The journey took two days. For such occasions, the Kotto Clan had dozens of caches and hidden waystations stocked with hardy relay horses and silent, loyal-to-the-grave caretakers.
By the evening of the second day, Castle Sen-Baz rose before them – a dark titan carved into the cliffs. The cradle and stronghold of the Kotto Clan.
The mighty fortress seemed to have grown into the mountains themselves. It served as home to all brothers and sisters by blood and oath, though now, as usual, it was half-empty.
The ghostly echo of footsteps in the long corridors was merely the reverberation of those far away, fulfilling the Will of the Clan. Passing the sentries at the gates and internal posts (a silent nod, a hand gesture – passwords were superfluous here), Saigo headed without hesitation towards the Head's tower.
A long, steep staircase of black stone led to the very heart of power. Hundreds of steps, and he had climbed them hundreds of times, rhythmically, without losing breath – a feat few recruits could manage. Each step echoed dully in the narrow shaft of the stairwell.
Knock-knock.
"Enter."
The black oak door opened soundlessly. Saigo crossed the threshold into a small, ascetic study. Behind a massive desk, buried under scrolls and maps, sat the Head.
His face was old but not decrepit. Skin like parchment, covered in a network of wrinkles – a map of storms weathered. A long, grey beard flowed down over dark robes, contrasting with his smooth, gleaming skull. Eyes, deeply set and the color of old steel, lifted from the documents.
"Saigo. Glad you returned intact." The voice was low, dry, like the rustle of parchment.
Saigo inclined his head in a respectful bow. "Head."
"How did it go?"
"Not perfectly. But the mission is accomplished. Target destroyed, intel confirmed."
"Hmm. Interesting." The steel eyes bored into him. "I await details. How did the new group fare?"
"This group… has 'potential'…" Saigo said evenly, though his intonation carried an almost imperceptible skepticism. (He decided not to specify what kind.)
"But much work is needed. One nearly fell off a cliff on approach. Another overlooked a sentry, nearly triggered an alarm. The third…" Saigo paused, unexpectedly even to himself.
"What about the third?" The Head tilted his head, an eyebrow slightly raised.
"Slipped on… entrails and broke his ribs. Idiot." Saigo forced out the last word.
A heavy, weary sigh escaped the Head, like the creak of old wood. "Understood. Details in the report. Thank you for volunteering to lead them. Their teacher… inconveniently fell ill with fever." There was no regret in the Head's voice, only a statement of fact, an obstacle.
"I understand." Saigo nodded.
"For now – rest. Give Mari my regards. Perhaps I'll visit you tomorrow."
"Thank you, Head." Saigo bowed his head again and exited; the door closed silently behind him.
Walking the familiar, gloomy corridors of Sen-Baz, where torches cast leaping shadows on the stone walls, Saigo pondered.
Why? Why had he covered for that failure? Said "slipped," not "stepped into the swing of a drunken thug due to his own inattention and weakness"?
Efficiency. Ruthless efficiency – that was the key to the Clan's survival and success. This had been hammered into him since childhood, weakness seared out by the painful lessons of experience. Helping a failure, a dreg – counterproductive. Dead weight that drags you down. So why?
'Did I pity him?' The thought felt alien to Saigo, almost offensive. 'No.' Pity was a luxury an assassin couldn't afford.
'I don't care about him. Or… did I pity the wasted elixir?' The red, bitter liquid cost the Clan considerable resources.
Yes, perhaps. But even that sounded… strange. Unconvincing. Something inside him trembled faintly, but he shoved the feeling back into the dark corner reserved for useless questions.
He stopped at a familiar door in the castle's residential wing. Not as massive as the Head's, but sturdy.
Knock-knock…
Light, quick footsteps sounded immediately behind the door. Click-shhk. The lock responded. The door swung open.
"Darling! You're back!" The woman's voice was warm, like the first ray of sun after a long night.
"Yes," Saigo replied, and his own voice, usually so level and cold, softened almost imperceptibly. He crossed the threshold. The door closed, shutting out the gloom of Sen-Baz's corridors, leaving the icy composure of the assassin and the unresolved question about the idiot's broken ribs outside. Inside, it smelled of warmth, herbs, and… home.
