Two tendays later, Talon spooned rabbit stew into the bound youth's mouth, ignoring his glare. The boy had refused to eat for three days, until he was almost too weak to raise his head, although he had accepted water on the second day. He had made no sound except growls and snarls, and his stench was revolting, since he had been forced to urinate and defecate in his trousers.
Talon only stayed long enough to feed him twice a day and give him water, then left him to ponder his situation in his foetor. Sooner or later he would crack, although it was taking far longer than Talon would have thought possible. The ex-assassin scraped the bowl clean and washed it in the basin, thinking that it was fortunate he had no apprentice. He held a cup of water to the boy's lips while he drained it, and then headed for the door, eager to quit the stink.
“Wait.”
Talon turned in surprise. “You want to say something?”
He nodded. “I won't harm you.”
“That's an interesting accent you have.” Talon returned to his chair and sat down. “You sound like a Cotti.”
The boy jerked at the ropes and snarled.
“I don't find that reassuring, you know,” the assassin drawled. “You'll swear to behave, or you'll stay in that chair. It doesn't matter to me. I have a home to go to. It's up to you.”
The boy hesitated, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “I'll behave.”
“Swear it.”
“I swear.”
Talon studied him, wondering if he was in the least bit trustworthy, then drew a dagger and cut the ropes. The boy rubbed his wrists, glared at Talon, and stood up. Excrement caked the seat of his trousers and dried urine formed dark stains down the legs. He was a good deal shorter than Talon had imagined, barely reaching his shoulder.
He gestured to the chair. “Now you can clean up your mess, after which you'll bathe. I got you some new clothes.”
“I'm not your slave.”
“No, but you'll do as I say if you want to eat my food and live here. You do want that, don't you? Or are you stupid enough to want to go back to living in the gutter? Consider it a job, for now.”
The boy glowered at him, and Talon thought he would try to run, but then he looked down. “All right.”
“Good. There's a communal tap down the street. Fetch water and fill that.” Talon pointed to a brass tub in the corner. “When you've bathed, you can clean up this mess.”
A wild glint entered the boy's eyes, and a frisson of alarm shot through Talon. Perhaps a gentler attitude was called for when dealing with this boy. He was obviously deeply traumatised and, judging by his accent, had been a Cotti prisoner. For how long? How much abuse had he been forced to endure? He sensed that the boy was not entirely sane, or at least, on the verge of insanity.
Talon softened his tone. “I'm trying to help you. It would have been far easier to have chased you away two tendays ago, and spared myself the effort of feeding you. I think I've proven that I mean you no harm, haven't I? All I ask is a bit of co-operation now.”
“Why do you want to help me?”
“Ah well, that's a good question. When you've bathed and cleaned up this mess, we'll talk, all right?”
The boy nodded, and Talon handed him two buckets. He half expected the youngster to bolt the moment he left the shack, but, several minutes later, he returned with water. Talon had added fresh wood to the stove, and poured the water into a pot to heat. The boy looked a little surprised, and left to fetch more water. Talon's mind thronged with questions, and he was sure this youth had an amazing story.
When the tub was full, the former assassin handed his guest a cake of soap and a pile of new clothes, then left him to bathe.
Talon returned four time-glasses later, to find the shack clean and odour free. The boy lay on the bed, clad in the clean clothes, and the assassin hoped he had burnt his old garments. He sat up when the elder entered, suspicion and anger in his eyes. Talon sat in a chair and placed a bottle of wine on the table.
The bath had much improved the boy's appearance, and his hair was tied back with a thong. Talon eyed him, then uncorked the wine and poured a cup.
“How old are you, boy?”
“Sixteen, I think.”
“You think?”
He nodded, frowning.
“All right. Is that a Contara accent you have, or Cotti?”
“Cotti.”
“I thought so, although I haven't heard it before. What's your name?”
The boy looked down, and seemed to struggle within himself. Talon's puzzlement grew, along with his unease. The youth glanced up.
“Conash.”
Talon almost nodded, then his brows rose as he realised what it meant. “A strange name.”
“It's what I am.”
