Candle in the Dark
By Adam Gonzales
The Victorian hall was lavishly decorated. The six bullion chandeliers that hung high above the elegant marble floor below lit up the sparkling whites and golds of the seven grand tables that filled the hall. Each was set with a tablecloth made from the finest silk and laced with beautiful gold embroidery. Only the head table was any different from the rest. Clothed in deep red velvet, it was shaped into a half circle in order to stand out amongst the other six rectangular tables. That was where the Ambassador would take his seat. That was the spot Lucien patiently watched.
Guests of the Ambassador were bustling gaily, exchanging words of gossip in the proper fashion, but no one dared to take a seat until their host arrived. So Lucien was forced to mingle through the thick sea of silk and linen dress clothes, occasionally feigning interest in the pitiful social façade of the guests by feeding them a false smile or nod of the head every few minutes. It was degrading enough, to be sure, that he was required to mask himself with frilled cuffs and a stuffed shirt, and as a result he kept his communal interactions to a minimum. He wore a crème suit that boasted a collar that was much too high and stiff for his liking, with pearl buttons and green trimmings. But what offset him the most was his hair. It felt unnatural to, as the phrase went, ‘tame one’s hair’ and yet he had found himself slicking it back for the occasion. Every once in awhile, licks of mahogany would fall loosely in front of his olive eyes, only to be quickly pushed back once more—he needed to do his best in order to maintain an outward appearance of divine respectability, for such was the standard.
An hour passed before the Ambassador’s arrival, so as to give time for the guests to become comfortably acquainted with one another. And, true, Lucien did recognize the woman to his left and the man to his right from earlier lackluster encounters, but he could not recollect their names or positions for the life of him—it was not his concern. She was probably the wife of some important nobleman and he, the son of an acclaimed politician, no doubt (it was not difficult to deduce the foolish frailties of men in such worldly company), and as such Lucien’s interest in them was only pushed further away. And despite the fact that they were all cold-hearted, envious beasts under their skin, Lucien found the ‘well-mannered’, ‘sophisticated’ superficial pretenses to be the truly disgusting portraits. It was quite disheartening but true nonetheless, and if it was anything to go by then the Ambassador was the ugliest among the uglies.
He glided into the hall wearing a frocked coat that matched the lush red of the velvet tablecloth in front of him—a man in grey and black tassels escorting him wispily to his place at the head of the hall—and a radiant shirt with a gold cravat underneath—not to mention his gold cuff links and golden monocle. Lucien sneered: too much gold. Gold belonged in pockets, not upon one’s viewing spectacles. It irked him, to be sure, but he strained himself to peer past the Ambassador’s vanities in order to collect his thoughts for the task at hand. And although Lucien felt that his irritability was a stain across his face, no one else seemed to notice. Lucien found this remarkable until it came to his attention that murmurs were flitting across the hall, everyone’s interest fixated upon the woman dressed in black lace to the Ambassador’s right.
“If I am not mistaken,” the woman to Lucien’s left whispered, “that is not the Good Ambassador’s wife.”
Similar comments and remarks were arising in hushed tones at all of the tables, save the Ambassador’s. Lucien managed to quickly contort his face into some sort of semblance that resembled concern in order to meld himself into the overall hive mind of the dinner party. It was easy; not that the news surprised him, for it was the reason that he was present in such a suffocating assembly—but Lucien found himself somewhat preoccupied by the Ambassador’s escort more than anything else. Suspicion and vigilance caused Lucien’s false stupor to portray some sense of raison d'être. That and the gold coins that were weighing down his breast pocket.
The Ambassador, being the ostentatious host that he was, took the ill-gained attention and twisted it into his favor. He stood up, placing his left hand in his pants pocket and raising his champagne glass with his right. White teeth flashed brightly underneath his perfectly combed mustache as he smiled largely for all to see. His parted brown hair reflected the yellow light from the chandeliers above and his rich blue eyes slowly swept his audience as he cleared his throat. The hall became instantly silent other than the shuffling of the servants’ feet as they flitted between the tables carrying discarded glasses of champagne. Every pupil in the room locked onto the Good Ambassador, the Respectable Ambassador, the Kind Ambassador, the Honored Ambassador. Lucien stifled a cough of laughter—all these humble names were not fitting for such a man. The Adulterous Ambassador would be more fitting. Even so, the guests of the lying fiend slipped to the edges of their seats as he began to speak.
