“You’ll have to go around, there’s a detour,” barked the guard to the coach-driver.

“Ruffian! Do you not know that this is the coach of Jenelle von Schwartzwald, young daughter of the Baron von Schwartzwald?” The coach driver gestured to the ornate and prominent coat-of-arms of the von Schwartzwald family – a black tree on a green background – adorning the fine coach. The black horses shifted uneasily at the wait, well-bred like their passenger, they liked nothing more than to be in nigh-perpetual motion.

“Sorry to say, sir – and to the Fraulein Jenelle von Schwartzwald, I have my orders. A crime was committed in Inhaberstrasse and the area is still being investigated by the City Watch today. Only the King himself might rescind my orders.”

The coach driver leaned closer to the guard and lowered his voice. “Tulip?”

The guard was tight-lipped, silent; but his eyes spoke volumes.

Giving the guard a curt nod, the coach driver made a protective sign against evil with his hand and followed the detour.

“Why are we altering our course, driver?” asked the Fraulein Jenelle, her dulcet voice floating from the carriage.

“A disturbance, Fraulein. We must go around. I apologize for the delay, Fraulein Jenelle.”

“Oh no, driver. You cannot be held accountable for events beyond your control! You always do the best you can.”

“Thank you, mistress – you’re too kind.” The coach driver slightly coloured at the compliment and turned his attention again to the busy street. Every day he thanked God that he had such a sweet and understanding charge.

Inside the carriage, the Fraulein Jenelle von Schwartzwald shared a secret smile with the darkness. She knew full well why Inhaberstrasse had been closed off.

She knew about the young man stapled with stilettos to the wooden wall of his townhouse, messily eviscerated with his eyes spiked out. She also knew about the yellow tulip left incongruously on the dining table, untouched by the blood and gore. The authorities already knew that the enigmatic and flagrant killer known only by their ‘signature’ of a yellow tulip was responsible for the murder.

It was already established it was no Tulip copy-cat. A few killers-for-hire had attempted to pass themselves off as the overnightly-famous assassin but the practice was discontinued quickly after their bodies were found mutilated in a similar fashion to the newly-dead noble of Inhaberstrasse. Along with yet another tulip, this one blood-red to match the accompanying sanguine hues.

Yes, now the city feared ‘Tulip’ as a clear and present danger. Some even thought that Tulip was not mortal but a monster from the Black Forest or even a demon from the depths of Hell. Some of the peasant rabble-rousers claimed Tulip was a revolutionary, since all the killer’s targets had been noblemen.

That wasn’t true, of course. People failed to realize that Tulip was paid very handsomely for such ‘services rendered.’ Peasants weren’t worth the money – they weren’t important enough to warrant a skilled assassin.

It was strange how, through almost random chance, the simple tulip was now seen as a dread omen of death, a veritable Sword of Damocles. Jenelle had heard now that it was the fashion to send around a tulip as a declaration of vendetta between families.

She really hadn’t expected this to happen, but Jenelle was adaptable, eclectic and resourceful. All this mystery and fog surrounding Tulip just made it easier. When people live in fear, they do not think, they react. Therefore, they can miss what is in plain sight.

The coach stopped and there was a shuffling, a clinking of harness and reins then the carriage door opened into brilliant sunlight. The coach driver was there to help her down – they had arrived at the cathedral.

Today marked a special occasion in Jenelle von Schwartzwald’s life, the twenty-year anniversary of the Baroness Mariena von Schwartzwald’s death.

The official story was that Mariena had died from a winter illness that had been rampant within the city at the time. That the Baroness von Schwartzwald was forbidden to leave the grounds without the Baron, it was deemed that one of the servants had transmitted the sickness to her. They were summarily beaten and dismissed from the Baron’s employ and new servants were hired, after a lengthy examination by a chiurgeon.

Jenelle had been a witness to what had really happened. Perhaps if the Baron had seen her smash and batter his wife to death with his bare hands, Jenelle would have also been a victim of the ‘winter illness.’

The illness of her father’s rage, the outbreak caused by the meek and fragile Mariena making a similarly meek request. She had simply asked for a chaperoned visit to the river-bank. Mariena dearly loved to paint; the sweet and delicate nature of her soul was reflected in her simple watercolours.

“No,” the Baron had replied. “I cannot trust you with a chaperone! You do not leave the grounds without being in my sight!”