“All right. I'm Talon. That's my trade name, and the only one I'll give you, for now. How long were you a Cotti prisoner?”
“Four years, I think.”
“So that's where you lost the time. No seasons in the desert, hey?”
Conash shook his head. “I was in Damnation.”
“Right. Where do you think you are now?”
“A Jashimari city.”
“Yes, you're in Jondar.”
Conash stared across the room. “The capital.”
“That's right. How did you escape the Cotti?”
“I walked.”
Talon's brows rose again. “All the way across the desert? A hundred and fifty leagues? I doubt it.”
“It couldn't have been that far.”
“You weren't in a city, were you?”
“No. An army camp.”
“I see. You walked ten leagues then, from the main encampment.”
Conash stared at the floor. “Crawled.”
“How did you get to Jondar?”
“On a horse.”
“Where did you get a horse?”
Conash raised his eyes, and Talon shivered at the look in them. “I killed its owner.”
“How?”
“With a rock.”
Talon leant forward. “You were trying to kill me too, weren't you?”
“Yes.”
“How many have you killed?”
“Two.”
Talon sipped his wine and pondered the boy, a little disturbed to learn that he was a murderer. “Did you enjoy it?”
“No.”
“You did it to survive.”
“Yes.”
“But you'd be prepared to do it again?”
Conash shrugged. “I suppose so.”
“Do you feel remorse for the men you killed?”
“No.”
Talon studied his new charge again, a little surprised and even more disturbed. It was one thing to kill out of desperation, in order to survive, but another to have no remorse about it. “Why not?”
“Why should I?”
“It's a normal human emotion, I would say. Most people would feel it if they killed someone.”
“I don't.”
Talon inclined his head. “Yes, I realise that. But why?”
“They deserved it.”
“What had they done?”
“The first one, nothing. The second one pissed on me.”
The former assassin struggled not to cough as he almost choked on his wine, and cleared his throat to cover it. The more answers he got, the more disturbed he became, and this last reply had almost floored him. Perhaps the first man had died to provide food, but to think that it was acceptable to kill a man for such a minor infraction was not normal.
“Did he do it on purpose?”
“No. He was drunk.”
“But that made it all right to kill him?”
Conash stared across the room again, frowning. “I was angry.”
“Naturally. So you did it in a fit of rage, then?”
“Yes.”
“And were you angry when you attacked me?”
“No. I needed money.”
Talon sipped his wine. “Why not steal it?”
“I tried, but I got caught, and they beat me.”
“And dead men don't fight back, eh?”
“No.”
Talon put down his cup and leant forward. “So you found killing a lesser crime, because there was no punishment?”
“Yes.”
“But eventually the Watch would have caught you, and they'd have taken you to the axe man.”
Conash shot him a quick glance. “I don't care.”
“You're not afraid of dying?”
“I'm already dead.”
Talon cocked his head. “If you're dead, why do you need to eat?”
“I feel hungry, so I eat.”
“When did you die?”
“In the desert.”
“At the camp?”
“No. When I was crawling.”
Talon sat back and picked up his wine cup again. “If you're dead, why are you still walking around, and talking? Don't dead people rot in the ground?”
“I suppose so.”
“And yet you don't. Why is that?”
“I don't know. Why do you care?”
Talon shrugged. “I'm curious. It's an odd thing, to think you're dead. What makes you think that?”
“I feel it.”
“How?”
Conash tapped his chest. “In here.”
“Ah. I see.” Talon paused to consider this, somewhat alarmed by the depths of the boy's insanity. “Where are you from?”
“A border town.”
“Which one?”
“Goat's Rest.”
Talon coughed and put down his wine cup, wiping his lips. “Four years ago, you think?”
“Yes.”
The elder assassin studied his charge with deep pity. “Then you were captured in the Rout of Ashtolon.”
“What's that?”
“Of course, you don't know. It was the greatest Cotti invasion ever. It started in a village called Goat's Rest. The city of Ashtolon was wiped out, and our army only stopped them just before they sacked Ivernan, too. More than seven thousand Jashimari died. Over five thousand of them were soldiers. Jashimari almost fell.”