“My esteemed friends and colleagues, I am sure that you have all been somewhat mystified as to the night’s purpose. As you may or may not have observed, my dear wife Angelica—whom many of you are well acquainted with—is not present here tonight. The reason being is that I, months prior to our current engagement in this hall, found her to be playing part in an affair most scandalous.”
The hall became instantly calamitous. People gave utter disregard to the proper code of dignity and began to gasp and mutter loudly. One man even, to the disgust of those beside him, sprayed out the champagne that he was drinking across his table. Lucien did nothing of the sort. He simply sipped his cider and placed his glass gently back on the table. True, this did bring a moral complication to mind on whether or not he should still carry out his task knowing that the Ambassador’s wife could be the genuine infidel, but, again, the gold in his pocket cried out his name. Lucien shrugged—money was money and he was not being paid by the Ambassador’s wife to sort out the law of chastity. No, he was hired to do something that he found to be much less conflicting.
The cries of shock and subtle murmurs from the crowd became slowly muffled as the Ambassador pulled his left hand from his pocket to raise it for silence. His right hand still clutching his glass of champagne, he gave a nod of the head to his beloved audience as he, once more, began to speak.
“I thank you all for your concern and sympathy, but that is not why I requested your audience here tonight, although it plays a major part in its purpose. You see, I have called you all here to proudly announce my betrothal to the beautiful Malinda Wennebriar whom you see present at my side this very minute.”
If it was possible, the hall became even louder than it had previously been. An affair and an engagement announcement within the same evening was unheard of. And amidst the uproar the Ambassador set down his glass and opened his arms wide yelling over the hubbub, “Come! Share my happiness! Meet me in good health!”
Almost every person was up out of their seat, rushing to greet the Ambassador in congratulation. All save Lucien. A smirk slipped across his face as he rose out of his chair and did his best to make his way to the back of the crowd at an angle where he would have a decent view of his target. It was difficult to catch a glimpse of the Good Ambassador’s face above the bobbing heads of people who seemed to be drooling over shaking the man’s hand. To which, naturally, the Good Ambassador was obliged to do. One respectable balding gentleman found his way to the Ambassador’s left and gave a warm greeting before leaning to his ear to whisper something apparently provocative. As the man pulled away from his ear, the Good Ambassador began to laugh loudly, although the noise was lost to the steady hum of excited voices. This was Lucien’s moment—exactly what he had been patiently waiting for. His thoughts raced as adrenaline flooded throughout his body, but rather than succumb to its intoxicating pleasure he wiped his mind clean and breathed in deeply, as was his ritual.
Lucien slid his hand into his pocket and quickly arched it towards the Ambassador’s face, mid-laugh, releasing his grip on the object that he had so carefully concealed. A shrill scream of horror reverberated off the marble walls of the hall as every eye wandered sickeningly to the Ambassador. The hilt of a pearl, double-edged basilard dagger was sticking out of the Good Ambassador’s open mouth, deep red splashed across the visible part of its blade and the curl of his lip. Lucien could not help but chuckle as a spurt of blood sprayed out of his mouth—he had timed his throw perfectly, catching the Ambassador on a downbeat, knowing that he would try gasping for air upon impact. The crimson blood melded with the velvet tablecloth as it jetted upon the table, but did wonders on the Ambassador’s pale face as it gushed down the sides of his mouth. Flecks of red speckled his gold cravat and his new fiancé, proving to escalate her already desperate screams. And, just as Lucien had known they would, the guests all tried to aid the Poor Ambassador as his eyes rolled violently backwards and his body seeped into brutal spasms.
Lucien turned sharply and started to run to his escape. He knew that the Ambassador would surely have men that would try and stop him—for the Ambassador’s escort was suddenly absent—but he was prepared. Stealing away into the shadows of the massive corridor just outside the hall, Lucien pulled out a long dirk dagger from a concealed pocket in his sleeve, careful not to touch its heavily poisoned blade. Turning around the second corner he came to, he was thrilled to find two men blocking his path. They were both wearing light chain mail and helmets pulled down over their heads. Each wielding a long steel blade, they readied themselves in an offensive stance, placing their hands on the hilts of their weapons. Lucien laughed. “That armor is not going to protect you, friends.”
