Davyd

by Wolfe

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5

One

Some girls dream of servicing the Emperor of the Three Kingdoms. To be chosen by this man, to give up their flesh to satisfy one so great, so powerful. He who claims to have brought order and peace to the land after decades of war. The peoples' saviour. The peoples' protector. Just as men dream of giving up their lives for him, women dream of giving up their bodies for him. Fantasies of crawling on their hands and knees, across his bedchamber, to lie naked and open upon the royal bed. Like I just did.

I scream as he enters me, rough and brutal, because I know that's what he wants me to do. I know his desires. His hands squeeze and twist my flesh, roaming over my naked body. I can't feel my wounds anymore, just pure pleasure. Writhing and twisting under him, his sweat mixing with my sweat and my blood, my skin so hot it feels like fire. My hands grip the Emperor's bed sheets, wrapping the finest silks in the land around my wrists until I've bound myself to the bed. His thighs push my legs further apart and I wrap them around his waist, letting him deeper into me.

A tiny part of my mind, a voice so quiet it barely registers, says, Hate.

I cry out with each thrust, hips rising to meet each pounding penetration, sometimes just an animal noise, sometimes begging him to do me harder, sometimes just saying yes when he whispers in my ear, telling me I'm just another whore.

My voice, playing the detached intellectual observer, says to me, I suppose there's a certain irony in the fact that you managed to penetrate his inner sanctum, and now he penetrates yours.

I say, Faster.

We're all alone now, his personal guard has left, taking their dead and wounded with them. Just the most powerful man in the world frelling the living dung out of a naked, sweaty girl who writhes and squeals under him like a cat on a hot tin roof.

His breath is hot against my ear. His lips are on my neck. I tilt my head back, till I'm looking at the wall behind me. For my crime, he says he's going to make me beg for death. I'm going to die screaming with pleasure.

I say, Yes, my Lord.

The little voice in my head, my thoughts, says, Don't worry, this has been a flawless operation. The voice says, Hold it together, remember plan oral.

I have no idea what I'm talking about. I'm too busy begging the Emperor to frell me harder.

The Emperor licks my neck and my ankles press against his ass, trying to push him further into me as he thrusts.

The voice says, And assassinating the Emperor of the Three Kingdoms will look really good on your resume. No professional hitter has pulled off a job like this before. The Emperor, my beloved ruler, pulls out of me and I cry out in disappointment. He flips me over, positioning my body exactly how he wants it, so I'm on my knees, face pressed into the expensive silk, smelling my own sweat. I know what he's going to do.

My voice tells me that it's alright. It's not important in the wider scheme of things. The Emperor says, "We know you don't have to scream, that you're strong enough not to. But we like to know what our subjects are thinking, and what they're feeling.

He says, "Especially what they're feeling."

His cock enters my ass. Doesn't even wait for the muscles to relax, he slides right in and I'm screaming with the pain of it. And the pain is pleasure, the two merging into one. The Emperor takes me like that, his hands iron bands around my waist, pulling me back as he thrusts, flesh slapping on flesh. He pulls, I push.

I want to bite down on the bed, but I don't, 'cause I know he wants to hear me scream. He runs sharp fingernails down my back, white hot burns, gouged skin filling with blood. More pleasure and pain screams. I feel his tongue on my shoulder.

Oh, Gods, yes!

My little voice says to me, He's raping you, stupid.

Can't be, not when it feels this good. I want this. I soooo want this.

He's making you think that.

The Emperor has wrapped his fingers in my hair, pulling my head back hard, so now I'm looking at the beautiful mosaic up there. Difficult to make out the detail though when your body is bouncing back and forward.

No-one said it was going to be easy, I'm saying inside my mind, almost inaudible like a voice in a hurricane. Don't lose it now.

He's pulled me right back up, so I'm sitting down on the cock buried in my ass, his chest pressed against my back, my head pulled hard over. A hand around my waist as he lifts and drops me, the other twisting a rigid nipple.

My mind-voice says, with professional detachment, This can't be good for your internal organs. Soft tissue damage. Internal haemorrhaging. Fissures. Infection.

Shut up and just let me enjoy this.

A finger is at my clit, soft, delicate strokes. His thick cock moving more gently now. He says, "Come for us, my assassin. Admit your defeat." The Emperor nuzzles my neck.

It doesn't take long to oblige him. My body goes rigid, silent scream, shuddering on his cock. Sphincter muscles spasm around his hard shaft, the pleasure feeding back into my groin, and orgasm keeps rolling up through me over and over again. It goes on and on as he works me expertly, manipulating my body. Muscles go to pudding and I sag in his arms, a boneless piece of meat. He kisses my neck, gently. There's a flash of blinding pain. I'm drifting away on a sea of pure pleasure. I climax again, shuddering waves of release, and it won't stop.

Mindblowing sex with your mortal enemy.

The voice, faint, distant, almost gone, says something and I can't hear it. Then again, oh so distant, it says, Remember Davyd.

And then I can hear my silent voice, louder now, stronger. I remember how I got here, the pounding my body is taking no longer the centre of existence. Memories fill me.

Getting this far was genius in itself. Simple but brilliant. This is my little voice telling me this, being my ego now. All I can do is listen to it. Can't think. Oh Gods, what he's doing to me feels good.

The Emperor's palace lies at the centre of the capital of the Three Kingdoms. Nosgraadferr. Constructed from blocks of gleaming white stone, vast and overwhelming with its grandeur. Parapets and towers surmount the concentric, crenellation-topped walls. A fortress that screams power to all that behold it. A fortress impregnable to an army, with walls that are the thickest in the Empire. The Emperor of the Three Kingdoms must feel so safe in that palace castle.

How to get inside that? Challenging even for an elite hitter.

I'm on my back on the bed, limbs flopped around me, not an ounce of strength left, gazing at the ceiling, stupidly happy in the knowledge that the Emperor came inside me. He wipes his mouth and positions my legs so that they're spread nice and wide. A sound escapes me as he slips two fingers inside, then three. He lays beside me on his side, supporting his head with his hand, fingers working in and out and tells me to look at him. I look. I stare into those blue eyes.

"You're very lucky, my plaything," he says. "I'm going to make this last all night." Four fingers. I gasp, open mouthed as he prepares to fist me, pushing deeper and deeper, stretching me so wide, twisting. I just stare at him, mouth open, eyes wide.

"You know, I believe that highly disciplined mind of yours is still holding out. So you're going to tell me again. Why did you come here to die?"

My mind voice says, The best lies always contain an element of truth.

I'm drowning in his eyes and the croaky little squeak I make is barely audible. I say, Davyd.

"Interesting," he says. "We come closer to the truth. We'll come back to that later. We have all night after all. First let us play some more. Do you wish to play?"

Four fingers and thumb.

I nod.

He says, "Remember to make those pretty little noises for your Emperor."

He pushes his whole hand inside me.

A strategist will tell you that a useful rule of thumb is to counter the complex with the simple.

People expect a complex solution to a complex problem. Feed that expectation. Come up with some ludicrously intricate plan, requiring tight timings, guards being in the right place at the right time, you slithering through sewer pipes, etc. Kidnap someone who knows the defences and layout of the place. In this case the son of the Commander of the Watch. Young men are easily lead into a girl's bedroom. Two missing fingers later and you can't shut him up. Get yourself accidentally spotted by the Empire's secret police. Stealthily they follow you back to your lair. Then you slip out the window, so that when they burst in they find only the boy bloodied, still tied to the chair, throat cut. And your detailed and secret plans for the hit lay on your desk. Studying them they realise they only have a few hours left to save their beloved Emperor's life from a professional hitter. A legally sanctioned assassin. One of the Emperor's own weapons turned against him. Off they run, making preparations to foil your plan, so carefully developed over the last few weeks.

Then you walk in the front door.

It's called a misdirect. A sideshow illusionist will tell you that.

I went in on the Festival of Unification day, about six or eight hours ago. This is the day that we celebrate of the joining of the three Kingdoms under the Emperor. The gates of the barbican open as citizens traipse through to pay their respects to the Emperor's grand statue in the courtyard. I return to my roots and am dressed in the clothing of a peasant girl from the steppes. It's been over ten years since I last dressed like this. My native dialect sounds weird on my tongue, it's been so long since I had a conversation in it. Just as well no-one here has a clue what it's supposed to sound like, and the guards, overrun by citizens on this glorious day, give up talking to the backward country girl and let her through as families press on behind me.

Well, I almost got through without incident, but one of the Emperor's upstanding guards sees a lone peasant girl looking all lost and confused and takes her aside, to a small room. And demands a blow job.

Frell.

After getting the nature of his request across, and seeing the resulting outrage from this innocent farmer girl, who threatens to make a scene, he settles for a reluctant hand job. And then a chance to view and maul my breasts. This requires some awkward positioning as he wants to suckle while I jerk.

Things get a little bit out of control. His hand is suddenly between my legs. Not sure what to do and I make the mistake of pretending that it feels good. His hands go to my thighs and before I can think of a response that doesn't involve violence and making a scene he's got me up against the wall and is inside me. I'm not ready and it hurts. Rough stone blocks grinding into my back, arms and legs wrapped around him, looking over his shoulder through the hair falling on my face, breathing in his unwashed stink, praying that none of his comrades come in and see the show. And want to join in.

Clueless farmer girl, new to the city, gets exploited by city folk. I have come full circle.

Oww, oww, oww...

He tells me I'm pretty.

Resist the urge to hit him. Tell yourself that your whole body is a weapon. A tool for getting the job done. Remember you're a professional. Never allow personal feelings to affect you while on a job.

He tells me I have a tight pussy.

Oww, oww, oww...

Do anything to get a job done. Make any sacrifice. That's what they teach you in the Assassins' Guild.

Discipline.

Self-control.

Fortunately, pleasuring him doesn't exactly take a lot of time out of my schedule. I smile hesitantly like it wasn't too bad. In the big city, country girl and dirty girl mean the same thing after all. He smiles happily, gives me a kiss which I deflect onto my cheek and then he throws me out.

It seems romance is not dead.

Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. Long and slow.

I am calm.

Tell yourself you're not a slut. You're a professional. You're working.

I pass through the bailey and into the castle's courtyard, milling with the citizens. They are all dressed in their festival day best, and I'm thinking maybe I overdid the peasant girl look. Too late to adjust now. Need to get back on schedule. Anyway, standing out can be a disguise in itself.

Slip away to the kitchen area. Adopt an ill-fitting uniform from a scullery girl. Hide the body in cool room while searching the crate of salted pork that I hid my tools in last night before it was transported here for the feast.

Get dressed in work clothing, get tooled-up, put scullery girl's outfit over the top. Now am glad she was wider than I am, just a pity she was a bit too short.

Upstairs we go, holding a platter of food, looking like one is supposed to be here. Which, in a way, I am. Once inside, things run smoothly. Defensive systems like this are designed to hold out external threats. They're not so good a stopping those threats once they're inside. It's called the soft underbelly.

Now the information gained from the son of the Commander of the Watch comes in. Count the floors, count the rooms. I find the guards' armoury on the level below the Emperor's quarters. According to the timetable I have ten minutes to pick this lock before the patrol returns. Three minutes into it and there's the sound of heavy feet.

The little bastard lied. Obviously two fingers was not enough. I've gotten soft.

Pressure, pressure. Feet are getting closer.

I am ice cold. I am calm.

Seconds to go. The thunder of footsteps is almost at the corner.

Open you freller!

And the lock clicks, the door opens and I slip inside. I'm pressed up against the door, latch held up so they don't hear the metallic click of it shutting. The heavy tramp of feet stomp down the hallway, thumping vibrations on the soles of my feet coming off the stone floor.

Holding my breath.

The feet don't stop and I breathe out as they fade away down the hall.

Calm your breathing.

Remember your training.

Tell yourself that you're the best.

Relax.

I dump the scullery outfit and check my tools. Side-sword, one. Poignards, two. Throwing knives, sixteen. Garrotte. Check.

Now for time for caution. Iocaine is one of the more deadly poisons know to man. A poison that I've only recently become aware of.

The Guild goes to great lengths to make its assassins immune to every poison in the Three Kingdoms. This is a process that takes many years, and is very unpleasant. Tiny doses of a substance are given, and over a period of time the dosage is built up, until the assassin is resistant. This is not to guarantee that it won't make you very ill, which is why I don't using poison on my jobs. But you'll live.

It recently came to my attention that there is one poison that the Guild does not include in the program. Iocaine.

This is probably as a safeguard against rogue assassins. Such as myself. But if the guild has kept this poison a secret from its own members, I'm betting they never told the Emperor about it either.

So the Imperial Guard won't have an immunity.

I run a line of the clear liquid over each of my blades. And very, very carefully re-sheath them. There have been stories of assassins cutting themselves accidentally on a job, and blown the hit because of their weakened state.

