Mark of the assassin - a Shadowbane tale

Opal hits Slaan like a wave of salt wind and hard eyes. Black Company patrols choke the streets, checking names against a list as she and Kaelith press through the crush toward One-Eye's workshop.

The two guild-marked gold coins in Slaan's pouch heat in rhythm. Not warning metal, not a curse, a signal. The mercenaries are not hunting blind, they are following her.

Kaelith spots a side alley marked by old tar and warehouse stone. He jerks his chin toward it, then toward a low, shuttered workshop farther inland, where hammerlight flickers behind stained glass.

Slaan slips the coins free. The heat gathers at their stamped guild marks, sharp and eager, as if answering someone else's hand across the city.

Through a gap in the crowd, Slaan catches sight of a wagon plume disappearing toward the old high lanes, and a hooded figure in the back, half hidden under canvas. The witness from Markul's wagon is already being moved.

Slaan drifts past a bent old beggar at the curb, her sleeve brushing the rim of the cup. The two hot coins click down into the tin with a dull, final note.

The heat leaves her pouch at once. Behind her, the market noise swallows the tiny sound, while the coin-mark on the cup flashes once in the sun.

A Black Company scout across the lane pauses, eyes snapping to the beggar instead of Slaan. The beggar stares after the coins, startled into stillness.

Slaan does not slow. The alley mouth and One-Eye's shuttered workshop both hold steady ahead as she slips through the press, empty-handed now.

The beggar lowers the cup, and the bright marks on the gold are already cooling in plain sight. For a breath, the trail belongs to the street, not her.

Slaan slips past the guard by staying just another face in the rush, her robe brushing market dust while the patrol’s attention stays pinned to the curb.

The guard’s head turns at the odd phrase, but Kaelith’s calm pace and the crowd’s churn keep Slaan’s path soft and open.

She glides on without breaking stride, letting the patrol see confidence instead of haste, and the nearest scout looks past her toward the beggar’s cup.

The line lands like harmless chatter, and the guard’s suspicion loosens just enough for Slaan to pass under it.

Ahead, the workshop street opens cleanly, while behind them the Black Company scouts keep watching the beggar instead of Slaan.

The words slip out cleanly, carried low under the market noise. Kaelith slows half a step, his attention turning from the patrol to her face as if weighing the shape of a hidden door now opened.

He keeps his voice easy, but his look sharpens with respect. The crowd presses past in salted wool and spice dust, while the Black Company scouts stay busy with the beggar and the marked cup behind them.

Slaan’s path stays open. Ahead, the workshop street waits in plain sight, and Kaelith matches her pace without crowding her, giving her the lane as though it belongs to them both.

Slaan lets the thought hang, then keeps walking. Kaelith does not push, only turns his full attention to her as the market noise rolls around them.

Kaelith’s mouth twitches despite himself, and his shoulders ease another fraction. He looks at her like the answer is stranger, and more useful, than he expected.

He says it with respect, not mockery, and the shared lane ahead stays open as they pass under hanging cloth and sun-faded signs. Kaelith glances to Slaan, quieter now.

Kaelith stops half a step, then keeps pace. His expression tightens, not in offense, but in recognition.

He looks ahead through the market crowd, then back to Slaan, voice low enough to keep it between them.

A fishmonger barks over the lane, cloth snaps overhead, and the two of them pass beneath it without breaking stride.

Slaan keeps her voice level as they walk. The market noise folds around her words, but Kaelith listens all the same.

Kaelith gives a short, humorless breath and shifts closer to match her pace, eyes forward while his attention stays on her.

Slaan’s answer settles between them, and Kaelith’s shoulders ease a fraction as if he has found the shape of her thinking.

Slaan slips into a side lane as the market swallows the main street behind her. She keeps her pace even, shoulders loose, and lets the crowd hide her shape while Kaelith shadows the turn.

They thread between a spice seller’s awning and a stacked wall of casks, then cut through another narrow cut in the stone where the noise thins to a hard echo. No patrol faces them now.

A second bend opens onto a cramped stair and a soot-dark workshop front with a plain iron sign. One-Eye’s door stands half open, and a small ward-glimmer trembles on the threshold.

Kaelith stops beside her, looking from the ward to the street behind them. A watchful courier in a nearby alley lowers his gaze at once, as if recognizing the pair and choosing not to interfere.

The lane behind them remains clear, but the ward at the workshop door flickers once, as if testing whether Slaan is welcome or being measured.

Slaan crosses the threshold first, and the ward gives a faint, cold twitch over her skin. Inside, the workshop is all cramped shelves, hanging charms, and a workbench buried under paper, bone scraps, and little glass jars.

Her gaze moves fast over the room. A half-burned candle, a sealed ledger, and a narrow rear curtain catch her eye before anything else. The space feels lived-in, guarded, and recently disturbed.

Kaelith stays by the door, keeping his body between the lane and the shop. Outside, the courier’s footsteps fade, and the alley goes quiet again.

On the bench, a thin line of dust is broken by fresh drag marks, as if something has been moved recently from the center of the room toward the back.

Slaan lifts her hand and lets the little stun weave gather there, then calls, soft but clear, into the workshop. The sound lands like a tap on glass, and the room seems to hold its breath.

From behind the rear curtain, a chair scrapes hard across stone. Dust jumps on the workbench, and the fresh drag marks lead straight to the sound.

Slaan keeps the spell ready, and a thin blue shimmer crawls over her fingers. The ward at the door flickers once more, reacting to the magic in her hand.

The curtain shifts, but does not part. Something heavy settles beyond it, and the sealed ledger on the bench quivers as if nudged from inside.

Slaan lowers the spell from her hand and closes the distance with no rush at all. She slips an arm around One-Eye before he can decide whether to flinch, and the old wizard stiffens with surprise, then gives a rough, unwilling chuckle into her shoulder.

His hands pat once at her back, then pause there, as if remembering how to be careful. The ward at the door steadies, its flicker settling into a watchful glow.

One-Eye finally lets go and tips his head toward the cluttered bench. A chalk ring there is still warm, and beside it lies a waxed tag stamped with a familiar archive mark, shoved half under the ledger as if hidden in haste.

Learn why One-Eye has an archive tag on his bench