D'eshkar: Art

Cishpi the rug merchant, head of the second most prosperous House of rug merchants in D`eshkar, had finally put into motion the plan he had spent long hours devising alone in his study in the dark hours of the night. After years of insults and humiliation, he was at last about to repay the House of Otanes in kind. He contained his excitement, however. One must never show eagerness while conducting a business transaction. It was not professional. So, with a calm voice he stated his request to the head of the Assassin's Guild. He took a great deal of personal satisfaction that his hand did not waver in the slightest as he handed the veiled figure the agreed upon sum.

"You will take the contract? It must be done exactly as I ask. I want him not to suspect a thing, not until the very last minute. Can it be done?"

"Do you doubt our skills, merchant?"

"Oh, most certainly not, revered sir. I meant no offense. Truly, I did not!" He desperately hoped the bead of sweat that ran down his nose was not too visible in the candlelight "I merely wondered what degree of difficulty my request might cause your agents."

The assassin chuckled. "The fact you were able to contract for all of this should tell you that there is hardly any difficulty at all. If there had been, you would pay much more dearly. But let me ask you a question in turn: is all this just business, or revenge? Merely the first item on your list, coupled with just one of the others, would be more than enough to bring Otanes and his House to its knees."

"Revenge, of course. Otanes ruined my father. It's taken me years to rebuild the fortunes of our family because of it. But, yes, I suppose one might say there is also good reason for it as a business move. Then again, isn't revenge itself nearly always based on personal or business motives?"

"In most cases, yes. In a rare instance, there is more to it."
Cishpi snorted. "What more is there?"
"Some look upon revenge as an art."

The rug merchant laughed softly. "I'm a businessman, not an artist. I will be satisfied with the results. As long as it is not a repeat of that foolishness in the souk last year."

"That person is no longer among us. Be assured all will be as you wish." The Master Assassin's words were curt as he rose to his feet. "We will begin immediately." And with a bow, the figure swathed in black turned and left Cishpi's home, and set his Guild about the work of the contract.

*****

Two months later, as Cishpi entered his study, another black robed figure seemed to step out of the shadows in the far corner of the room. It kneeled before Cishpi, gloved hands extended to present a small book. After a moment's hesitation, the merchant reached out and took it. "What is this?"

"The merchant Otanes is dead. My master sends this, Otanes' journal, to you as proof of the fulfillment of the terms of the assignment. It was found by his body, and none have opened it since." The words were barely spoken when the assassin rose fluidly and walked to the window, sliding out over the sill before Cishpi had time to speak. Not that he had even noticed. He was already sitting, opening the book and a soft laugh passed his lips as he read the entries of the last month:

Grief over the son and nephew lost in a senseless riot while doing business in a city to the north: "I've none of adult age left to follow me. It will be years before Jamath's son can take his place in the firm."

Dismay over the accident that caused a vat of dye to overturn and stain most of his best newly woven rugs: "we've nothing left to sell but old inventory until we replace the lost goods."

Despair as a fire destroyed even that: "Ruined! All is lost!" On and on it went, Cishpi chortling in glee reading page after page of Otane's perfect handwriting describing failed attempts to save his family business. Then he reached an entry that made his eyes widen in fear until he finished reading it.

"I met today with the Head of the Assassin's Guild. He gave no sign of having any knowledge of these disasters, but then again, he's trained not to. I did, however, propose to hire him for contracts on Cishpi and Ardak. He agreed to work against Ardak, but declined the one on Cishpi. Since the assassins will not be hired to kill someone who they are presently employed by, or play one side against the other, this told me all I needed to know."

"No matter. I have too little money left to buy Cishpi's death."

With a sigh of relief, Cishpi shut the journal and set it down on his desk. He ran a hand over his face in relief, then crowed triumphantly. "It's done. I've avenged you, my father! And our House has triumphed at last." He steepled his fingers before him. Of course, Ardak must be dealt with, but that House had always run third to his and Otanes, and most like would be satisfied with moving up a step with the elimination of a rival. Yes, Ardak could be managed.

Victory was his.

As he reached once more for the journal, intending to set it in a place of honor on the shelf behind him, he noticed something sticking out from inside the back cover of the journal. He frowned. Otanes had died leaving the last third of the pages blank. What could this be? He opened the back cover, and a thin piece of paper, folded over many times, fell out on his desk. Cishpi set the book down, gingerly opening the delicate material to reveal a letter written in the fine hand of his dead rival.

It was addressed to him.

Cishpi,
I salute you on your victory. I have none to blame for it but my own arrogance. I held you to be ineffective. In fact, my ultimate revenge on your late father was to have him go to his grave knowing his family's future now rested on your performance.

You far surpassed the expectations either of us had of you, So, for that, you deserve to savor this moment. Do it quickly.

If you are reading this, then you've finished reading all the entries, for it would become visible only then. You no doubt read my entry where I lament a lack of funds to finance action against you. This is still true as I write these words. So I visited Ardak.

Ardak, unlike myself, has money, and like you, has ambitions. He understood what my proposition would give him, and he took out the contract in his name, not mine But know this:

I am behind this.

I reach out from beyond the veil of death, and I claim my vengeance.

Each page of the journal is coated with one harmless enough substance, but as each page is turned, and a minute portion is added to the previous ingredients, a most elegant poison is formed, one that enters the body through the skin.

Do your fingers tingle, yet, dear Cishpi?

Here is the best part. This letter will disappear as soon as your heart stops. And when your family finds you, they might pick up the journal, and if the gods smile upon me, it will claim another victim or two or three before someone makes the connection.

Clever, isn't it?

But you were never a clever man, Cishpi. More like some beast trying to beat down a wall with its head while an open gate stands inches away.

You've had your revenge.

Now I've had mine.

I await you in Hell to discuss which was the more clever.

Otanes

******

His sons found him in the morning, dead in his chair. Heart failure no doubt killed him they decided, no doubt brought on by his joy over the fall of his hated enemy. As the servants carried their father's body away to be prepared for burial, the eldest reached out, picked up the journal from his father's desk, and began to read.

Otanes was an artist.