Very embarrassing being caught while doubled up, vomiting all over the floor.

I buckle my gear on and wrap the garrotte around my waist.

Finally, my Guild-issue warding necklace. Which is supposed to bring you luck in combat. Hard to test how well it works, of course. Take it off and see if you get killed quicker next time? More importantly it counters defensive runes. Which you can guarantee will be between me and the target. Nothing but the very best to protect the Emperor.

I braid my hair into the regulation tight ponytail. This I take my time over. I remind myself of who I am. I tell myself I'm strong. I'm fast. I'm clever. I tell myself I'm the best. I breathe, long and slow, and feel strength running through my limbs. I feel strength of purpose flowing through my mind.

I tell myself I'm unstoppable.

Now out the window and clamber up the outside of the castle. I ease myself out onto the windowsill, peering up into the darkness, looking for hand holds. The hard earth is a long way below me.

Don't look down.

The wind whips past, tearing at my hair, stray strands flailing at my eyes. Icy fingers of air force selves through every gap in my clothes. I struggle to breathe.

The ascent is slow and cautious. The first part is pure upper body strength. Muscles ready to rip, I haul myself up to the ledge above the window. After that first bit the elaborate carvings and facade out here make things easier. A stone lion is particularly helpful for the last part of the climb. Good kitty.

I peek into the window that lies directly above the guards' armoury, then slip inside. This is the bedroom used by the Empress. The Emperor doesn't have a wife, so it gets used by whoever is his latest plaything. His whore for the night. Those types of ladies, if they're staying the night, they have work to do in the Emperor's bedchamber. So this room is largely unused and maintained for ceremonial purposes.

The closet is tempting but I'm of the opinion hiding under the bed would be better.

This is a variation of the do something simple plan. When up against pros, don't follow procedure. Forget your training. Do something dumb. They won't be expecting stupidity. No-one would expect a pro hitter to be hiding under a bed. Besides, I have a few more hours before I don't show up out of the castles sewer pipes in the dungeon, as per my original and captured plan. Hopefully, they will figure I realised I'd been compromised and had abandoned the attempt, for tonight at least.

Now I just have to lie under this bed until it's all dark and quiet and everyone's gone to bed. Then it's a simple matter of slipping into the Emperor's bedchamber and sending him to the big sleep.

An hour passes. My back gets sore. I shift very, very slowly, so that I make no noise. Feet can be heard outside several times.

The story of the pro hitter's life is hurry up and wait.

They do inspect the room, not at the appointed time but I'm not surprised as I know that the watch commander's son distorted the timetable. Loyal to his Emperor.

If that boy had understood what I now understand, he would've talked willingly. But you can't tell people something like that, you can only show them.

The inspection is brief, but they lounge up against the window and talk of one of their girlfriends for a while. He's planning to propose. The other three think he's a fool. There's that old, "why buy the cow when you can have the milk line", and they laugh. The scent of hobbit weed fills the room, despite their puffing out the window. This is the end of their shift and they're unwinding. Their duty done, they shuffle out and lock the door behind them.

Time passes, it's gloomy now. Footsteps become rare. I practise controlled breathing, visualise some cartas, get myself in the right headspace. I realise I haven't sleep properly in weeks.

I think of the gang. Arns. Altus. Prod. Little Zoë. I think of Mathok. His strength, his gentleness. The broad, white grin. His ebony black skin. His gorgeous muscled body. The way he seemed to fit my body so perfectly.

I try not to think of Mathok. That's the past, this is the present. They're all gone anyway. Stay in the present moment. I have only one reason to exist. And that's to get the job done.

I relax down, close my eyes, and clear my mind, just focusing on the breath. Reminding myself I'm a professional.

This is a guarded hit. That means the target is protected. Very protected.

I slow my heart beat. I relax every muscle in my body.

If this job was sanctioned by the Guild, it would be classified as lost. That means the operative is not expected to make it out. It is very important that the Guild's operatives do not get taken alive.

I slow everything down. Cleanse the mind.

This job would also have been classified as a terroristic hit. That means the outcome will be publicly effective. Highly visible. The world will change after this job.

Be one focused thing. Just relax...

I open my eyes and it's pitch black.

Oh, frell! I fell asleep! Moron! The most important hit of my life and I'm frelling it up. I've got no idea what time it is, apart from the fact it's time to move. Out from under the bed and over to the door, stretching out stiffened muscles. Blinking the fog from my mind, I try the door. It's latched not locked. I slowly ease the tongue of the latch up by slipping my poignard through the crack between door and jam. Every tiny scrape of metal sounds like a scream in the dark and quiet.

Breathe.

The door open and I slip through into the corridor, spluttering torches at regular intervals along the wall. Around the corner lies the Emperor's bed chamber. Crouching down low I peek around the corner and see them, lit by torchlight. Step back, pull throwing knives, and breathe.

Put on your game face. Wear your mask. Controlling the external controls the internal. And vice versa.

Remind yourself how much you hate the evil thing that lives in the room they're guarding. Tell yourself what he is. What he's done. Then push that emotion down inside until it's nothing but a tiny, ice-cold sphere inside of you.

Focus. Push everything down inside of you.

I am cold.

I am a weapon.

Game face.

Breathe.

Step round the corner and throw.

The hiss of steel flying through the air, two thumps. One Imperial guardsman is clawing at his throat, but the other's only taken it in the face, through both cheeks. Luckily he's tougher than nails and barely cries out. Good man.

Instead he staggers and has only just ripped the blade from his face when I reach him, sprinting. I duck his flailing fist, burying a poignard under his arm around the axilla where there's always a gap in the armour, searching for the subclavian artery. A blade does more damage coming out than going in, like the difference between an incision and a laceration. Extracting the tool also facilitates exsanguination, which expedites the onset of hypovolemic shock. Cerebral hypoxia and feeling dizzy, faint and nauseated follow. You can get a mild version of that when you stand up too quickly.

But pulling a blade requires time. And leaving it in is a good way to disrupt a target.

The first Imperial is on the ground trying to rise, and I hit him with other poignard. You've got to hit targets when you can, because when someone knows they're dying, knows they've got seconds left and nothing to lose, so often they'll rise up out of nowhere and take you down with their last breath.

I put the other one to sleep too. Hit. Hit. Hit.

Quick and clean. The joy of surprise. It took seconds but they made noise going down. Gotta speed this operation up. Get to the soft target before reinforcements arrive.

I'm standing in a pool of blood and my necklace is burning. The Emperor's guardian runes are powering up, their intricate designs becoming visible as they start to glow. My necklace's defensive runes are surging and I've got seconds before the counter-runes are overwhelmed and I start to fry.

I've seen what runes this powerful do. Blood boils. Flesh peels. Eyeballs pop and cerebral matter runs down your cheeks like tears. The heart explodes. They take what's left of you away in a bucket.

I don't want to go that way.

Finger fumble at an Imperial's uniform, and I find his counter-rune charm. Once it's on me the heat from the runes fades into cool stillness.

Breathe.

Discipline.

Now for the primary target.

I twist the door handle, and step into the darkened interior of the Emperor's private chambers.

The only in the room comes from the cracks at the shuttered windows and the embers from the almost dead fire. The paintings on the walls are just black squares. The smell is of sweet perfume and exotic incense. Nostril tightening stuff. I move forward slowly, soft-soled shoes silent on thick fur rugs, cautious of walking into something noisy in the gloom. On the first side of the room lies the double door to the Emperor's bedroom proper. One step after the other and that door gets closer.

There's a sound. My heart skips a beat. I freeze. That door opens and two figures are backlight against the warm orange light from the torches inside it.

I hold still, praying that they can't see me in the shadows, debating whether to throw, but I can't identify the target. This is all wrong.

Oh, frell.

A voice says, "Some light, gentlemen."

The light from the lanterns being unhooded makes me blink and for a moment I can't see anything. Half a dozen imperial guardsmen, black clothes, blackened armour, step out from the walls where they had been sheltering. The door opens behind me and four more guardsmen step in.

Can you say trap?

"Well done making it this far, assassin. You're even more cunning than we were lead to believe. And prettier."

The Emperor is a wizened old man, with a long grey beard, dressed in the Imperial robes of red, gold and black. It's surprising he can even stand under the weight of the thick folds of cloth. His crown sits upon his head, pure gold and thick with jewels.

I've seen him at a distance three or four times, on his high balcony, waving to crowds. Up close he looks even older. Wrinkled and decayed. He looks like just another pathetic old man.

He says, "We were starting to think you weren't coming after all. What happened? Did you fall asleep?"

He laughs, high-pitched and warbling.

Game face.

Beside him is what must be his chief advisor, with straw blonde hair. This guy laughs too, in sequence, like some bad henchman cliché. I glance around quickly, and note the guardsmen discreetly moving into position. Two are next to the Emperor, covering him from a charge.

"Did you get confused, assassin?" the Emperor says, warbling still. "Did you take a wrong turn somewhere? Aren't you supposed to be doing something for your beloved Emperor?"

Game face.

Breathe.

These are the Emperor's personal bodyguard. A fanatically loyal elite. They're kind of like anti-assassins. At the Emperor's behest, the Assassins' Guild regularly trains them in all our techniques. I've trained some of them. They know almost as much as I do about the art of hitting. And it's their job to use that knowledge to nullify would-be assassins.

Of course, they've never actually been up against a professional before, one of the Guild's best. Only amateurs.

"Your Emperor wants to know why his servant stands before him, armed and with death in her eyes. You are ours to command, assassin. How is it that you have chosen a path of treason and betrayal?"

Am working on a plan, but at present am concentrating on looking like I don't know what to do. Which isn't actually that far from reality.

Game face.

Discipline.

"Nothing to say, child? Never fear, for you will speak unto your Emperor later. You will tell us everything. Captain, if at all possible, try not to damage the assassin too badly. For we would like to know where the root of this disloyalty lies. She has much to tell us about our enemies."

"Yes, my Lord," says the Captain of the Imperial Guard, all big and blond and lantern-jawed. "Take her."

And we dance.

Obviously I do not win this fight. Nobody would have. Nobody human anyway. Rest assured I feel I gave a good account of myself. But it would have been nice to have had Zoë's uncanny ability to disappear off the face of the world when trouble reared its ugly head.

But to understand what that means, and how I got myself into this situation, we have to go back a few weeks.

Two

We should be getting back.

I say this 'cause Zoë has reappeared, after leaving me wandering through Tanath's market alone. I'm drowning in a sea of people. The clothes on display here are not as rich as at the Emperor's capital. There the colours are brighter, the materials better and the jackets a longer length. But these are still rich enough. This is a merchant town and there's plenty of money about.

But that doesn't mean they're safe. Any one of them could be a hostile. Any one of them could have a tool up their sleeve, or at their back.

Zoë looks up at me. When you struggle to make five foot two inches tall, looking up at people is a fact of life, not a metaphor. She says, "Plenty of time yet. Now, what have you got?"

I proffer my bag of supplies. In it is everything on the list, enough to feed three strapping warriors, us two girls and one boy.

I can't believe how expensive it is to buy your own food.

Zoë the thief does a double take, like the idea of paying for things startles her.

"Can't be joy using your own mint. How much was it? What! What did you verbal them down from? Oh, no."

She casts her eyes to the gods and makes little fists in front of her.

"You dropped the asking, didn't you?"

I glance around the marketplace, scanning for potential targets. Busy masses of people bustle to and fro. Everyone with something to do. Some place in this vast web of human chaos. Even the street vendors move back forth, energised, their voices carrying over the hubbub of the crowd. Cries promising only the finest meat, vegetables, linen, jewellery and more tempt the ears.

And I'm about to be publicly lectured about how the world works by a midget thief.

"I told you to verbal them. Haggle, girl! No-one drops the asking. No, it doesn't matter if they said that is the real asking, they're blinding you. Dropping at all is slow, but dropping the asking?! Gods, it's like dealing with a scrapper."

I think scrapper means a child. I'm getting better at de-coding Zoë-speak, but sometimes I still just nod and pretend I know what she's going on about.

Passers by look at us. They seem harmless, just amused. Zoë does like to prattle.

"If I wasn't with you, you'd be short your bag by now. The others are only hanging off 'cause I said you were mine."

Mine?

"Just a thief expression. Slang."

Anyway, two did. A couple of boys.

"The little shits! You didn't rough them did you?"

No. Not badly.

Zoë sniffs and looks around, reaching into her little bag. "Serves them right for getting fingered," she says as she produces a large green apple.

"Do you want to spy some sights?"

It's not good being in the open like this. Too many angles to cover. There's a group of males staring at us, have been since we wandered into the market. Can't detect any tools, but they could be carrying concealed. And another male is studying the crowd, but paying particular attention to us. He could be the ring leader.

