I would check the bed."

"Your victim will not be fair to you. Why should I? Are you all right?"

"Yes, sir. My throat is sore, is all." She rubbed her neck, shoving off the veil and tossing it aside. "I could use some of that wine."

"Is that how you got past those guards? Posing as a serving wench?"

"Just because it's the oldest trick in the book doesn't mean it isn't a good one."

"Quite the contrary." He handed her a glass of wine, then poured one for himself.

"Shall we toast my penultimate test?" she said wistfully, her voice still raspy. "I'll get you next time, I'm sure."

Smiling, he lifted his glass to her and drank. His forehead creased. "This wine was taken too soon from the cask, I think."

She smiled now, setting her own untouched glass aside. "No, sir. It has been poisoned." When he lifted startled brows, she said, "I stole in here last night just after dinner and poisoned it. I knew you would be amenable to a toast. You, sir, are dead."

He threw back his head and laughed. "You've ruined a perfectly good bottle of wine, you wretched woman. What is really in it?"

"Oil of cassicum."

"Gods, I shall be sick."

"You didn't drink enough for that. I would normally, of course, have used something tasteless as well as odorless." Her training had taught her many poisons that would meet those requirements.

He shook his head. "And I was watching your hands, too. Just in case."

"Yes, sir, I know. Which was why I kept them so well occupied and in plain sight."

"This isn't a victory for you, you know. You were dead."

"But so, sir, were you."

He frowned at this. It was an area of contention between them, for part of the assassin's mission was always to escape alive. "You truly don't care if you escape or not, once you have made your kill. Do you?"

"I would prefer to live on," she said, "but if not, that will not stop me."

"Well." He smiled, rose, and went to the door, which was slightly ajar from the other assassin leaving and carelessly allowing a guard's foot to be caught in it. Opening it fully, he glared at the guards. "You three, go away. You, get to the kitchen and tell them to send up another bottle of wine." As they scrambled down the corridor, he turned an approving smile on her. "They're all still alive. What about the girl you stole the costume from?"

"Embarrassed and with a headache, but alive."

He sat again, hands on his knees. "Harali, as you must know, I have nothing more to teach you. You are a master assassin, as of today, and so it shall be recorded."

She rose and bowed. "Thank you, sir! For... for everything."

"If you succeed in your goal, my dear, and your trade seems too tame, return here. There is always work for skilled assassins, and I can guarantee you that no one will hire you for a task more difficult than that which you have set yourself."

She laughed, then winced as her throat burned. "Very true, sir. I cannot express my gratitude highly enough, and I will consider your proposal carefully."

~:~:~:~:~:~:~

Ironhall. She was home at last. She eased back in the saddle, halting the horse, and stared raptly at her home. She'd been away for months now, doing her final training. But of course, Ironhall had not changed, not in the centuries it had stood there, certainly not in the short time she had been gone. Still, she took a moment just to breath in the scent of the pine woods behind her, the smoke from the chimneys in the tiny village at the base of the curtain wall, and the fishy odor of the River Andon as it surged past on her right. The sound of the water was as clear as its smell, even half a mile away, and above it, she heard the voices of men and women on the docks and in the fields, and even, she fancied, the clang of forges from within the wall.

Her grandfather had been given the land and the title of Baron Ironhall and had been allowed to build this fortress in reward for his services to his overlord, but her family had never completely left behind the smith trade that had made them wealthy and famous. The best swordsmiths and armorers came to work here, and a smithhall, granted to her father by the Smith Guild, was the single largest structure within the walls, more populous even than the keep.

Grey stone walls, lit to gold on the east in the light of the rising sun, rose sheer to a crenellated parapet with deep corbels to discourage siege ladders and machicolations to discourage sappers. The tall doors, which faced south, were a pinnacle of smithcraft, made of oak banded strongly with steel, and so heavy that they were impossible to move except with the machinery within the two gate towers. Her grandfather's overlord had not allowed him to add the moat, drawbridge, and portcullis that would have made a better defense, but that canny old former smith had designed a substitute. Ironhall had never been successfully attacked; each time some army came to take it, they left after only laying siege.

