Saigo woke late. Unusually, blatantly late. By his internal clock, precise as a serpent's fang, it was well past ten.
The ill omen sparked a flicker of irritation, like an itch beneath his skin, prompting him to leap up swiftly. He dressed with his habitual, silent speed – black training trousers, a loose tunic, a sash with sheaths for his blades.
In the living room, Mari waited, as always. And breakfast. Warm, fragrant steam rose from rice with eggs and vegetables. Sometimes he thought she read his mind. How else to explain this supernatural precision? How did she know he'd wake precisely today, after the late report? His mind offered possibilities: 'Spying? An artifact for seeing through walls? Poison in last night's dinner?' He dismissed the last immediately – he'd have sensed poison. A mystery.
"Good morning, darling," her voice was soft as sunlight. She performed a deep, respectful bow.
"Good morning to you too," Saigo inclined his head in return, formally. "Why didn't you wake me?"
Mari thought for a moment, her forest-shadow eyes flickering sideways. "I saw no need. You returned from a mission and worked late. Besides…" she smiled faintly. "…the Head has no assignments for you today. And also… you were sleeping so soundly." A note of tenderness touched her voice, something that always left Saigo perplexed.
He nodded, sat at the table. 'Sleeping soundly? So, she entered.'
'Why didn't I wake?' The question circled in his head as he mechanically, yet with his usual efficiency, consumed the food. Mari sat beside him, cheek resting on her hand, watching him with quiet satisfaction, as if his appetite were the highest reward.
Emptying his plate, he took a cup of strong, bitter tea.
"What are your plans for today?" Mari asked, cautiously blowing on her own drink.
Saigo considered. The report was written. No new orders. The Head would visit… likely at midday. "Training," he stated flatly. It was his air, his stability.
"Understood," she summarized softly.
"Your father… will visit us today. So prepare lunch for three." At the mention of the old man, her face, usually so bright, dimmed slightly. A shadow flitted through her eyes, her lips pressed together for a fraction of a second. She nodded silently, avoiding his gaze.
"Correction…" a voice spoke suddenly, dry and familiar, seeming to emanate from the very emptiness of the air behind Saigo.
Reaction was instantaneous. Saigo sprang up, his chair clattering backward. His body snapped into a combat stance, hands instinctively flying to the hilts of his blades.
His gaze, razor-sharp, scanned the room – corners, shadows behind the cupboard, the doorway. 'Where?' Mari, without hesitation, dived under the sturdy oak table, pressing against its massive leg – not panic, but ingrained Clan caution.
"…the old man is already here." The door to the study, which Saigo knew he had closed, swung open soundlessly. On the threshold stood the Head of Clan Kotto. His piercing, steel-colored eyes slid over Saigo in his battle stance, then to the edges of Mari's dress peeking out from under the table.
Not a trace of surprise or disapproval. Only a slight smirk touched the corners of his lips.
Both – Saigo and Mari – straightened in perfect synchrony and performed deep, flawless bows. The Head walked to the table and took the seat at its head. His movements were economical, full of latent power.
"Daughter, prepare us fresh tea. And… take a walk in the garden. Your husband and I have something to discuss. Privately." His tone was level, but it held an order brooking no argument.
Mari almost trembled. She tried to keep her composure, but her pallor betrayed her. Her lips were tightly pressed. Both men – the Head with cold observation, Saigo with his usual analytical detachment – understood immediately. Fear? Dislike? Both. Silently, she placed a cup before her father, avoiding eye contact, and quickly left, as if fleeing something unseen.
The Head waited until the footsteps faded in the corridor. Then his gaze, heavy and appraising, fixed on Saigo.
"Now, to business, Saigo. You are one of Kotto's finest blades. One of the finest I have ever forged." He paused, emphasizing the weight. "I value you. And I respect you. And so… I offer this to you first."
Saigo didn't move. His posture remained poised, his face a stone mask. Inside, everything stilled, waiting. He understood perfectly well where this was leading. Such "offers" rarely promised anything simple.
"What is the assignment?" he asked evenly, tonelessly.
The Head sipped his tea, his eyes never leaving Saigo. The air in the room grew thick as tar. "Kill the Dragon of the Black Mountain," he stated calmly, as if discussing the weather. The words hung in the silence, heavy and inexorable as a falling stone.
