A Red Canvas

The assassin was late.

An unbefitting trait for a man of that particular profession, Élise thought to herself as she sipped her coffee with a slight tremble of the hand.

How could someone who cannot arrive at an agreed time be trusted to take care of matters so delicate?

If anything, Élise wanted someone punctual to show that they were trustworthy and actually gave a damn about their contractor and the task at hand.

Another five minutes passed. The bells of a nearby church tolled.

Élise fidgeted with a spoon, hoping nobody would look into her corner of the cafe and notice her or any signs of anxiety. Twirling the spoon between her fingers, Élise tried to focus her eyes on what she was doing, but could not manage for more than a few seconds before they darted over to try and settle on another sight.

She felt as if she had already memorised all of the paintings on the wall and the details of the clothing the people on other tables: the absurd white feather dress that somehow managed to cling to the stick-like blonde on the table to her left, the two gentlemen clad in funeral attire taking solemn sips between what Élise could only imagine to be dour conversation in the opposite corner, and the couple sat in front of her dressed in matching colours and her head pressed against his shoulder when she wasn’t taking a drink.

She avoided everyone’s eyes and tapped her fingers on the table with no particular rhythm, the other hand still stirring. Élise brushed it off as mere paranoia, but the anxiety remained and continued to scratch away at her mind.

If it was anything that added to her nerves, however, it was the waiting. Sat by herself with nothing but the sounds of spoons stirring, ceramic clattering and the casual chatter of customers waiting as they are served or between drinks; all of it was just meaningless tattle about how hard it was to find a good price for different goods, the difficulties of work or the challenges of writing a poem that is bound to make any woman desperate to court any man who reads it to them.

A small group of women close to Élise changed topics frequently, ranging from betrothals to the state of their hair to how they prefer the cafe closer to the market. Élise began to think about how she disagreed with them to keep herself entertained. The walls in the market’s cafe were dull and covered in the art of amateur painters whose works were uninspired and boring. The walls of the cafe she sat in were covered in all sorts of curiosities, from rare artworks to weapons and artefacts one could find across the globe. This cafe, Élise believed, also made the better cup of coffee at a cheaper price while producing a friendlier atmosphere.

Perhaps the greatest benefit that her preferred of the two establishments had was that it had far less chance of Bosporan soldiers visiting after they come off patrol.

Her mind wandered further.

A man stumbled towards her table with a pot of tea and a small china cup.

Élise returned to reality.

The man rested them on the table’s surface and collapsed carelessly into the chair opposite Élise. He took the pot and, ignoring the glare of a confused Élise and several patrons at the surrounding tables, poured the contents into his cup with a hand that seemed ready to drop anything it held.

Élise continued to watch, refusing when the man waved the teapot in front of her face as a primitive gesture of offering by taking her coffee and taking a slow sip, holding it in front of her nose to try and mask the overpowering stench of wine coming from her new companion.

Élise pondered. It was her belief the man was some poor and lonely drunk that had no luck trying to find a woman to warm his bed in whatever hole he came from and decided to try again in a different establishment.

And he had decided to come to her, specifically, as if she were an easy target. Perhaps her fighting had attracted unwanted attention after all.

The idea of him being poor was dispelled after taking note of his clothing; a surprisingly elegant black tailcoat with a standing collar and double breasted white waistcoat and shirt underneath. A black cravat was tied somewhat neatly around his neck. A head of raven hair seemed to be deliberately stylised to appear unkempt, and curled just above sapphire eyes and halfway down the ears. He was much more handsome than she had originally thought he would be.

Regardless of his appearance, Élise turned her nose and kept her eyes from looking upon his face.

“I’m Sterling,” he finally spoke with enough pauses and effort to not only be coherent, but even formal in his state. Élise took little note and tried to ignore him; the condition he seemed to be in was one thing that put her off, but his name and accent were that of a Bosporan occupier. And that was something that made her consider throwing what remained of her coffee over his clothes and leaving.

“Lucien Sterling,” he continued, “And you would be Élise, correct?”

She finally started to pay attention and took note that he was the man she was supposed to meet. Élise began to scold the man across the table in a quiet yet stern manner.

“You’re late. I’ve never hired an assassin before but I’ve always assumed that they would be punctual,” she took another sniff and her nose turned once more, “And not drunk. How can I trust someone who arrives at a meeting as sensitive as this in your state?”

