Talon regarded the emaciated boy with a mixture of relief and dread. After three days, he had all but given up on the youth, and had been somewhat relieved to have seen the last of him, but also disappointed. Despite his small stature, Conash had the makings of an excellent assassin, and with good food, might even grow to a reasonable size. The boy was so pale Talon feared that he was dead, but he opened his eyes when the assassin shook him.
Talon unlocked the door and entered the hut. “I'm glad you changed your mind.”
Conash followed. “I'm considering it, that's all.”
“All right, I'll feed and house you until you make up your mind, as long as it doesn't take you more than a tenday.”
The boy nodded and flopped down on a chair, looking exhausted. Talon lighted the stove and set a pot of ryelen on it, then sat opposite, studying his guest's bruises.
“What happened to your face?”
“I tried pickpocketing again.”
Talon nodded. “It's an art, and unless you have a teacher, it takes years to learn the skill.”
“I suppose there's a Guild of Pickpockets, too.”
“Not as far as I know, although old ones do teach youngsters.” The assassin was a little surprised to find Conash somewhat more willing to talk. “How long since you've eaten?”
“Three days.”
“You didn't kill anyone?”
“No.”
Talon nodded. “Good. So, what will it take to persuade you?”
“Why do you want an apprentice?”
“Ah, I see. Well, assassins retire early, since our skills rely on speed and agility, which tend to fade with age. We usually retire at about thirty, and after that our livelihood depends on our apprentices.” Talon rose to stir the porridge. “You see, once an apprentice gets his mark, he has to share his earnings with his former mentor for two years. It's how he pays for his training. It also ensures that elders train lots of apprentices, and do it well. A lazy elder will soon find himself destitute, unless he's earned enough during his career that he doesn't need to.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Not too often.”
“What mark?”
Talon glanced around. “Mark? Oh, yes. All guild assassins have a tattoo, so we can identify ourselves to potential clients, and each other. That way, we're not mistaken for common murderers, too, should the Watch catch us.”
“What does it look like?”
“I can't tell you that. You'll find out if and when you earn yours.”
“Why can't you tell me?”
Talon smiled. “So you don't get one without earning it. Then the Guild would hunt you down and burn it off. That's painful.”
Conash frowned at the table, and Talon sat opposite again.
“It's not a bad life. You can earn a comfortable living from just one or two kills a moon-phase, depending on what you charge. The fee varies according to the difficulty of the job. Most assignments are middle-class merchants and traders whose rivals want to be rid of them. Some are philandering husbands or criminals the Watch can't prosecute.”
“Why do you think I'd make a good assassin?”
“Did I say you'd make a good assassin?” Talon snorted. “You might, but that would depend on how well you learnt the skills I'd teach you. If you're lazy, you'll make a lousy assassin. You're a candidate purely because you're homeless and orphaned. Families are usually against their sons becoming assassins.”
“I don't blame them.”
“You're cat kin, aren't you?”
Conash nodded, his frown deepening.
“You're Bereft, then. The Cotti killed your familiar?”
“Yes.”
“Bastards.” Talon sighed. “The training is hard, but at the end of it you'll be fit and strong. Assassins may be scorned, but we're also respected for our abilities. We're hunters. We track down our prey and kill them quickly, and usually painlessly, and escape without detection. It's a highly skilled trade. It takes four years of hard work to become an assassin.”
“Why did you become one?”
“I'm the son of a nobleman's mistress. When my mother grew too old he cast her off, and she ended up as a whore. She was beaten to death when I was fourteen. I starved on the streets for a moon-phase before an elder found me and took me in. I know what it's like to be where you are.”
Conash glanced at him. “What about your father?”
“He didn't want me. He had five legitimate sons.”
“Did you kill him?”
“No.” Talon cocked his head. “Why would I do that?”
“He spurned you. He left you to die in the gutter.”
“Yes, I suppose he did. Still, he didn't deserve to die.” The assassin leant forward, and the boy regarded him with deep suspicion. “Assassins aren't allowed to kill without a client, Conash. We have a code, and the foremost rule is that we only kill when and who we're paid to. It prevents those of us with a strong bloodlust from becoming common murderers. If an assassin kills without a client, he's considered a rogue, and the Guild will hunt him down and execute him. The fact that we won't kill unless we're paid to is what separates us from the murderers.
“It's the reason our trade is considered legal. The blame for our targets' deaths falls on our clients, and we're considered tools, nothing more. The only other time we're allowed to kill is if we're in danger. For instance, if a target's bodyguard attacks you, you're allowed to kill him, or you can kill a guard in order to reach your target. If you're attacked by thugs, as, unfortunately, assassins sometimes are, you're allowed to defend yourself with deadly force, if necessary, but only if necessary, you understand?”
The boy nodded, glaring at the table.
