Poisons are a funny thing. They are so much less hands-on than a sword to the throat or a bolt to the eye, but they render your target no less dead when used properly. Of course if you use them improperly….
Personally, I prefer the hands-on approach; it is not any sort of blood thirst, but a simple desire to know a job has been done properly. There are times, however, when other avenues of eliminating a target
must be explored.
The job was simple. Kill a tailor from the town a Merriman in public while he was visiting the castle of the Duke of Tuckford. The man's name was Vincent Mayville, and while he seemed like an inoffensive sort, he must have done something to anger someone to the point that they were willing to pay my fees to dispose of him.
I generally charge more for requests that require a target be killed in public. Not only is the risk greater, but they usually wish for it to be dramatic. Who wants everyone to just watch the victim doze off and strop breathing?
Now an amateur might go in with a mask and cape on, and slit the poor bastard's throat. Dramatic, no doubt, but how does one get out of that situation? The answer is that they do not, which is why so many assassins never become experienced.
Archery can be a safer alternative. If you can find a good location to shoot from you can hopefully be out of sight and making your escape before anyone thinks to look for where the shot came from. Well trained guards can make this a risky proposition though, and if you don't kill your target then, he or she shall be whisked away to someplace that will make them much more difficult to kill.
There are always explosives, if you are the sort of monster that doesn't mind killing a number of people you are not being paid to kill while you are at it. I am not that sort of monster.
Carrying around large quantities of volatile explosives also has its own risks, and you need to make sure your fuse is long enough to allow you to escape, but hopefully not so long that someone else discovers it and puts it out before detonation. There are mechanical detonators as well, but they can be unreliable.
Then there's poison. Like explosives, you don't actually need to be right there when it takes effect, but unlike explosives, the chances of you being caught by your own weapon are fairly small provided that you wash your hands regularly, and keep your fingers out of your mouth and eyes.
The only thing a poisoner really needs is an ability to blend in, and a way to get their toxin into their victim. This works best in busy restaurants and pubs where no one much pays attention to who is bringing out the food and beverage. This also works in large houses and castles where, not only does no one pay any more attention to the servants than they would a chair or a table, but even the kitchen staff will not question you as they are used to new staff appearing and disappearing all the time.
It was a simple matter to catch a small group of servants out behind the stables passing around a pilfered bottle of wine. After knocking a few heads together, I tied them up, and stole the uniform from the one that was most similar to my size. The outfit was a little small, but hopefully no one would notice.
I arrived in the kitchen just as the food was being taken out. I kept my head down as I passed by the cook and what was almost certainly the head servant arguing about why there seemed to be less men to take the food out than there was supposed to be.
I took a pair of plates, pork, potatoes, gravy, and vegetables; the Duke is not one for fancy foods, and joined the line of men dressed identical to myself. As we made our way up the stairs towards the dining hall, I opened the phial of Nux Vomica powder I had secreted up my sleeve, and sprinkled it onto the potatoes where its colour blended nicely.
Cyril York, the Duke of Tuckford, was somewhat famous for his dinner parties. He loved to throw them to show off his dining hall; easily one of the best in the land, it rivaled the dining hall of the King himself.
It was not the actual hall that was so spectacular; it was just your normal grey stone affair with tapestries, torches, and a large fireplace. What made it special was that it was up towards the top of the castle, and had massive doors that opened up onto a large balcony that afforded it a view of the village and the hills beyond. While not exactly awe inspiring, it certainly made for a nice view while you dined as long as you were seated on the Duke’s side of the table.
What the meal was in celebration of, I could not tell you, but the long table was full. There were probably twenty people on each side of the table. I recognized some of the people: the Duke and his wife, of course, my target, a couple of mages and a blacksmith I had met in my more mundane career. Most of the people were strangers to me though; likely locals of some import.
Back straight, chin up, I followed the other servants around the table as they placed plates in front of the assembled guests. I was a little out of order placing Vincent’s plate before him, but it did not appear that anyone noticed. None of the guests paid any attention to me, nor any of the other servants bringing their food to them.
I decided to press my luck and stick around. It would not do to leave and find out that I had failed.
I kept up my ruse as a servant, returning to the kitchen and bringing up more food until all the guests had been served. I then joined the small group of servants who remained in the dining hall, and moved about the table like bees in a field of flowers, refilling water and wine as needed while the Duke gave a speech about how great he is.