Sterling ignored her concerns. “What will it be, Miss Élise; is it someone you need dead or do you need something retrieved?” he wore a wide, wry smile. “Perhaps both? I’m the man for the job, regardless of what you need.”

Everything about him gave off an aura of self assurance. Even the smell of wine, after a while.

Élise turned her head to a slight angle that faced away from Sterling as a sense of disbelief established itself; her brow furrowed and nose seemed to turn upwards. She thought for a moments and found it near impossible to accept what the inebriated knife-for-hire was saying.

But what troubled her the most was a willingness to hire him.

“There are many I want dead,” she said with a sigh, “But sadly I only have the coin for one life. Do you know of Comte Pierre de Avignot?”

Across the table, Lucien’s face twisted the way only drunk men’s faces do as he tried to remember if the name was familiar. Eventually his eyes shone with realisation and a smug look emerged upon his face as if he had actually achieved something of merit. He rewarded himself with a gulp of his tea.

“Painter.” He replied, “Always portrays war, violence or fetish erotica. Often all three at the same time. His is a unique style of doing it, too. Enough so that his work has caused a lot of controversy and has become even more famous for it.”

The answer caused Élise to scrunch her nose and eyebrows and her hand reached for her temple. Every time that she had encountered Bosporan soldiers patrolling the streets, Élise would turn away or snarl or tsk in a tone of unmistakable annoyance, all of which were acts common to those that believed Bosporans were all uncultured imperialists as most Methalians did. For Élise and so many others, it was a view most likely embedded into the mind by the anti-Bosporan propaganda she was exposed to all through their lives.

Perhaps Mister Sterling was just an exception, even if he was a drunk.

“Correct.” Élise said after relaxing,” Comte de Avignot is a master artist in the eyes of the public. A few have even declared him a bold genius whose work makes one question the very nature of society and what should and should not be acceptable when pursuing one’s desires. My eyes, however, see differently. When I look upon the Comte I see nothing but a charlatan.” she paused when she saw Sterling lean forward with one eyebrow raised. “Everything de Avignot is credited with putting on canvas was painted by my hand.” Élise’s eyes turned downwards towards the dull reflection in her coffee.

“He paid me well, at first, after he hired me to paint his wife’s portrait for her birthday. Several years ago he approached me with an offer when he noticed my… peculiar style. I was young, dumb and ignorant enough to think that a nobleman would keep his word.”

“Ah, I believe I’ve heard this one before,” Sterling interrupted with his prior self confidence yet to diminish. “A fraud is taking fame and glory that should be yours. You’ve tired of his deception and yearn for what rightfully belongs to you but have noticed that it’s impossible. Unless, of course, the fraud is removed from the picture.” He gave a slight smile at his own pun.

A burst of quiet laughter seeped through Élise’s lips and caused Lucien’s face to twist with confusion.

“I find it oddly cute that you think I am petty enough to wish a man dead for stealing fame and fortune from me, Monsieur Sterling. No. I wish for de Avignot to die because I hate the bastard. Perhaps the simplest reason to give death, no?” The scorned artist took out a generously filled purse full of coin and, keeping it hidden carefully under the table, handed it to the assassin. “Two hundred crowns. Three hundred more will be yours when I hear of Comte de Avignot’s demise.

Lucien smiled. It was a smile that stretched across his entire face; a smile that was enough for Élise to be assured that he would be willing to take her contract.

Élise left the cafe after a short while, having given all of the details about the contract to Sterling; the location that the Comte was going to appear next in public, the time, and even a suggested means of performing the act, all of which made Lucien smile and comment on how he beloved that if Élise had thought everything through as much as she had, an assassin was not at all necessary.

The contractor had also, with great reluctance, found herself adding an extra hundred-and-fifty crowns to her previous offer. Lucien could tell she would be paying much more than she had hoped to, but life is not so cheap that one could buy it like they would some trinket at market.

A butcher must have his due.

With the pot of tea empty and a job to plan, Lucien exited the building, neatening his hair when he was clear of the door. He traversed the streets for a while, checking that nobody from the cafe had decided to follow him. After all, somebody may have heard the conversation and wanted to know what the mysterious and foreign drunkard was doing.

