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Tav knows how they’d kill Gortash – of course they do. They know how they’d kill most people. Of course, there are variations on the theme of how they’d do it – dagger to the belly, dagger to the heart, pin his wrists to his desk with knives and then take their time…
But they know they’d like to do it in his office. That is Gortash’s place, his domain, so to kill him there would be amusing: Who’s in charge now?
There’s an upper window they could enter by. It’s how they always enter when they want to get into his house and bother him. Then a quick trip down the stairs and into his office on a day when he’s working late, and Bane’s Chosen is dead at Tav’s feet.
Not that they’re going to kill Gortash.
They just know how they’d do it.
So when they scale the façade of Gortash’s house to find that the convenient window has been forced from the outside, their first impulse is annoyance that someone else has used their preferred point of entry.
Their second impulse is to slip through the open window, and draw a dagger in each hand.
As they pad through the corridor – a murderer must always have light feet – they make a silent judgement on whoever forced the window: sloppy.
Leaving the window unlocked is a smart thing, to ensure a quick exit, but leaving it wide open? A cold breeze would announce to the residents of a house that something is amiss. Sounds from outside the house would be louder, no longer muffled by glass or shutters, and that would alert people, too. A window should only be left open if you want the person you’re about to kill to have forewarning, and Tav doubts that the intruder wanted that.
They slip down the finely-carpeted staircase.
The door to Gortash’s office is also ajar; the sounds of a struggle come from inside.
Tav enters, and readjusts their assumptions.
Firstly, it is not one intruder, but five. One lies dead on the floor. The other four have Gortash backed into a corner. One of his hands brandishes his cane, keeping them at bay. The other holds, of all the things in the world, a bloodstained letter opener, which is presumably what did for the corpse sprawled on the carpet.
Blood drips from a rent in Gortash’s shirt – there is a wound to his belly, though through the black fabric, Tav cannot determine the exact nature of the cut. A swollen bruise is purpling one of Gortash’s cheekbones.
At the sight of Tav, Gortash’s lips quirk up in a smile. The four intruders turn to meet this new player in the lanceboard game of Baldur’s Gate, and at the same time Gortash rushes forward with the letter opener, aiming for the nearest assassin, who hears him, turns, and manages to bat the letter opener away just in time. It falls from Gortash’s hand.
“Disappointing,” remarks Tav – disappointed at Gortash for missing the mark, and disappointed in these four assassins for not being able to finish off one human man. “How about you try your luck against someone who actually knows how to defend themself?” they purr. “These lords of Baldur’s Gate are so very pampered, you know…”
The playful degradation in their voice signals to the intruders that Tav’s the most dangerous thing in the house, and the four rush Tav as one.
A dagger neatly slices the throat of one, buries itself in the chest of another. The hilt of another dagger smashes into the third opponent’s sternum, cracking the bone, downing him long enough for Tav to drive a fist into the other one’s face, a knee to the gut. These fools are so bad at taking pain. You’d think they’d never had their ribs broken before.
Two lie dead, but the other two are groaning on the floor, and Tav takes their time.
Alternate blows, to down each man as he attempts to rise. With them once again stunned on the floor, Tav takes a wicked little knife from their sleeve, and hamstrings them. No running away to spoil the fun. The hilt of their larger knife serves for breaking fingers, preventing either one from grasping at a weapon.
With the two at their mercy – Tav’s non-existent mercy – they think about how they’d like to do this.
Tav glances up at Gortash – leaning back against the wall, hand at his belly, applying pressure to the wound. They glance back down at the assassins. “Which one of you cut him?” they ask, a light lilt in their voice.
A glance between the two men answers Tav’s question, and Tav casually slaps the culprit across the face.
“Pathetic. If you’d done it right, he’d be dead. You cut him, but you can’t even get the blade all the way in? If you’re going to gut someone, then – you – gut – them.”
They pummel the man’s stomach, then cut open his shirt with a dagger, before scratching deep with their fingernails, over and over. It’s amazing what you can do with fingernails if you really try – most are too squeamish to try – and it takes a while, but after quite a long time, Tav is up to their elbows in the man’s intestines, and the man isn’t moving anymore.
