was one of the few days when he was outnumbered in the Farlan cities. Tsatach, Belarannar and Kitar were just as dominant, while the Goddesses of Love were cheered and toasted as a trio, even at this late hour when the thoughts of many had turned to worship Etesia, Goddess of Lust.
A statue of Vrest made of sticks and animal skins stood tall over long spits of pork that dripped into a makeshift fire-pit just off the main street. As Corl watched, the woman tending it cut the first choice slice and tossed to her drooling dog, an offering to the God of Beasts. Corl smiled, remembering the festivals of his childhood, how the wonder had filled his whole body. Fate had taken him on difficult paths since then, but the memories endured, and despite his chosen profession, Corl remembered the boy he had been with a light heart.
It was the Midsummer’s Day Festival, and throughout Tirah the drink had been flowing freely for hours. Corl leaned out of the window again to check on the old woman passed out below - she’d found herself a snug little nook in a stack of wooden pallets just as the sun had been falling; either she was so drunk she couldn’t remember the way home, or she had no home to return to and was taking advantage of the cheap festival beer to solve her problems for a night.
Corl hadn’t been the only one to spot her settling down to sleep it off; if he’d not whistled and wagged a warning finger at the pair of youths sidling up to her hiding spot, she’d probably have had those problems solved forever. As it was, they’d left her alone. He could make out the outline of her bundled shape well enough to see it hadn’t been disturbed since last he checked.
There would be rich pickings elsewhere for the youths, Corl had no illusions about that, but it wasn’t just the risk of their actions attracting the Palace Guard that prompted his intervention. It was Midsummer’s Day, and whatever he had planned for the dark hours of night, Corl was not a man angry at the Land, a detail that had served him well over the years. His childhood had been poor but loving, and Midsummer’s Day remained a fond memory for him. No one deserved to be robbed and murdered on this day if he could prevent it with a look.
Unless I’m being paid for it, o’ course, Corl reminded himself. His scarred cheeks crinkled, distorting the tattoos and scars that had scared the boys off. Whether or not they understood the markings on his right cheek, few cutpurses would fail to recognise the mark of Kassalain on the other.
Those that don’t, don’t last too long.
The Goddess of Murder’s shrine might be hidden away in the cellar of a long-abandoned house well away from the Temple District, but her mark was well known, and always afforded respect. Corl was a short man who didn’t look that strong; without Kassalain’s sign on his face, he’d have provided his mistress with many more offerings over the years as men mistook him for an easy target. The irony was not lost on the Priestess of Kassalain, but she was as fickle as her Goddess, she found the irony amusing.
‘Not long now. Light the burner,’ Corl called softly over his shoulder.
He received no reply; neither of them liked following his orders much, but Corl was well aware anyone who ended up a blade for hire was bound to have a few flaws. He’d worked with this pair on and off for several years now, and they respected his skills, enough to do what he told them, at least. The younger of the two, who called himself Orolay, was keen to join Corl as a devotee of Kassalain, but the older - Isen, a sour-faced ex-soldier like Corl, didn’t care about anything beyond earning enough coin to survive.
In a city where the Hands of Fate, those devotees of the Lady trained as spies and assassins, had been numerous, there had been little work for the followers of the weaker Goddess of Murder. Corl was the best of those aligned to the hidden temple, but following the Lady’s death, the priestess had started receiving overtures, a few making attempts to court the Goddess’ favour. The most recent had provided them with a commission - some rat-faced foreigner needing a most unusual job done, and without the ability to do