Perhaps a member of the authorities overheard everything. Maybe something else entirely. He once had a woman follow him after she became infatuated upon her first look at him.

Once certain it was clear, Sterling slipped into an alley filled with beggars and petty criminals and all kinds of scum that any sensible man or woman would do anything they could to avoid. The city was bound to be full of the poor and desperate, being the largest in Methal, but they resigned themselves to the shadows where only the mad or loathsome sought them out.

Hiding in one of the alley’s more secluded areas was a manhole, sealed and partly covered with a large crate. The box was easy enough to move aside, but the steel covering of the hole was impossible to remove from the surface. All in the name of hiding those that do not wish to be found, Lucien thought.

In a smaller crate pushed against one of the walls was a hammer. Lucien took it and pounded five times with a peculiar rhythm against the steel that sealed the hole. “Name!” called a voice from beneath.

“Sterling,” Lucien answered. “I have business with Jean.”

Clanking sounds, metal scraping against stone, and the cover was opened.

Lucien descended into the city’s underway. A twisted face greeted him. “Welcome back Monsieur Sterling,” the man gurgled with a toothless smile.

Lucien returned the favour with a short nod.

It was always surprising how well lit the tunnels that made up the city’s crime dens were. Criminals they may be, but they didn’t want to deny themselves of the comfort of light. Most however could have sought out other luxuries, such as tunnels that didn’t have water running down the walls or seating that wasn’t crudely crafted or made of wood with rot that had set in. For that reason Jean was one of Lucien’s preferred clients when he visited the city. At least he spent more on making his crew and visitors feel like they were in a place of comfort when they came. Jean’s clients could even admire several paintings and sculptures, should they find the time.

Even more elegant was the portion of the tunnel that Jean declared to be his solar. Perhaps solar is far too elaborate a word for a man of Jean’s occupation and origin. The room was part of an old cistern under a minor government building, drained and divided into smaller rooms, Jean’s being the largest, that connect to the labyrinth of abandoned sewage ways and passages dug by the underworld’s occupants. Paintings and busts not unlike the ones in the rest of his territory, though of a considerably greater value, hung in Jean’s solar along with hunting trophies from days long gone by; a few tribal masks lined the walls with them, trinkets from Jean’s days as a soldier in Methal’s colonies. All of it lit by goat horn sconces.

The decoration didn’t stop at the walls; elaborate chests and bookcases, cabinets and wine racks were all present. Several seats covered in red velvet were placed in front of a large mahogany desk, littered with papers, diagrams and floor plans of important buildings, and a loaded pistol. Perhaps the most curious item was the eighteen-pound naval carronade placed beside the desk. How it was stolen or even how they got it into the narrower tunnels baffled Sterling.

After a few minutes of waiting on one of the seats and fiddling with some change from one of his pockets, Lucien began to grow impatient. He began to wonder why he had to rely on back alley swindlers and common thugs whenever he took jobs in the larger cities. Self reliance was something that Sterling would have prided himself on, but being constantly reminded by his peers during training that he had to make contacts to save time and the risk of being caught, if those contacts proved trustworthy enough. Besides, better their neck on the noose than his should all go awry. Or at least their necks and his; nobody wants to die alone.

A creak as the door opened and Jean entered with a smile. Lucien tsked when he saw it, his eyes furrowed as if he had just swallowed a mouthful of sour wine. His arms folded in disapproval. It was a smile that Lucien hated more than anything else in the city, a smile belonging to a man that believed he owned pretty much anything his eyes lay upon, including Lucien himself.

The smile of a man that knew he only had anything at all because he was at the right place at the right time.

“Lucien, my good friend!” he spoke in an exaggerated slur while waving a glass of brandy in front of him. “You managed to meet the client and came to an agreement, I hope.”

No response came from Sterling, only a piercing glare aimed straight into Jean’s eyes. It ended when Jean caught on and rolled his eyes back with disappointment. Jean’s smirk withdrew. “You know I did. You probably already know all of the details,” the assassin remarked in his own time.

“Ah, so you figured out that I’d send someone to the cafe. As I expect of you, oh master of intrigues.” Jean gave off a short bow, mocking awe.

“Yes, yes,” Sterling sighed, “Since you already know everything there really was no reason for me to come back to you. Well, there wouldn’t be if you didn’t have my belongings.”