Zoë squints against the morning sunlight, looks over her shoulder and sighs.

"The boys are spying out your leather clad ass and most likely wondering if I'm you're girlfriend or not. And that," she jerks her thumb, "is Goran. He's a stick. Straight today."

Now she looks at me and sighs. "Constabulary. Plain clothes. He's on market law and order duty."

She says "law and order" while rolling her eyes.

"He'd normally be over here roughing me by now, but I think you give him the shivers. If he had some friends he might ask you about those big knives you're carrying, but he's not paid enough to do it alone. Are you expecting a war?"

It pays to be prepared.

"Don't you get the shivers, dear, I'll keep you safe." She smiles her big, impish smile and half her face turns into white teeth.

"Now," she says, slipping her arm around mine, "Let's go explore some more of mighty Tanath city, which you claim to have lived in for many years but curiously appear to have spied very little of. Did they keep you in a closet in the Assassins' Guild?"

She might want to say that a little louder, some of the civilians may not have heard.

"Or perhaps chained spread-eagle in the dungeon, serving to pleasure a seemingly endless line of poor, stressed out, whack job associates after they've been out on a hard night's slaughter?" Why does she have to talk like that? Just because I'm on leave from the Guild does not mean I want them disrespected. And professional hitters are not "whack jobs". At least we have a proper guild. From what Zoë says, the Thieves' Guild sounds more like some sort of anarchist commune.

She squeaks, high pitched and girly, enjoying laughing at me. She waves at Goran, grinning at full power, bright green apple held high.

I hope she paid for that.

"Don't be slow," she says. "I stole it."

We walk through the market, me trying to disentangle my arm, struggling like a fly in a spider's web.

Zoë and I pass the squat stone keep that dominates the centre of Tanath and wander through the craftsmen's' sector. Their houses are built on a tiny patch of land. Their workshops are on the ground floor, the living rooms on the floors above. The levels are built outward, getting bigger as they go. They have to do it that way, Zoë says, because land is so expensive. Buy the tiniest plot you can, and build your house out like a great oak. Your family gets bigger, just build another layer on top. Some of the structures look so top-heavy that a strong wind might blow them over.

The houses in Tanath are mostly painted black, red or blue. Those colours are cheap to make. The pitch and linseed paint is, however, a fire hazard. That's why, says Zoë, lecturing, many years ago the Councillors decreed that straw roofs should be replaced with tiles. Those that could afford to did so. This directive was quietly applauded by the Thieves' Guild, as tile will support the weight of a person. Makes sneaking across roofs so much easier. Imagine the embarrassment that ensures when a straw roof gives way, and you find yourself lying in some mark's living room with a broken leg.

This I know.

"Done some sneaking across roofs in your time, have you?"

No comment.

Tanath river bisects the town. Barges and flat-bottomed ships line the wharf, taking on and discharging boxes of all shapes and sizes. There's livestock in pens waiting passively for their fate to be decided. Bale after bale of wool is being unloaded from one barge by a stream of ant-like stevedores.

Tanath has a thriving cloth industry, says Zoë the tour guide. Which is good as it's easy to steal some nice warm clothes in the winter months. "In other cities, it can be rough for thieves in the cold. But we can go right on working."

We head across the broad stone expanse of Feldnar's bridge. He has his statue at the either end of it. He holds his bronze sword pointing at the heavens, green now and dotted with bird shit, his shield positioned theatrically like no trained soldier would. Zoë has no idea who Feldnar was.

Finally something she doesn't know.

I scrape away at the green bronze base. It has a date on it showing it be very old. Before the time of the Unification. Which means Feldnar may have been one of those nobles who stood in opposition to his Highness. One of the barbarian kings who wages ceaseless war amongst themselves before the Emperor united the lands and brought peace. It should be torn down. This statue's presence is disrespectful to the Emperor.

Zoë lets out a very long yeeeessss.

It's true, we all owe our happiness to the Emperor.

"You need to get out more."

Zoë needs to read a history book.

"Show me one scribed before the Emperor came to power and I will."

You can't expect a thief to have respect for authority I suppose.

Zoë puts her fingers in her ears and mutters something about not wanting to hear another rant from me. She walks off down the street and doesn't take her fingers away until I've promised to drop the subject. Which I do because it's already become clear that explaining to some people how lucky they are to live in such a golden age is a waste of time. People will find something to complain about no matter what.

I catch up to her. She twirls theatrically, one hand held high, and falls backward. Either I catch her or she hits the cobblestones.

Zoë looks up at me and says, "You have strong arms. Shall we dance?"

There is no way I am participating in one of Zoë's silly dance routines.

"Maybe later then." Zoë scampers off and I follow.

Pigs cross our path, let loose by their owners to scavenge for refuse. Citizens throw their trash right out onto the street, usually missing the open sewers and occasionally hitting a passer-by. Then cries of outrage and apologies follow. Get too close to the sewer ditches in summer and your eyes will water, your nose burn.

The pigs at least clear up the mess.

"If you're really hanging, you can often find enough to chew in the piles. If the piggies haven't got to it first. You just have to time it right."

Be calm my crawling skin.

Someone almost trips over a little porcine snuffler and sends it squealing on its way with a gentle boot. A face, close, screaming at me, twisted and spitting. Muscles tighten, a breath sucked in, reflexes take control and I just about draw. Zoë tugs on my sleeve, pulling me away from the doomsayer, telling me that the end is nigh, the lord will come and purge my wickedness, I am sin. I must repent and accept him.

He says he can see the blood on me.

"Now that's a whack job," says Zoë. "Hate them. They shiver the marks, make them jumpy. There seems to be more of them every day."

We continue, past a troupe of minstrels, whose playing drowns out the prophet and his judgements. Zoë tosses them a coin as she passes.

Don't thieves take stuff, not gave it away?

"They need it more than me," she says. She looks up to the sun and gauges the time. "Besides, it was your mint."

What?

"Your joy deed for the day. Now," Zoë says as she hands my money bag back, "there's a parade happening on the main road. Soon."

I'm peering into my bag, trying to count how much is left. Sounds nice. Do you like parades?

"Ah-huh. They're wonderful. All the bright shiny colours, the entertainment, a big crowd of marks completely dreaming by the aforementioned. Candy from a scrapper."

Candy from a...? She hustles off and I'm dragged after like there's some invisible rope between us.

"Shuffle on," she says, "we need to get there or the others will have fingered all the easy pickings. We need to recover your mint."

Get my coin back?

Zoë stops, turns and takes a big breath, expelling it through her nose. She says, "It's a circle." Zoë hold up a finger and twirls it in the air. "You give, you let someone take, someone gets what they need, you get what you need. The musician needed some mint, now we need some mint so we go get one from a mark who doesn't need that mint."

Someone who doesn't need a coin?

"Yes, most people have more than they need. They hoard. Hoarding is sin. It means someone who needs misses out. Now hurry, we need to line up and look town. As town as you can look anyway. And stop repeating everything I say. It makes you sound slow."

Slow? Me?

"Forget it. Follow and learn from the master, my wee scrapper."

For Zoë, stealing came as naturally as breathing. Want. Take. Have. She'd been doing it all her life. It was a family business, and they were all involved in some form of theft or black-market activity. No need for Zoë to lie to her parents about what she did, they were positively aglow at the tales of her acquisitions. Though, years ago, she said mother had told her to stop sending lists of everything she'd stolen that week, as it would've been incriminating evidence if the letter had fallen into the wrong hands.

"In hindsight, that was a pretty slow thing to do."

Three days after she joined Zoë comes to me with a bracelet, a gold band with an intricate inlay of deer in the forest, and their hunters. She stole it.

That is the word she used when she gave it to me.

"I stole this for you," she announced, her huge brown eyes shining. Zoë enunciated the phrase 'stole for you' in the same manner that others would say 'lovingly hand-crafted for you'.

I'm wearing that bracelet now, on my left wrist. Zoë insists. She makes her hurt face if it's not there. Citizens of Tanath have gathered along the main road through the town. Cobbled, flat and broad, you feel like you can breathe here after the narrow claustrophobic lanes of the rest of the town.

Shouts and cries up ahead, the clatter of hooves. The crowd parts. We're pushed to one side with the mass. Heads crane and peer, straining to see what's coming. The crowds noise further along rises again as they see the column. Now a troop of horse trots past us, in formation. We see scarlet jackets, gold-laced epaulettes, white breeches. We see rows of silver spear tips, pennants bearing the mark of the royal house fluttering in the breeze. We see fine mounts, chestnut, grey, black, roan. We see Imperial lancers.

A full squadron of them. Two, maybe three hundred.

The Emperor's regular army are the best trained, best equipped troops in the land. Disciplined and focused. They never break, they never lose. They serve the Emperor faithfully and, under the Emperor's wisdom and guidance, maintain order and control throughout the land. They're models on which we could all base ourselves.

The squadron is divided into troops, each lead by a captain, sabre drawn and gaze fixed to the front. Behind him ride the junior officers, NCOs, bugler, and then the rest of the troop, four abreast.

They take ten minutes to pass. Each rider stares straight ahead, never acknowledging the cheers and claps of the crowd, maintaining perfect formation, perfect symmetry. The hooves on stone cobbles are a roar, rising and falling like a tidal wave with the gaps between each troop of horse. My ears still echo after the last has passed. The musty scent of horses hangs in the air.

"They're here on exercises," says a man nearby.

"Aye," says his associate, "and to deflower every young rose they can lay their hands on, I bet. That's the sort of exercise those boys like."

"But, better them in town than outlanders."

"Aye. But only just."

Game face.

Say nothing to these ignorant peasants disrespecting their betters.

Zoë returns. Frell, I didn't notice her leave. That means I must have been dreaming. Hitters who like to dream end up dreaming forever in the big sleep.

Breathe.

Discipline.

"Are you alright?" says Zoë. "Come on, we have to shuffle. Work to do. And, oh... We'll have to sort that." She's looking at my waist. My money bag is gone.

Frell it. How could I have...?

Game face.

"See what I mean? Towns get dreamed by parades. Never mind. Wait here."

She pats me on the butt before I can stop her and darts away into the crowd and for a moment I lose sight of her. I jog to catch up. Zoë has short legs, but they're hyperactive legs. Being out in the town with her is a constant game of catch up.

She disappears into a tiny side street, and as I round the corner she has some waif bailed up against the wall. He looks about twelve, raggedy clothed and grimy faced.

"Karl, don't dream." The waif is now staring at me. Zoë glances. "I said not that one. You were running that square. Who fingered mine?"

"Dunno, Zo'. Honest."

Zoë presses her finger against the boy's forehead, pushing back until his head is pressed against the blue wooden planks of the house behind him.

"Don't frell with me Karl. Don't you frell with me." Zoë is hissing in the boy's ear, eyes slitted, looking big next to the skinny child. His eyes are on Zoë now, wide and bright.

"Drop the mint, or I'll slip you to her. She'll start cutting on you, Karl. She'll cut your smith fingers and shuffle toes off and you'll crawl around on your hands and knees for the rest of your slow life fingering rat dung. There's plenty of urchins in the gutter I can see for. Don't need you.

"Look at her, Karl, look at that face. She's a frelling killer, Karl, stone cold, and you've gone and got her all hot an' bothered like."

Zoë twists Karl's head toward me, her hand tight on his jaw, his flesh going white around the edges to match the white circle on his forehead.

I give him my game face. Can't think what else to do.

"Oh bay, oh bay," Karls says through Zoë's vice grip.

Zoë lets go and steps back as Karl rummages through his bag, producing half a dozen money bags, spilling them on the ground in a tinkling pile. Zoë picks up my bag, looks inside, then tosses it to me.

"I didn't know which one you wanted."

"How many blade-packing, pale-skinned women in did you see out there, Karl? Black hair? Pony tail? Tight leather pants? Ring a bell does it? Does she seem town to you, Karl?"

I steal a glance at my trousers.

Karl's eyes are shiny with tears now. One trickles down his dirty cheek, leaving a white trail in the middle of his brown.

Zoë stares at him for half a minute while the boy sobs.

"Oh, sweetie," says Zoë, her eyes going wide, mouth a small 'o' shape. "Oh, sweetie, no tears, no tears." She wipes his wet cheek with her sleeve. Karl's face is half white, half brown now.

"You're a big boy, Karl." She's holding him close, hugging the waif against her. "Big now, and hard. And big, hard lifters follow orders. When they play they play for their own. Not for others, not for themselves, but for those that's there's." She's pressed along the length of him, his face pressed into her shoulder, hand at the back of his head, hand sliding down his back. She moves up and down him, very gently, rubbing.

I look away, checking the street. The crowd has all but dispersed. When I look back I immediately go back to checking the street. She has her hand down the front of his pants.