Once the speech ended, the string quartet out on the balcony, where the guests would migrate to after the meal ended, began to play, and the eating began.
I kept an eye on Vincent whenever I passed him, waiting for the convulsions to begin. I saw that he had eaten from the potatoes, and yet he still appeared to be fine, a little wobbly, as though perhaps he had already partaken of more wine than was wise, but not writhing about as he should be.
My blood ran cold as I worried if I had switched plates, and given the lady to his left the poisoned meal. That was not the case though, as she had eaten from her potatoes as well, and looked none the worse for it.
My mind began to work over the possible problems. Could Vincent be immune to Nux Vomica? Had letting Mendel acquire the toxin for me been a mistake? Had he purchased some harmless powder instead of poison?
Vincent’s plate was nearly clear of food by now, and yet he only appeared to be deep in his cups. His eyes were wide, and he appeared to be looking through people rather than at them. He was also talking very loudly, and kept calling the woman next to him “Purple Faerie”.
One of the other servants whispered to me as he passed that Vincent was to be given no more wine by order of the Duke. I had noticed that the Duke had been sending an increasing number of annoyed looks down to that end of the table.
It was shortly after this that Vincent rose suddenly from his chair, knocking it off of its legs to thud loudly on the room’s floor. Silence fell over the dining hall, even the musicians stopped playing.
“I… I did not do that,” Vincent proclaimed loudly, and looking very confused, “It was the Purple Faerie! She has somehow tricked me, ensorcerererd me in her spell!”
“Sir Mayville!” The Duke howled, rising to his own feet.
“My Lord!” Vincent yelled through hands that rose to cover his mouth as it hung open in surprise, “Your face had become that of a duck! How does my lord do such magic? Did the faeries teach this to you? Are you a faerie?”
“You are drunk, sir, be seated and be silent, or leave this hall!”
I was thoroughly confused at this point. This was most certainly not the result of Nux Vomica poisoning. While Vincent staggered about, spouting nonsense to the Duke and his guests, I risked a peek at the empty phial up my sleeve. I bit my tongue to keep from cursing aloud.
The label on phial in my sleeve did not read Nux Vomica, but Wabbajack. It had been I that had fouled the job up. That’s the problem with working alone; you have no one to push the blame off onto when you make a mistake.
Wabbajack is a species specific poison. It will kill an orc or goblin within moments, but if you give it to an elf, you will merely intoxicate them. In fact, there are some elves who take it for pleasure in the way a man might drink a pint of all. In men the effect is somewhat different, still not fatal, but in addition to making a man behave like a drunkard it will also make them hallucinate. This explained why Vincent was at that time having a very animated conversation with a space just behind where the “Purple Faerie” sat.
A pair of armoured guards approached Vincent, flanking him on both sides, “I think it is time for you to leave,” one of the guards said in a voice that indicated that it was not a polite suggestion.
“Fine,” Vincent shouted, and grabbed the napkin from where it lay on his left shoulder, “Come, my darling!”
Vincent, napkin in hand, strode around the table, “I bid you good day, my fowl lord! I shan’t be the target of any more of your faerie trickery!”
I was working in my mind on a secondary plan to assassinate Vincent as he walked. It was not towards an inner door that he strode though, but towards the balcony. He walked out into the fading sunlight, past the very surprised looking string quartet.
“I take my leave, Lord Duck. The princess,” he held up the napkin, “and I shall take flight for home at
once!”
The guards ran when they saw him mounting the balcony’s wall, but they were not even to the great doorways before Vincent had disappeared from sight.
The sound of ladies, gentleman, servants, and guards gasping was followed by the sound of thirty-nine chairs pushing back from the table at once. The whole room moved en masse onto the balcony, including servants and guards.
Propriety and position were forgotten as all sought to get a vantage point at the edge of the balcony. It is a small wonder that no one else fell with all the jostling going on.
I managed to work my way to the balcony’s edge. Down below, in the castle courtyard, lay the body of Vincent Mayville and his napkin princess. The blood flowing from him was soaking into the dry dirt.
In the ensuing chaos I made my exit.
While it was not, perhaps, the way I had intended to dispatch my target, he did indeed die in public at my hand. Mendel told me that my employer, some shepherd whom Vincent had wronged in one way or another, had even liked my “choice” of assassination method.
Poisons are a funny thing. Used properly they
can eliminate a target a gently or painfully as you would like. Use them
improperly though, and things can get interesting, which is not always a good
thing, but in the end, a dead target is a dead target.