Mariena had offered another idea, a little hopeful smile on her gentle features. “Perhaps we could go together, Rothbart? We could take Jenelle, a family outing for all of us!”

The hope in her mother’s eyes still haunted Jenelle. She had been so trusting, blind to Rothbart’s flaws. Mariena hadn’t even seen the first punch coming.

“Foolish, selfish woman! Do you think that I have time for such idle fancies? You dare presume to order ME in my own castle? Do my dogs and horses presume to order me as well? No – they learn their place or they are beaten until they submit.”

Through this tirade he punctuated his sentences with harsh blows. Mariena had been chosen for her winsome and lithe beauty, not her resilience. Halfway through the Baron’s brutal lesson, Jenelle saw a savage kick snap her mother’s slender neck, her eyes dimming and glazing over as her features retained their expression of shock and pain.

Little Jenelle might have been young but she wasn’t stupid – she ran and hid in her little room and cuddled her soft toys and cried and cried and cried. Not only had the Baron stolen her mother from her but her innocence.

Now, twenty years to the day, she would be her father’s property no longer. Jenelle had acted the sweet and demure daughter, the younger echo of her mother, while inwardly raging against her fate. She knew her father would marry her off to the most profitable match – while she would come with her own dowry, the political alliance was worth more than that in the long term.

Therefore, she had devised a plan to ‘purchase’ herself from the Baron.

First, through desperation and perseverance, she had learned to pick the lock on the doors of the castle. Although she was checked on in the early evening and midmorning, the night was hers, allowing her to learn the skills of that darkness.

She had run with the beggar children, ragamuffins and guttersnipes, befriending them with pilfered sweets and confections from the Baron’s pantry as well as small, semi-valuable items that would be considered lost rather than stolen by the castle staff. The future Fraulein von Schwartzwald was indistinguishable in her ragged scraps of clothes from the other urchins.

Sometimes she would be the bait, a poor, hard-done-by waif begging for a few coppers from some fat merchant or foppish nobleman. Whether he gave or not mattered little – since the other children crept behind him from the shadows and ‘liberated’ the coins from his purse in any case.

Sometimes Jenelle was one of those larcenous ghosts while another child gave the sob-story. She learned how to look innocent and vulnerable as well as how to sneak and steal from a mark.

Time passed and they all grew up. Most of the urchins matured to become true thieves within their shadowy guild and so did Jenelle. Within the thieves’ guild, they all found their respective trades, some became burglars and boxmen, some highwaymen and bandits, others preferred to use their ‘people skills’ to graft and wheedle money from their marks.

As to Jenelle, the mixture of her supreme acting skills coupled with her cold pragmatism drew her to more ‘sensitive’ tasks. Originally trained as a spy, she was ‘blooded’ in one information gathering mission when a curious servant had the misfortune to stumble upon her cache of stolen documents.

Jenelle had silenced the servant within moments of him confronting her. It had been a messy, clumsy murder but she had had the presence of mind to hide all evidence of her crime.

It had all been surprisingly easy. He had been in the way of her task and he needed to be eliminated. True, the last moments of his life spilling out in front of her had been a shock, but she could get over that. What was his life compared to what she may experience at the Baron’s tender ‘mercy?’ It was either him or her – rationalizing it like that made things easier to accept.

That had been about nine years ago, Jenelle reflected. You could never forget your first kill. It was a mark of passage, something special, a turning point in one’s life.

Due to her violent success in that mission, she was now frequently assigned tasks that involved infiltration and murder. The Thieves’ Guild sponsored her for training with many professional killers and Jenelle proved to be a talented student. Her true role as an assassin was concealed to all but the Guild Masters and specific trusted go-betweens.

Now, as Tulip, she had a certain amount of autonomy, as long as she paid her requisite percentage to the Guild. It was a small enough price to pay for the investment they had made in her – she still did the odd contract for the Thieves’ Guild as well.

Fraulein Jenelle was escorted through the cathedral, past the beatifically smiling statues of the saints looking down on her. It was strange that their smiles did not change to snarls and their semi-divine countenances twist bestial with hate for this red-handed one to walk their hallowed halls.

Surely she should be struck down by some holy thunderbolt! The silent statues knew that she had forsaken Heaven forever by her unrepentant acts, forever damned in Hell. Jenelle didn’t care – it would be worth it.

Where had that holy thunderbolt been when the Baron had murdered her mother? At least the men she murdered had brought it upon themselves; they were invariably corrupt and decadent, foolish enough to antagonize the wrong man in their overweening arrogance.