The boy must be a bit older than he looks.

I stare out into the street for long minutes and concentrate on the crowd noise. Any noise but the ones coming from behind me.

When the noises stop I look again, Zoë is holding Karl by the back of the head back and is wiping her other hand on his jacket. She looks into his eyes. "You all joy now? Good. Dry those peepers and get back, join the rest. Divvy up, fair and square now. And," she says, holding a coin up in front of his face, "you get yourself a nice sweet. You did very well today. Zoë is proud of you." Karl looks at the shiny metal, biting his lower lip, hypnotised for a moment. His eyes go from the coin to Zoë and back before he snatches the prize away.

Karl sniffs and wipes away the last remnants of his tears. Zoë leans in and kisses him on the mouth. Quickly. Then again, longer and slower.

I check the street again.

"Now go," she says. "Shuffle boy, we don't have all day."

Zoë takes him down the narrow street, gives him a boost and Karl's waifish little body disappears upward, scaling the piping and onto the roof top, struggling under the bag of ill-gotten gains on his back.

"And clean yourself up next time, you look like a thief," Zoë says to the sky.

Stone cold?

"Now you're down two coins. Never mind, we'll get them next time."

Stone cold killer?

"Oh, I didn't mean that. I know you're just a big fluffy bunny." Zoë saunters close, hips gyrating in some sort of sexy dance movement. "Just wanting to be stroked."

She puts her hands on my hips and I step back, but she steps forward, her big, brown eyes underneath arched eyebrows.

I am not stone cold, I'm a professional. There's a big difference.

"Sure, Bunny, sure. I understand that. I thought it'd be a compliment. And don't worry about Karl. The little ones have to be taught how to play the game. Otherwise they end up dangling. You know? Stretched. End of a rope?"

She does have a point. The Assassins' Guild pushes the new recruits to the point of breaking, and beyond. Weeds out the weak. Toughens up the strong. No-one outside is going to give a hitter a break, so they teach you that in the Guild. If you can't make it in there, you won't make it on a job. The pain will keep you alive, separate a professional from an amateur.

So is he your boyfriend?

Zoë snorts with laughter. "Hullo," she says, "he's barely fifteen."

Then Zoë is part of some sort of gang?

"Later, Stone Cold. We have to get back to the boys. They'll be wondering where we got to. Mathok will be missing you. Parts of him will, anyway."

Quick as lightning Zoë squeezes my ass and before I can get my hands on hers she's turned and dashed out on to the main street.

Stop doing that, I say to the street. I head after her, playing catch up.

Afternoon is turning into evening when Zoë and I return to the Inn we're lodging at. There's a living room and a bedroom. The bedroom door is shut. The window has the heavy double shutter closed against the coming cold of the night. The smell is of burnt candle wax, recycled breath and men.

The walls are plain wood, worn and scratched by years of uncaring lodgers. No fire hazard paint on the inside. Bundles of gear and equipment are strewn round the floor in random piles. Mine lies untouched, just as I left it, bags packed away, my tools arranged in order of size. Side-sword first. Then daggers. Then throwing knives.

Poignards would be second but I'm wearing them.

The boys are clustered around the table playing cards. Zoë skips in and I stagger slightly, manoeuvring the bag around the door jam. Mathok rises to his feet and take a step toward me, pausing and looks back at Arns, who gives an almost imperceptible nod of his head. Mathok moves over to take the bag but I move past him, bumping him as I go, and deposit it in the corner. Mathok stands there, all ebony skin and muscles, empty handed, between me and the card game, looking lost. Altus gives a little snort and drops cards onto the table.

"Gimme three," he says.

Arns deals three and two more to Mathok when he returns to the table.

"Go well? You have been gone long." says Arns in his thick Eastern Plainsland accent. Luckily he speaks slowly or I'd have trouble following him.

Arns still wears the traditional dress of his tribe. Fur jacket, fur gauntlets, fur boots. And, yes, fur dress. For lack of a better word.

Mathok used to dress similarly, but one night, as we lay side by side on the bed, I'd raised the subject.

"How do you mean different?" he said.

Sometimes when you go to a different land, it's wise to try and blend in a little. Makes it easier to talk to the locals. Know what I mean?

Though muscle-bound, black warriors standing over six feet tall weren't a common sight in Tanath. That's why I said blend in a little.

"If you think this is a good idea. I will think about it. And when you are with my tribe, you will wear our garb."

Furry hides?

"Yes, but do not fear." He glides a finger over my belly, ending teasing the hair down there. "I will not ask you to wear very much of it."

The best I could come up with was, We'll see.

Time to change the subject. I reached down and wrapped my hand around him. His eyes went wide. Mathok was always so reticent in bed. I had to take the initiative just about every time. A lion on the battlefield, a pussycat in the bed.

I stroked him until he was fully hard, then moved down his body, kissing his abs as I went. He murmured a soft protest but I ignored him. Mathok was always so shy about me blowing him, like he associates it with whores or something. Warriors and their code of honour. Assassins are all about getting the job done, whatever it takes.

Any doubts Mathok had disappeared when I took him in my mouth. He's a big man and I always got a sore jaw out of this.

I ran his cock in and out of my mouth, pausing to work at the tip before plunging down again. Keeping a steady rhythm.

If you're going to do something you should be good at it. The best. Strive for excellence. This applies to giving head as much as it applies to anything else.

I eased off, he's gone too close too soon. One hand stroked while I liked and suckled his balls. Mathok won't admit it but he really likes it when I do that. The muscles in his thighs tense and relax.

A girl learns how to service a man properly when seconded to the bodyguard to the ambassador of Xian-Li.

The ambassador spied me at review, when has making an inspection of the Guild, and requested I was assigned as his local bodyguard while he was visiting the Empire. He was important man, a man that always got what he wanted. Turned out he wanted me for something other than my martial prowess. He got it. He visited three or four times a year. The ambassador was a corpulent slug and could no longer perform. Now he liked to watch.

So I got to know the rest of the bodyguard intimately.

I just kept reminding myself that it was an honour to serve the Emperor in what ever way was required, as I soaked my bruises in the ambassador's hot tub. This went on for nearly two years before the fat pervert was murdered by a noble in his home court. Something to do with the noble's wife.

Mathok had wished the ambassador was still alive when I mentioned him, so he could have the honour of killing him.

I swallowed over the cock in my throat, pulled slowly out, got a breath, then swallowed Mathok whole again, holding him there for as long as I could. And repeat.

And repeat.

I have no problem with a man coming in my face. The guilty thrill of something that's so wrong. But Mathok would never do such a thing, not even on my body. He would never sully me, he said. Mathok's favourite position was me to on top, with me leaning forward on him, so my hair shrouded us both. Then he would work his hips and frell me long and slow. A really nice way to do it. And he was always so concerned that I should come before him. Sex with Mathok was nice. To give Mathok his thrill, now that he was on the edge, I held my mouth over him, even though he wanted me to pull away. He protested. I swallowed. And he lost control.

It easier to have them go in your throat than your mouth. That way you mostly avoid the taste. Mathok shuddered and I rode him, holding myself over him till he was drained and I felt him start to shrink. He pulled me up and squeezed me tight against him. We kissed.

Mathok always kissed me right on the mouth straight afterward. He liked to make me feel clean. Some men, they can make you feel dirty after doing that to them. Make you feel like you're a slut. But not Mathok, he always kissed me gently. Trying to tell me I'd done something right.

That's a really nice thing to do.

Two days after that, Mathok had walked in wearing the breeches and tunic of a townsman. Arns looked him up and down, made that noise in the back of his throat that he does, and said that only barbarians wear trousers.

I took him somewhere private and started undoing the belt on his new breeches.

Zoë says, "There's Lobsters in town."

"Oh, great. Imperials are just what we need," says Altus. "They just love us free swords." "And she dropped the asking."

Zoë, the little betrayer.

Arns' massive, shark-like jaw tightens. The cards seem tiny in his hands. "Wealth is low. Cannot afford such mistakes."

"Give her a second one. She's a scrapper when it comes to the street. My sin anyway. I should've scryed her the whole time. Plus it made the coin swappers happy. Brought some joy to the world."

Arns makes his 'hrrumph' noise. Zoë sticks her face about two inches from Arns' and tells him to relax. He 'hrrumphs' again but quieter this time. Zoë smiles and glances down at his cards.

"Oooh! You've got a red square! You're going to top!"

"Fold," says Altus.

"Fold," says Mathok.

Arns throws his cards onto the table and leans back, wood creaking under his weight.

"See, you topped them! Aren't you joy?"

Arns sighs, rising out of his chair, his head almost to the ceiling and scoops Zoë up, dangling her one handed by the ankle, like she's a feather. He's huge. Mathok is big, but Arns is bigger.

He swings Zoë gently back and forth and says, "Win not as much as I should have."

Zoë squeals, flashing teeth, and tries to keep her oversize tunic from falling down and flashing her breasts.

"If little thief is not quiet, she will be dropped out of window. Does she understand?"

"But I helped you top! Some of the glitter must be mine!"

Arns gives up and, rights her, and lets Zoë down gently.

"We play for matches. Have no money. Less now assassin spends it all."

He doesn't even look at me. Mathok does his best to do a grin, but it looks more like a grimace.

"I'm hungry," says Altus.

Zoë leaps up, offering to cook. Mathok rises quickly, suppressing panic. "No, that is fine. I will cook tonight."

None of us are in the mood for another of Zoë's wild culinary experiments. Mathok rummages through the grocery bag and produces a small silver candelabrum.

"What?"

Zoë gasps and bounds over. "You see what I stole for us! It's tidy!"

She plonks the candelabrum on the table, scattering loose cards.

"Perfect," she says.

Altus leans close, examining. "How much do you reckon that's worth?"

Arns says, "It is dishonourable to profit from stolen goods. That is not the way of warrior. It is like stabbing someone in the back. Weak."

Game face.

"Please don't start that Arns. She may be trained as an assassin but she can fight normal. You've seen her, she's got moves," says Altus.

"That was sparring."

"She can give Mathok a run for his money though."

"We have no need of more warriors. We needed thief. She lies about being thief. She bad thief. We have to hire real thief."

True, I did misrepresent my skills a little when I did the job interview a couple months ago. But doesn't everyone? There was a bit of a stink when the truth came to light, but luckily Zoë turned up the next day asking if the thief's position she'd heard about was still open. That'd eased the tension but Arns thinks that an assassin is a perversion of his almighty warrior code.

Altus is still trying for me. That may be because he's really on my side, or he's just looking for an argument 'cause he's in a foul mood. Rangers don't like cities. They're noisy and smell and unhygienic, he says. He gets depressed if stuck in a city too long. They're boring, he says.

"Look, she's got special skills that may be useful, one day."

"We not do murder."

Discipline.

Game face.

Zoë says, "Scrappers, come now. I think we're just getting a bit stir crazy in this room. You lot are anyway. You need to dance more."

"Well you live in this frell hole. We don't. Gods, we need to get a job. And soon." Altus runs his hand through his disorderly, shoulder-length locks. Perhaps that's what Rangers are supposed to look like, but he needs to find a comb. He takes out a weed stick and says, "There's no work this close to the centre of the empire. We need to be out on the fringe."

Zoë is standing, waving her arms about, gyrating her hips.

"Tried," says Arns. "Jobs there pay little. And do not smoke in here. Those make a man weak." Altus looks up, mutters something to the Gods, and deposits the paper cylinder back in his breast pocket.

Zoë says, "At least we have a nice candlestick holder." She twirls and steps side to side.

"Which apparently we can't even sell. Why can't you steal money for once, Zoë?"

Zoë looks affronted. Eyebrows raised, hips jiggling to a rhythm only she can hear, she says, "Why finger mint when you can just go straight for the things you need? Why be a slow with the middle man?"

She looks at me and smiles, lips a thin line, showing no teeth. Her smile says, Keep your mouth shut.

Altus is making a great show of chewing on the candelabrum. "Because this tastes like crap and money can be used to buy actual food. And drink. And smoke."

The bedroom door opens and a pale face appears. Prod and I lock eyes.

"Prod?" says Arns.

"It's alright, Uncle," he says after a pause. "I just need one of my books."

"Get it then. It is alright." Arns is looking at me, muscles tense along his frame.

Altus blows air out his mouth and looks at his cards. Zoë says, "Hi, Prod."

She's now sitting on Arns' knees trying to show him how best to win at cards. A vital part of which involves having a couple up your sleeve.

"Good evening, Zoë. I trust you had a good day at the market?"

Prod eases his long, thin body out of the doorway and over to a stack of leather-bound books. The only time he looks away from me is when he selects one of his books.

"Yes, thanks. We got played buying food."

Why is it that news of my purchasing failure ranks higher than Imperial troops? Should someone alert the town crier?