Jean gave off a nod, respectful, far different from the mocking bow he had given moments before, and moved over to one of the chests by the wall. He took a small key from his belt. Inserted it into the lock and with a click, opened the box and pushed it in his visitor’s general direction.

Lucien’s half-snarling face changed to one of pure glee upon seeing the contents of the box. All laying across the top of a long black swallowtail coat were two pistols with pouches of shot and powder, a long and elegant curved dagger, a small collection of bombs of a size that fit comfortably in the palm and a black ceramic mask with a eerie thin white smile where the mouth should have been, stretching from cheek to cheek.

In the mask’s eye holes were two vials of a light, almost colourless, blue liquid in vials no bigger than the average man’s thumb. He took a vial and rolled it between his fingers. “I’m happy you decided not to take these. You must be aware of the value of a value half as this one.”

Jean’s face turned solemn. “Enough to buy several dozen horses, everything you need to equip a few companies of men and enough to buy a even the most greedy of men’s loyalty.” He paused and gave a poised and humourless look into Sterling’s eyes that was almost nothing like his character. “And if the Witch-Hunters ever found out I sold some, my eyes will be dust, my heart and lungs carrion… and my genitals pig feed.”

With and equally dour look and tone, Sterling replied. “Only if I allowed you to live when I found out you stole it.”

Both men burst out laughing.

“I’ll only take one of them,” Lucien said in the following silence. He opened his palm and a bright orange flame was born from the air. “I have enough of it in my blood to last, not that I should need any magic for this contract. But I can never run the risk of running out.” His fingers curled, the flame dying with the motion. “I’ll have to entrust the other to your for a while longer,” he leaned closer, taking a handful of coins from his pouch.

“I know you have a supply of poison. I think it would be to my benefit if I took some off of your hands.”

Jean’s eyebrow furrowed. “Hemlock or arsenic?”

“Cyanide.”

Jean furrowed his brow. “A potent poison, Monsieur Sterling,” he said with hesitation in his voice. “I do have some in my, how do you say, possession, but why not a more common toxin?”

“It gets the job done. And more importantly, it does it quickly. Miss Élise informed me that de Avignot will be attending an art show at La Temple de l’Art et de la Culture, and will be bringing a cask of wine with him, to share among those in his entourage. A dry white, so I’m told, in an orange case. I intend to pollute it with cyanide and for the other guests at the show to witness his death shortly after he unveils his latest painting. And for that, I’ll need several vials.”

A lengthy pause and a look of shock upon Jean’s face. “You mean to poison them all?”

“Why do you look so surprised, my friend?” Sterling replied. “ It will be difficult to pour the substance into his glass with the amount of guests that are rumored to be there. It would be easier to get into the kitchens and sabotage the barrel.”

“You would have the blood of many innocents on your hands for the sake of a few coins and one woman’s vengeance.”

“You have done equal and worse in your years on the high seas.”

Jean looked blankly at his guest and gave no answer.

“Either way, the contract is too easy. I could simply shoot de Avignot with a pistol hidden under my coat or slit his throat once he leaves for his inn room — it makes no difference either way since both would be dull. Open one man’s windpipe and you’ve done it a thousand times.”

A few moments passed where the two men did nothing but look at each other with slight smiles, the kind men would give to show a mutual understanding.

Lucien continued. “Of course I could find other and more interesting ways to to end our faux artist,” he held out his hand and rotated it in a demonstrative manner, and as he did flames and waves of a visible and marvelous energy of multiple colours enwreathed themselves around the appendage in a spiral. “But if I were to use even the simplest of spell the Witch-Hunters would be on me like a hound chasing a hare. Their presence in this city is far greater than even I’m comfortable with.

“And so to make the contract more interesting, a mass poisoning is the first thing that comes to mind.”

“A sadistic bastard as always. I’ve come to respect that about you, Lucien, but you never fail to make me shudder.” Jean gave a brief smile and called for one of his crew. A small man soon entered and was instructed to fetch a vial of cyanide. The little man smiled as he left to do as he was bid.

Lucien took out a purse and put it on the desk while the two men waited.

Jean’s thug entered after a few minutes afterwards and gave the assassin the tool of his trade.

“Well then, Jean. It has been pleasure as always,” Sterling said as he stood to leave.