Her mother had been innocent. Mariena had just wanted them to be a family. She hadn’t even really wanted to be a Baroness, the wife of a powerful man, but had just almost a childlike desire of happiness. Where had God been then? Hiding, afraid of the Baron as Jenelle had been?

Jenelle wasn’t going to be a passive passenger of Fate. If the Baron only saw his daughter for her material worth, she’d give him that and be free.

Down through the depths of the cathedral was the mausoleum where her mother’s bones lay. As befits the Baron’s wife, the crypt was private and inaccessible to the public. Jenelle would have time alone with her mother.

An acolyte greeted her at the entrance; Jenelle’s eyes widened in surprise but nothing else gave her away that she recognized Stephan in those humble robes.

Out of all the beggar children she grew up with, Stephan had seemed the most nondescript, he had just blended in, been so unnoticeable while he was spinning some tale or filching a purse. Sometimes he would approach the same mark over and over and not be recognized. Naturally, he grew up to be an accomplished spy. Jenelle had some skill with infiltration and disguise but she could admit her skills could not compare to Stephan’s talents.

His presence reminded her of his wedding this Saturday. With her frenzy of recent work, it had almost slipped her mind. All Stephan’s friends from the guild would be there, it would be a grand reunion and celebration. There’d be dancing and good food and conversation. Jenelle looked forward to seeing how her friends were getting on in their lives but she imagined there would be a few tears shed; they were all in a dangerous business and already some of the old gang had had their lives cut short. They’d raise a glass for their departed friends that could not be there. Like they always had.

“Fraulein Jenelle, I bring you refreshment for your vigil.” Stephan’s voice woke her back to the present. Opening the door to the crypt, he put the tray of food and drink on the stone bench across from the sarcophagus. A small brazier had been set up to warm the chill confines of Mariena’s final resting place.

Stephan bowed to leave but Jenelle caught his arm, in supposed thanks but in reality for her fingertips to tap out a coded message into his flesh. Thank you, see you Saturday.

The door was shut and Jenelle only had cold stone and even colder bone for company.

Jenelle opened the coffee pot and carefully extracted the pouch of exquisitely cut jewels. The guild had already taken their cut, as was expected. Underneath the doily was a small slip of paper.

Johan Sierck, 57 Konigstrasse.

Jenelle committed the information to memory and burned the note in the brazier. While she was meant to be mourning her mother, she planned the details of the newest Tulip murder. Her mother was dead; no amount of Jenelle’s tears would bring her back. She could only think of the living. Mariena would not want Jenelle to share her fate.

The young nobleman was known for his hedonism, he probably had deflowered one too many noble daughters in his wanton depravities. Or, considering the whores he slept with, perhaps he had infected one of those supposed chaste maidens with some venereal disease.

In any case, he had clearly annoyed someone with money and power enough to hire Tulip. His life was no longer measured by some Fate but by Jenelle alone.

Although in some ways, the visit had been a pretext to receive her contract, Jenelle did use her time in the mausoleum to honour her mother’s memory.

I wish you could come back, I wish you never had to go, that you weren’t taken from me. But you are gone, what remains of you is just a shell. I know you are in Heaven as you deserve. I will not be joining you but I will be free in life. Free of Rothbart from tonight.

The crypt was silent. What had she been expecting, an ethereal shade of Mariena to appear? In any case, it was more her to say it, rather than expect a response. Mariena was in Heaven or perhaps all that remained of her was those cold bones in the sarcophagus.

It was hard to feel respect for Death when the Reaper was almost a business associate. Each murder took some of the terror away. Jenelle had seen so many dying in her time as an assassin, most by her own hand. It had become a job, a craft, an art, rather than a mysterious but natural process.

Johan would be guarded, being a noble hair located on the Konigstrasse. Stealth wouldn’t help her – but there were other ways. His weakness for women could be exploited, with the right tools. The first step was getting in, while stealth was impossible, subterfuge might work instead.

It was time to summon Crimsonne. Out came the red wig with its tumbling curls of flame, the porcelain foundation of her face set off by the magenta eyeshadow and crimson-painted lips. Crimsonne was an exotic, expensive whore, in employ of the most reputable brothel in the city.