Prod smirks. "Really? That doesn't sound like you, Zoë. How unfortunate."

Zoë waves at nothing in particular. "Was a little bit my sin, I cough."

Prod looks late-teens, maybe early twenties. Blonde haired, blue eyed, well kept. He talks with the accent of the rich, educated classes. No way is Arns his real uncle. The boy spends all his time with his nose buried in books, studying useless, arcane subjects. Useless sums him up. I gather he's supposed to be studying the arcane arts, meaning he contributes nothing to the group. Unless being pompous and using lots of long words counts as a contribution. He usually tries to pretend I don't exist, but sometimes I catch him staring.

I have no idea what his problem is.

Prod looks away from me, maybe feeling less threatened now he knows of my mercantile incompetence.

"What a lovely candelabrum," he says. "Early Tan-Zheng dynasty, I would say. The fluting is distinctive."

"Truth?"

"What's it worth?"

"A considerable sum if you could sell it. But as they're quite rare, sourcing an illicit buyer for something of that nature might be fraught."

"That's OK. I am going to keep it because it's tidy."

Prod smiles at Zoë. "Quite."

He slinks back to his room, book clutched to his chest, glancing at me as he goes. As the door shut behind him, Arns sinks a couple inches back into his chair.

This is hopeless. I say, I'm going to train in the courtyard.

Everyone turns and looks at me, silent.

"I sometimes forget you can speak," Altus says.

"Quiet, smarty," Zoë says. "She knows more words than you."

Mathok looks up from slicing vegetables. "Do you need someone to spar with?"

I'm just going to go through some cartas. Shadow fence. Visualise.

Arns shuffles the deck of cards. "Imagine your enemy is facing you."

Practise. Self. Control.

Game face.

Breathe.

I spin, grab some tools and march out of the room. Behind me, Altus says, "Frell this. I'm off to get a drink. Purchased with the last of my private stash, if you're wondering."

I'm in the corridor when Altus calls me to stop.

"Look," he says, "don't let Arns get to you. He'll come around. He just takes responsibility for our situation personally, and things ain't going too well."

He hates me.

"Dislikes intensely. But he's a good man. He'll come round. Stick with it."

He takes a step forward and I step back. It's reflex. You need to maintain enough distance to have a chance if someone draws. Doesn't matter how fast you are, there's a critical distance under which no-one can react to an attack in time.

Altus purses his lips. I say sorry. He tells me to forget it.

"Would you like to go for a drink?"

I don't drink. And I need to train.

"Sure. I mean you haven't done that since this morning, you must be getting rusty."

Game face.

"Hey, sorry. That was just a joke."

I tell him I understand, and that I really need to go train right now.

"Sure," he says. "In that case..." Altus examines his boots. "Could I borrow a little money? I'm kinda short right now."

Three

I move amidst the darkness of the courtyard. Torches flicker, making the shadows dance. I spar with the shadows, running through forms, carta after carta, and then again from the start. Until I'm sweating and it's time for a break.

Arns' attitude is not fair. He's a soldier, I'm a soldier, he should give me more respect. Especially as he's frelled me. Just once, before Mathok and I started. Just walked into the room when no-one else was around and came on real strong. Told me what was expected. And I let him do it to me. He started off with this line about have to show him obeisance as he was the leader of the tribe. Had to make a sacrifice to show my loyalty. Either that or leave. No way I'm going to run.

Show now fear. Face any challenge.

Now he likes to speak to me indirectly, like he's addressing the room when I'm in it. It doesn't bother me. It was a good frell. Really good. But if he frelled me he should like me.

An assignment is pointless if you don't gain from it.

I bury a throwing knife in a post so hard to struggle and strain to wedge it out.

I am above such petty insults. I am disciplined. I am a professional.

I am in control.

I bury six knives in the post, thrown as fast and as hard as I can. Three right-handed, three from the left. The 'thocks' of impact echo through the night, mixing with the sounds of the city.

What Prod's problem is I do not know and I do not care.

Back to cartas with the side-sword.

Back to the blade. Step, step, feint high, parry the counter attack, cut to thigh, cut to wrist, parry, thrust to body. Low line, invitio guard, parry attack, complex riposte. With one weapon, two weapons, one weapon in off hand.

For two hours I defend myself from imaginary enemies. Poorly disciplined thoughts of Arns fades amidst the perfection of the form.

Training cleanses the spirit.

Duck into a squat, attack low, overhead parry, riposte to abdomen, overhead cut to finish off the shadow.

And I'm done.

A breeze through the deserted courtyard, cooling the sweat upon my skin. Strands of hair that have drifted loose plaster my face. I brush them from my eyes. A shiver runs through me, my sweat soaked tunic plastered to my chest is cool now, becoming icy. I need to stretch and warm down before heading back, otherwise I'll be stiff with muscle burn tomorrow. And worse the next day.

It's late but there are still some citizens on the street. The curfew bell will sound soon. The Inn we're staying at is a five minute walk from the little courtyard. I'm almost back when a shape steps out from the shadows cast by the moonlight. And then more black shapes move behind this first one.

"What do we have here?" it says and steps into the light. An officer of the lancers. I stop, every muscle going tight. The others are more lancers. Three. No, four. They move around behind me.

Relax, these are the good guys.

The Lancer in front of me says, "Hello, baby. Are you lost? All alone?"

This isn't a problem. This is no curfew yet, I'm on legitimate business. They can't touch me.

"Oh, can't we now?" he says and I know my mistake. But I can't draw. Drawing on an Imperial officer is a death warrant. If you survive the fight.

Hands are on my arms, fingers biting into flesh, twisting and holding. The wall of the tavern punches into my back and for a second the dark of the night lights up with a white flash. Then his face is close to mine. I twist in the grip of the other lancers. There's laughter. He tells me I'm disrespectful. He tells me what a woman's place is.

He's making a mistake, the Imperial guards want no trouble with the Guild of Assassins.

He stops talking. We stare into each others eyes. There are no bystanders now. The few outside the tavern have disappeared. We're in a city of thousands, and we're all alone.

"The Assassins Guild?" he says. "The Assassins' Guild would consider it an honour to supply Duke Osgath's 5th Imperial Lancers with whores."

His hand presses on my cheeks, fingers grinding flesh against teeth, pushing back until all I can see is the rooftops. His body is close.

There's the stale smell of alcohol. His hand runs up my hip, my side, breast, squeezing me as I squeeze my eyes shut.

One of the others has undone my sword-belt and there's the clatter of my tools hitting the cobblestones.

The officer's touch moves downward, slips between my legs.

Don't panic. I'm not panicking. Heart is beating like a jack rabbit. Breathe through the nose, long even breaths. Try to think your way out of this. This shouldn't be happening. The Imperial Guard doesn't do this. Try to think.

There's the metallic taste of blood.

He's released me and I feel the ache of blood flowing back into starved flesh. Got to say something that'll make them stop.

Don't do this. We're on the same side.

They all laugh. "Of course," he says, "and you're going to do your bit to boost troop morale."

I'm a licensed hitter. I am allowed to defend myself with lethal force.

"Not against Imperial troops you aren't, girl."

Hands have found my belt. The tight leather band relaxes its grip on my waist.

They can't do this. They're supposed to be the defenders of the people. Brave. Disciplined. Honourable.

They laugh. "We are," he says. "And it's going to be an honour to pleasure you, my lady."

He promises me I'm going to enjoy this. He asks if I've ever had three men in me at once.

"Of course you have, eh, slut?"

He grunts as my knee strikes home. Then again as I plant my heel in his stomach and drive him back. I strain and twist in the grip of the other lancers, but there's too many.

I scream, Get the frell off me!

Now he gets up off the dirt and tells me that I'm going to pay for that. He tells me it's going to hurt now. He steps forward, and there's a red explosion in my skull when he slaps me hard across the face.

I sag in their grip as he starts tugging down my breeches. They're off my hips and I push my thighs apart to slow the process.

He tells me there'll be plenty of time to spread my legs later.

My pants are down far enough for him to slip his hand inside and cup my groin. A stranger's hand pressing against my most intimate area, rubbing.

No!

I'm thrashing and writhing against the men holding my arms and legs.

He says, "This is taking too long. Take her out back and stretch her out. I go first."

There's a shadow behind him.

His comrades shout a warning, but he turns too late. The dull smack of Mathok's fist connecting with his jaw echoes through the night. The hands let go and there's shouts and cries. I'm pulling my breeches up. I'm tying my belt, hands fumbling. I don't think about it, my hands just do it. Ruled by instinct. Instinct that screams I need to get this belt tied again. Tied tight.

I adjust my clothing as the screams and cries and smacks of flesh hammering into flesh float around me. Lost in my own little world. Pull tunic down, adjust yourself.

When I look up the fight is over. Three remaining lancers against Mathok, Arns and Altus wasn't a fair fight. Two are unconscious, one is one his back, moaning and holding an eye. I walk to my attacker, wiping my nose and blinking away a tear. He's a captain and he rises as I approach, his hand dropping from his jaw. He draws himself up to his full height and looks down at me. My cheeks ache from where his fingers squeezed tight.

Game face.

His first sentence is, "You will suffer for this, whore." He doesn't get a second sentence. Air explodes out of him as I hit him in the chest, penetrating the thoracic cavity, pleurae and the left lung.

Twist and pull.

His eyes go wide. I hit him again, twist and rip the blade clear.

His eyes go wider still, they lose focus. He sinks to his knees. He touches me once more, but weakly now, hand sliding down me. The strength fades from those fingers and they fall away.

My hand is wet with warm, sticky liquid.

He stares up at me, hands wrapped across his chest, hugging himself, mouth moving. The pneumothorax he's experiencing turns his words into wet coughs.

There's a sound like a dull wet slap, and his head flops, unsupported now by the damaged sternocleidomastoid muscle. He topples over backwards. A warm liquid spray caresses my face, pumped from a severed common carotid artery and internal jugular vein.

I just hit him across the throat.

No-one says a word. My comrades just watch, frozen. The trooper on the ground is staring at me with his one good eye. An eye like a saucer, lit with orange light from the streetside torches. I spit blood onto the ground and walk toward the trooper. He backpedals away, crab-like in the dirt, his high-pitched cry that of a cat.

This will be an easy hit.

Hands grab me from behind, arms encircling my body with a grip like stone. Mathok's voice in my ear says no. No, we can't do this. This is murder.

I'm struggling and twisting and screaming and yelling something about justice and my right and no witnesses and something else, I don't know what. They drag me away and Mathok's voice is telling me that it's alright, that it's over. Mathok half marches me, half carries me through the Inn to our room.

I tell him he's wrong. We can't leave witnesses. We'll be wanted for the murder of an Imperial officer. We have no choice but to hit them all. We have to hit them all!

No witnesses.

We stare at each other. He doesn't move. My breathing begins to slow.

Discipline.

Control.

Mathok runs his hand gently over my cheek, over the hot, raw flesh where I was slapped. He wipes blood from my face. He says, "I would have killed him for you."

I say, It was my hit.

He leans in and kisses me on my wounded cheek.

Only now do I notice that Prod is in the room, pressed up against the wall, wide eyes fixed on me, breathing hard. Useless as always.

I push Mathok away. Altus returns and says we've got to out of here in half an hour. The lancers are unconscious in an alleyway but any passer by could have sounded the alarm. People around this part of the town aren't usually in a hurry to tell the authorities things, but it was only a matter of time. Citizens, upon discovery of a crime, are legally required to raise a Hue and Cry.

And where the frell is Zoë?

Our gear is mostly already packed. We're out of there before any sign of the constabulary or imperials. Arns has to carry practically Prod.

When we come down Zoë is in the tavern talking to the owner. She sees us coming and drains the last of a big mug. I throw Zoë her little backpack.

She wipes a white, cream moustache from her upper lip. "Are you alright?" is the first thing out of her mouth.

I say, Yes, I think so. But there's been some trouble and we really have to rush.

"I know."

Collectively we kind of push Zoë out the door.

Zoë says, "I know. I think we have at least another hour or two before any one misses them. I told people here not to bother shuffling off to squeal. It's too late at night, I told them. And 'sides, who do they want to glum? The Lobsters who hate them anyway, and will be gone in a few days? Or the Fingersmiths' guild, who will be here forever?"

We run.

A narrowing crack of light between the doors of the town gates isn't a welcome sight. Everyone increases their pace without a word being spoken. Now there's just a solid black hole blocking our exit. The gates are closed every night at the tenth bell and we just missed the deadline.

We attempt to reason with the constabulary at the gate. The Chief Constable looks us up and down. He looks at the way our gear is packed, untidy, with bits sticking out of bags. He looks at our heavy breathing. He looks at our glances behind us.

I look at his worn, lined face. The long, thinning hair with grey streaks. There's a few small scars, an ancient tattoo on his forearm. This guy's been around. This guy's seen it all.