The other assassin, the only one that’s left, looks like he wants to be sick, but is too afraid of the consequences of drawing attention to himself by vomiting.
Tav looks down on him. “You look stupid, with that look on your face. You were all stupid, coming here at all.”
Their casual sneer doesn’t change as they take this last man’s head, and pound it on the stone floor until they hear the skull crack, and then a few more times after that, just because they can.
They wipe their hands clean on Gortash’s curtains, then turn to look at him.
In the time it took them to kill the four assassins, Gortash has sat down in his office chair, removed his coat and shirt, rummaged around in the bottom drawer of his desk – the drawer is still open, and the contents are a mess – and retrieved what looks like some kind of sewing kit.
He sews himself up now, with black thread, closing up the gash in his belly with careful stitches. Tav hasn’t seen him shirtless before. The muscle in his arms doesn’t surprise them – they already knew he was strong – and neither do the spare inches of plumpness spilling over his waistband. He’s been getting softer ever since he started styling himself a lord. Easy living, Tav supposes.
“Why do you keep sewing supplies?”
“One cannot appear in the upper echelons of society looking anything less than one’s best,” Gortash replies, a rather ridiculous reply from a man who never bothers to neaten his hair. He continues: “So, if one finds a rent in one’s clothing, it’s sometimes quicker and easier to stitch it up yourself.”
It is easier, Tav thinks, for him to pretend that’s why he learned to sew – and not because a cobbler’s son needs to be able to do his share of work in the shop. Yes, Tav knows where this man came from.
Gortash ties off the last stitch, and snips off the end of the thread with a small pair of scissors. He glances up at Tav. “Some assistance, if you would? I need to get across the room, and I’m not sure if I’m up to standing right now.”
“Not up to standing after one little cut?”
“Not wide, but deep. An advantage of wearing black is that it doesn’t show how much blood one loses.”
“Ah, so they did get the blade in a little bit.”
Tav hauls Gortash to his feet, and Gortash leans heavily on them as they cross the room to a section of decorative oak panelling. Gortash taps on the carven oak in a particular pattern, and a panel swings open, revealing a recess holding several healing potions. He takes one, closes the panel, and Tav helps him back across the room.
Gortash leans back against his desk, uncorks the bottle with his teeth, and takes a few preliminary sips.
“Enver Gortash,” Tav says sardonically, “Nearly dead from a handful of stupid thugs. Couldn’t that big brain of yours think up better security for your fancy house?”
“Once my Steel Watch are complete, this will never happen again.”
“Hm.” Tav believes him about that. “Still, if word of this got out – Lord Gortash, nearly downed in a fight against only five idiots… people would think you were getting soft.”
Tav moves forward, digs their fingers into the plumpness at Gortash’s waist. “People might think you’re letting luxury make you weak.” They finish off with a pinch of an ample love handle, before drawing back insouciantly. No need to give Gortash too much – not unless they want to really do this properly. Not unless Gortash asks for it. They want to put him in a position where he has to ask. Make him be the one to bring it up first.
There is no insecurity in Gortash’s gaze. He knows Tav – knows how they work, knows how they think. “But not you. You know me better than that. And if my enemies underestimate me, it will make it all the easier for we two to crush them.”
Gortash looks up at them – he is not as tall as the Bhaalspawn, nor as strong, and he knows it, knows how easily they could take him apart, if it was what they wanted. He swallows the rest of the healing potion, mindful of the way the Bhaalspawn’s eyes stray to his lips on the lip of the bottle, the way he swallows.
“Look at you,” says Gortash, “Look at you, looking at me.” There he is, bringing it up first.
Tav steps forward, and takes his jaw into their hand with a firm grip. Wiping their hands on the curtain got most of the blood off, but there are still traces of it under their nails, and in the creases of their palm. “I look,” they enunciate, “At many things.”
“You’ve been looking at me since the day we met,” Gortash continues. “And you’ve not stopped looking since I stopped skipping meals. Ah, the things you’d do to me... perhaps I should let you, once I’m no longer in danger of pulling my stitches.”
Tav lets go of his jaw. “And when would that be?”
“In a few hours, once the healing potion’s done its work.”
“Good.”
Later, in a few hours, Tav pulls out the out the stitches with their teeth.