Conash scowled at the floor, and Talon sipped his wine, wondering at the boy's strange lack of reaction. Any other Jashimari would have been horrified or angry, but Conash appeared unmoved. His frown was a permanent fixture, and seemed to sum up his essence. Talon switched back to the former subject.
“So, you've killed two men. The reason I kept you here and fed you is because I'm looking for a new apprentice. Would you be interested in becoming an assassin?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
The boy's lip curled. “They're scum.”
“Ah. And even though you're a murderer, you're not.”
“No.”
“Well then, how to you plan to earn a living? Do you have any skills?”
“No.”
Talon cocked his head. “You plan to continue your career as a murderer until the Watch catches you?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I don't know.”
“I see.” Talon sighed and sipped his wine. “I'm not going to shelter and feed you unless you become my apprentice. If you're not interested, you can go back to your former life in the gutter.”
“What does it matter to you, what I do?”
“It doesn't. Like I said, I need a new apprentice, and I'm offering you the job. If you don't want it, get out.”
The boy jumped up and headed for the door, and Talon stared at him in surprise, then shook himself from his shock before the youth opened it.
“Conash.”
The boy stopped and turned.
“Think about it. Assassins may be scorned, but we ply a legal trade. You're already a murderer. I can teach you to kill without the risk of being caught or injured. Many assassins earn a good living, if they're skilled at their craft.”
“You live in a shack.”
Talon shook his head. “This is where my apprentice lives. I own a house in a middle-class suburb. Granted, it's not a palace, but it's better than most. What will you do, go back to sleeping in the gutter? You'll have to kill again in order to eat, and the Watch will hunt you down and send you to the chopping block.”
“I don't care.”
“Yes, so you said. Why is being an assassin worse than being a murderer?”
“They get paid to kill people.”
Talon nodded. “But you kill people to steal their money. Why is that better?”
“It's not.”
“So what's wrong with being an assassin? At least you won't be executed for it. Then again, if you're already dead, why do you care what you do for a living?”
Conash hesitated, glaring at him. “I don't.”
“Then why won't you do it?”
“Pa... I don't want to do it.” He yanked open the door and vanished through it.
Talon jumped up. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me!”
The elder assassin sank back into his chair, torn between chagrin and relief. The boy was dangerous; there was no doubt about that. He had the mind-set of a killer, if he was to be believed, and Talon believed him. He spoke with cold dispassion, as if killing a man was no more important than swatting a fly. The only time he had shown any emotion was the increased anger that the suggestion of becoming an assassin had provoked.
Talon sighed and refilled his cup. Apparently he had wasted two tendays trying to tame the wild waif he had found in the gutter. Then again, perhaps when the boy realised that he would have to kill to survive in any case, unless he went back to stealing and risked the beatings, he would change his mind. Part of Talon hoped so, and a larger part hoped that he would never see Conash again. On the one hand, he had the potential to become an excellent assassin; on the other, he was insane.
Clearly he had suffered greatly in the desert, and it had unhinged him. Talon searched his mind for another instance of a prisoner escaping from the Cotti, and drew a blank. If it had even happened before, he had not heard about it. The war between Jashimari and Cotti had been simmering since time immemorial, and there was no end in sight. Hence, it was called the Endless War.
Conash walked along a dingy alley, kicked the rubbish underfoot and pondered the elder assassin's words. The idea of becoming an assassin was repugnant. A paid killer. The lowest of the low, scorned and spat on by common folk. His father had reviled the trade in forceful terms, declaring that there was nothing worse than an assassin. Even beggars rated above them, in his father's opinion. Beggars did not kill, and were therefore blameless. Since he was not good at picking pockets, and had no other trade, perhaps he should become a beggar.
During the two tendays he had spent tied to the chair, some of the wildness had left him. He was a boy, not a cat. The memory of the pond, with its ducks and frogs, had receded. There seemed to be a broom in his mind, sweeping away the memories as they grew older. Crawling across the sand remained fairly vivid, perhaps because it had been such an ordeal. His time as a slave had become a bit blurred and hazy, and the time before that seemed like a dream.