By Adam Gonzales
The Victorian hall was lavishly decorated. The six bullion chandeliers that hung high above the elegant marble floor below lit up the sparkling whites and golds of the seven grand tables that filled the hall. Each was set with a tablecloth made from the finest silk and laced with beautiful gold embroidery. Only the head table was any different from the rest. Clothed in deep red velvet, it was shaped into a half circle in order to stand out amongst the other six rectangular tables. That was where the Ambassador would take his seat. That was the spot Lucien patiently watched.
Guests of the Ambassador were bustling gaily, exchanging words of gossip in the proper fashion, but no one dared to take a seat until their host arrived. So Lucien was forced to mingle through the thick sea of silk and linen dress clothes, occasionally feigning interest in the pitiful social façade of the guests by feeding them a false smile or nod of the head every few minutes. It was degrading enough, to be sure, that he was required to mask himself with frilled cuffs and a stuffed shirt, and as a result he kept his communal interactions to a minimum. He wore a crème suit that boasted a collar that was much too high and stiff for his liking, with pearl buttons and green trimmings. But what offset him the most was his hair. It felt unnatural to, as the phrase went, ‘tame one’s hair’ and yet he had found himself slicking it back for the occasion. Every once in awhile, licks of mahogany would fall loosely in front of his olive eyes, only to be quickly pushed back once more—he needed to do his best in order to maintain an outward appearance of divine respectability, for such was the standard.
An hour passed before the Ambassador’s arrival, so as to give time for the guests to become comfortably acquainted with one another. And, true, Lucien did recognize the woman to his left and the man to his right from earlier lackluster encounters, but he could not recollect their names or positions for the life of him—it was not his concern. She was probably the wife of some important nobleman and he, the son of an acclaimed politician, no doubt (it was not difficult to deduce the foolish frailties of men in such worldly company), and as such Lucien’s interest in them was only pushed further away. And despite the fact that they were all cold-hearted, envious beasts under their skin, Lucien found the ‘well-mannered’, ‘sophisticated’ superficial pretenses to be the truly disgusting portraits. It was quite disheartening but true nonetheless, and if it was anything to go by then the Ambassador was the ugliest among the uglies.
He glided into the hall wearing a frocked coat that matched the lush red of the velvet tablecloth in front of him—a man in grey and black tassels escorting him wispily to his place at the head of the hall—and a radiant shirt with a gold cravat underneath—not to mention his gold cuff links and golden monocle. Lucien sneered: too much gold. Gold belonged in pockets, not upon one’s viewing spectacles. It irked him, to be sure, but he strained himself to peer past the Ambassador’s vanities in order to collect his thoughts for the task at hand. And although Lucien felt that his irritability was a stain across his face, no one else seemed to notice. Lucien found this remarkable until it came to his attention that murmurs were flitting across the hall, everyone’s interest fixated upon the woman dressed in black lace to the Ambassador’s right.
“If I am not mistaken,” the woman to Lucien’s left whispered, “that is not the Good Ambassador’s wife.”
Similar comments and remarks were arising in hushed tones at all of the tables, save the Ambassador’s. Lucien managed to quickly contort his face into some sort of semblance that resembled concern in order to meld himself into the overall hive mind of the dinner party. It was easy; not that the news surprised him, for it was the reason that he was present in such a suffocating assembly—but Lucien found himself somewhat preoccupied by the Ambassador’s escort more than anything else. Suspicion and vigilance caused Lucien’s false stupor to portray some sense of raison d'être. That and the gold coins that were weighing down his breast pocket.
The Ambassador, being the ostentatious host that he was, took the ill-gained attention and twisted it into his favor. He stood up, placing his left hand in his pants pocket and raising his champagne glass with his right. White teeth flashed brightly underneath his perfectly combed mustache as he smiled largely for all to see. His parted brown hair reflected the yellow light from the chandeliers above and his rich blue eyes slowly swept his audience as he cleared his throat. The hall became instantly silent other than the shuffling of the servants’ feet as they flitted between the tables carrying discarded glasses of champagne. Every pupil in the room locked onto the Good Ambassador, the Respectable Ambassador, the Kind Ambassador, the Honored Ambassador. Lucien stifled a cough of laughter—all these humble names were not fitting for such a man. The Adulterous Ambassador would be more fitting. Even so, the guests of the lying fiend slipped to the edges of their seats as he began to speak.
