“We need to head down to the bazaar,” Tazia declared, pulling a silk scarf that felt suspiciously like a cloud from a moth-eaten trunk. The Crowsnest Manor, for all its crumbling grandeur, possessed not a single item of decent soap, let alone anything that might be called a ‘bath bomb’. “For supplies! And for the… ‘soft furnishings’ budget.”
Razien, still encased in the chinchilla-velvet cloak, stood stiff as a statue by the arched, drafty window. The sea wind whistled through gaps that could comfortably fit a small child. He had spent the morning tracing the seams of the lining, hunting for a slow-release toxin or fine steel wire intended to throttle him during sleep. He found nothing. Only the unsettling, persistent softness. It was a new level of psychological warfare, and he hated it.
“The plaza is dangerous,” he rasped, his voice a gravelly murmur. “You should not go alone.” He meant, *I cannot allow you to wander unsupervised when you are clearly insane and plotting my end*. The rustle of heavy gold braid against silk announced her movements—a sound far too ostentatious for the usual Morvello austerity. It was a disguise, he decided, or a distraction.
“Nonsense, darling!” Tazia waved a dismissive hand, the gesture more suited to swatting a fly than addressing a seasoned assassin. “I’ll be perfectly fine. Besides, I need to haggle. It’s a San-Varo tradition!” She envisioned herself charming vendors, even securing a discount on some rosewater-infused pumice stones. The image in Razien’s mind was less idyllic: his 'wife' being swindled out of her last copper by a grinning fishmonger, or worse, making some outlandish pronouncement that would bring the wrath of the merchant guilds down upon them. He would go. He would trail her. He would observe this new madness unfold, and if necessary, he would intervene.
The San-Varo harbor stalls were an uproar of chaos. The pungent aroma of spiced fish mingled with the sweetness of candied figs and the salty tang of the sea. Merchants hawked their wares in booming voices, children chased stray chickens through the throngs, and a cacophony of lyre music and distant temple bells drifted on the warm air. Tazia, utterly delighted, navigated the crowds with the grace of a particularly enthusiastic dandelion seed, stopping at every stall that promised exotic oils or fluffy towels.
Ennio Piacente, a man whose talents lay less in Piacente (pleasant) and more in discreet infiltration and silent eliminations, cursed under his breath from behind a stack of woven baskets. Lady Morvello was proving to be a surprisingly agile target. He’d shadowed her from the moment she left the cliffside manor, expecting her to head to some clandestine meeting or a secret cache of poison. Instead, she was buying lavender sachets and a truly absurd amount of iridescent bath salts.
His Ebon Coil handler had been blunt: Lady Morvello was becoming erratic, and the guild wanted her drowned off the cliffs without attracting the city watch. Ennio had envisioned a quiet alley, a swift blade, a quick escape. He had not envisioned a woman haggling over the price of a ceramic duck that spouted water from its beak.
Tazia, meanwhile, was in her element. “Oh, look, darling!” she exclaimed to herself, holding up a shimmering, palm-sized orb. “A ‘Moonpetal Bloom’ bath bomb! It fizzes!” She’d accumulated a small mountain of bags – scented candles, intricately carved soaps, a truly enormous sponge, and a collection of bath bombs that smelled variously of citrus, ocean spray, and something vaguely floral. She needed an extra pair of hands.
Her gaze swept across the flagstones and landed on Ennio, who, in his efforts to blend in, had adopted a posture he thought looked casual but mostly resembled a man trying to hide behind a timber pole. He was tall, well-built, and wore a tunic far too clean for a dockside errand boy. Perfect.
“Excuse me, good sir!” Tazia called out, her voice bright and clear above the din. “You look strong! Would you mind terribly carrying these for a moment? My arms are quite full.” She gestured to her overflowing bounty.
Ennio froze. The target, addressing *him*. This was… unexpected. He glanced around, certain she was setting a trap. But her eyes were wide and guileless, reflecting only an eagerness to offload her purchases. His training screamed *danger*, but his instincts, dulled by bewilderment, nudged him forward. If she was attempting to trick him, staying close was the best counter-move. He nodded stiffly.
“Excellent!” Tazia beamed, dumping an armload of bags into his outstretched hands. Ennio found himself holding a small, heavy sack that clinked suspiciously, a large, fluffy towel, and a canvas tote filled with an alarming number of spherical, brightly colored objects. These were the ‘bath bombs’ he’d heard about. His mission: kill her. His current task: carry her scented self-care products.
They wound past the awnings, Tazia chattering happily about the benefits of calendula oil while Ennio trailed silently behind, an assassin demoted to shopping mule. His mind raced, trying to reconcile the Ebon Coil’s orders with the bizarre reality of the situation. This woman was… strange. Dangerously strange.
Finally, Tazia stopped at a stall selling exotic silks, her eyes gleaming. “Oh, Razien would love a new sleeping robe! Something in emerald, surely?” She turned to Ennio, digging into a small, embroidered purse. “Thank you so much, good sir. You’ve been an absolute lifesaver!” She pulled out a small, heavy object. Ennio sucked in air through his teeth. It wasn’t copper. It wasn’t silver. It was a solid, palm-sized ingot of pure, unadulterated gold, stamped with the unmistakable crest of the Morvello House.
“For your trouble,” Tazia said, pressing it into his hand. “Please, take it. You’ve earned it.”
Ennio’s fingers closed around the warm, heavy metal. This was more than a year’s wages for an average man. This was enough to buy a small house, or bribe three city guards, or disappear to the Sunken Isles for good. He was supposed to kill her. And she had just given him a small fortune for carrying her bath bombs.
Just then, a voice boomed from a nearby fish stall. “Well, well, if it isn’t Lady Morvello! Come to grace us with her… presence?” Master Gremio, a rotund merchant with a permanent sneer, stepped forward. Years ago, the original Lady Morvello had ruined his cousin’s business on a whim. He always sought opportunities for petty revenge. “Still squandering your husband’s fortune on trinkets, I see? Maybe you’d like some fresh produce… straight from my cart!”
With a theatrical flourish, Gremio snatched a bruised, rotting nightshade fruit from a crate and wound up to throw it directly at Tazia’s expensive silk tunic. Tazia gasped, her hands flying to her face.
Before the pulpy sphere could leave Gremio’s fingers, a blur of motion erupted from the alley beside the awning. A flash of silver, a whisper of disturbed air. A throwing knife sliced through the air, thudding into the timber support behind Gremio’s skull. The blade quivered, pinning a thread of fabric from the merchant's collar an inch from his ear. The overripe fruit plopped harmlessly into the sawdust.
Razien emerged from the shadows, his chinchilla-velvet cloak flowing around him like liquid night. His sightless gaze faced Gremio, his posture settling into iron precision. The haggling cut off, snuffed out by a sudden hush. The air grew cold.
“Nobody stains my wife’s silks.”
Ennio, still clutching the gold ingot, stared at the blind killer. He tracked the ruthless precision in the man's stance, then shifted his gaze to the sunny noblewoman who had just funded his early retirement. He had a gold ingot in his hand, a murder contract in his pocket, and a very confused conscience. He knew, with a dawning horror, that he couldn't kill her now. He had just become a very well-paid, very accidental double agent. He had to report back to the Ebon Coil, but he couldn't tell them this. He had to lie. He had to protect his sugar mama.