Dominions

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The park was Rodin’s favourite place. Others might feel exposed, surrounded by nothing but w**d-infested grass and, further out, dark trees. But to Rodin, this was security. He could clearly see anyone approaching‌—‌not that many came here. It was quiet, and the park gave him the solitude to let his mind wander. Here, he could think.

But this morning, thinking was not doing him any favours. His mind spun, the same questions rising, with no solutions presenting themselves. Why had he been targeted? Who was the Gentleman, and what did he want with Rodin? If he was behind the attempted assassination, why did he not try to finish the job? And what should Rodin do now?

They‌—‌whoever had sent the girl assassin, whoever wanted him dead this time‌—‌knew where he lived, so he couldn’t return to his room. Not a problem in itself, but it had been one of the few rooms to feel anything like home. It felt‌…‌personal. Genna had found that room for him, part of her p*****t for a contract. He knew, of course, that it was a way of keeping him close. Even after the difficulties when he’d removed her old Right-hand, she knew the value of having a professional assassin at hand. She never allowed feelings to interfere with business.

He really should see Genna, before she heard any rumours. But‌…‌he didn’t want to disappoint her.

Was that it? Was he really letting something personal distract him? After all, it wasn’t as if any of this was his fault. If anything, it came back to this Gentleman. He was behind this, somehow. And Genna needed to know about him.

Yes. He should see Genna, tell her that‌…‌that there was a well-dressed man up to no good.

Rodin snorted. She’d throw him out of her tower if he said anything like that. Probably have her guards rough him up first, too.

No. First, he needed more information on this Gentleman.

As Rodin turned his small circles on the grass, the early-morning mist was lifting. The tree-trunks shifted from grey to dirty brown. Leaves were sporadic, and most of the tree-tops were tangles of branches, tight enough that the breeze didn’t affect them.

But something moved lower down, by the trunks. Animals never came this far into the district, so it must be a person.

Rodin strained his ears. In the distance were sounds of the district waking‌—‌slamming doors, a few yells and cries, and a putt-putt of a motorbike, echoing far away. But there was no sound from the person in the trees.

He watched, focused on the dark shape that moved through the undergrowth. It reached for a tree, moving to the left. Rodin saw a hat and a long coat.

Rodin could assume nothing, but his intuition yelled loud. If the Gentleman had been there when he’d killed the girl assassin, he could have followed Rodin to Jimny’s, and then to the park.

Rodin stopped turning in circles, and headed for the trees. Not toward the man, but to the corner of the park, where he’d entered. He didn’t want to meet the Gentleman. Not yet. It was too soon.

The trees provided a damp, dark barrier, and Rodin had used them many times in his training. It was possible to circle the whole park in their branches, not once setting foot on the ground. The knotty tangle of branches became so thick in places that it was a struggle to even see the ground below.

But that also meant a person in the trees couldn’t easily be spotted from below.

Rodin increased his pace, conscious of how the man in the trees also sped up. But the grass didn’t slow him, and Rodin reached the trees with enough time to grab a branch and pull himself up into the boughs.

And then he was hidden‌—‌not perfectly, but who looked up round here? Gazing at the sky meant you didn’t notice the attack from behind, or from the sides.

Keeping still, Rodin concentrated on the Gentleman’s approaching steps, and then he came into view. Long fingers pushed branches aside, and his polished shoes trod steadily. Those shoes were out of place in the park, though. Out of place in the whole area. But he moved with confidence, and Jimny’s words returned to Rodin‌—‌a good friend or a dangerous enemy.

The Gentleman left the trees, stepping out onto the street. He paused, head turning one way then the other, clearly wondering where Rodin had gone. But there was a third path, straight ahead, and this one curled round to the right. If Rodin had run as soon as he left the trees, he could easily have made that corner by now.

The Gentleman strode across the street‌—‌like he owned the place‌—‌and turned the corner.

Rodin dropped to the ground and followed.

With the sun up, there was activity on the streets now. That was good‌—‌Rodin could become a part of the crowd. It was fortunate that the Gentleman was taller than most, and his hat so distinctive.

The man paused at a couple of junctions, most likely deciding which path Rodin had taken. But soon he appeared to give this up, and he walked aimlessly, often doubling back on himself. He didn’t stop, didn’t look around. Even when a fight broke out at a food stall, he passed by without turning his head.

But if he appeared oblivious to his surroundings, others paid attention to him. As he approached they cast sideways glances, and then they surreptitiously moved to one side. When he’d passed, they carried on as if nothing had happened.

Rodin jostled his way behind the Gentleman, doing his best to ignore those around, while still being on the look-out for any who would take advantage. His hand hovered close to his hip at all times, ready to draw a blade.

A youth leaned against a wall and watched the Gentleman pass, then turned his eyes and saw Rodin. He pushed away from the wall, hands sliding from his pockets, long fingers stretching. He wore a jacket that had seen better days, and Rodin knew he was an amateur.

But that meant he had to learn.

Rodin didn’t alter his course, and as he felt the youth’s hand brush against his leg, Rodin grabbed. Without breaking his stride, he pulled those sweaty fingers from his pocket and pulled them back. A cry of pain masked the snap of bone.

