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It was a lovely warm day in the seaside town of Arret.  Unseasonably warm, in fact.  The town’s future-seeing wizards had predicted spring showers for this entire week, but you could never trust what they said, not really.  You had to take into consideration that a crystal ball and a scrying spell only saw one of an infinite array of futures, and that he detail-honing procedures in spell-casting were extremely complicated.  Things were always being left out.  So when preparing for the day’s work, Serandab hadn’t included an umbrella in his arsenal.

He looked out of the window of the deserted, condemned building where he sat, ice-cream in hand.  His target wasn’t due for another hour, and judging by the position of the sun he had plenty of time.  Below the tower people bustled as lazily as they could, moving around the market sluggishly.  He had an excellent view from up here – he wouldn’t need the complicated and awkward sight-enhancer-glass he sometimes needed to attach to his crossbow.  He glanced at his weapon, propped up against the window. It was a DeMass Stealthor special, modified only slightly to suit his death-from-afar needs.  The moving parts were well-greased, guaranteed never to make a sound above a quiet whisper.  The string was strong, the bolt was sharp.  The assassination of Arret’s mayor should go off without a hitch.

He looked sadly at his now creamless ice-cream and took a bite of the cone, returning his attention to the town square.  The market was smaller today, shrunk on account of the big occasion.  The mayor was due to open the newly refurbished Bank of Arret building today, three months after an inept burglar had bungled his attempt to make off with the fabled millions contained therein and, in panic, had set fire to the building while he fled.  The burglar had been caught and executed.  Unlucky for him.  Lucky for Serandab, as the grand re-opening offered him a prime opportunity to make rather a lot of money.

Serandab was a professional assassin.  Of course, he would never admit to that if pressed.  He would smile his charming smile, adjust his smart cuff-links and merely explain he was in the removals business.  The removal of obstacles, nuisances and problems.  If pressed further he would stop smiling and firmly – but politely, always politely – request that the inquirer attend to their own business as further enquiries could well prove damaging to their health.  He was very rarely pressed further than that.

He finished his cone and dabbed his lips with a black lace handkerchief.  He took a small mirror from his pocket and examined his reflection anxiously, looking for cream or crumbs.  He was a big believer in the importance of personal appearance, though he would have appeared shocked, insulted even, if anyone ever accused him of being vain.  Was caring about your personal appearance vanity? Was wanting to be nicely dressed both on the job and at home vanity?  Was constantly checking your reflection to make sure you never had a hair out of place vanity?  If so, then Serandab was guilty as charged.  As far as he was concerned, though, he just liked being stylish.

Satisfied, he tucked the mirror away, picked up his crossbow and looked back out his window.  In the square below, stall-holders were calling out their wares and badgering passers by while the front of the bank was given last minute decorative touches.  Serandab sighed and wished time would pass faster.  This was the worst part of these sniping assignments, the wait.  If he’d known it was going to be a sniping assignment he probably wouldn’t have accepted the contract … but no, that wasn’t true.  The fee for completing this job was a hefty sum indeed, and Gods knew he needed the money.

Serandab wasn’t from Arret.  He wasn’t even from this country.  He came from a land far to the south, a land of deserts and oases.  The people of his homeland were mostly nomadic; though there were a few cities and towns, for the most part they travelled in tribes, pitching their tents here there and everywhere.  His own family, the Nanitoo tribe, were one of the three richest and most powerful tribes in that land, though as a youngest son he enjoyed few privileges.  Yes, he had his own tent, his own horse, his own hawk – but his living allowance had been quite poor, and one day after an embarrassing incident involving his tribe’s camels, three camel thieves and Serandab’s failure to capture them and exact punishment accordingly that had all been taken away.  He had caught them, yes, but when they had pleaded for their miserable skins, he had granted them mercy and let them go.  It just hadn’t been in his nature do his duty, not when his duty involved 80 lashes and ritual dismemberment.  His father had been furious.  In the end, it had been Serandab who had been given the lashes.  He’d been only threatened with the dismemberment, though the threat had been bad enough.

He had learnt his lesson well that day.  One had to separate one’s duty from one’s feelings, one’s nature from one’s job.   After his punishment he had stood mutely in his father’s grand tent, listening to the angry exclamations and insults thrown at him.  He had been close to tears – but he hadn’t cried, not a drop.  He had known the penalty for that.  Exile.  To be cast out from one’s family was a virtual death sentence, and his father would have done it had he seen a single tear wet his son’s cheek.  It wasn’t that his father was cruel – quite the reverse, he tended to be quite loving and nurturing as a rule.  But he was a great believer in custom, tradition, duty, respect.  For him, these things came above all else save the Gods themselves.