She was waiting for him, as always. A small, fragile figure, seeming even more diminutive in the spacious hall of their chambers. Blonde, with hair the color of ripe wheat and delicate, almost porcelain features.
Not the daughter of the Head of Clan Kotto. Not a warrior at all. When they were first introduced, Saigo had experienced shock bordering on suspicion.
'Seducer?' – was his first thought, sharp and cynical. A master of disguise? One who lulls vigilance in bed, leaving only a cold corpse by morning?
Though the Clan didn't specialize in such methods, specialists of that kind existed within its ranks. But Mari… Mari was not like that. She was not an assassin. At all. She didn't wear black, didn't know the passwords, didn't possess a clan name bestowed by ancient traditions.
Her name – Mari – sounded alien, soft, Imperial, as if carried by the wind from distant plains.
Learning this, Saigo had lost interest in her. Until that incident.
Six months ago. A plot against the Head. Led by his own eldest son and a veteran of the Clan, grey as a badger. Rebellion.
Soon, the slaughter began, but, to their misfortune, the rebels headed towards the Head's tower through the residential wing where Saigo lived.
He held them off, sparing no effort. The narrow corridor became a hellish meat grinder. He fought like a demon, but the odds were uneven. They broke him, cut him up, left him to die in a pool of his own blood.
The appearance of the Head himself saved his life. Then came a month in the infirmary, hovering between life and death. And when he stood on his feet again, swaying from weakness, the Head appeared in person.
And "gifted" him Mari. Saigo barely had time to recover before he found himself standing before the altar of the clan ancestors, uttering the eternal oath, breakable only by death. An invulnerable spy? A hero's reward? Or another form of service to the Clan? He still didn't know.
And he still couldn't form a definitive opinion of her.
On one hand – the perfect performer of the wife's role. Their chambers were always impeccable, smelling of freshness and herbs. Dinner, like now, steamed on the table, fragrant and refined.
She sat beside him, helpfully pouring him a glass of cool juice (he rejected wine and strong alcohol – weakness and an impediment to reaction).
'She's very good at this,' he noted inwardly, devouring dish after dish, feeling the road weariness dissolve in the warmth of the food. His gaze slid over her: fragile shoulders, slender neck, the gentle curves of her figure beneath a simple yet fine dress.
Beauty undeniable, but… alien.
On the other hand – he, Saigo, accustomed to absolute solitude as armor. Once, he had even refused a maid, so deep was his hatred for anyone touching his things, invading his space. He did everything himself.
And they did not share a bed. They slept in separate rooms. Not because she was unattractive or unwilling (he saw the timid question in her eyes), but because of his ironclad principles.
He considered intimacy a weakness of will, a dangerous vulnerability, justified only for conceiving an heir. How many times had "sisters" of the Clan, burning with passion and ambition, or young maids dreaming of a strong man's favor, propositioned him?
Every time – a firm, cold refusal. Give in to a beautiful body today, and tomorrow your hand might falter under the weight of a purse offered by enemies. Whispers about his "peculiarities" already slithered through the castle, but he didn't care. His life was service. Everything else – a hindrance.
Finishing the meal, he pushed his plate away. Politely, as if performing a ritual, he bowed. "Thank you. Everything was excellent."
Mari answered with a slight nod, her eyes glowing with quiet contentment.
Saigo stood up. "I'm going to the bathhouse."
Mari jumped up, impulsively. Her face lit up with a smile – sudden, radiant, warm as sunshine after a storm. "Shall I come with you?" Her voice sounded sincere, without a hint of coquetry.
Saigo already had his back to her, on his way to the door. He didn't turn around. But he felt that smile. Its warmth. It struck his back almost physically, contrasting with the cool stone of Sen-Baz's halls.
"No," he answered, his voice level, but lacking its former icy firmness. There was… weariness? Or something else, elusive. "Not necessary."
He left without looking back. The door closed, leaving Mari alone in the warm light of their chambers, her radiant smile slowly fading from her face, and the unresolved question hanging in the air between them. A question for which Saigo had no answer. And perhaps, never would