Free Serpent's Tower by Karen Kincy

 
     
     
Serpent’s Tower
    1910
    Buying cosmetics in Constantinople wasn’t the easiest operation in the world, particularly while pretending to have a sister or wife.
    Well, he did have a sister, one he hadn’t seen in… seven years.
    Wendel squinted into the Bosporus, the water glittering like a thousand sequins. He clenched his jaw until the sentimental moment faded. In his hand, he clenched a tin of kohl, perfect for a midnight enchantress. A little shudder rippled over him, but he squared his shoulders. This illusion had to be perfect.
    A man sat by a bridge, his skin wrinkled like a walnut. “Pretty bangles for pretty girls!”
    Smirking, Wendel stared down at the trinkets and jewelry glinting on the man’s blanket. None of it real gold, or even silver, but he doubted his target had an eye for value, which was why his disguise could be cheap.
    The peddler smiled, his teeth stained by tobacco. “A handsome fellow like you must have a girl, maybe one or two on the side.”
    Wendel narrowed his eyes. “I’m married.” As if he would ever dream of marriage.
    The peddler plowed onward. “Your wife would love these.” He dangled a pair of gaudy earrings with gems of red glass.
    Did the Grandmaster expect him to pierce his ears for this job? Best not mention it, or his boss would lovingly add just a touch more pain to his life. Twisting his mouth, Wendel grabbed a brooch shaped like a gilded lily.
    “Twenty kuruş,” said the peddler.
    “Ten.”
    “Eighteen.”
    Wendel snorted. “Ten.” He fingered the brooch. “This isn’t even brass , is it?”
    With a shrug, the peddler held out his hand. Wendel paid the man, pocketed the lily, and strode down the street. He ducked into a shop to buy some rogue, with an excuse about his sister’s birthday, before he examined silk slippers for his wife with large feet. Fictional, of course, since he was the one who would wear them.
    Armed with all the necessary feminine accoutrements, he returned home.
    It wasn’t home, though he had lived here since he was thirteen. The Order of the Asphodel occupied the Serpent’s Tower, a forbidding fortress on an island in the Bosporus. The Order couldn’t be bothered with a bridge, so all the Order’s assassins hired ferrymen who knew very well to keep their mouths shut.
    Wendel bundled his shopping under his arm and marched down the worn cobblestones. Another assassin glanced at him, but just for a second. When he ran upstairs to his bedroom, not a single soul stopped to question him.
    Yet another reason why he loved having a terrible reputation.
    Wendel shut the door. He had no lock, since the Grandmaster didn’t allow them. One of these days, he really should stage an orgy no more than fifteen minutes before Thorsten knocked on his door with official business.
    If only the bastard gave any warning.
    “I’m Grandmaster Thorsten Magnusson,” Wendel muttered, “a stinking curl of feces. Please, by all means, do my bidding.”
    With a glance around his room, which consisted of a bed and a trunk of his things, he unpacked. Rogue, kohl, slippers, a scarf, hairpins, that hideous brooch, and a fluttery evening gown in chartreuse. That’s what the salesgirl claimed. It looked like acidic green, to him, though he supposed it would match his eyes.
    Damn, he should have bought a mirror. He rubbed his hand over his jaw, detected stubble, and decided he needed to shave. Out came the shaving kit and the straight razor. Sliding a blade parallel to his throat, blind, wasn’t as nearly exciting after the hundredth time. After his skin felt smooth, he washed and dried his face.
    Fortunately, he wore his hair long, to the middle of his back, which meant he could twist it into some women’s style. Jesus Christ, though, these hairpins drove him insane. When he stabbed them into his hair, they plinked back onto the floor. After he forced them to obey, he realized he should have changed first.
    Swearing in three languages, Wendel unbuttoned