“My esteemed friends and colleagues, I am sure that you have all been somewhat mystified as to the night’s purpose. As you may or may not have observed, my dear wife Angelica—whom many of you are well acquainted with—is not present here tonight. The reason being is that I, months prior to our current engagement in this hall, found her to be playing part in an affair most scandalous.”
The hall became instantly calamitous. People gave utter disregard to the proper code of dignity and began to gasp and mutter loudly. One man even, to the disgust of those beside him, sprayed out the champagne that he was drinking across his table. Lucien did nothing of the sort. He simply sipped his cider and placed his glass gently back on the table. True, this did bring a moral complication to mind on whether or not he should still carry out his task knowing that the Ambassador’s wife could be the genuine infidel, but, again, the gold in his pocket cried out his name. Lucien shrugged—money was money and he was not being paid by the Ambassador’s wife to sort out the law of chastity. No, he was hired to do something that he found to be much less conflicting.
The cries of shock and subtle murmurs from the crowd became slowly muffled as the Ambassador pulled his left hand from his pocket to raise it for silence. His right hand still clutching his glass of champagne, he gave a nod of the head to his beloved audience as he, once more, began to speak.
“I thank you all for your concern and sympathy, but that is not why I requested your audience here tonight, although it plays a major part in its purpose. You see, I have called you all here to proudly announce my betrothal to the beautiful Malinda Wennebriar whom you see present at my side this very minute.”
If it was possible, the hall became even louder than it had previously been. An affair and an engagement announcement within the same evening was unheard of. And amidst the uproar the Ambassador set down his glass and opened his arms wide yelling over the hubbub, “Come! Share my happiness! Meet me in good health!”
Almost every person was up out of their seat, rushing to greet the Ambassador in congratulation. All save Lucien. A smirk slipped across his face as he rose out of his chair and did his best to make his way to the back of the crowd at an angle where he would have a decent view of his target. It was difficult to catch a glimpse of the Good Ambassador’s face above the bobbing heads of people who seemed to be drooling over shaking the man’s hand. To which, naturally, the Good Ambassador was obliged to do. One respectable balding gentleman found his way to the Ambassador’s left and gave a warm greeting before leaning to his ear to whisper something apparently provocative. As the man pulled away from his ear, the Good Ambassador began to laugh loudly, although the noise was lost to the steady hum of excited voices. This was Lucien’s moment—exactly what he had been patiently waiting for. His thoughts raced as adrenaline flooded throughout his body, but rather than succumb to its intoxicating pleasure he wiped his mind clean and breathed in deeply, as was his ritual.
Lucien slid his hand into his pocket and quickly arched it towards the Ambassador’s face, mid-laugh, releasing his grip on the object that he had so carefully concealed. A shrill scream of horror reverberated off the marble walls of the hall as every eye wandered sickeningly to the Ambassador. The hilt of a pearl, double-edged basilard dagger was sticking out of the Good Ambassador’s open mouth, deep red splashed across the visible part of its blade and the curl of his lip. Lucien could not help but chuckle as a spurt of blood sprayed out of his mouth—he had timed his throw perfectly, catching the Ambassador on a downbeat, knowing that he would try gasping for air upon impact. The crimson blood melded with the velvet tablecloth as it jetted upon the table, but did wonders on the Ambassador’s pale face as it gushed down the sides of his mouth. Flecks of red speckled his gold cravat and his new fiancé, proving to escalate her already desperate screams. And, just as Lucien had known they would, the guests all tried to aid the Poor Ambassador as his eyes rolled violently backwards and his body seeped into brutal spasms.
Lucien turned sharply and started to run to his escape. He knew that the Ambassador would surely have men that would try and stop him—for the Ambassador’s escort was suddenly absent—but he was prepared. Stealing away into the shadows of the massive corridor just outside the hall, Lucien pulled out a long dirk dagger from a concealed pocket in his sleeve, careful not to touch its heavily poisoned blade. Turning around the second corner he came to, he was thrilled to find two men blocking his path. They were both wearing light chain mail and helmets pulled down over their heads. Each wielding a long steel blade, they readied themselves in an offensive stance, placing their hands on the hilts of their weapons. Lucien laughed. “That armor is not going to protect you, friends.”