Sterling walked up to the Temple with the coming of twilight. An ancient structure that stood there since the first empires claimed his lands millennia before Lucien first saw it. Lucien scoffed, noting how the building was nowhere near as impressive as rumour had told. He set to work, looking around the structure for any signs of a place of easy access. When there proved to be nothing on the ground level, he climbed onto the rooftops of nearby buildings.

A perspective from higher ground yielded better results; there was a small balcony that Lucien believed he could jump onto without any trouble.

With a point of access Lucien returned to the ground and began another search, this time for somewhere to store weapons in case something went wrong and he was forced to flight. Usually it didn’t come down to that — unless Lucien wanted it to.

A few crates by scaffolding in a nearby alley suited Sterling’s needs. He placed his sword and pistol into one of the crates and sealed it.

The night of de Avignot’s reveal came, and Sterling sat patiently on a rooftop overlooking the entrance to watch the mass of self-proclaimed art critics and connoisseurs pouring in with hopes of seeing what was promised to be a masterpiece.

Lucien moved over to the balcony, which was open as if to invite him to enter to carry out his work, and leapt inside once the majority of guests had entered.

He weaved his way through the corridors and critic filled rooms. Servers carrying wine and other refreshments did much the same, one of which passed Lucien and offered a glass. Sterling took the glass with glee. A full bodied red. Not from de Avignot’s cask.

The presumption was that the server would eventually have to head back to the wine cellar once he had given everything he carried out, and so Lucien followed at a distance, taking sips of his wine as he moved.

He was then ambushed by one his fellow ‘guests’.

“And what do you think of Comte de Avignot’s previous works?” she asked.

Surprise gripped Lucien, who began to stumble his Methalian as he tried to come up with ways of describing paintings he had never seen before. The wine, which was far stronger than Lucien originally believed it to be, did not aid in his plight.

Both his accent and his answer angered the woman; she began flinging insults at the man she met mere moments ago, calling him a Bosporan dog and how his entire country’s populace knows less about culture than her horse. The verbal bombardment caused room quieten and other conversations came to an abrupt end.

The Assassin took out his watch, it’s hands ticking towards the time his target was due to unveil his work. He moved his arm behind his back and with a snap of his fingers the woman’s eyes turned blank; milk-like and empty that just looked forward into a blank infinity.

Lucien walked off.

Another snap of the fingers and the woman returned to her previous state. She even continued to ramble for a few moments before realising the rant was reaching nothing but an empty space. By that point Sterling was on his way to the wine cellar, his wineglass emptied into one of the many plants dotted around the overly decorated walls.

And now I’ve been forced to use unnecessary magic, Sterling thought to himself. Witch-Hunters will probably sense that and be here in force within half an hour. Efficient bastards.

Several guards were stood around the kitchens and the subsequent entrance to the wine cellar. It’s almost as if they were expecting somebody to attempt to poison de Avignot, thought Lucien. With the amount of men down here, it will come as a surprise when they find out that someone was successful.

Every servant that entered was stopped and given a brief search before they were allowed to continue their duties.

Entering will not be as simple as I had hoped.

An epiphany beat his head like an alcoholic’s hangover.

In all his planning, Lucien never thought it would be so easy to get into the wine cellar.

He just needed everyone to leave. And fires were very effective at causing a room to clear. The probability that the Witch-Hunters are on the way is high. I’ll just make life easy for myself. No point hiding magic anymore.

One of the servants found that his uniform had caught ablaze a few moments after he had finished being searched. Panic overtook him and he ran further into the kitchen screaming. Others rushed over to help him, and Lucien had free access into the kitchen.

Sterling’s fingers pointed at one of the kitchen’s old ovens. It’s fire roared and spewed forth from its iron maw.

Some staff fled, others stayed to fight the flames. Lucien simply waltzed into the wine cellar.

He walked down the steps while rummaging through a pouch hidden beneath his coat. By the time he was at the bottom, he pulled out a vial and uncorked it. The glass was pressed against his skin when he took in a shallow breath through his nostril. His exhaled breath was much more violent and sudden. Sterling’s hand rushed to plug the vial once more. It would have been an ironic way to go; the Great Lucien Sterling — drank cyanide after searching the wrong pouch for one of his many other potions and elixirs.

