The estate of the merchant guild head buzzed like a disturbed hive. Whispers hung in the air thicker than dust, clinging to the servants' doublets, the guards' leather harnesses, the carters' canvas shirts.
The phrase traveled from mouth to mouth, acquiring chilling details: "He's really gone through with it."
"Madman."
"Lost his mind completely." Doubts swirled in every corner: bribing the guards was suicide.
"We won't make it. We'll turn back, you'll see." The unanimity was almost frightening. The Guild Head dismissed it as the rabble's fear of the unknown. They told me the same at the start of my journey: 'madness,' 'are you an idiot?'
And where are they now? he thought, looking out the window at the bustling courtyard.
His chambers smelled of metal oil, leather, and anxiety. Servants, silent and deft, were fastening his doublet.
But his gaze was fixed on the stand opposite – his pride, armor crafted for him personally by a famous dwarven master. Every plate, from the pauldrons to the greaves, was adorned with intricate gold inlay that shimmered with a dull light.
A masterpiece, seemingly capable of withstanding even divine wrath. Bags lay gaping open on the carpet – the angular outlines of magical crystals were visible, vials of elixirs glinted, tool handles stuck out.
"Everything will be fine," Lindsey's voice was calm, almost lazy. "We'll meet him at the agreed place. And don't forget..." He handed the head servant a small flask. Inside, a thick, congealed-blood-colored liquid sloshed. "My blood." The explanation was simple, but a barely perceptible smile twitched at the corner of the merchant's mouth.
This adventure... it awakened something forgotten in him, a sharp, almost youthful taste for risk. Pride swelled his chest. "Well, gentlemen skeptics?" He stretched, his knuckles cracking. "Time to slay this freak."
…
Saigo didn't remember getting into the stuffy carriage. It seemed he just blinked – and now an endless road was pulling him through landscapes merging into a monotonous blur.
Hours flashed by like mileposts. His thoughts invariably returned to Mari. Their goodbye had been a crumpled, nocturnal whirlwind: a knock on the door, an urgent order to pack.
The Master himself had come out to see him off – handed over the equipment, supplies... and something extra. Saigo turned a small bottle in his fingers. The glass was cold. Inside sloshed an incredibly bright, poison-red liquid. Poison of a Thousand Flowers.
An immense rarity. Death in miniature. Just uncork it – and even he, hardened by hellish training, would be felled by the vapors in an instant. According to the Master, the initiative had come from the quartermaster. But he wasn't the only one.
The librarian had slipped him a scroll at parting – ancient, heavy, sealed with a sun symbol. A Spell of Light.
How it ended up in the archives of their twilight Clan was a mystery to Saigo. Even the hand-to-hand instructor, not privy to the mission's details (it was a top secret), hadn't stood aside.
He'd passed a vial through the Head. The liquid inside was thick, purple, almost alive. The cork barely contained the smell – one whiff, and consciousness drifted away.
Grok's Tincture. The fieriest, most merciless alcohol in the world. Why? To celebrate victory? The instructor knew Saigo didn't drink. To throw at the dragon? Doubtful tactics. Saigo mentally shrugged. Gratitude for the master class, probably...
He leaned back against the oak seat back. The rumble of the wheels stuffed his head with cotton. He closed his eyes. At least half a day of idleness remained until the rendezvous.
…
The driver's whistle cut through the camp's din. The prearranged signal. Unnecessary. Even in the deepest sleep, Saigo would have woken a mile away. A small clearing they were passing had turned into a noisy temporary town.
Dozens of tents, like mushrooms after rain, dotted the forest's edge. Work was in full swing everywhere: hammers rang, food sizzled on grills, wagons bustled, people exchanged shouts.
The wagon rolled to the edge of the camp. The driver shoved a folded paper to a guard. The guard, without looking, waved it away – the paper disappeared into the folds of his cloak. The path was clear.
Entering the interior, the wagon became like a stone in a turbulent stream. A human river flowed around it from all sides, noisy, smelling of sweat and smoke. Finally, it stopped before the largest tent – a structure more resembling a prefabricated house than a field shelter.
The driver grunted, climbing down from the driver's seat. Saigo didn't need telling twice. Half a day of jolting in a stuffy carriage – the chance to stretch his numb legs seemed a godsend. He jumped to the ground, feeling the springy grass under his boots.
Two guards at the tent entrance crossed their halberds in unison, blocking the path. Saigo stepped right up, deliberately violating personal space.
"Could you tell me where to get copper cheap?" His voice was level, without intonation.
"Don't know," grumbled the left guard, not looking. "But lead is getting cheaper in Taysport." The code sounded like an ordinary market observation.