Where is a young, inexperienced commander of the watch when you need him?

There's a quiet consultation with another constable, who disappears into the darkness, heading back into town. The sound of a single pair of running feet fades away and the remaining constables stare at us.

We need to hit them. Quick, silent, clean. Hands drop to my tools and I'm about to take the first step when Mathok's arm wraps around my waist. Gentle but firm. I try to make eye contact but he's staring at something off to his side, away from me.

Arns looks at me then returns his attention to the constables.

No hitting it is then.

Now we're lead into a room at the base of one of the two towers aside the main gate. Altus tries to reason with the constables. They listen and nod and agree and do not take one step toward opening the gate. Arns starts to make rumbling noises in the back of his throat. Zoë stands with Altus, expanding on his arguments, smiling her biggest smile. The constables start to smile back at Zoë, but that's all. Mathok just stands near me. I stand with hands behind my back, so that the constables won't notices the dark scum under my fingernails. My hands rub together and tiny flakes of dried blood drop to the floor.

The phrase you're looking for is Caught Red-handed.

Shouts and cries sound outside. There's the pounding of many feet coming to a halt. Now the pounding is on the door. Cries sound, demanding we open up. A constable opens the heavy, wooden rectangle. There's lancers outside. They're demanding that we be handed over. We have to face imperial justice. We have to be found tried, found guilty and executed by a proper court.

The crimson mob pushes forward, trying to get at us. The constables are driven back. The surge stops, at the chimes of metal against metal, blade on scabbard.

We stand, swords drawn and backs to the wall, and stare the mob down. The torchlight reflects off the shiny metal of their sabres, glinting and dancing as the steel moves. Instructions are passed among our group. Who is to watch who. Don't mind the wounded, keep fighting when someone goes down. Try to push them back, bottleneck them at the door. My hand is locked upon my sword, and I breathe through my nose to relax stiffened muscles.

Now the lancers pause and voices sound behind them. There's a loud debate. One voice rises above the others, demanding attention. A new constable strides into the room, shouldering lancers aside. His eyes run over the situation. Us, weapons drawn, facing a half-circle of the Empire's finest. Two groups eyeballing each other. Faces locked in animal snarls. Weapons changing guard positions. Individuals making small movements in and out, daring the other to attack.

"Master Constable?" says one of his men.

Voices on the verge of descending into animal howls try to explain their side of the story to him. The newcomer takes maybe five seconds before he acts. He marches straight between the two lines of sharpened steel and grabs me by the forearm.

What?! Hey, you can't just...

He says, "Katrin Dvor, I am hereby arresting you on suspicion of the murder of one of his Imperial Majesty's officers. You, and the rest of your group, will accompany me to the Keep. For questioning."

First thought amongst the chaos is, how does he know my name? Have I met this guy somewhere before? There's a flash of pain from shoulder to neck. My arm just about leaves its socket as he drags me toward the door. I stumble and try and get the breath back into my lungs. This guy is dragging off a suspect while she's still holding a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. And if he knows my name then he presumably knows what I am trained to do. My body moves with him and my mind tries to catch up.

Mathok yells out to me, my name turned into a distorted howl. The constable turns and repeats that we're going to the keep for questioning. "You're all under arrest."

There's heated debate outside with the growing circle of lancers. Black-clad constables face off with a red line of Imperials. Cries and shouts and demands for vengeance smother the senses. Spectators have gathered. The passion in the air tingles over my skin. My arm is pulled through the crowd and I follow it, trying hard to not stumble and cut the constable. That would be a bad look right now. The wall of coloured jackets parts for us, unsure of quite what to do in the face of the assured actions of the Master Constable.

Can't blame them, I don't know what to do either. Someone doesn't just step up and grab an Imperial hitter about to start working. They just don't.

The noise has died away. There almost silence as we're loaded into a wagon. A wagon with wooden walls and bars over the windows. The smell is of urine, sweet and cloying, and of the stale straw used to soak it up. Behind us the throng has mixed together, no longer black and red lines. A multi-coloured blob robbed of purpose, getting smaller and less distinct.

Four

At the centre of Tanath city lies a keep. Casting a shadow of weathered, grey stone and barred windows over the city. The final line of defence in older, more dangerous times. Unification of the warring provinces under the emperor stole the original purpose of the keep. Now it is occupied by city officials and the constabulary.

Office space and torture chambers.

This holding cell is not a torture chamber. But they have them. The walls are discoloured by dried, dead mould. The air is stagnant. Smoke from torches burning at the walls makes you blink and tear up.

The Master Constable sits opposite me, an ancient wooden table the barrier between us. He hasn't said anything since he got here. Apart from saying his name is Morgun Kendall. First he reads his notes, scrawled on parchment, arranged on the table, I know if I look down I can make out some of the words. I now he wants me to look. To be curious. He's finished reading. Now we are staring at each other.

Game face.

OK, I'll bite. I tell him that the others had nothing to do with this. That he can let them go.

He says, "Zoë told me they assaulted the lancers."

Zoë said that? Has she talked? Has Zoë betrayed us?

He says, "Zoë also said that the lancers started the incident. That they... attacked you. But the lancers say that you started it, and your friends joined in. And you murdered one Captain Lorenzo Copolla in cold blood. They want you handed over to them."

He looks down, then up and says, "I believe Zoë's version of events."

Firstly, Zoë wasn't even there. Secondly, why does this guy believe a thief over the Lancers?

"She is a friend of my wife," he says. "And she says she was there."

No, she wasn't. Wait, back up, did he say, "friend of my wife"? Zoë is a friend of the Master Constable's wife?

"Ah-huh. A, uhhh, very good friend. But the fact remains that you killed an unarmed man. And somehow I doubt you were working to contract. That raises the possibility of murder. That will require an investigation."

I'm thinking, Please don't tell me you've already contacted the guild.

But I say, An individual has the right to defend themselves. That's the law.

"The right of defence does not extend to killing unarmed men."

Game face.

Is the Master Constable, defender of the city of Tanath, saying a girl should take her group frelling, smile and be on her way? He looks at me. I look at him. He looks at the table. The muscles at his jaw flicker.

"We'll have to let the law decide the matter."

Kendall says, "We did meet once before. But you obviously don't remember it."

I do remember him. We had met once, briefly. My Guildsergeant and I were here making contact with the town's officials with a view to setting up a local guild hall. This had been my one and only visit to Tanath. A little over a year ago.

I'd drawn the conclusion from that visit that Tanath would be a good place for a person to hide. Large, busy, still possessing a measure of independence from the central government. Someone could disappear into Tanath while working out what to do next.

As long as they didn't do something stupid and come to the attention of the authorities.

Kendall says, "Look, I'll be honest with you. I'm no fan of what you people do, but while you're in my cells I'll try to make sure you're treated fairly. But these days I have no sway with the higher ups. Your case will go through due process."

He scoops up his papers without a word and moves to leave. The interrogation is over.

I tell him that there's no need for the Guild to be involved in this.

He pauses at the door and says, "I have no interest in having those people in my city. But it's not up to me."

They say hope springs eternal.

The constables come to take me away to a cell.

It's three weeks later now and no progress. I am traditional and scrape lines in groups of five on the stone wall. In amongst all the other, older lines in groups of five on that wall. Cold flows off the stone.

My first night in here, a Senior Constable called Emrickt comes into my cell. Bushy eyebrows that almost merge into one, a ragged scar one his chin, he explained a prisoner's role. "This is how it works, my dark haired beauty." He told me that I'm sure to be found guilty and so will be spending a lot of time down here. He kept getting closer as he gives me the speech, till we're almost touching. He said that I will be expected to provide certain services in exchange for decent food and treatment. I was bailed in the corner by the time he'd finished and he put his hand was between my legs to clarify his meaning.

I considered his offer, replied politely but firmly, and he took his dislocated thumb and left. More constables came to punish me for that and those in the second rank dragged off the injured in the first rank.

That night they kept me awake by banging on the cell door and making graphic statements about activities my body is best suited to.

Kendall came by and asked if I am being treated well and I say, Yes.

There's no point in making more trouble.

This whole episode is a bigger disaster than it appears. Assassins are tightly regulated by the Assassins' Guild. It is very bad for business for the guild's representatives to get a reputation for being unreliable, evil, crazed, whatever. That's bad marketing.

We're about self-control. We're about discipline.

We're just another part of the community. Professional, discreet and efficient solutions. The elite. We have to file quarterly reports on our activities, undergo yearly performance reviews. Follow the rules.

So a pro hitter is not allowed to touch you unless it's contract-related, or you look like an imminent threat. Otherwise it's murder.

I've never murdered.

That Imperial wasn't a contract, but was he an imminent threat. Clear and present danger. He must have been. He attacked me. He started it, I finished it.

I am not a murderer.

Never doubt yourself. Believe.

I am not a murderer.

But other people's opinions count here. If the Guild learns of this and judges that this incident constitutes an unauthorised hit, that make me a rogue. Rogue assassins have the life expectancy of an Ork in the front row of a battleline. And there's good reason the Orks were wiped out.

A hit on a rogue is not quick, not clean. Especially not for an operative with my status. No, it will be deliberately unprofessional.

Translation: If the city of Tanath don't execute me, the Assassins' Guild will track me down and do the job. Even if I survive that, the Imperial lancers will want a piece. Take a number, folks.

The most I can hope for is life in the relative safety of the Tanath dungeons.

Frelled.

I can't believe I panicked. I have never frozen like that before. If I had simply given them what they wanted, none of this would have happened. Instead my mind went blank. So embarrassing.

They were right when they said it was to raise troop morale. Servicing the guardsmen would have been beneficial for the security of the Empire. I see that now. It's so obvious.

This is why, a couple days after he first spoke to me, I accepted Emrickt's offer and assigned myself to him. An assignment that turned out to include two other senior constables. But this is good. It's been a while since I had a group assignment and must just be out of practise. It explains my failure with the guardsmen. I need to train more so I can face any situation with professionalism.

The only demands that I make is no permanent physical damage, and that they supply me with the herb that stops you getting with child.

"Trust me, slut. There won't be a mark on that pretty face for Kendall to see. This'll be the best time you've ever had."

I found that hard to believe.

Our first session was the most difficult. They are resentful over the injuries I inflicted on them earlier, when they tried to assign themselves to me without my consent. So they chain my arms to the ceiling.

In fact, they have a total lack of trust in my pledge of good behaviour. Emrickt required me to wear full restraints when escorting me from my cell to the lower dungeon. I shuffled there manacles at wrist and ankle, a chain from a metal collar linked to them both. I feel like I weigh twice as much with all this on.

They moved me after Master Constable Kendall has gone home. Presumably this is at night. Emrickt told me that if I breathe a word of this to Kendall things will get bad for me.

I nodded and didn't ask how things can get worse for a person in my position.

After being restrained and practising self-discipline while Emrickt ran his hands all over my body, we went down to the lower levels. To the torture chambers.

This is unimpressive. Much of the equipment here looks like it hasn't been used in a long time. The Guild's equipment is state of the art and kept shiny and oiled. The only stuff here that looks used is that which can be used to restrain someone. The rack, the stocks, the cage. And the chains I am hanging from, naked.

At least this means the gag they stuff in my mouth is clean. When the one with the potbelly called Frek finished buckling the leather strap of the gag at the back of my head, he says, "Not too tight is it?"

I made no response because I have a feeling he doesn't really care.

Ordinarily, I wouldn't let assignees like this restrain me. It's just too unpredictable and dangerous. But with three of them stripping me and then hooking me up, I couldn't really stop them. Not without inflicting injuries. But ordinarily I wouldn't accept an assignment to people like this. Desperate times, desperate measures.

The one called Brent cranked the wheel attached to the chain, pulling my arms above my head.

When they spread my legs with a bar attached to my ankles, that's when my heart started to really beat faster. That's when you feel open, exposed. That's when you know you're defenceless. There is absolutely nothing I can do to stop them now.

My senses come alive. The cold, musty air flowing over hot skin, flowing between my legs like a ghostly hand. I know my nipples a re rock hard. I tell myself it's because of the cold. Tight bands cutting into wrists and ankles. On the balls of your feet. Tendons and muscle stretched tight. I can hear every sound with sharp clarity.

And when Emrickt runs the haft of the whip over my back, down the crack of my ass, something tightens inside me, down below.

Breathe, long and slow.

I close my eyes when I hear him spit on that whip.

Relax.

As he begins to worm the haft into my ass, Emrickt informs me that I am one dangerous bitch. I resist the urge to go up on my toes, 'cause that just tightens your buttocks and makes this more difficult. Instead I sag in my chains and focus on relaxing.