Saigo was momentarily stunned. Dragons were intelligent. And this one was a dark mage. The last word evoked near-physical revulsion – Darkness Magic was infamous for its vile "stickiness," capable of homing in on a target, ignoring cover.
But iron will clamped down on the emotion. His face remained an impassive mask. "I accept. But details are needed."
"Of course," the Head sipped his tea. "The creature is intelligent. Masters the elements: Ice, Fire… and Darkness." He deliberately paused on the last word, seeing Saigo's eyelid flicker almost imperceptibly.
"Location?"
"Network of caves beneath the Black Mountain."
"Its size?" Saigo drank some tea, trying to wash the bitterness from his mouth.
"Vast and multi-leveled." The Head spread his hands. "Interrogating former miners gave only vague ideas. But if their words are true – labyrinths of chaos."
"Mission parameters? Kill is sufficient? Or is a trophy required?"
"Here is the key," the Old Man's face hardened. "The client… wants the glory for himself. He wants everyone to believe he slew the dragon. Personally."
Saigo nodded. The Empress's decree hung in the air, but for him, married and devoid of throne ambitions, it was mere background noise. "Guardians at the entrance. Eliminate?"
"No." The Head drew a small bundle from the folds of his cloak, unwrapping cloth. A mask lay on the table. Not just any mask – the Harlequin's Visage. Exquisite, crafted of dark metal, leather, and mother-of-pearl, its features frozen in an eternal smirk.
"The client provided the solution. With this, you will assume his likeness."
Saigo's gaze slid over the artifact. The eye of an experienced killer instantly assessed its ancient power and intricate craftsmanship.
"How long does it last?"
"One day. After that – it crumbles to dust." The Head raised a cautionary finger. "You can remove it. But I implore you: do not forget to don it upon exit! And… pluck out the dragon's eye. Without visible proof, the guard won't believe the 'hero' and won't descend for 'inspection'."
"Payment?" Saigo asked more out of habit. Gold didn't tempt him; he didn't know what to do with what he already had.
"One million." The Head paused theatrically. "…Golden Dragons."
'Damn!' Saigo choked on his tea. The hot liquid burned his throat. He straightened abruptly, suppressing a cough. His burning green eyes locked onto the Old Man's. "I… heard correctly?"
The Head nodded, pleased with the effect. "Exactly and without error."
"Forgive the bluntness… and the Clan? How much does the Clan get?"
"Much, Saigo." The Old Man's eyes glittered with cold calculation. "Very. Very. Much."
Saigo pictured the mountain of gold for a second. Usually the Clan took 85-90% of a contract's sum. If a million was his share… Gods. That many coins wouldn't fit in half of Castle Sen-Baz. They would spill into the corridors, crush the sentries under their unimaginable weight.
"Any other questions?"
"Will I have access to the Clan Vault, and to what extent?"
"Full, son." The Head made a gesture as if opening invisible treasury gates. "To the fullest extent. And if something is lacking…" he fixed Saigo with a piercing look, "…come to me personally. If it exists in this world or can be made – I will procure it, at any cost."
Saigo felt adrenaline course through his veins for the first time in ages, not from threat, but from sheer scale. "Understood. Refusing… I see no point. I accept the contract."
"Commence in three days. Rendezvous point – near the lair, the client will meet you personally." The Head drained his tea in one gulp and stood. He had already taken a step towards the door but halted on the threshold. He turned slowly, burdened with unexpected weight. His gaze, suddenly devoid of its usual steel, met Saigo's eyes. "And one more thing, Saigo…" His voice dropped to a whisper, full of uncharacteristic gravity. "…If you succeed… I will release you. And Mari. Officially. You will be free of Clan oaths. Think on that."
The door clicked shut with a quiet, yet final, snap.
Saigo remained standing in the middle of the room. The cup with its unfinished tea cooled in his hand. The crash of the falling chair, the rustle of the Harlequin's Visage, the heavy imagined scent of gold – all blurred together.
But ringing in his ears was only one word, incredible, impossible, thrown by the Old Man like the final stake in a game:
Freedom.
It hung in the air, heavy and seductive as the Harlequin's Visage itself on the table. And for the first time in many years, the stone mask on Saigo's face cracked with bewilderment and… something else, vague and long forgotten.