The halberd blades parted. The guards stepped aside, letting him enter.
Inside the tent, it was cool and smelled of expensive incense masking the scent of sweat. Inside, the client awaited him. And a couple of servants – well-drilled, with stone faces, the kind trusted with secrets.
"Greetings, my friend!" a thick, oily voice rang out. "Please, have a seat." Saigo saw the payer for the first time. And a lump immediately rose to his throat.
The man wasn't just portly. He was massive, like a hog at a slaughterhouse. Fat bulged in rolls even over fine plate armor, distorting its noble lines.
A neck almost as thick as his head sank into a triple chin. His face was shiny. How do people like this even manage to get so fat? flashed through Saigo's mind. But his face remained an impenetrable mask. He silently sat in the offered chair opposite.
One of the servants instantly materialized from the shadow behind his master with a heavy pitcher and a silver goblet.
"Wine?" the servant asked in a soundless whisper.
"I don't drink," Saigo cut him off, sharply covering the offered goblet with his palm.
"M-m-m… Some juice, then?" the merchant rumbled.
Saigo nodded. The servant vanished as quickly as he appeared.
"My friend…" the merchant began, steepling his plump fingers. He was clearly admiring the picture: a Kotto assassin. Exactly as he'd imagined. Young. Lean as a whip. With an extinguished gaze behind which lurked a primal, almost tangible thirst for blood. The perfect tool.
"...Did you encounter any... difficulties on the road?" he asked sweetly.
Saigo shook his head negatively. "Proceeding according to plan." He pulled the mask from under his cloak. Simple, featureless, made of dark leather and metal.
The merchant snapped his fingers. Another servant, like a magician, handed him a small flask with a blood-red liquid – the very one Lindsey had given his man. The merchant deftly uncorked it and poured the contents onto the mask's inner surface. The leather absorbed the liquid instantly, without a trace, like a sponge. The mask felt momentarily warmer.
The servant returned with a goblet filled with thick, dark burgundy juice.
"Let us drink, my friend," the merchant raised his wine goblet, "to the successful outcome of our... enterprise. Successful for us both."
Saigo raised his goblet. Their eyes met for a split second. Then he threw his head back and drained the cup to the dregs. The juice was tart, with an unusual, slightly astringent sweetness.
"M-m-m… Is it working?" The merchant lazily sipped his wine, watching over the rim of his goblet.
"We'll check now." Not a single note trembled in Saigo's voice. He trusted the Master Alchemist's instinct and experience unconditionally. And the mask didn't look like a trap. He pulled it over his face.
The effect was instantaneous. A wave passed through his body – not cold, not heat, but something alien, sticky. Bones cracked under his skin, joints shifted with inhuman ease. His arms swelled, acquiring a familiar corpulence, his body deformed, filling the chair's space. Strangely: there was no pain. Only a deep, bone-deep discomfort, as if he'd been turned inside out and remolded. 'Guess my pain threshold is just too high...' flashed through his consciousness as he watched his fingers lose their familiar shape.
When he looked up, the merchant was standing before him. He examined his exact double with a carnivorous curiosity. A smile spread across his face, lost in the folds of fat. The servants stood frozen, pale, their eyes full of silent horror.
The process finished. Saigo stood up. His bones cracked loudly, unnaturally. His voice, when he spoke, was alien – high-pitched, saccharine, devoid of its former steely firmness:
"My friend... They could take you to my study right now – no one would notice the difference."
The servants shook their heads in unison, confirming.
"A mirror?"
The servants instantly rolled out a huge mirror in a silver frame. In the mercury depth, Saigo saw himself. That very fat merchant. A face – a vile mask of folds and chins, in which it seemed you could drown an entire village. Perfect.
"Excellent. Then I shall depart."
"Of course," nodded the merchant-original. "But one matter remains..." He clapped his hands.
A stand with armor was wheeled out from behind the tent flap. Not just plate – a masterpiece of goldsmiths. Gilded, with heraldic scrollwork, ornate and... monstrously specific in shape, replicating every bulge of the corpulent body.
"Is this... necessary?" Saigo felt the new, heavy flesh turn to lead at the mere thought of it.
"Unfortunately, yes," sighed the merchant, glancing disdainfully at the simple, stretched-to-the-limit clothing of the Saigo-copy. "I cannot appear before Her Highness's guards in... wretched rags." He paused, savoring the moment.
"Just... make it quick," Saigo said, nodding. In his new, saccharine voice, an icy steel rang out: "Hey! What are you standing around for? On the double!"
The servants rushed to the armor, scurrying like frightened mice before a snake.