He got it right the next time, and consumed the light blue liquid that Jean had been keeping for him and searched for the cask.

Soon enough, he found the distinctive cask and lifted it so it stood upright. Lucien removed the spigot and poured in the poison. With the deed was done, Lucien returned to the gathering above. A short period following his return to the main ballroom, the crowds began to gather for the unveiling of de Avignot’s work. They did not have to wait long.

De Avignot arrived and was soon bombarded with applause and awe. He made his way through the masses, shaking hands with some, nodding in appreciation at others, and sharing a brief embrace with some of the ladies in the crowd. A swift bow once he reached the stage that had been set up for him, and the speech before the unveiling.

A few minutes passed, with some of the audience listening with great intent and others with their focuses drifting to different things, such as the servants handing out glasses of wine ready for the toast after the long anticipated unveiling. Lucien was one such individual, and his smile broadened every time somebody picked up a glass. Everyone was under strict instructions straight from de Avignot’s lips that not a drop was to be drunk until after the had revealed his painting.

This news caused Lucien to stand with composure and glide with grace through the crowds towards the stage: nobody would drink the tainted wine before the time was right, so why linger at the exit?

“And now,” de Avignot said with vigour, “It is the greatest of pleasures to unveil to you my latest of works. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you my greatest of paintings, ‘The Fallen’s Dream’!”

A roar of applause erupted and the curtains concealing the painting were drawn.

Lucien was horrified.

A mass of twisted limbs and fetishised demonic depictions that seemed to pour from the mouth of the underworld lay on distorted and broken landscape, crows and other carrion circling high over two torn armies, many of the men tearing at each other with desperation in their eyes. Lucien’s eyes averted themselves after looking at the sickening image for a few seconds.

He was no stranger to death and the suffering of his fellow man, but such depictions were too much, even for the most vicious of killers. The other guests, however, had a mixed range of emotions of the piece.

There were gasps of various intonations along with a few squeals, but what surprised Lucien was that much of the crowed greeted the piece with applause and cheers that he would have expected to be reserved only for the greatest of works or inspiring of men. De Avignot was truly a revered artist in their eyes and his surrounding controversy only added to his popularity in the room.

Comte de Avignot waited for the reactions to die down, and, when their attention shifted back to him, raised his glass. “My friends, I thank you for your appreciation and support. I know that, with this work of art, my name will be immortalised. Raise your glasses, ladies and Gentlemen, to Comte Pierre de Avignot!”

Those with the wine held up their glasses and repeated the name of the supposed ‘artist’.

Just before de Avignot’s glass touched his lips, Sterling dived at the stage and knocked it from the Comte’s hand.

De Avignot struggled. He raged and fought with his assailant — until Sterling forced him to turn and face the crowd.

People clawed at their throats, spluttering blood through their death gargles. The Comte’s face reflected the horror depicted in the painting behind him.

“We need to leave. Now, my lord.” Lucien whispered into his ear.

Horror gripped de Avignot; his eyes were fixated on nothing but the the dying and those trying to save them. The Witch-Hunters arrived at the scene, their task of finding the rogue mage forgotten the moment they entered and took note of what was happening

Sterling grabbed the Comte by the wrist, his grip tight like that of an industrial machine, and dragged him off the stage under the veil of the confusion. De Avignot, with great reluctance, allowed himself to be taken away.

The two fled with frequent and hurried looks behind them. Sterling smirked at the lack of pursuers. They reached one of the rear exits. It was just as Sterling had wished — every entrance and exit had been abandoned in the chaos.

Twisting and turning through the alleys through off the shock-ridden nobleman. Their eventual stop near a collection of crates prompted de Avignot to speak. “Are we safe?”

Lucien Sterling gave a wry smile. He rummaged through one of the crates as he answered. “They won’t find us here, my lord. We’re safe.” His smile widened as he found the hilt of his sword and pulled the blade free from its scabbard. “Well, at least I am.”

A swift motion from the assassin brought the tip of his blade into de Avignot’s chest and straight back out again. The fraud collapsed to his knees, his hands grasping at the new hole in his body. A thud from Sterling’s boot brought his entire body to the ground.

Between de Avignot’s final breaths, Sterling knelt down and whispered into his ear. “I forgot to introduce myself. I am Lucien Sterling, and I am the greatest artist of death this world will ever see.”