Conash wandered through the slums, where the shack dwellers went about their daily business. This seemed to consist of a lot of coughing, hacking and spitting, followed by cursing, grumbling and scratching. The vermin-infested huts were home to filthy families clad in rags, whose bread-winner was usually a beggar or whore, and whose children were already pickpockets or urchins. Some learnt simple tricks to amuse the pedestrians, often with the aid of their familiars, and he was now used to the sight of cats and little dogs wearing clothes and dancing. It was demeaning for the beasts, but they did it to help their friends.
A gamin-faced girl held out a posy of blue hayslips, but he sidestepped her and wandered on. He had spent two days tied up after he had attacked the elder assassin, partly as punishment, he guessed, but Talon had spent much of it talking to him about becoming an assassin, too. Talon fed him well, and even gave him watered wine to wash down his dinner. The shack was warm and the bed comfortable, and he now had a limited selection of worn, second-hand clothes. The elder always wore black, but insisted that Conash wear other colours, so he opted for dark blue and grey.
Conash was expected to keep the shack clean, do his washing and cooking, and be there to meet Talon every day. The elder used the time to continue to extol the advantages of becoming an assassin. Conash had grown accustomed to the idea, although he still disliked it. He had been living in the hut for two moon-phases now, yet still the elder had not kicked him out. Talon's brown wolf familiar spent his time in a shadowy corner of the hut, silent and unobtrusive, so much so that Conash often forgot the wolf was there.
Conash turned a corner and headed back towards the shack, not wishing to be late for his meeting. Although he was still wary of the assassin, he had come to respect him a little, and if all Talon asked of him was to meet him at a specified time, he would ensure that he was there.
Two rough looking men stepped out in front of him, and he stopped, eyeing them with suspicious surprise. One wore an eye patch and a lopsided sneer; the other had a missing ear, a broken nose and a gap-toothed leer. They were clad in dirty, torn clothes, and knives glinted in their fists. The boy stepped back, alarmed, then turned and ran when they strode towards him. He rebounded off something solid and staggered back, sitting down in the trash with a thud. Another huge man blocked his escape, grinned and hefted a cudgel.
“Wotcher think, Gorrel?” the man with the patch drawled. “A pretty boy, hey?”
“He'll do nicely,” the giant rumbled.
“The master will pay two goldens for 'im, I reckon,” the broken-nosed man observed.
Conash glanced around for a weapon or an escape route, wishing he had a knife or stick. Talon had forbidden him to carry any form of weapon, claiming that he would be tempted to use it since he had no compunction about doing so. Now he wished he had not listened, and realised that he had done so primarily because of his slave mentality. He was so used to taking orders he had not considered that he had a choice in the matter.
Leaping up, he made a dash for the narrow gap between two shacks, where the big men would not be able to follow. One man stuck out a foot, and Conash ploughed into the litter, slicing his palm on something sharp. He gripped it, his fingers closing around a piece of glass, and whipped around as one of the thugs grabbed the back of his jacket and lifted him. The boy lashed out, slicing the man's arm, and the thug dropped him with a curse. Another man lunged at him, grabbing his arm, and he tried to stab him, but the third man caught his wrist and twisted it.
Conash gasped and dropped the broken bottle, then snarled and sank his teeth into the cutthroat's arm. The man growled and punched him, making stars flash in his eyes. He was back in the garden outside his house, where Cotti warriors attacked him with flashing swords and crimson-tipped spears, wet with his father's blood. A red tide of hatred and fury washed away his reason and replaced it with a feral need to survive. He became the cat that had saved him at the duck pond. Claws sprouted from his fingertips and fangs filled his mouth. He snarled and lashed out with curled fingers, lunging to snap at his assailants. The banshee battle wail of a wood cat rent the air.