I bite hard into the leather ball as the whip handle slides into me and arch my back. Now is the time to go up on your toes, like you're trying to get away from it. He whispers in my ear, his breath hot and sour. He tells me that I'm gonna have to be taught who's boss around here.

He rotates the whip around inside me, left then right, and says, "I'm gonna break you in, girl. Make you a model prisoner."

They always make a speech along those lines.

His hand twists my nipple. I moan through the gag and twist in my chains, like I'm trying to get away from his touch. People that have done this sort of thing to me before, they like it when you struggle for a bit then submit. It's a variation on the more normal scenario where the girl is supposed to be coy, then let her lover have her. Bondage follows a similar courtship ritual.

Actually, the Ambassador of Xian-Li had to explain that to me. He said that me just standing there taking all stoically without a murmur was boring him. Let the assassin go, he said. Be someone else tonight.

And I did. And his guardsman was extremely skilled. And he made me come under the touch of the lash.

The Ambassador was very pleased with my progress. I can still remember him, brushing strands of sweaty hair from my eyes, telling me not to be ashamed. That when I climaxed I was another person. That tomorrow I would be an assassin again, but not on this night.

I am not an assassin right now either. I'm just a defenceless girl.

Emrickt does not possess much skill with a whip. He wields it like a club. I squeak and shudder as the first blow cracks across my back. A second later and a line of molten heat burns across my shoulderblades.

Discipline.

I twist and writhe as the whip falls across me again and again. Don't shut it out, feel it. Pain gives you strength. I listen to my own moans and muffled cries.

He stops and asks me if I'm ready to be a good girl. I jerk away and give him a glare. It's not much of an exercise in self-discipline if he stops now. Really, I could take a beating like this in my sleep. You don't know what pain is until the needlers have had you.

He carries on, blow after blow. Burning lines criss-cross my back. I jerk under each stroke, writhe and moan. Show them what they want to see. Saliva drips down my chain and splatters on the dusty stone floor. Two searing lines are etched across my ass. I haul myself off my feet as my skin burns, like my body is trying to curl into a ball.

There's a pause while Emerickt moves in front and takes careful aim. I know where this is going. The bondage version of the killer blow is coming, to finish the victim off. I look up into the darkness of the ceiling.

He misses and the leather cord wraps around my ribcage, driving air from my body. I scream and shudder as the agonising burn encircle my torso. The chains clanks and twists in sympathy with my thrashing.

Amateur. I better not take this in the face. Then Kendall will know.

The next blow, when that whip snaps across my breasts, it's like my brain explodes. Agony so intense every conscious thought is driven from you and you're just drowning in a burning red sea of fire. I screaming through the leather in my mouth. The pain version of an orgasm.

Feel it. Feel every ounce of pain they have to give you.

My mind floats on a sea of endorphins. Gods, this is good.

He stops and I sag in my chains, defeated. Searing pain fading to a dull ache. Blinking away tears. Part of me wants more, wants a greater challenge. But that's the wrong whip to use on someone's breasts. Too heavy. Much more of that and I'll end up with some serious damage. Better to just let them win now.

There's cold hands on me, pulling my hips back. A strangers cock presses against me. I don't resist as this is the point where I'm supposed to be broken. My captors have triumphed and whipped me into submission. There's nothing I can to stop them taking what they want from me.

And when he enters my body, he slides in easily until he's penetrated as far as he can. Hips pressed hard against my ass.

"Oh, man she's wet," Frek says. "She likes it."

This would be shameful for an assassin. But not for who I am right now.

"Well, hurry the frell up. I want my turn."

I shudder, head flopping loosely as Frek withdraws and thrusts. "Sorry, this may take a while."

"Start the sand. We'll see who wins."

So they time who lasts the longest inside my body, the three of them. All from behind. The same position makes the contest fairer apparently. Frek is not happy with the result saying I was moving more at first, and moaning. It turned him on. By Brent's turn she was just a piece of meat, he says.

"Plus she was tighter first up. I greased the bitch for you."

They take the gag out and ask me if I understand how things work around here now. Am I going to be a good girl and do what is best for me?

I nod and try to shut out the sensation of a slimy trail tracing a path down my inner thigh.

Then, while I hang from my chains, they relax, drink and smoke, and talk. Then I'm shuffled back to my cell, fondled, and left alone.

So ended our first session together. It was a constructive exercise in self-control and self-discipline.

I lay on my stomach that night, and tried to shut out the sensation of my burning back. My hand between my legs, a hand on my aching breasts, I imagined Mathok is doing those things to me. I climax so hard I can't keep quiet. My cries echo around my cell. I wonder if he's in the dungeons somewhere, cursing my name for getting him into this mess.

At first, the constables come for me every night. Depending who is on shift it may be one, or two, or all of them. Initially the sessions are very constructive for me. I practise self-control and discipline. I practise sublimating myself in pursuit of my goal. The Guild teaches you that you don't own your body or you mind. They belong to the Guild, and the Guild employs them for the greater good. By letting these people possess me in this way, I practise this lesson. Everything can be made into training.

But the constables prove to be unimaginative. Soon I have to start suggesting things for us to do. Things that will test my self-control. I easy enough to just take it when you're stretched out tight on the rack because you have no choice. But me crawling from one side of the room to the other on my hands and knees to suck cock, that takes control.

I suggested doing it in Kendall's office. I respect Kendall. He's a professional. Having his underlings frell me on his desk feels like betrayal. Makes me feel dirty.

I assured them I can take all three of them at once. They try it a few times then complain that it takes too much coordination.

I told them they're supposed to clean their cocks with my mouth after they've frelled me. I tell them ejaculate on me and let it drip down my body, cold and sticky, while I can't do anything about it. Come on, people, shoot on the girl's body afterwards. It's good humiliation value.

I'm on the verge of giving up. The people are supposed to be serial molesters, yet they struggle to do the basics.

They say I am one sick girl. I tell them, I'm sick? Who is coercing a woman into sex in a dungeon? They just laugh and call me crazy Katrin.

This is the real problem. All too soon I go from the exploited victim to one of the gang. After they're done with me each night they tell me about their lives, they involve me in their discussions. They don't even bother to manacle me anymore.

We sit around a table afterwards and play cards.

It goes from being bound, beaten and violated to missionary and cuddling afterward. I'm trying to build mental strength here and now they're treating me like some sort of communal girlfriend.

I told them I'm getting bored with this. Frek asks for three more cards and said, "Well we can't play for money 'cause you don't have any, babe."

See what I mean? Once it was slut and whore. Now it's babe and honey.

I don't mean the card game. I mean, like our sessions. They don't even come for me every night anymore. Are they seeing other prisoners?

"No way, honey. It's just been busy lately is all."

"Trust us, babe, you are the best frell we've ever had. You are a fantastic lay." Emrickt pats my shoulder but I shrug him off. They exchange glances.

"Ummm, it's not your time is it, honey?"

No, that was last week. Remember you were just ass frelling me through it?

"Oh, yeah."

We played a few more rounds. Then inspiration hit.

I said, I need you to burst into my cell tomorrow and rape me.

Emrickt choked on his drink.

"You want to do it in your cell?"

No, I want to be raped in my cell. You have to surprise me, overpower me, and proceed to rape my body. Rip the clothes off me, hold me down and frell me as hard as you can. Anywhere you like.

"We can't rip your clothes off. You'd be down to only one set. Kendall will know."

Good point. Find me some clothes you can rip off me.

"OK. Some clothes. Tear them off you. Frell you hard."

No, rape me. Make it real.

"Katrin, we've never actually raped a girl before."

What? You've been dragging girls down here for years.

"But they agree to it before they come down. That's different."

They were coerced into it. My first night I was chained up, whipped and frelled. I was forced to submit at the end of a whip.

"It's a fine line, but it works for us."

"We were pretty pissed at you that night for beating us up too. We don't usually go that rough."

"That's true. And a struggling, screaming crying girl doesn't do it for me. I have two daughters you know. I couldn't take it if that happened to them."

They've lost interest in me. I no longer please them. That's why they won't rape me.

"No, babe, that's not it."

"Trust us, you are the only prisoner we're frelling right now. We're completely committed to you."

OK, we'll play another round of cards. If I win, I get raped. If I lose, I will, well, have sex with you.

They look at each other and nod. We play. I win. This means tomorrow I will be gang raped by a pack of sleazy prison guards.

Excellent.

This will be a true test of self-discipline and submersion of the self. Fear of this is what caused me to fail and end up here in the first place. The Order of the Black Rose permits no weaknesses in its operatives. If I have the strength to face this, I can face anything. No fear.

Assuming they do it right.

They don't do it right.

Emerickt delivered new clothes in the morning. They are spare set of Constable's clothing. The tunic is so over size it reaches to my knees and I have to walk around with one hand at my waist to hold the breeches up.

He also tried to spread blankets on the floor. So I don't get bruised, he says. I chased him and his blankets out of my cell. A forced gang banging is not supposed to be comfortable, idiot.

They turned up two hours later. I can hear them coming, and then discussing what to do outside the door. This lowers the surprise value.

Then they burst in.

I collapse to the floor on my ass, legs spread enticingly and backpedal as they advance on me. No, I cry out!

They stop. Emerickt says, "Have you changed your mind?"

No, I'm saying no I don't want be raped, but not no as in no don't rape me.

"Huh?"

Just get on with it.

"Ahhh, OK."

Emerickt falls on my prostrate body. I twist and squirm and struggle to push him off.

He says, "Hold still, I can't get a grip on your tunic."

Rape victims don't hold still. They struggle.

I flip him off me and scamper to my feet, ending pressed against the wall. I say, Please.

I avoid saying Please Don't because I don't want them to stop again. Please is ambiguous.

Frek grasps my tunic while I stand with arms conveniently splayed. He rips the tunic open in only three tears while I wait for him to finish. Gods having your clothes ripped off you is a thrill.

His lips fall on my breast and I proceed to struggle in a weak and girly fashion to push him off me. His knees push my thighs apart and in the struggle my legs end wrapped around him.

Oh gods, I cry. And also, Close the frelling door someone.

"Sorry," says Brent and dashes over to close the cell door.

I pull Frek's head back by the hair. He says, Owww, leggo.

It's not up to the rape victim to let go. She has to be overcome.

Brent comes to his rescue and together they manoeuvre me half onto the bunk, face down. On my knees, bent over, my tunic is stripped from my body, my arms are forced behind me and I feel the cold metal bands of the manacles snap over my wrists. My oversize pants are pulled down my thighs in one motion.

They made me say what position I wanted to be raped in. I said, on my knees, arms behind my back, you from behind. This reduces the spontaneity of the exercise, but it is still a good position. Controlling, submissive, impersonal.

They're getting into it. Someone positions themselves behind me while and hand in the small of my back forces me hard against the bunk, crushing my breasts. I hear the sound of a belt being undone.

Wait, I say over my shoulder. What about the gag?

"Gag?"

I'm being raped by three men here. I'm naturally gonna scream my lungs out.

"But you usually just moan and whine."

"Yeah, it's very sexy how you do that."

I wasn't being gang raped then was I. Here I'm being taken against my will.

"Shit. You should have said something."

I thought it would be obvious.

They discuss the issue amongst themselves while I wait, bent over on my knees, my ass getting cold. Brent frees his belt. Frek me by the hair, hauling my head back, and prepares to stuff a rag in my mouth.

Stop. There is no way you are putting that in my mouth.

Frek drops my head onto the bunk. "What?"

I am not going to have an old handkerchief in my mouth. That is disgusting.

"But you're our victim. We can do what we want to you."

I twist so I can look back at him. I say, I am also an imperial assassin and you are not putting a snot-stained hankie in my mouth. There are limits.

He looks at his hankie like he's seen it for the first time and mumbles, Oh, right.

They just use the belt. Brent pulls it tight so it cuts into my mouth. Frek positions himself behind me again. I struggle as hard as possible to make the point they're supposed to be holding me down here.

There's a delay because Frek has to get himself hard again. I stop struggling so he can concentrate on stroking himself.

Then he pushes himself into me. And finally I'm being raped.

I'm not ready and he feels huge going in. I scream through the belt and arch and thrash. He withdraws and pushes into me again. Again I cry through the tight band biting into my cheeks, distorted words begging for mercy from my attackers. My back arches and my fists clench under the violation. His cock begins to move faster, his hand digging into my waist. The pants hold my knees together so I can barely spread my legs to ease the pressure inside me.

Brent says, "I think Emerickt is hurt."

Frek and I look behind us at the same time. Emerickt is lying against the cell wall, eyes closed, and purple mark on his temple starting to swell.

Frek's hips push forward and withdraw.

"He hit his head when you fought off his attempted rape, Katrin."

How embarrassing. Frek's hips are still moving, like they're on automatic. He works his cock inside me and says, "Is he all right?"

