Brandon finished the job. That was good. He abided by the contract and killed the Mark. Assassinate Brellion de Becci. Given permission to commit off-contract casualties. A very simple contract. It didn't even specify whether or not to leave a trail, let alone a false trail. It didn't matter. No one would find him. No one knew his face.
He washed his face down by a river, dyes and make-up dripping off. He'd be a town away by now if his estimates were right. Rumors would spread quickly. The servant's face he wore will be scoured across the country, sketches will be drawn, serving as the false trail. He splashed more water on his face, rinsing the make-up off.
Sunlight showed Brandon's reflection on the running river. He watched the image as the drifting waters went on. Top-naked, tanned-skin, tired, blue eyes, a crooked nose. Dark, thin lips, sunken cheeks, and black, curly hair. He looked slim, perhaps skinny almost. Lanky. Not even this face he wore was the true one. Nothing but a mere caricature of what once had been. If it even existed at all.
At times, Brandon wondered who he was. Never an answer came.
Brandon shook his head, droplets of water sputtering about. He wore another face again. A face none will ever recognize. A face none would look at, unless they needed to squirm in disgust.
He had an appointment with his employer a month from now and dared not be late. Brushing his hair back, Brandon stared at his reflection again. On that appointment, he would have to wear that face again. The face of the man hired to assassinate Brellion de Becci. The face he despised the most. He found his brows creasing on its own.
Slinking his satchel back and wearing both his sword and dagger, he left another false trail, abandoning the shirt he stole from Becci's closet. Topless and barefooted, he now wore the face of a ragged, defeated duelist who somehow managed to earn himself a year's worth of wealth in his pockets.