The two men shared an anxious
glance as Lucien walked forward slowly, keeping his dagger hand pressed against
his thigh. The first man rushed towards him, holding his sword in the
backhanded fashion. And as he swung his weapon at his target, Lucien dropped
swiftly to the ground and hacked the bare opening in the man’s crotch, where
the armor failed to protect. There was a piercing cry as the man collapsed to
the floor, clutching the burning wound that would kill him within ten minutes
time. Lucien stepped over his writhing body and nodded his head at the second
man. There was a pause in his stance as he contemplated on whether or not he
should do as he was supposed but he decided against faltering and raised his
falchion over his shoulder, crying a fierce battle cry as he did so. The sword
crashed to the ground missing Lucien as he speedily side-stepped the attack.
There was a fleeting moment of fear in the man’s eyes as he realized his fate. But
it was quickly replaced with wide-eyed shock as Lucien slashed the bare side of
the man’s neck just underneath his helmet. Blood spewed out of the precise gash
in his skin and a red rash, a side-effect of the poison, began to spread around
the wound. Not that it mattered—unlike the previous victim, this man was
instantly dead. His body lurched forward and buckled down to the stone ground
below.
Lucien sighed as he kicked aside the body in front of him so that he was able to continue forward with some sort of dignity. He stepped purposefully towards the wooden door at the end of the hall but was stopped short by the thin poisonous needles that slipped in front of his face and embedded into the wall’s soft grout to his right. ‘Ah,’ Lucien thought with a sort of relaxation, ‘there it is.’
Lucien sighed as he kicked aside the body in front of him so that he was able to continue forward with some sort of dignity. He stepped purposefully towards the wooden door at the end of the hall but was stopped short by the thin poisonous needles that slipped in front of his face and embedded into the wall’s soft grout to his right. ‘Ah,’ Lucien thought with a sort of relaxation, ‘there it is.’
Lucien turned to his left, down the
connecting corridor, and flashed a smile at the man standing at the hall’s end.
He wore a dark grey suit lined with black velvet that matched the man’s short
shadowy hair. Grey and black tassels hung loosely at his sides and back; the
mark of a contracted assassin—the mark of a bodyguard. Lucien smirked as the
man’s amber eyes narrowed in anticipation. He knew this man well: they were fashioned
from the same fabric—schooled in the same guild. Promystus.
“So you decided not to stop me from killing that fool of a man? Was that not your job?” Lucien bantered.
Promystus stepped forward lazily,
his voice bordering on a drawl. “My dear Lucien, my job was to defend the dignity of an honorable man. It was not
specified on whether or not he still needed to be living.”
Lucien tensed himself, readying for
an attack from Promystus. “And why, pray tell, is there no one else here to
help defend this so called dignity?”
Promystus laughed. “Dear friend,
that pretentious idiot was far too pompous to even think that anyone out there
could possibly dislike him. Besides myself there are barely twenty guards
within this whole estate. But I would like to think that I would present more
than enough of a challenge.”
Lucien slammed his body to the
ground as another needle shot down the hall. Promystus uttered a curse and
began running down the long corridor, his eyes fixated upon Lucien. Lucien
rolled and quickly shot to his feet, barreling forward as he slipped a thin
knife from out of the lip of his boot. He flicked it forward but Promystus
dashed to the side, momentarily running on the base of the wall in order to
evade the attack. A grin flickered on the assassin’s face as he arched in the
air over Lucien, his heel smashing across Lucien’s forehead. A thin cut opened
across Lucien’s face as a small trickle of blood trailed down his nose. Lucien
flung himself off the ground and turned to face Promystus. He was holding a
small dueling cane that had been hanging at his side, his fist clenched tightly
around its metal grip. Lucien darted to Promystus’ side and threw his elbow
into his ribs before he time to react. Promystus uttered a grunt as he dropped
his dueling cane and crashed against the wall.
Lucien had the cane in seconds but
was shocked to find himself kicked in the gut before he had time to swing it
across Promystus’ face. Lucien lurched forward and gasped in pain as his head was
smashed into the stone wall. Blood gushed from above his ear and as he
struggled to get himself up.
Promystus chuckled despite his heavy breathing.
Promystus chuckled despite his heavy breathing.
“Poor Lucien. Always was the
valiant and noble one, were you not? You never quite understood that being an
assassin was not a question of morality.”
Promystus was close enough now to
Lucien that he could have easily stabbed him had he the strength. The man was
pulling out a long dagger from his sleeve, readying it for Lucien’s death.
