After changing clothes with the whore, the assassin set off for Trimon’s mansion. He glanced at the guards as they eyed him, wondering if they had seen through his ruse. As he neared them he realized that they were just lechers who were admiring Trimon’s pick of the night. He ran a hand down his hips as if he were putting on a show for the guards when he was actually just making sure his invisible dagger was still secure. He smiled as he felt the hilt still strapped to his waist and the guards licked their lips as he passed them. He tried not to sigh in relief as he passed through the doors—he sincerely doubted that he could fight off all of the guards in his current form.
Suddenly a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. The Akkadian spun around, hand going to his sword. He cursed as he realized that he wasn’t armed with anything but his whore’s clothing and his invisible dagger.
“Apologizes,” the guard who was holding her shoulder murmured. He was a broad man with a flat face—as if he had walked into a door as a child and had never regained his proper proportions. “We’ve just been ordered to bring you to the harems for the time being.”
“Why?” the Akkadian snapped, frowning at the sound of his new voice.
“Word is some assassin’s after Trimon,” the guard grinned. “We’ve been told to keep you safe until the danger’s passed.”
The assassin glared at the guard, wondering if he could dispose of the guard’s body if he slit the larger man’s throat then and there. Instead he let himself be led down the long and twisting hallways until they reached a pair of heavy iron doors deep within the mansion. Trimon’s “Harem” was a wide room filled with pillows, beds, furniture, instruments, and even a large fountain that fed into a pond in the center of the room. The most impressive adornments, however, were the 12 women who were lazily lounging about the room. The guard ushered the Akkadian inside before slipping into the room himself and locking the doors behind him. The guard still had his lecherous smile, but now the assassin finally understood why—each of the women in the room were exotic with differing skin tones and hair colors, and physical features, but each of them could easily be called pretty. They were of varying levels of ‘pretty’ of course, with some of them ascending into breath-taking beauty, while others bordered on plain. Either way, the Akkadian was glad that he had the foresight to tuck his manhood back with his loincloth. The women in the room all glanced at him as he entered; some immediately looked away while others kept their eyes on him.
“You’re all Trimon’s women?” He asked disbelievingly.
“We are Trimon’s wives, whore!” one of the plainer women with milky pale skin and long dark hair shot back at him.
Well, that was a good start his mission.
“They aren’t all his wives,” a slight, slender young woman murmured, suddenly sidling up beside him. The assassin turned perhaps a bit quicker than a whore would, surprised that he hadn’t heard the newcomer approach. She had golden skin and long curly chocolate hair. She reminded the Akkadian of a figurine made of glass. Though she smiled, her blue eyes—eyes so bright that they almost glowed—studied him carefully. Not glass, he decided. Ice.
“Perhaps less than half of them are Trimon’s wives. The rest are maids and servant girls,” she explained.
They were the victims of political marriages, the assassin realized, married off to open trade routes or to secure goods and alliances. It also explained why Trimon favored whores—he didn’t want to any heir that he might father to gain the strength of some other nation or kingdom that didn’t already belong to him.
“And what are you?” The assassin asked the young woman.
“I am the personal hand maiden of our great lord Trimon,” she answered, head held high with pride and smile full of joy. “My name is Na’Tahl.”
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