Serandab had been sent to an exclusive (and very, very expensive) boarding school further up north to “knock some sense into the thrice-damned boy.”  He’d learnt advanced algebra.  He’d learnt cartography.  He’d learnt how to snap a man’s neck from behind without making a sound.  He’d learnt, at last, how to separate himself from his job.  He’d learnt how to become a professional assassin. And a very good one, too.  He’d eventually graduated in the top third of his class and gone into business, sending money home to his father every year.  His father was very proud of him.  It was important to earn a living.

Down in the square, the town Guard had begun to assemble.  Serandab shook himself out of his reverie and flexed his hands, the stock of the crossbow comfortable in his grip.  Not long now.  The guards were eyeing up the plaza, making last minute security arrangements.  What foolishness!  These idiots should have planned this fully days ago!  He felt secure knowing that such incompetent guards would never think to check the tower across from the bank.  Look at them bumbling around down there, setting up their perimeters and sorting out their secret code words!  Not one of them had thought to look upwards!

The bank’s impressive front door opened and the new manager stepped out, accompanied by a heavily scarred man, with an eyepatch and a perpetual scowl on his face.  He wore a slightly different guard’s uniform, with the insignia of the town guard prominent on his chest.  He was the shrewd captain of the guard, and he was the only man there who could possibly scupper Serandab’s plans.

Serandab swore under his breath and dropped to the floor, out of sight of the window.  This was most inconvenient.  The captain wasn’t supposed to be here today!  He was supposed to have been lying recuperating in a temple with a broken leg!  Serandab cursed his useless informants and decided he’d need to pay a little visit to The White Dog Inn and give a few people some lessons on the value of accurate information.  For now, though, he had to keep out of sight, if only for the next few minutes.  This whole situation was now potentially very risky.

He sighed, reached into one of his many hidden pockets and pulled out a bizarre device – a long, black tube with joints near each end.  He snapped the ends into place, forming a kind of ‘S’ shape.   He was particularly pleased with this little gadget – a certain young inventor acquaintance of his had built it, calling it his ‘Periscope’.  Using inbuilt mirrors that snapped into place as you manipulated the tube, it allowed someone to discretely peer over a wall (or, perhaps, a windowsill?) with far less chance of being observed.  The naive youth would probably have had a fit if he’d found out it would be used for this sort of job, so Serandab had merely told him he intended to go bird-watching without scaring them away.  A harmless enough excuse, but certainly not entirely dissimilar to what he was doing now.

He carefully moved the periscope into place and shifted his position until he could see the bank.  Someone was draping a ribbon across the doorway, taking great care to make it look presentable.  Perhaps there was a certain tautness that had to be upheld? A certain distance between the top and bottom of the door?  No matter, it was irrelevant.  Using his device he scanned the market place.  The guards were still around, but the captain was now nowhere to be seen.  After some more pain-staking surveillance he felt the area was probably secure enough to continue, certainly secure enough to take the chance.  He slid the device back into tube-shape and secreted it away on his person, moving back into his position at the window.  He picked up his crossbow and looked down into the square.  Yes, this was more like it.

A bugle sounded out, splitting the air and momentarily drowning out the noise of the market-goers below.  As Serandab watched, the guards began corralling people like cattle, herding them to form a welcoming crowd outside the bank.  He’d seen this behaviour before.  The mayor was not an incredibly popular man with the citizens of his town; hence the rather heavy guard presence today.  The people had to be pressed into shows of public affection.  Well, perhaps after today that would change.

Ah, and here was the bank manager again.  A pompous fellow, gold rings, fancy hat, silly monocle.  Another social parasite growing fat on the backs of the working people.  Serandab didn’t have many passions, and he tried as a rule to have even fewer opinions, but he kept checking the list of unfulfilled contracts for him every week, just in case.  It was a job that, for once, he would take great pleasure in.  He was not a great believer in the banking system.  It seemed like a dangerous illusion to him, a deception to dishonestly rob the common man, and he didn’t like that.  At least you could respect a man who held a knife at your throat and said, “Give us all yer money or I’ll cut yer throat, guv.”  That was the honest way to do it.

The bugle sounded again, and Serandab took a deep breath, focusing himself.  This was it.  A huge, gilded carriage had pulled up, and a doorman was waiting at the door.  Serandab watched as the mayor, in his robes of office and golden chain, stepped out and hailed the crowd.  There was scattered applause that didn’t really pick up until the guards started clapping threateningly.  Even then it was forced and lacklustre.

