Black Letter

The wind howled at the sky, whipping through the narrow streets and tugging at the assassin's tightly wrapped cloak. The heavy shadows of the dark night consumed his figure as he stalked down the narrow path between buildings.

This is a good night.

His family would be pleased. The night's objective would be easy. The docks were just in view, and he could see the rigging flailing wildly in the wind, hear the protest of the creaking wooden ships. He was like smoke, flowing swiftly and silently under the torrent of the wind.

A doorway opened, and a figure hesitated from within its threshold, the imposing weather threatening and wild. A resigned posture, and his characteristic hat was removed from his head, clenched tightly in his hands. Its long slender feather whipped wildly to and fro. He foraged out into the harsh night.

Comfort in consistency. The assassin recited one of his rules of behavior, and detached himself from the shadows to pursue the receding figure.

A turn, a twist, a double back, he's being careful. Normal for the target, but fruitless. He was a god of urban stalking.

A vacant alley, he positioned himself around a corner, leaning casually against the wall. His target walked past. The jacket tail whipped nervously in the wind.

As he passed, "Every?". His target spun slowly, surprised. A whirl of motion, the grinding of boots on the cobblestone street. Open hand, edge of palm, the soft yielding of flesh. He fell to the floor, a pile of clothes and twitching flesh.

The assassin knelt, and felt Every's pulse. Adrenaline, slowing, still alive. He rifled through the jacket's inside pockets, and pulled out a sealed letter. A sharp smile, a triumphant sensation. The assassin paused to let the feeling linger, and then backed slowly into the shadows.

The war would be any day now.