Rivan's memory remained pure and unsullied, perhaps because his ghost had returned to lead Conash out of the desert. He still lingered. Occasionally the boy would glimpse a moving shadow out of the corner of his eye, and knew that Rivan's spirit followed him. The cat had been with him in the hut, watching him with worried eyes. That was what had convinced him to eat the assassin's food. Rivan wanted him to live. He wanted vengeance, and so did Conash. Killing Jashimari as an assassin was not vengeance, however.
What chance did he have of ever killing Cotti? Perhaps he would if he joined the army. That struck him as an excellent idea. The army would feed and clothe him, and he would get a pension when he retired. If he retired. His mind made up, Conash set off in search of a barracks. Now that he could talk again, thanks to the assassin, he was able to ask for directions, and found a barracks on the outskirts of the city at dusk. A tall grey wall surrounded a packed-earth parade ground in front of a clutch of dull, square buildings with narrow windows and stout doors, visible through the bars of a wrought-iron gate.
A sentry demanded his business, and allowed him in when he stated it, although the man looked scornful. Following the soldier's directions, Conash crossed the parade ground to a dingy office manned by a harassed looking officer. The man scowled at Conash when the boy darkened his doorway.
“What do you want, boy?”
“To join.”
The officer snorted. “You jest. How old are you, twelve?”
“Sixteen.”
“Rubbish. If you're sixteen, you're a runt. We don't want runts, so bugger off.”
Conash hesitated, torn between a strong urge to smash the man's head for calling him a runt, and an equally powerful wish to leave. The officer glared at him, clearly annoyed that he had not left yet, then pointed at the doorframe beside Conash.
“You see that mark?”
The boy glanced at the doorframe, finding a groove cut into it, a hand span above his head. “Yes.”
“When you're that tall, you can come back.”
“What does it matter how tall I am?”
“Because otherwise the armour won't fit you, idiot. We can't have you tripping over your grieves, can we?”
Conash shot the man a glare and left. He headed back into the city, seeking the more affluent suburbs around the palace to ply his next trade. Filching a tin cup from a vendor's stall, he settled in a doorway and held it out to passers-by. Dusk had fallen, however, and there were few people about. Those who did wander past either ignored him or cast him pitying looks, and he sought a suitable gutter in which to sleep with an empty stomach.
The following morning, he found a filthy beggar occupying his doorway, and all the good spots were taken. He settled on a street corner, but within a time-glass several angry beggars armed with sticks evicted him, shouting insults. By the end of the day, beggars had chased him from four street corners and two doorways, and he had earned two coppers. He found a suitable gutter, and went to sleep with an empty stomach again.
The next day, he tried to get a job as a labourer at a market, unloading wagons, but the drovers chased him away with shouts of derision. He fell back on his dubious pickpocketing skills, but two men caught and beat him, and also called the Watch. Conash escaped before the soldiers arrived and took refuge in a smelly alley until the furore died down. When he returned to his sleeping box, the beggar who occupied it chased him away. Conash curled up in a doorway to escape the drizzle that fell at dusk, shivering.
The beating had left him with a swollen eye and loose tooth. Dried blood blocked his abused nose, and his bruises ached. His damp clothes stank again, and his stomach was a tight, sour knot. He wondered how it was possible for a corpse to be so miserable, and Rivan had vanished. It seemed he would have to kill again in order to eat, and the assassin's words returned to haunt him. What did it matter what he was? His family was dead, and he did not care what other people thought. Pickpockets were hated too, and beggars received only scorn and pity. He did not need anyone's pity.
At least Talon had not offered him that. The elder assassin was the only one who had offered to help him, albeit in return for becoming his apprentice. He wondered what was in it for the assassin. The prospect of becoming an assassin still repulsed him, and he contemplated it without enthusiasm. They crept into bedrooms and murdered people in their sleep, but he was already a killer, and he had to eat. Was it any worse than killing the fat man for food? If he did not eat soon, he would die in the gutter.
A visit to the alehouse the next day assured him that the cook had not resumed feeding the stray dogs, and Conash wandered the streets in a hungry daze. No one would help or employ him, except the assassin. Dusk found him outside the shack, and he curled up in the doorway, pulling his coat close to ward off the night chill.