The mayor smiled and waved, oblivious to the disapproval of his subjects.  Then he raised his hands, calling for silence.  A nervous-looking aide thrust a speech into the mayor’s hands and took several steps away.  He had been Serandab’s source in the mayor’s office, and he was obviously worried about the remote possibility of the crossbow bolt not finding its target.  He needn’t have been.  Serandab knew what he was doing.

The guards on each side of the mayor looked incredibly bored; their eyes were glazing over and one of them was playing with his fingers.  Obviously Serandab wasn’t missing much by not being in the crowd listening to the speech.  The mayor was waffling on, probably boring the crowd with banking statistics and promises of untold wealth that the populace themselves would never ever see, never benefit from.  Serandab shook his head bitterly.  You can’t eat bank account interest.

The mayor’s aide raised a hand to his mouth, as if stifling a yawn.  This was the signal that the speech was drawing to a close.  Serandab focused on the mayor, letting the skills he knew so well come to the fore.  He sighted down the length of the crossbow, adjusting for distance, trajectory and wind.  If all went well, the bolt would strike its target right between the eyes.  The time was now.

Carefully, he began to squeeze the trigger.  Carefully … carefully … now …

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Mr. Nanitoo,” a gravely voice said behind him.

Damn.

“Gods damn you, Capitan Hart,” Serandab said agreeably.  “Damn your eyes.  Damn your house.  Damn your moustaches.”

“I don’t have any moustaches, Mr. Nanitoo, as well you know.  Now, put your bow down, place your hands on your head and turn around slowly.  We don’t want any nasty accidents, do we?”

Serandab sighed and carefully propped the crossbow against the wall.  Placing his hands on his head he shifted his body round so that he was now leaning against the windowsill.  Sure enough, there stood the captain, with a miniature crossbow in his hand and a grim smile on his face.

“You’ve led me a merry little dance, haven’t you, Mr. Nanitoo?” he said.

Serandab shrugged awkwardly, smiled and said nothing.

“I almost had you last year.  At the All Moons festival, you remember?  That High Priest would have lived if I’d gotten to you in time.  How far behind you was I?”

Again, Serandab shrugged awkwardly, smiled and said nothing.  The Captain grinned broadly.

“I’d cottoned on to the poison in the sacrificial wine, but too late.  Too late.  Poison, Mr. Nanitoo?  That wasn’t your style.  Still, needs must, I suppose, eh?  Well, not this time.  Now I’ve got you, got you red-handed.  No paycheque for you today, Mr. Nanitoo.  Do you know how long a prison sentence is for attempted murder?”

Still nothing from the assassin, though the Captain knew the word ‘murder’ had riled him.

“Ten years.  Ten long years - and a much, much shorter sentence if you’re actually caught killing him.  Three days in a dank cell, and then, the next morning, a short trip to oblivion and judgement from the Gods themselves, may they have mercy on your immortal soul.  If you even have a soul, that is, Mr. Nanitoo.”

Serandab yawned in mock boredom.  “So tell me, Capitan Hart, does your little speech have a point?  I wish no offence, but you caught me in the middle of bird hunting, and I particularly wish to … ‘bag’, as you would say, that large fat speckled-breasted pigeon that is sitting on the roof of the bank.”

The Captain blinked, and roared with laughter.  “Bird!  Hunting!  Bag!  Ah, Mr. Nanitoo, you’ll have to do better than that!”

Serandab jerked his head towards a book that lay at the round beside his crossbow.  The Captain looked down, and had just enough time to clock the title – “Misdirection for Dunces” – before Serandab rushed him.  Startled, the captain loosed his bolt, which missed Serandab by an inch.  The assassin drew a long elegant sword, one that it should have been impossible for him to conceal – yet somehow he’d done it.

“I am sorry, Capitan Hart,” he said, genuine regret in his voice.  “But I cannot allow you to interfere.  You have your job to do, yes – as I have mine.”  He swirled his sword skilfully, the tip coming dangerously close to the captain’s throat.  The captain leaned back, snarled and drew his own sword.

“Don’t be foolish, Mr. Nanitoo,” he growled.  “It doesn’t have to end this way.”  Serandab smiled.

“A moment ago you were talking, relishing the thought of my capture or execution.  And now you tell me that if I co-operate we can come to an arrangement?  Tsk tsk, Capitan Hart, I had thought you a better man than that.”

They clashed, but only gently.  Each blade was testing the other, the fight beginning almost as a dance.  The fighters stepped warily around each other, their swords occasionally darting forwards and briefly touching, almost kissing.  The captain’s was the heavier blade, and though its force and power were great, it was tiring to wield.  As such, the captain stayed defensive, protecting his body, allowing the assassin’s sword to do most of the moving.  And, now that the fight began in earnest, move it did.  With a flurry of blows, Serandab pressed forward, his sword a blur of movement.  The captain allowed himself to be pushed back, parrying every blow.  As soon a there was a pause in Serandab’s assault, Hart pushed in, swinging towards Seranab’s legs.  Serandab jumped backwards and the sword swished through the empty air where he had been.  They regarded each other warily.

