The Hired (Part 1)

He looked down from the roof only to see the cloak of night. Maybe a signal would come; a light would pierce through this cold blanket of darkness. Night jobs were always like this. He couldn’t see his target and his employer was usually not experienced in the field. Not as experienced as he was, anyway. This was his third gig for the week, and it was only Tuesday. A continuous hum from the lute and harpsichord inside lulled his mind into a dream world. This was why night jobs were dangerous, especially night jobs where the victim was attending a party. The musicians were his enemy, their ally was the darkness; and his only ally in this battle was a glimmer of light that had yet to come. That all too familiar feeling blew over him—the feeling that said something was about to happen. He recited a short prayer, wishing his victim an easy travel into the next world, pulled his dagger from his boot (just in case) and readied his musket. A small bead of sweat dripped from his nose; he imagined himself as that bead, rolling down the roof into the ebony oblivion beyond. His mind would wander like this until a soft light was exposed and the music was louder for long enough to pull him back to this world. A window in a tower just in front of him opened slightly as a lantern was thrust through it with a shaking hand; here was the signal. The curtains were drawn back just wide enough for him to see a large gentleman drinking and conversing merrily with his guests; here was the target. One simple pull on the musket trigger, a loud bang echoed by screams, and it was done. The hired fled into the night to meet his employer.
As Drell traveled swiftly to the nearby forest to await his pay, his imagination carried him back to the party he had just ended. Everything inside seemed warm and peaceful. The women were dancing with their full skirts floating like clouds around them, the men had been laughing and drinking with a light-heartedness that Drell envied. It was a sick thought that he would have rather been in that room shouting with horror at the sudden death of a friend than where he was now; but these thoughts came and went after every job. It was only human to want friends, but to be wealthy and skilled in your trade like Drell, was godly; and didn’t everyone prefer godliness to the mundane status of human? "I believe I owe you eighty-three?" the sharp voice cut through the darkness and pulled Drell back to the present once again that night. "Yes," he answered the voice as his eyes adjusted to the low flicker of the familiar lantern and hand of a young servant. It was a policy of Drell’s never to ask questions of employers or victims. The money exchanged hands and the light bobbed away as the shaky young boy with a murderous voice disappeared back to the night.