In his peripheral vision, Rodin saw the young pickpocket cradle his broken fingers. Maybe that would teach him to be more careful in the future.

The Gentleman turned into an alley, and Rodin followed, still at a distance. Some way into the alley were four figures. One of them tossed a blade, catching it with a nonchalance that spoke of a dangerous familiarity with the weapon. They all talked quietly, heads close, and Rodin could not avoid noticing how they turned their eyes to the Gentleman.

But he seemed oblivious, even when they peeled away from the wall and formed a barrier across the alley.

Rodin considered his options. If things turned ugly‌—‌when things turned ugly‌—‌Rodin was confident he could deal with these four. For all the menace they displayed, they didn’t look trained. But he had no reason to help the Gentleman yet. He needed more information, and it would be instructive to see how the Gentleman coped.

whenSo Rodin slipped to one side, down a couple of steps, fading into the shadows by a rusty doorway that smelt of urine. He ignored the softness under his boots, and watched.

The Gentleman looked up when he was a few steps from the thugs, and they moved to form an arc around him. The one wearing a vest-top crossed his bulky arms and spoke‌—‌too low for Rodin to hear, but he could guess at the threats being made. The Gentleman’s reply was even quieter, and it angered Vest-top. He leaned in, finger raised, and spat another threat.

The others laughed, and Vest-top smiled.

The Gentleman didn’t move. He spoke once more, and Vest-top’s smile morphed into a scowl. His eyes jerked to one side, and the man with the blade stepped forward, weapon pointed at the Gentleman.

The Gentleman didn’t even turn. His hat never moved, so Rodin doubted he took his eyes from Vest-top. He gave every appearance of being in total control‌—‌and that chilled Rodin.

Vest-top leaned in closer, and Rodin heard his words this time, heard the demands for money, for whatever the Gentleman had. They might let him live, but that all depended on how he played the game.

Opportunistic thieves, then. The kind of people Genna wanted eradicated from her district.

Rodin studied each of the men. The man casually tossing his blade was short, with a scar on the back of his right hand‌—‌he held the weapon in his left. The man next to him had a tattoo running down the side of his neck, a swirl of lines that disappeared into his collar, the top hidden by unkempt shoulder-length hair. He was bulky with muscle, and his stance suggested he knew how to use it. The man across from Tattoo was thin, but his eyes shone with a manic glee, and he shuffled constantly. Hyperactive, possibly on something, and definitely dangerous. Maniac would fight dirty, and he’d be unpredictable.

Vest-top leaned forward, his hand reaching for the long coat. But the Gentleman raised his arm, knocking the hand to one side. Vest-top looked surprised for a moment, and then he grinned as he threw his fist.

It never hit. The Gentleman grabbed the approaching fist and twisted, kicking a leg out as he did. Vest-top yelled as he fell to the floor.

The Gentleman brushed himself down. Scar, Tattoo and Maniac watched, unsure how to act.

Vest-top picked himself up, muttering. Then he swore, loudly, spittle flying at the tall man’s face. And with a nod to his men, it started.

It didn’t last long.

The coat swirled as blades slashed through the air. The Gentleman spun, and there were cries of pain, a sharp c***k, the sound of metal striking stone.

Tattoo sat on the floor, clutching his knee, his lower leg protruding at an unnatural angle. Scar rubbed his left wrist, his blade nowhere to be seen, blood running from his misshapen nose. And Maniac sprawled by a wall, shaking his head to clear it.

Only Vest-top remained standing. And the Gentleman leaned in close, said something that brought fear to Vest-top’s eyes. His whole body shook.

Scar reached over to Tattoo, supported the big man as he struggled to his feet, balancing on one leg. Vest-top moved to Tattoo’s other side, and the trio started down the alley.

That was when the Gentleman made his mistake. He turned to watch them, and behind him Maniac pushed himself to his feet, using the brickwork as support. There was a flash of metal as he unsheathed another blade. But he didn’t strike straight away. His chest rose, and his eyes darted constantly‌—‌analysing, calculating. One hand rested on the wall, and Rodin saw the fingers slowly curl round into a fist.

And then, face full of rage, Maniac lunged. His blade sliced through the air as he yelled.

The Gentleman side-stepped, spun, and grabbed.

It was over in an instant. There was a sickening c***k. The wiry thug fell, stomach to the ground, unmoving eyes looking to the sky.

The dead man’s companions stumbled. Vest-top muttered something, but when the Gentleman took a step forward, his face fell, and with the help of Scar, they dragged Tattoo to the end of the alley and off into the street.

The Gentleman stood alone, a corpse at his feet. He took a few paces forward, level with Rodin. His eyes never left the end of the alley.

“It speaks poorly for a society that four hoodlums can set upon a lone man, and nobody thinks to come to his aid,” he said, enunciating each word clearly, no sign of exertion in his voice. “Fortunately, these men were mere amateurs, although I am not pleased to have some of their obnoxious blood staining my attire.”

Rodin remained in the shadows, frozen, even when the Gentleman turned his head.

“Mister Rodin, I believe we have matters to discuss.”