Of course, that had been in her grandfather's day, and her father's. Thinking of her father, her hands clenched on the reins, and the horse automatically moved forward. She let it, trying to rid her mind of the memories and return to her pleasure in coming to her home. Nothing could be done about her father or her brothers now, save to revenge them. She was the Lady of Ironhall, and eventually, revenge would allow their spirits to rest.

Her mother was waiting on the steps of the keep as she rode into the bailey, and as soon as Harali dismounted, she was embraced and kissed. The Dowager Lady Eblan was as tall as her daughter and of the same pale coloring, but her fair hair was heavily laden with grey and her face lined with the same bitter sorrow that also burned within Harali. Harali had only been a child when her father and brothers were killed, so she could barely remember her mother looking any other way than she did now.

Her mother had taken Harali's face between her hands to kiss her, but now she drew back with a puzzled exclamation. "What is that?"

"What?"

Eblan touched her head just over her right ear. "That. The skin is cold there."

Harali reached up. The skin was cold, or at least chill, in a narrow strip running past her ear. "Odd. Well, it's not hurting me, Mother, so we need not worry about it."

"I worry about everything where you're concerned, so don't tell me not to worry about it," Eblan said in a mock scold. She put her arm around Harali's waist, guiding her inside as her men handed over their horses to the stableboys and headed for the barracks. As soon as the doors closed behind them, she said, "Are you finished now with... that place? Or do you need to go back?"

"I am a master now, Mother. I am ready. When I leave again, it will be to revenge our kin."

Her mother drew a deep breath, obviously choosing her words. Harali's decision to train as an assassin was something which Eblan the mother hated, but which Eblan, Lady of Ironhall, must approve. Neither mother nor daughter could see any other way to gain their revenge. Eblan had wanted to hire assassins, but at the first attempt to do so, they were informed bluntly that their target was one which no assassin would accept, not for any money. At seventeen, Harali had made the decision to do the job herself, and she had been training for it ever since.

For the rest of the day, once her mother had fed her and seen her bathed, Harali was kept busy with the business of the manor which had been left languishing. Lady Eblan was an excellent manager of the keep and servants, but management of all other aspects of the manor was done by Harali, with the help of her steward. The steward could not make all decisions, so Harali spent hours closeted with him now, learning what had happened while she had been away in training, what had been done, and what needed to be done. She spent another hour, a necessary social hour, with the Smith Master, and another with the mayor of the village that looked to Ironhall and supplied it with food and other necessities. By the time she finally crawled into her bed, she was barely conscious of anything more than how luxurious it was compared to her bunk in the Assassins Hall before she fell soundly asleep.

The morning brought more luxury, a pitcher of hot water to wash with and a maid to lay out clean clothes, including a long gown in brocaded red, her favorite color, and a linen underdress that lay sensuously on her skin after so many weeks of coarse homespun. She sat before a mirror of polished steel as the maid tried to arrange her hair, clucking all the time about what a shame it was that my lady had cut it so short, and for the first time, Harali saw the long streak of silver than ran over her ear and down her neck, all the way to the nape. She touched it, felt the coolness. What the hell?

"Do you see that?" she demanded.

The maid flinched. "What, my lady?"

She pointed at the silvery path.

The maid peered, but she obviously saw nothing and was trying to think of something to say that wouldn't get her punished. Harali frowned at her reflection, recalling that her mother had felt the coolness of the silver, but not seen it. She said to the maid, "A trace of silver, here."

Relieved, the maid, misinterpreting her meaning, smiled and said, "My lady, you have no trace of silver in your hair! It is the same color as when you were a girl."

So, it was invisible except to herself. She stared at it long after the maid left. Could it be some kind of assassin's mark? She would have to ask her Master, the next time she saw him. But in the meantime, it seemed to be doing her no harm, so she elected to ignore it, other than checking it daily to be sure it didn't alter in any way.

