Some people, most people perhaps, moved from task to task in life, fumbling along without every really dignifying the work. A smaller number of people, artisans and guildsman took some pride in there craft. A few people though, master artists, generals, perhaps some politicians, took their craft to a level of real art. Assassins also fit the bill. Oh not the dockside thugs who knifed a man for a handful of coppers, not the worksman like killers who took contracts from the Skulls with their writs and codes, but the true top tier, but the true paragons of the craft, they took some pride in their work. And so, when the syndicate had asked Calliope Sal Tayrin to do a job, it didn't matter that the pay was low. It didn't matter that they were calling in the marker she owed them for past favors. It didn't matter that the target was a two bit thief she had never heard of. It was the work that mattered, and the pride she took in doing it well.

Tracking him had been a simple enough matter for one steeped in The Secrets. There had been enough hair and blood in the prison cell to fashion a tracking spell. The manor was a nice touch. Who would think to look for a fugitive in an empty and decaying palace. In theory the place belonged to some magister or another. It was required that a wizard maintained a residence in the city in order to vote on the council and so there were many such dwellings, empty other than on paper. Of course the definition of 'maintain' was rather a fluid one. Overall she decided she liked the manor, and she just ADORED the gargoyles.

The first thing the target knew was that iron hard hands were seizing him. To his credit the thief was fast, he was awake instantly twisting and trying to get free. The massive gargoyle was unconcerned by the targets kicks and strikes. It was, afterall, made of stone. Calliope sat on a chair in the corner, dressed in a red and black corset and skirt, more suited to a ball than an assassination. She buffed at one blood red fingernail with a file, her perfectly quaffed hair shining in the moonlight that poured through the window. By now the gargoyle had lifted the struggling target up, one arm coiled around his chest, the other closing around his neck in a headlock. The spell which had equipped the brute with magical silence faded and its movements were suddenly counterpointed by a sound like rocks grinding in a distant avalanche. Calliope lifted her fingers to the light and inspected her manicure, the target now totally imobilized. She snapped her fingers and with a minor effort of will, the lamps and candles lit, filling the room with soft radiance. She stood up slowly, her reflection pale skinned and dark haired in the mirror on the wall, angular cheekbones standing out in the firelight.

"Well," she said with a satisfied smile, crossing to her immobile prisoner, the gargoyle now the same motionless statue it had been when she had collected it outside. The daub of blood on its forehead that had animated it now dry and flaking. Of course its new configuration included one apprehended target. She waved a hand and the mirrors reflection changed, summoning up an image of the target taken from the mind of one of the syndicate flunkies she had interviewed. It was a little blurry, as memories often were, but she took a moment to confirm that the target before her matched the one in the mirror. The mirror target was a little less squirmy, but she was confident she had her man.

She sat down on the edge of the bed in front of him and crossed her legs, smoothing her skirt out.

"Any last requests?" she inquired politely.