“Time is running out, isn’t it?” the captain said.  Serandab said nothing, shifting his weight between his feet.  “Is there a time limit to your contract Mr. Nanitoo?  Does it have to be done publicly?  Yes, the mayor will waffle on for a bit more, but its nearly over.  He’ll be back in his carriage and away before you can – ”

Serndab lunged forward, taking the captain by surprise.  He grabbed the captain’s sword arm, held it away, pulled himself into him, raised his sword to head height and pushed himself back again.  The captain hissed in pain as the sword sliced an ugly line across his cheek.  Seranab sprang out of reach and sighed irritably.

“If you’re going to fight, fight.  Don’t talk.”

The captain gritted his teeth and pushed forward, hammering with his sword at Serandab in anger.  Serandab was pressed back to a table and he cursed.  Any more blows like this and his sword, though fast and capable, could snap like a twig.  He met the captain’s blade with his own above their heads, each man gripping the other’s sword arm.  It was a stupid, pointless manoeuvre in most fights, unless you had a hidden advantage to press home – as Serandab did now.  He stood to tiptoe, rested his weight on the table, drew his legs up to his chest and delivered a powerful kick to the captain’s chest.  Caught off balance, the captain staggered back, slipped and fell.

Serandab honourably waited for his opponent to get back up before going back into a fighting stance.  The captain shook his head.

“You should have taken advantage of your luck, Mr. Nanitoo.  You should have killed me when I was down.”

“Honour, Capitan Hart, is a matter for gentlemen.”

“I thought ‘If you’re going to fight,’ and all that?”

Serandab sighed and, to the captain’s surprise, sheathed his sword.  He held up his hands, wrists together.

“I know what I said, Capitan.  I am tired.  I am tired of this life, and of all the killing, and of the chase.  Especially, I am tired of the chase.  So come, Capitan Hart.  I put my life, freedom and future in your very capable hands.  You have won.  Shackle me, and lead me away.”

The captain shook his head.  “How foolish do you think I am?  Unbuckle your sword.  Take off your hat, I know about the cheese-wire hidden in brim.  Take out all of your concealed weapons and throw them in that corner over there.

Serandab sighed.  “So distrusting, Capitan, it is very sad.  Very well, I do as you ask.”

Slowly, very slowly, he removed his hat, and tossed it into the corner in question.  It was followed by his sword belt, three daggers, a length of rope, a small scimitar, a set of throwing knives, a set of throwing stars, two long daggers, two short daggers, a vial of clear-coloured liquid, a blowpipe with a set of darts and, as if to avoid confusion, his collapsible periscope.  He smiled and held his hands out to the captain.  The captain nodded and stepped up.

Serandab watched the captain with wry amusement as he slipped a pair of shackles onto his wrists and locked them.  They seemed more for show than anything else; though they were restrictive, they had a length of chain between them that allowed a certain amount of flexibility and movement.  Serandab sighed, sadly.

“You know, Capitan Hart,” he purred, “I feel I will miss my old job, to say nothing of my freedom.  Perhaps … perhaps I will miss them too much…”

In a flash, he slipped behind the captain and leaped onto his back.  The captain toppled to the ground with a surprised cry as Serandab wrapped the length of chain around his neck.  He pulled with all his might, tightening the chain around his enemy’s throat.  The captain, choking, tried to swat Serandab from his back, tried to roll tried anything to postpone the inevitable.  Tried in vain.  His struggles grew weaker, his body slumped.  After a moment, he moved no more.

Cautiously, Seradab checked for a pulse.  It was weak, but it was there.  He nodded, satisfied.  He leant down and moved his mouth to the captain’s ear.

“Ah, Capitan Hart,” he whispered.  "Today is not your day for dying.  Nobody has paid me for your death.  Not yet, but who knows, maybe someday …?  I told you that honour is a matter for gentlemen, Capitan.  Today, I am not a gentleman.  I am in business.  But I am not a monster enough to kill you.  Not today.”

He carefully but quickly put his weapons into a bag – he would have no time to re-arm himself, he would just have to run faster than usual.  In one fluid movement he stepped to the window, took up his crossbow, knelt.  He sighed in relief.  The mayor was being handed an embarrassingly large pair of scissors.  The ribbon would not be cut today, though.  Serandab closed his eyes, breathed deep, centred himself.

He opened his eyes.

He fired.

The chase began anew.

Today was a good day.