Many men had said they had enjoyed Crimsonne’s unique services but they’d be lying. Crimsonne, or Jennelle under another name, had never directly plied the whore’s trade but Crimsonne had been a useful distraction and infiltration identity for the Thieves’ Guild, who controlled the brothels as part of their urban empire.

It was unlikely that suspicion would attach to Crimsonne but even if it did, this was Jenelle’s last contract. If Crimsonne needed to disappear or ‘die’ that could be arranged and another distracting prostitute could be created. Due to the methods Tulip would employ to carry out her contract on Herr Sierck, Crimsonne would be long gone before the wastrel died, let alone when the body was discovered.

With a quartet of heavily muscled brutes (Crimsonne was too valuable to be unescorted through the night city’s streets) Jenelle approached the entrance to Herr Sierck’s abode.

Crimsonne’s famous appearance was her gilded invitation within, the guards at the door instantly recognizing her. “Dame Crimsonne! It is an honour to receive you!” gushed one guard, clearly in awe of her reputation. The other guard was silent but his hungry eyes spoke an entire conversation with her ample curves, as artificial as they were – Jenelle’s rigorous work had left her body too lean and athletic to leave it as commonly accepted ‘beautiful.’

The gushy guard had already opened the door for her, the hungry guard made no move except for his eyes, roving across her form. His lust would blind him to her true purpose here. Just a matter now of walking in and relieving the wastrel of his pointless life.

A shortening of breath, a slight racing of Jenelle’s heart – nothing visible, but a quickening, an apprehensive eagerness that grew as the killing time grew ever nearer.

She left her brutes at the base of the townhouse – she’d be safe inside unescorted … and unseen. Although her brutes were technically in employ of the Guild, like most of them, they did not know Crimsonne’s or Jenelle’s true nature.

With each step up the stairs to Johan’s bedroom, Jenelle’s anticipation rose a little more. With this final act, she’d be free from Rothbart, free of his confining rules, his overbearing, controlling presence. The future was uncertain, but it would be hers and hers to pursue as she saw fit. The only certainty Jenelle really had of her future is that Rothbart wouldn’t be a part of it. He’d have a king’s ransom in exchange for her bridal worth – even that amount of jewels couldn’t compare to her freedom. If she had been born to be sold, she would have bought herself from Fate.

Entering the room quietly, she found the wastrel sleeping the sleep of the grape. Too easy. It seemed somewhat anticlimactic that this last murder would be so simple but at least it would have style. One of the glittering rings on her fingers contained a spring-loaded spike anointed with a particularly innovative poison – cold-distilled tulip bulb extract. A little prick and in a few hours, Johan’s heart would beat so fast that it seized up like badly-made clockwork. Due to his decadent lifestyle, it would be chalked up to natural causes. No obvious tulip this time.

On some level, Johan must have felt the needle puncture him because he grunted and shifted in his sleep, but did not awaken. Quietly closing the door, Jenelle left him to die.

Outside, her brutes had struck up conversation with the guards, who looked at her inquiringly. Jenelle answered their unspoken question. “Your master was dead to the world with drink.” Oh, the hidden joke in that!

The guards guffawed, it was clear that this occurrence was not at all rare. The gushy guard remarked “Oooh, he’s going to be sore to have missed your visit, Dame Crimsonne!” The hungry one just gave her a dirty leer. “Shame you’ve come all this way for no point …” The leer intensified.

Crimsonne, not Jennelle, gave him the jaded look of an experienced whore. “Oh, you wish – like you could afford even a moment with me on a guard’s salary! Dream on, Herr.”

Gushy guard snickered and her brutes laughed openly at her quip. Jenelle privately wondered what the hungry guard might have done without her escort. It would have been somewhat problematic rather than a true threat – she was always armed with her daggers in whatever guise. The messy part would be killing Gushy, witness to the inexplicable scene of Crimsonne gutting his partner like a fish. Two dead guards and a blood-drenched whore wandering the streets would have definitely brought some doubt to the supposed natural “death” of Johan Sierck.

Crimsonne and her entourage returned to the brothel without incident; she dismissed her brutes and in the privacy of a back-room the exotic whore disappeared and Jenelle re-appeared in her place.

One final step and she’d be free. She collected the finely cut jewels from her various caches around the city. Jenelle wondered if Johan was dead yet from the poison. It was comparatively fast-acting but each person reacted differently. It would kill him at least by sunrise. Her services were highly expensive but she was worth it. Although Tulip wasn’t a literal grim servant of Death as people fearfully whispered of the assassin, she had the reputation for reliable killing and inexorable doom.