Three days later, the mark was unchanged, and all the estate and castle business had been attended to. Harali was settling into the daily rhythm of the manor, giving herself this time to enjoy all that she loved before she set out on her self-imposed mission. The only reminder she allowed herself was a long visit, the day after her arrival, to the tombs of her father and brothers. After that, she refreshed her mind by immersing it in the duties and routines of her life at Ironhall. She had been commanded to do so by her Master, for it was part of guild education that all assassins must renew their spirits between missions, or they would become less efficient, even careless or overconfident, or mentally or emotionally fatigued. Any of those things could mean death or, worse, failure. They were also commanded not to be solitary, because assassins by their nature were in danger of forgetting the social amenities, and without those, they could not blend into the surroundings of their target, but would stand out and be noticeable, a major sin for a craft that stressed secrecy. So Harali drank with her officers, ate meals with the village elders, met with traders, and, in her happiest times, spent hours at the smithies.

She was at one of the forges, lending a hand, when a page came to fetch her. A party was approaching the castle, one which included eight men-at-arms, yet carried no banner. She ran up the stairs to the parapet and looked south down the road. Her eyes were keen, and she could make out detail that her sentry could not. Besides the men-at-arms, there was a man, the leader, on a very fine black horse; two other men, also well-mounted, one of them looking like no more than a page and the other in a craft gown; and one woman, broad enough to require the sturdiness of the horse that bore her.

She was curious, so she trotted back down the stairs and ducked her head into a bucket of rain water to rinse off the sweat. She scrubbed face and arms, shoved back her hair, and called for a horse. By the time the party had reached the edge of the village, she was cantering out to greet them, backed by eight of her own men.

The man in the lead lifted a hand, and his men-at-arms immediately halted. He gestured the others to stay back, then walked his horse up to her. When he drew rein at the properly polite distance, she said, "I am Harali, lady of Ironhall. Who are you, and what is your business?"

The man inclined his head with a faint smile. There was something arrogant about the man that both irritated Harali and appealed to her. "I am Niam, lord of Hawk's Rest."

Hawksblood? Here? She closed her dropped jaw. "I am honored by your presence."

"I thank you. As for my business here, it is to speak with you. On a private matter."

"I will naturally be honored to hear anything you have to say. Please bring your party within. They will be made comfortable."

Her captain of the guard took charge of Lord Niam's men, and her mother happily took care of the others. The craftsman was a master scribe, and her own scribe was overjoyed to meet him. The boy accepted being assumed to be a page, but he didn't act like one, and even Lady Eblan kept looking at him oddly. As for the woman, she was quite vulgar, and Harali was at a total loss why she would be in company with men like a baron and a master scribe.

None of them were difficult guests, the woman, Wilia, informing Lady Eblan that after a succession of inns, some not very suitable to Lord Niam's station, a place as luxurious as Ironhall was a blessing. Lord Niam gave her a long, hard look, and she smiled placidly at him and bobbed a curtsy, as if a command had been given and accepted. As for Niam himself, he was easy to please, satisfied with every arrangement Lady Eblan made for his comfort.

Eblan told her daughter that she thought the boy might be an illegitimate son of Lord Niam's, for Niam wanted him to have a room rather than to have him sleeping at the foot of his bed like a page would do. Harali didn't agree, but she made no effort to discourage her mother's harmless fantasies.

She and Lord Niam were not able to meet in private until after dinner, but the man showed no impatience. Whatever his business was, it must be important to have brought him so far from his own castle, but it was apparently not urgent. However, at last she was able to draw him away from the attentions of her mother and of her officers, all of whom wanted a chance to speak with the famed Hawksblood. In her study, she offered him wine, and they chatted for a few minutes on neutral topics such as military history and manor management. He seemed pleasantly surprised to find a woman so knowledgeable, but after complimenting her once, he simply accepted her as a peer and spoke to her as he might another man. She was immensely flattered.

As host, she was responsible for allowing her guest to speak his business, so she kept their conversation shorter than she wished, saying, "But, my lord, you did say you had something you wished to discuss with me privately. We are alone. In what way can I help you?"

"First, may I ask you a question? Have you yet noticed the mark on your head?"

She started. "You can see it?" She touched it. Had it suddenly become visible? No, for no one had mentioned it, and surely someone would have.

Niam answered her unspoken question. "You and I are the only people who are able to see it."

"You know what it is?"