"Yeah, I think so. Just a bit groggy. I don't think he's gonna be in much condition to rape you for a few hours, babe. Sorry."

I flick my eyebrows at him, because they won't understand anything I say through this belt.

Frek picks up the pace again and I flop onto the bed. Inside me, he feels so good, but it doesn't feel like rape now. More just like sex. The moment is gone.

Brent says, "So what am I supposed to do?"

"Wait your turn."

"She wanted to be gang raped. How am I supposed to do that if I can do her mouth?"

"She's gonna scream if we take the gag out."

I shake my head.

"What's that, babe?" Frek stops frelling me so Brent can loosen the belt. I explain to them that the victim has been frelled into submission, and just wants to get out of this alive. They can do anyway they want to her now.

"Cool."

Frek pulls me back so I'm sitting on him, and Brent sits on the bunk and directs my mouth onto his cock. I push myself from one cock to the other. My chest tightens, the air is suddenly ice cold against my skin. Having two men in you at once is great. Three is unbelievable, the sensation of being so filled. But a man from each end is easy to do and so satisfying.

Especially when you're defenceless, and you can't stop them doing this to you. If you're defenceless, you're free. Free to experience what ever happens to you.

Brent slips down my throat.

Afterwards, when Frek and Brent have finished, I lay on the bunk and stare at the roof. My head is in Brent's lap, my feet over Frek's legs. Emerickt kneels in front of me and plays with my breasts. He tells me he's sorry he couldn't rape me.

"But I have a killer headache."

I say it's alright. We'll try again some other time.

I'm thinking I need strangers for this anyway. I need a real sense of danger. That's what's missing.

I wonder if they could just throw me in a cage with a pack of sex starved prisoners?

"I think we should throw you in a cage with one of those doctors that helps fix people's minds."

Presumably he means to turn me into some sort of brainwashed sex slave. No way that's gonna happen.

They have to go, they say, Kendall's meeting will finish soon. We shouldn't be discovered. I get kissed on the cheek and they leave.

I lay there for a bit and thought about spending my life in here. If I'm not executed after I'm found guilty. It wouldn't be so bad. I know what to do. Where to go. I know who to frell. I have my routine. It's kinda like the guild in a way.

So that was the last three weeks. The next day after my semi-rape, I'm just sitting, head buried in my hands. Hiding behind a curtain of hair. I've done push-ups off my bunk until I collapsed on my face, pectorals burning. Now I just do not move.

Breathe. Be utterly still. Practise self-control. Practise discipline.

There's a massive cockroach on my foot. Do not let it provoke you. It will move off in its own good time.

Discipline.

Now the door opens and Master Constable Kendall is there. He comes to see me everyday. When he asks if I am OK I give the same answers every day. I have an assignment and can't really take another one on right now. There's only so much frelling a girl can take. In the Guild, my ranking is quite high now because I am Black Rose. So there I am able to refuse many assignments if I want. But here my precedent is a bit low. There are technically quite a few people here that have rights to me. That is, senior constable or better. As Kendall outranks my present assignment, if he insists I can't really say no.

So best not to encourage him. Even if he is really handsome. And built.

He wrinkles his nose at the cell door. He watches something scuttle away.

He says, "Was that a friend of yours?"

Game face.

He pauses for effect, then gives up. "Hmmm, nothing, Just like Zoë said. Anyway, there are some people you have to see. Do you want to get cleaned up first?"

Frell that. What people?

Kendall won't say.

What of the others?

"They have been held in a safe house, on parole. They wouldn't leave town without you anyway.

"Except Zoë," he says. His voice drops in volume. She has been staying at his house, with his wife.

He says, "If anything happened to Zoë, Makherita said she would leave me."

I exercise self-control and make no response to the news that they're all safe. We look into each other's eyes for a moment, silent and straight faced, before Kendall indicates down the hallway.

It is unlikely that people want to meet with me. If the guild were here they'd just come down and haul me out. They'd get a writ from the Emperor's office and the Tanath Constabulary cannot refuse that.

So this must be Kendall finally requesting an assignment.

Upstairs we go. To where the air is clear, and the floor clean.

This is acceptable development. After all, my present assignment is going nowhere fast, and a master constable will give me higher status here.

Assuming I'm not executed soon.

Five

Our boots echoing through the dungeon levels as Kendall marches me up rounded the stone steps from the dungeon. When we enter the main levels of the constables' keep, it's like stepping into another world. The real world. Busy people move too and fro, constables, prisoners and various visitors bustling about the hallways and offices. I fight the urge to look through the barred windows and see if the world is still how I left it. Instead I maintain my professionalism and look straight ahead.

As we walk down the corridor I ask Kendall why I'm not manacled. The other prisoners I've seen are.

"I trust you."

Why?

"Coppers get a sense for people."

The translation must be he doesn't consider me a threat. A reasonable assumption to make in light of the failure which lead me to be here.

A constable walks past, looks at me and grins and winks at Kendall. Kendall just gives him a glare and the constable keeps walking, still grinning.

"Ignore them," he says, "I have a certain unwarranted reputation. You're perfectly safe."

The translation on that must be that he doesn't injure his girls. This is good. I can take a lot, but it's always better not spending a couple of days lying in bed after an assignment. It's a waste of training time.

In a moment of ill-discipline I find myself looking at him out of the corner of my eye as he walks alongside. The square-jaw, the broad chest, the tightness of his sleeve over his bicep. This is a serious improvement over my previous assignment. Must not mess this up.

I am lead to a spacious office. Kendall even holds the door open for me. He tells me the office belongs to Senior Chief Constable Markus. After being confined for weeks, this room feels like standing in the middle of a desert. A vast open space. Some people's houses aren't this big.

Gilt-edged paintings line the rosewood walls. A vast bookcase is packed with thick legal volumes. Near a massive oak desk, a parakeet in a cage chirps at us. The open fire and bowls of potpourri give the room a heavy, sweet warmth. The sight that fixes my eye gaze is the collection of odd socks heaped in the corner. Must be evidence relating to some important crime.

Kendall, standing at my back, explains that Markus has allowed the use of his office. "He's always away with his mistress around this time anyway."

Kendall insists I get cleaned up first. In the en-suite bathroom 'cause apparently I'm a bit smelly. This leaves me unclear whether he wants me in the bath, or wants me once I'm finished. Oh, OK, he's staying in the office. He must like his girls clean and groomed. That's common enough.

The bathroom is small, designed for one person. It has a full-length tub though. Hazy steam rises from it and hangs in the air. My image is distorted in the condensation-coated mirror. I go to the vertical slit window and press my face to it, sucking in a lungful of cold, sharp air. Outside, the sky is blue.

When I sink into the tub, muscles un-knot on contact with the hot water. Gods, it's been a long time since I had anything like this. A bath! With hot water!

Self-control.

Fighting the immediate urge to close my eyes and drift into sleep, I force my limbs to move. While soaping myself down I wonder what he'll want me to be for him. What would a guy like that want? Something classy, or something a bit rougher?

I have to finish the bath sadly too soon. This is for cleansing, not relaxation. My assignment is waiting for me.

I stand and let the water drain off me. No towelling though. Guys love the wet look. Stepping out of the bath, slopping water on the floor, I find a mirror and towel the steam of it.

I stare back at myself. Some minor bruising, can't do anything about that. Turn left, turn right. Omigods! Is that fat! I pinch my hip and examine how much skin sits between thumb and forefinger.

I need to exercise. Run on the spot in my cell or something. At this rate I'll have to turn sideways to fit through a door.

Too late to fix that. Have to go with what I've got. I'm starting to dry off so I position myself at the door and take a deep breath. Suppress the rush of nervous excitement. Be professional.

Game face.

Actually, no. Assignment face.

Kendall turns at the sound of the door and his mouth opens. I walk up to him confident and assured.

I say, I'm ready.

"You're ... you're going to the meeting nude?"

Blink. No, I say, I'm ready for you.

"Me?"

Nod. How does he want me?

"Ummm, with clothes on."

Damnit, tactical error. Some assignments like to strip you themselves. Or watch you strip. Too late, have to push on. I press my breasts against his chest and kiss his chin. He pulls his head away from me.

Curiously shy, this one.

I take his hands and place them on my ass and push, grinding my hips against him. As soon as I take my hands off his he grabs my forearms.

"Katrin, what are you doing?"

Whatever he wants me to.

I stand on tiptoes so I can whisper into his ear. I want you to frell me, Master Constable. I want to feel your cock pushing between my thighs.

Kendall swallows. "Katrin, I'm married."

So?

"So I love my wife. This would be cheating on her."

An assignment is a private matter. I will not tell. If she doesn't know, then there will be no problem.

"An assignment?"

Yes, what you're about to do to me.

I working myself over his groin and I can feel something forming down there. A tingle runs up me. Muscles tighten.

"No, Katrin." He pushes me away from him. "It's not going to happen."

Shock. This can't be going wrong so quickly. Damn I should have put clothes on first. Then he wouldn't have been so disappointed with my body. I blurt, It's because I've got fat isn't it?

He runs his eyes up and down me, and says, "What are you talking about?"

This is going all wrong. Why can't I have a nice guy assignment for once? I'm not spending my time in this place being frelled by low ranking, ugly guys. This is what happens when you sit around in a cell. You get fat and lose the ability to get good assignments. Frelled if I'm loosing this one.

I step back in and when grabs my arms I break his hold.

My hands are on his belt. There's a bit of a struggle. I slam him into a wall. The buckle comes loose and he pulls my hands away. I twist out of his grip and dig into his pants.

"No, Katrin, don't."

This guy doesn't know what he wants.

He pulls my hand out which just means it's easier to haul his cock out of his pants. My hand is on him, stroking. He grows in my hand to full length while we look each other in the eye.

"Katrin, my wife."

Sure, I can be your wife, if that's what you like.

"No, I mean, what about my wife?"

She will never know.

He tries to push me off him again and I'm losing patience. I will be the best assignment he's ever had, he just doesn't know it yet.

I trip him, assisted by his trousers round his ankles, and fall on top as he crashes to the ground. My hand on his jaw, pushing his head onto the floor, both his hands around my arm trying to get it off his face. This leaves me with a free hand. It's all tactics.

Don't tell me you don't want this.

I find his cock and position it. He's losing some hardness, but there's still enough. Time is of the essence. I move over him and ease my hips down.

I'm barely ready and it's so tight. He goes quiet as I force him into me. Inch by inch he fills me, my nails digging into his chest, until I'm sitting pressed against his hips. He makes a soft moan.

Victory.

A pause to adjust to him stretching me inside before I start to work up and down along him I feel him grow, filling the void inside me. I frell him with my hands pressed against his chest, rolling my hips, inner muscles squeezed tight around his thickness.

The heat in me builds, my cries the only sound in the room. I push down and up on his hardness, milk his cock. His hands start to roam over my body. I arch under as his calloused touch scrapes along my skin. He pulls me forward, one powerful arm crushing my breasts against his chest with a delicious pressure, his hand roaming down my back to my ass. And for a second I can't frell him, he's holding me so tight.

Then his hips move, pushing up. I gasp into his ear. His hand splays across my buttcheeks, and a finger finding its way to my anus, pressing lightly on the sensitive muscles there. He moves easily in my growing wetness and I moan into his ear. His lips are on my neck, nibbling and teasing.

I was right, he did want me.

He pumps into me in smooth, easy motions, and my head is up, a squeak escaping me with every deep thrust. I can hear the sound of his cock sliding into my wet depths and the awareness of it builds the tension inside me. My fingernails dig into the solid muscle of biceps.

He changes his rhythm and angle subtly and now I can't make a noise, my throat so tight.

Gods, this man knows what to do with a cock. He's found that spot within me and he's working it. Relentlessly. Damnit, this is what Mathok does to me. Everytime.

His finger leaves my ass for a moment, the returns lubricated with my own juices. It presses, swirling around, then pops inside me.

Like an insect in a collection, pinned and frozen rigid, I'm paralysed by the twin penetration of my body. And when he kisses me, his tongue penetrating my mouth, I try to force down the growing tension between my legs, drive it away. An assignment is not supposed to be about my pleasure. He hasn't said whether I'm allowed to come.

Three weeks of being frelled in the cells, with my only release coming from my own fingers, it's just too much. I start to make this high-pitched whine and the tightness builds up so much it hurts. When the heel of his hand presses down on the base of my spine, pushing my clit harder onto his pubic bone, I think, Bastard.

Then I can't think anything at all. Ecstasy explodes from my groin to my brain, to the tips of my fingers and toes. Every muscle locked tight. The pulsing contractions bouncing between the cock in my pussy and the finger in my asshole. My scream is this strangled, animal thing. Ripped from my rigid, straining throat.

When the orgasm starts to fade my head flops onto his shoulder, pressing my face into the darkness of his ski