Soon, all her years of blood and darkness would have come to a head. Rothbart would be bought off and Jenelle would be her own woman. She could travel the land as she saw fit (safe enough – woe betide the hapless brigand that would accost Tulip!) and with the occasional contract she could live the good life. She didn’t worry about any luxuries – her freedom from Rothbart’s control would be the real ‘good life.’ Catching up with her friends, perhaps she could take up a hobby between kills. Maybe writing or painting – Mariena had loved to paint. Jenelle could use the extra time to create a tribute to her mother’s memory.

The jewels finally assembled, Jenelle realized she was dithering. Why was this so difficult? It was what she wanted.

Was she scared of Rothbart?

Yes.

She’d played such a role with him, the meek and docile daughter – her confrontation would destroy the illusion. But the best illusions were based on truth – in her docility, she was six again, witnessing Mariena’s brutal murder; Jenelle was that frightened little girl that ran away and hid from her father’s burning wrath.

A jewel tumbled from the table to skitter along the wooden floor – her nervous, twitching hands had knocked it flying. Jenelle bent down to pick it up but the woman who replaced it in the pile was Tulip; cold, fearless and implacable killer.

Rothbart was in the study, poring over some document on the heavy black desk. The candlelight showed every crease and wrinkle in his face, etched with the anger that had been his faithful companion over the years.

As her shadow fell upon the table, he looked up. “Why do you disturb me, daughter? I do not like to be disturbed.” A hint of his rage already growing in his voice, his daughter had no right to sully his study with her presence, it seemed!

Tulip’s voice was cool and confident, issuing from Jenelle’s lips. “Father – I know that you have only seen me as a marriage commodity. I have earned a sum that easily surpasses any wealth you could gain by marrying me off to any suitor. My deal – I give you that sum and you relinquish any hold over me.”

She dropped the satchel on his desk, a few of the exquisitely cut stones scattering across the wood and parchment.

Rothbart’s chair scraped back and he stood, towering over her. He fondled one of the spilled gems and without warning, backhanded her across the face with his free hand.

She slammed against the wall, stunned by the impact. Tulip had not expected that, Jenelle had – in her daze, she was six again – or perhaps she was Mariena, shocked and helpless as her husband beat her to death.

“If one of my dogs wins a pit-fight, does he claim the prize-purse? I thought you had learned by now – you are my property – whatever money you earn whoring is mine as well.” Rothbart turned again to the jewels, leaving Jenelle lying there on the cold flagstones. “Return to your kennel, bitch.”

Oh, father. How wrong you are!

He truly thought of her, of all women, as property, as pets – to serve their purpose for his pleasures. He could not conceive of them to be in any way his equal. For him, Mariena had been just a pretty brood mare to give him children. For him, Jenelle was just a bitch to be bred to some politically well-connected hound.

That would be his undoing.

Rothbart didn’t hear her rise, didn’t hear her knives slide out into her hands. He was too busy sliding his speculative gaze across the twinkling gems. Engrossed in avarice, he only reacted when her knives slid home, up under the ribcage and piercing both his lungs.

The big man deflated into himself as he collapsed, gasping for air as the weight of his own burly chest started to crush his lungs. The candlestick rolled off the table, the flames already sending parchment and books ablaze.

“Oh, father. I didn’t earn the money whoring. I earned it like that.”

She berated herself for her stupidity. Why hadn’t she done that earlier? Perhaps it had been the legacy of her childhood fear; perhaps it was just misplaced paternal respect.

He was still alive, his eyes showing stark shock and fear. It was inconceivable to him that this could happen. He might have even worked out the connection between his deadly daughter and the assassin known as Tulip. She’d never know, she’d stolen his last breath forevermore.

She carefully put the jewels back in the satchel and slung it over her shoulder. The flames continued to build and race further out – chances are, they’d spread throughout the house and bring it tumbling down into a smoking ruin.

Good. She’d always hated the place. It had only been her prison and Rothbart her jailer. With him dead, Jenelle had no standing in society – the Baron’s title would go to a younger brother or a cousin.

From a safe distance, she watched the flames engulf the house and felt the stones tumble upon themselves to provide a fitting tomb for Rothbart von Schwartzwald.

“And a fitting tomb to Jenelle von Schwartzwald,” she announced to the surrounding darkness.

Only Tulip remained.