Saigo walked through the slums, their rotting atmosphere soaking into the soles of his new boots. The new clothes sturdy, dark, nondescript allowed him to blend into the dirty walls. He looked around.
"Eh, time passes, but nothing changes." To the right, by a fountain ruin piled with garbage, three men with the faces of drunks were playing cards. Even from fifteen steps away, Saigo could see all three were cheating, hiding aces under dirty sleeves.
From an alley behind a lopsided house came a muffled moan, a choked rasp, and the sound of tearing fabric. The smell of fear and sweat hung in the air thicker than fog.
He didn't even comment on the whole horde of beggars scattered in the mud in chaotic poses of despair or drunkenness. A typical day on the South Side.
Reaching the right door, the back entrance to a butcher shop—he knocked three times with his knuckles: knock-knock... knock. The door opened a crack, releasing a wave of the heavy smell of blood, spices, and something slightly rancid.
Behind it stood Thorn, aka "The Butcher," aka a low-level Kotto informant. His face looked like chopped steak, his eyes narrow slits.
– Black vo... – Saigo began.
– Get in, come on! – Thorn interrupted, grabbed him by the sleeve, and yanked him into the semi-darkness, slamming the door shut with a heavy bolt. Saigo didn't resist.
– Keys are, as always, under the third pig skull by the back wall. – Thorn walked ahead, muttering and waving a bloody knife. – Heard from the Watcher you did good work. So it's on me! I made such sausages—you'll lick your fingers! Beef with pepper, with truffle...
Saigo nodded; in any case, he wouldn't start his actual duties until tomorrow.
…
Guard Yang marched through the same slums, leading a squad of six watchmen. The task seemed simpler than boiling turnips: go to a safe house of some butcher guy and ask about a fellow named Saigo.
Portraits blurry sketches based on descriptions from Linsi's servants were already posted on every pole in the center. The slums were another world.
Yang grimaced. "Risk? Minimal. Resistance? Not expected."
– Hey, look, there it is the shop. Looks... poor. Especially for a front for the best assassins in the country. But who am I to advise them?"
A sign proudly displayed on the door: "CLOSED. NO MEAT." Yang didn't give a damn, he was on duty.
– Knock-knock! – His fist echoed loudly on the wood; a bit louder than necessary.
Upstairs, Saigo and Thorn froze. Instinctively, hands grabbed knife hilts—the butcher's from his belt, Saigo's from under his new caftan.
– Expecting guests? – Saigo asked quietly, his eyes turning cold.
Thorn shook his head, his face flushing. – I'll go check. Some dumb asshole again, can't read... – He heaved himself up.
– If anything... yell. – Thorn nodded, hid the knife behind his back, and limped downstairs. Saigo pressed against the thin wall, listening.
– BAM! BAM! – Yang pounded again. – Am I going to wait long?
– We're closed! – Thorn's voice came from below, feigning irritation.
– You're open now! We're here by order of Her Majesty! – Yang barked.
"Damn," Saigo cursed mentally. "A raid was all I needed..."
– Coming, coming! – Thorn yelled. The scrape of a bolt was heard, the door creaked and opened. – How can I help you, good sirs?.. – Thorn's voice cut off. He saw the guard's uniform and the squad of watchmen.
Yang pulled out a rolled-up poster, poked a finger at it. – Know him? Saigo. White hair, glowing eyes... something like that.
Thorn rolled his eyes. – Zeen... Nope, haven't seen him. Those types don't run around here.
– Who are you lying to, goat? – Yang loomed over the man like the sword of Damocles. – What if we search the house? Find something... interesting?
Thorn opened the door wider, leaning on the doorframe. His greasy apron was stained with blood. – Search! I've got nothing to hide. Just meat and guts.
Yang looked around the dirty room contemptuously. – Have connections with your superiors? Who do you whisper with?
Thorn snorted: – With the slaughterhouse, maybe? Gotta deliver the meat!
A wave of stupid laughter rolled through the ranks of the watchmen. Yang silenced them with a look.
– Why are you closed in the middle of the day? – He sniffed. – And what's that... lovely smell?
Thorn hesitated for a second. – M-mm... Ran out of meat? And air doesn't sell well. You need to go to the temple for incense!
Another wave of laughter made Yang frown. Something was off. "This butcher is too calm," he thought.
– Well, I think we'll come in anyway. Just... for order's sake.
– Please! – Thorn stepped aside, gesturing widely with a dirty hand.
The crowd burst into the shop, spreading out through the narrow corridor and side storage rooms.
– Clear!
– Clear here!
– Smells like rot here! Puke-worthy!
Thorn just shrugged, standing by the open door. Like, well, it's a butcher shop...
Footsteps. Heavy, in boots. On the creaky stairs to the second floor. One of the watchmen was already approaching the only door at the end of the short hallway. Behind which Saigo stood frozen, blending with the shadow.
Damn, he thought, fingers tightening on the knife hilt. His eyes habitually searched for escape routes: window, roof, a weak spot in the wall. "And the day started so well..."
Knock-knock.
For decency's sake, the watchman knocked uncertainly on the door of the room on the second floor. Silence answered him. He jerked the handle—locked.
– It's locked up here! – he yelled into the empty room, gathering the others around him. The guard stared intently at Thorn, who was shuffling on the stairs, nervously sorting through a huge bunch of keys.
– Hiding someone, I bet? – Yang asked, his voice turning dangerous.
Thorn just shook his head vigorously, his cheeks trembling slightly.
– I've got nothing to hide! – he grumbled with a slight note of nervousness, finally finding the right key. "Saigo, I don't doubt you for a second... but I really hope you're not there anymore, that you've vanished like smoke..." ran through his head as the key turned with difficulty in the old lock.
Click. The door swung open, the watchmen immediately rushed into the room like cockroaches, creating a small traffic jam.
The room was small, almost squalid. A bed with a sunken mattress. A wooden wardrobe with a squeaky door, a table, a chair, and an old, worn-out rug on the floor. There simply wasn't enough room for everyone, and a couple of men milled about in the hallway.
– The wardrobe! – Yang commanded. The wardrobe groaned with the clang of poorly oiled hinges. Inside—a couple of worn shirts, and nothing more.
– Under the bed! – Two watchmen crouched, looked. Dust and cobwebs.
– Lift the rug! – They threw the rug back, revealing dirty floorboards. No hatch, no crack.
– Fine, damn you! – Yang exhaled angrily, feeling like a fool. He threw a last glance around the corners, at the locked window with its murky glass. – We're leaving!
The crowd of watchmen, grumbling disappointedly, tramped down after him. Finally, Yang turned on the room's threshold, his gaze sliding over Thorn's face, over the walls... but he said nothing. Just walked out, slamming the shop door so hard the jars of spices on the shelves rattled.
Thorn listened as the footsteps faded down the street. Only then did he allow himself to exhale. Muttering something inarticulate and very unflattering after them, he heavily climbed back to the second floor.
He opened the door to the room and froze, spellbound.
Saigo stood in the middle of the room, calmly brushing dust from his sleeve.