Talon rose and went to the stove to stir the ryelen. “Do you have a strong wish to kill people?”
“Some of them.”
“The Cotti, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
Talon nodded. “That's understandable, after what they did to you, but -”
“You don't know what they did to me.”
“No, I don't, and I won't ask. If you want to tell me, I'll listen, but I'm not the curious sort.” The elder sensed that he was on thin ice, and skirted the subject. “I was going to say, you won't be able to kill any Cotti in Jondar. If you only want to kill Cotti, you'd best join the army, although they won't accept you until you're a bit bigger.”
“I know. I don't care who I kill.”
“But you won't do it for fun.”
“No. It's not fun. It's disgusting.”
Talon shot him a sideways glance. “But you don't mind doing it.”
“No.”
“What did you feel, when you killed those two men?”
“Nothing.”
The elder's brows rose, but he concentrated on stirring the porridge. “No triumph? No satisfaction? No sense of achievement?”
“No.”
“I see. But then, those were impulsive acts, weren't they? You didn't plan them.”
Conash continued to glare at the table. “No.”
“But you planned to kill me, didn't you?”
“Yes. I needed to do it. I was hungry.”
“So you need a reason. That's good. I won't apprentice an indiscriminate killer who murders for fun.” Talon returned to sit at the table again. “When your training is complete, you'll be able to kill whoever your clients want, regardless of whether they're rich or poor, or extremely well-guarded. It's what we do.”
“I haven't agreed to be your apprentice.”
“No, but I think you will. What else will you do?”
The boy shrugged. “I don't know. I could starve, I suppose.”
“Yes, that would be the other option. Or you could sell yourself as a sport boy. Those are your only other choices.”
“I won't become a filthy boy whore.”
“Good.”
Conash picked up a spoon and toyed with it. “Why don't you apprentice the street urchins? There are plenty of them.”
“They're mostly unsuitable, although occasionally we do. Most of them are the children of beggars or whores, and they have parents. They're also stunted from being raised in near starvation, and most are bonded to small, harmless beasts like mice, rats, birds and the like. They don't have the killer instinct.”
“I'm also a runt.”
“No, you're a little small for your age, but you're still growing. I'd say you had a good upbringing before the Cotti captured you, so you have strong bones. The Cotti didn't starve you, and with good food, you'll achieve a reasonable stature. Also, being agile and light is an advantage for an assassin. We often have to climb through windows, and we use the assassin's highway sometimes, over the rooftops. Your being cat kin is a huge advantage.”
The boy shot him a calculating glance. “So, you do think I'd make a good assassin?”
“All right, I'll admit, I do. I wouldn't have made the offer otherwise. I think you have a lot of potential, although you'll have to stop being so eager to kill anyone who offends you. Do that once, when you're an assassin, and you'll sign your death warrant. The Guild won't tolerate it.”
“So you said.”
Talon studied him. “You're mature for your age, but you need to give up this idea that you're dead.”
“You wouldn't understand.”
“No, I don't. But if you're going to last more than a tenday as an assassin, you need to want to live, and accept that you're alive. There are too many perilous situations for an assassin to have a death wish.”
The boy fiddled with the spoon. “What do you care?”
“I care, because I don't want to waste four years training you, only for you to be killed on your first assignment.”
Conash glanced at the bubbling porridge and shrugged. “All right, I'll stay alive for two years, then.”
“So you accept my offer?”
“Not yet.”
Talon gave a frustrated snort and rose to dish up the porridge. “What more do you want to know?”
“The rest of the rules.”
“When you accept.” The elder placed a bowl of steaming ryelen in front of the boy and sat opposite with his own. “So you admit that you're alive.”
The boy blew on a spoonful of porridge. “My body is.”
“Ah, I see.”
“I doubt that.”
“Maybe not. It doesn't matter, so long as you agree to stay alive for at least two years after you become an assassin.”
Conash nodded. “If I decide to become one.”
“Oh, I think you will. Only a fool would accept the alternative.”
“Or someone who doesn't care.”
“If you wanted to die, you wouldn't be here, eating my porridge.”
“I'm hungry.”
Talon frowned as the first glimmer of understanding dawned on him. “That's all that matters to you now, isn't it? You eat when you're hungry, drink when you're thirsty and sleep when you're tired.”
“Yes.”
“And you'll do whatever it takes to earn those things, right?”
“Yes.”
“Even kill someone.”
The boy shrugged. “That's easy.”
“It's been easy because you surprised a weary traveller and a drunken fool. Not all killing is so easy.”
“It will be after you teach me though, won't it?”
Talon shivered and concentrated on his porridge. He had the unpleasant sensation that he would create a monster if he trained this boy. There was also no doubt in his mind that if Conash did not become an assassin, he would continue to kill for food until he was caught and executed. The boy had no conscience, which was good, for an assassin. It seemed that he was devoid of just about all normal emotions, and the elder assassin was certain that no one would ever find pity from him.