Lucien would have none of that. In a sudden burst of adrenaline, Lucien reached
for Promystus’ leg and sank his teeth into his skin. Promystus howled. As he
toppled over, Lucien downed a small vial of liquid that he had been saving in
his pocket for such an occasion—liquid opium; a mix that would temporarily keep
Lucien stable and strong.
Pulling the dueling cane off the
floor, Lucien turned to Promystus and sighed, struggling to speak. “Promystus.
What you never understood was that
ambiguity is the reason you never can seem to get your priorities straight—the
reason that you constantly fail.”
In one swift motion, Lucien bashed
in Promystus’ skull and smiled ever so slightly as the cracking of bone
reverberated throughout the corridor. He tossed the shattered cane to the side
and stepped lightly over Promystus’ body, wiping the blood off his face. Then,
without turning back, he spoke. “It seems that it was not the Ambassador that
was the fool.”
Pushing the wooden door that the
men had been guarding open, he stepped out into the cold chill of the night,
his feet meshing into the wet earth as he spied a carriage some two hundred
meters in the distance—his avenue of escape. An alarm rang out in the sound of
a gong as the panic within the elegant hall finally reached the gates of the
Ambassador’s magnificent stone manor. Lucien knew that a dash to the carriage
was almost futile, as there were at least five armed men (albeit protected only
by thick leather plating) between him and it, but he tried it despite his
better instincts. Slapping mud up off of the ground as he bolted forward, he
pulled a small misericorde dagger out from his pants pocket with his free hand
and flung it at the closest armed sentry. It stuck firmly under the man’s
mandible and he slipped to the ground. Knowing that he would not make it if he
tried to fight them all off, he passed swiftly by the following two bemused
sentinels without a second thought. By the time he reached the third patrol
they were all aware and ready for a fight. Lucien was stunned as the man smashed
the broad side of his rebated against his right shoulder, causing him to lose
his grip on his dagger and fall to the ground. The opium mixture was fading and
Lucien needed to compensate for time lost to Promystus. Thinking rapidly, he slammed
the man’s shins with a heavy kick so as to send the man to the earth. Then,
pushing himself back on his feet and clutching his side from Promystus’ earlier
attack, Lucien bashed in the man’s teeth with his heel. There was a loud crack
as the shattered bones snapped out of place, but Lucien was used to such noises
in his exertion. He did not bother searching for his venomous blade as the
fifth guard rushed at him with a double-handed battle ax. Instead he swept
forward beneath the heavy weapon and smashed his elbow into the man’s gut. And
as the man lurched forward to gasp for air, Lucien wrapped his arms around his
neck and looked into his face as his olive eyes flashed in the dark of the
evening. In one fluid motion that was only possible for one as deft as Lucien, the
man’s head was forced at an angle that was not possible to achieve in the world
of the living. A splitting crack filled the air as Lucien released the man’s
body from his arms, a delightful and satisfying sound—even if there was no time
to actually enjoy it.
There were voices growing close behind Lucien. The two guards that Lucien had passed were almost upon him, and the carriage lay in wait only ten meters ahead. His shoulder still in pain, Lucien hastened to the navy blue coach as fast as his body would let him. Swinging the door open as he reached its sliver handle, he slumped into the sticky leather of the seat inside and yelled for the driver to depart. And as the strident galloping of the horses’ hooves patted the ground, Lucien smiled smugly. Warmth filled his body as the opium began to subside, and he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the cloth sack of gold. He tossed it gently up and down, matching the horse trots, and sighed contentedly as he looked to the dull night clouds outside. The Ambassador was dead, and all was well with Lucien.
There were voices growing close behind Lucien. The two guards that Lucien had passed were almost upon him, and the carriage lay in wait only ten meters ahead. His shoulder still in pain, Lucien hastened to the navy blue coach as fast as his body would let him. Swinging the door open as he reached its sliver handle, he slumped into the sticky leather of the seat inside and yelled for the driver to depart. And as the strident galloping of the horses’ hooves patted the ground, Lucien smiled smugly. Warmth filled his body as the opium began to subside, and he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the cloth sack of gold. He tossed it gently up and down, matching the horse trots, and sighed contentedly as he looked to the dull night clouds outside. The Ambassador was dead, and all was well with Lucien.
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