climbed.
'Quickly now,' instructed Pello Tasca. 'We don't want to lose any.'
The men formed a bucket brigade, working together to pour the beakers in as fast as they could. There was much less of the blue liquid, and the men had it finished in half the time. Then they lifted the final glass tube and fitted it over the largest vat, sealing the top.
The gray vapor rose, climbing through the twisting tubes. The clear glass became opaque, and the vapor poured into the second vat, filling it. It stuck to the sides, growing more dense and collecting in large drops that rolled down into the bottom of the second vat. A brownish liquid the color of muddy water pooled at the bottom.
The fat man bent down again and lit a second fire under this new vat. The muddy liquid boiled immediately, and the steam rose, darker and more energetic than the vapor. Black lines twisted themselves in between the gray, looking like interlocking fingers on opposing hands. Then the blackness broke free, climbing out of the vat and into the final stage of the contraption.
Wrapping his pudgy arms around the glass, the robed man embraced the final vat. His hands grew white with power, and icicles climbed up the sides of the glass. The black steam condensed and rained down into the bottom of the vat in inky drips.
Above them, the figure watched. The vats gurgled, creating their dense black substance, and the men stood by silently, watching the magical fires and ice catalyze the process.
At the south end of the slaughterhouse, the huge sliding doors slammed open, and another group of men entered. These men were dressed in armor and fine robes-the types who paid other men to do their dirty work.
The fat man turned and with a smile opened his arms.
'Jallal,' he said. 'Brother, your timing is impeccable.' He embraced a tall graying man with a thick beard.
Unlike his pudgy sibling, Jallal was fit and muscular. He wore a fine chain shirt over equally fine padded clothing. With him, he had a half-dozen armed and armored guards.
'Well met, Pello,' said the graying brother. 'I trust everything is in order and that you haven't had any problems with the Magistrates?'
'No problems,' replied Pello. 'It's been very quiet, and we are nearly ready to begin packaging the Elixir.'
High above, the figure in the rafters gripped the beam tighter. Just as the figure had been told, the Tasca brothers were manufacturing Elixir-a dark, magical substance used to put the drinker into a euphoric trance. It was rumored that while in this magically induced state, the user would be able to see into the future, predict events that would come to pass, and even, if the potion was strong enough, be able to make adjustments to one's own personal fortune.
Black magic potions such as these were becoming very popular in the seedier parts of the kingdom, and not only with those who had no access to the Weave. Word of the great powers that could be had traveled fast, and people flocked to buy the Elixir in droves.
As the rumors grew, so too did the expectations. The stories of the visions and their ability to change the future were getting more and more outlandish, driving the prices for the Elixir higher and higher. People began selling anything they could get their hands on. Bottles of unguent from skin ointment to rat poison and everything in between were being peddled as new forms of this wonder Elixir. Those unlucky enough to buy into the scam not only lost their gold, they oftentimes lost their sight or even their lives.
The desire to see into the future was so great that even knowing the risks, many people drank whatever they could lay their hands on, trusting that the stranger in the back alley was telling the truth about the contents.
Of course, magical potion or rat poison, it didn't matter. No one was able to reach into the future. The rumors and the hope that they were true were powerful enough on their own to fuel this illicit business. The problem had grown so bad that King Korox had been forced to declare the Elixirs illegal.
Jallal crossed to the smallest vat and lifted the glass tube from its top. Sticking his thin finger into the opening, he scraped out a small glob of the black substance.
The older man rolled it around on his fingertips. 'Funny that such a simple substance would cause so much trouble.' He pulled his fingers apart. The Elixir stretched into a long, thin strand. 'Sometimes I wonder if it's worth it.'
'What are you saying?' Pello waddled up beside his brother and secured the glass tube on the collection vat. 'If King Korox is going to target us, then we should target him.'He wiped his palms on his robes. 'Why don't you let me take care of this? Just say the word, and the king will no longer be troubling us.'
The older brother chuckled. 'You want to kill the king? Very bold. But I'm afraid we've already beat you to it.' 'What?'
'You heard me, little brother. Everything is in place, and plans move forward. In another tenday, the king will be dead, and our Elixir operations will be back in full swing.'
The fat man lifted his arms in the air. 'This is great news. Great news indeed. But what of the Magistrates? Won't they continue to be a problem?'
'We'll deal with one piece at a time. First the king, then the Magistrates.'
Behind them, the glass contraption sputtered and creaked.
'The batch is almost ready,' said Jallal. He pulled out a handkerchief and cleaned the sticky, concentrated Elixir off his fingers. 'I should leave you to your work.'
Pello ignored his brother's prompting. 'You must tell me, Brother, how are we going to kill the king? Does the Matron know? When will it happen?'
'Patience, Pello. This is not the time nor the place to be outlining the details. You will know what you need to soon enough.' He handed his soiled handkerchief to his brother. 'Now really, get back to work.'
The older man nodded to his guards and headed for the sliding double doors at the other end of the slaughterhouse.
'You heard my brother,' shouted Pello Tasca. 'Get to work.'
The workers began dismantling the Elixir contraption.
The older brother and his entourage passed through the beam of moonlight illuminating the slaughterhouse floor.
A shadow flashed over them, and one of the guards looked up-into eight steel blades, glimmering in the moonlight. The man had time to let out a single scream before his face and neck were cut to ribbons.
The figure hit the ground and tumbled past the entourage, coming to his feet between the older brother and the open slaughterhouse doors. Shrugging off his cloak, the figure lifted himself to his full height, then crouched, holding his arms wide as if he were preparing to grapple a wrestler. Dressed all in black, the figure wore a thick featureless mask. Simple, smooth, and black, the mask made him disappear into the dark, leaving only his piercing eyes and the heavy metal gauntlets on his hands-each with four sharpened steel blades-as his only distinguishing features.
'What sort of beast is this?' the older brother cried. Then realization struck the man, and he shivered. His voice dropping to a whisper, he sputtered, 'The… the Claw!'
The guards pulled their swords. The air rang with the grinding sound of steel on steel, and the men spread out, surrounding the masked man.
The dark figure didn't give them the chance to trap him. Taking a single step, he somersaulted forward in a tight ball. Jallal tried to sidestep the tumbling mass, but he was too slow, and he left his feet, falling hard onto his back.
The Claw came out of his roll on top of his victim, the blades on his right hand buried deep in Jallal's gray beard.
'No!' shouted Pello, recoiling at the sight of his older brother pinned to the wood floor.
The guards closed in from all sides.
The Claw did not wait. Yanking his blades free, he stood, stepped, and tumbled, dodging between two of the armed men. Both took quick, short strikes, but both missed their target, and the Claw came to his feet again, outside the circle of guards.
Pello Tasca rushed to his brother's side. Dropping to his knees, he lifted his head from the floor, smearing blood all over the sleeves of his robes. 'Jallal! Brother!'
Jallal Tasca sputtered, trying to speak. But it was no use. He fell back limp.