Whatever the Cotti had done to him had stripped him of every vestige of compassion or remorse, perhaps because they had shown him none. Once again, he wondered about the plaited hair that had been tied around the boy's neck. It seemed to have no value to him, yet if that was the case, why had he kept it? The boy had a mind like an ice pit. Deep, dark, frigid and dangerous, and it showed in the chilling glance of his strange grey eyes. He was also, Talon sensed, a simmering volcano of fury and hatred, and the slightest provocation could spark him into violence.
A strange and dangerous combination, fire and ice, malice and ruthlessness. A frightening one, if Talon made the mistake of sparking a deadly outburst, and he did not know what would do that. His only assurance was that the boy was small and weak, but that would change if he chose to become an assassin.
For two days, peace reigned in the shack. Talon brought food and talked to his guest, who remained, for the most part, taciturn. The bruises on his face darkened, and his nose swelled. Talon wondered if it was broken, and on the third day, as he was about to leave, he walked around the table to stop beside the boy, who stared ahead, clearly trying to ignore him.
Without considering what Conash's reaction might be, Talon gripped the youth's chin to lift his face and examine his nose. Conash leapt away as if Talon had stuck a dagger in him, the chair crashing over. He snatched a knife from the stove and whirled to fly at Talon. The elder assassin whipped around, narrowly avoiding the first stab, but tripped over the fallen chair and sprawled. Conash leapt at him, bringing the knife down in a scything stroke that slashed Talon's sleeve and gashed his arm as he twisted aside.
Talon punched the boy in reflex, sending him crashing into the wall, and he slumped. Climbing to his feet, Talon clasped his arm and frowned at the youth, surprised and unnerved by the boy's speed and the deadly intent of his attack. He was tempted to toss the unconscious youth out into the street, then paused to consider. Whatever trauma Conash had suffered in the desert had left him with the kind of reactions assassins were trained to have. His immediate, automatic response to being handled was probably natural after his ordeal, and beneficial to an assassin. It made him an even better prospect, although it had been a painful lesson for Talon.
After he tended his cut, Talon squatted down and slapped the boy's cheek until his eyes flicked open. This time he was ready for the fist that lashed out at his head, and he grabbed the boy's wrists and pinned him to the floor.
“Don't touch me!” Conash bellowed, struggling furiously.
“Calm down, boy. I wasn't going to hurt you. Stop it!”
“Let me go!”
“I will, when you stop fighting me. You want me to tie you to the chair again?”
The boy went still, but remained tense. Talon released him and straightened. Conash lunged at him, and his fist skimmed past Talon's cheek as the assassin jerked his head aside. Talon slapped him, knocking him backwards, then gripped his throat. He slumped, and Talon found a rope and bound his hands behind his back before lifting him onto a chair. Righting the fallen chair, Talon sat down and frowned at his prisoner, pouring himself a cup of wine to settle his jangling nerves.
Half a time-glass later, the boy lifted his head and glared at the elder, tugging at the bonds with a grimace. Talon eyed him, pondering how close he had come to a serious injury, from a mere waif who looked like he could not pull the skin off a narafruit.
“I don't want to know what that was all about,” he said, “but don't ever try to attack me again, or next time you'll get hurt.”
Conash glanced at the bandage around Talon's arm. “It was you who got hurt, this time.”
“Proud of it, are you? Don't be. You took me by surprise this time. Next time you won't. Even so, you're the one who got the worst of it, so don't act like you got the better of me. This is just a scratch. And I don't appreciate my kindness being repaid with violence.”
“You shouldn't have grabbed me.”
“All right, that was a mistake. I only wanted to see if your nose was broken.”
“It's not,” the boy retorted.
“Are you a healer, now?”
“Are you?”
“Actually, I know a fair bit about injuries. I've had a few, and inflicted a good deal more.” Talon leant forward. “That kind of reaction is useful for an assassin, which is why you're still here, and not lying out there in a gutter. They're not much good to anyone else, though.”
“They are if you sleep in a gutter.”
“All right, maybe. Is that what you want to do for the rest of your short life? You won't last long.”
Conash looked away, affecting an air of unconcern. “I don't care, and don't pretend that you do, either.”
“You don't know what I feel, boy.”
“I can see it in your eyes. You have no pity.”
Talon nodded. “That's true. Pity is no use to an assassin. You don't have any either.”
“How long are you going to keep me tied up this time?”
“As long as I see fit. I intend to talk to you, and you're going to listen.”
“So now you have a captive audience.”
Talon smiled. “Indeed. Unpleasant, isn't it?”
The boy tugged at the ropes and glared.