Shouts rang out and fists slammed into his face and belly, robbing him of air. He scratched and bit anything that came within reach. Pain shot from his arm and back. Something cracked into the side of his head, and the ground hit him in the face. Boots thudded into his ribs, making him writhe, yet still he kicked and punched, hitting nothing but air. Someone pinned him down with a brutal hand on his head, grinding his face into the garbage. His vision blurred, and a red haze invaded his mind.
A grunt came from above him, then a heavy weight fell on top of him, forcing the air from his lungs with a cough. He struggled to crawl free as a clatter of running feet receded down the alley. A hand gripped his arm, and he sank his teeth into it. A familiar voice cursed, and then the weight was lifted off him. The boy drew himself into a crouch, ready to fight or flee, and shook his head to try to clear his vision.
The familiar voice said, “It's all right, Conash. It's me, Talon.”
Conash raised his head. His breath came in quick, harsh gasps, and his muscles thrummed with tension. The elder stood watching him, a miniature crossbow dangling from one hand. The boy glanced around, discovering that the biggest roughneck lay on the ground beside him. A black bolt protruded from the side of his neck, and a trickle of blood oozed from it. Conash scrambled away, then swung around when he became aware that he strayed within Talon's reach. The assassin stepped back, giving him more room.
The boy rose on shaking legs, staggered and clutched his pounding head. His gut ached and his hand throbbed.
“Are you all right?” Talon enquired.
Conash tried to nod, but shook his head instead, still confused by what had happened and the speed with which it had taken place. Part of him insisted that Cotti soldiers waited amongst the huts to attack him; another part assured him that only Talon stood nearby. He wanted to run, but did not know which direction to take. His breath came in quick, ragged gasps as he glanced around, trying to orientate himself. The elder tucked away the crossbow and stepped closer.
“Conash, look at me. It's safe; they're gone. Come, let's go home and get you cleaned up.”
Conash backed away, raising a hand to clasp his brow, then recoiled from the blood on it. He tried to wipe it on his jacket, but the pain made him hiss, and he clasped his wrist to try to stop the throbbing from travelling up it. Talon watched him with a wary expression.
“Conash? Do you know who I am?”
The boy focussed on the elder and studied him for several moments before he nodded. Talon stepped forward and tried to put an arm around his shoulders, but he shied away. The elder gestured up the alley.
“Come. This way; it's not far.”
Conash forced his legs work, and followed the elder along the alley to the shack a few blocks up the street. In the hut, Talon opened the curtains to let in some light and placed a pot of water on the stove. Conash sank onto a chair, his legs shaking and his stomach knotted. Talon sat opposite and poured two cups of wine, placing one in front of the youth.
“Drink that; it'll make you feel better. Have you stopped talking again?”
Conash gulped the strong wine, his injured hand dripping blood on the table. Talon regarded him with apparent concern, glancing often at the deep gash in the boy's palm.
“That looks like it needs stitches. Will you let me do it for you?”
The boy refilled his cup. “Leave me alone.”
“Ah, so you're still talking. Good.” He hesitated. “That wound needs stitches, though.”
Conash clenched his hand, making blood dribble from it, then slammed it on the table. “Let it bleed!”
“All right, if you want.”
“You sent them!”
“Who? Those thugs? Why would I do that?”
The boy shook his head. “I don't know. Nor do I care!”
“I didn't send them, Conash. I killed one to help you. I could have let them beat and kidnap you, you know.”
“So why didn't you? Huh? Why do you care what happens to me?”
“I still hope to persuade you to become my apprentice.”
“You're a liar!” Conash bellowed.
“No, I'm not. Why would I wish to hurt you? And if I did, I could easily do it myself.”
“You want to make me feel weak and helpless, so I'll be your apprentice! Now you'll tell me how I could have defended myself, if I'd been an assassin!”
The elder hesitated, then shook his head with a smile. “I must say, that would have been a wicked plan, had I hatched it. I didn't though. I came for our meeting, and heard you screaming.”
“I wasn't screaming!”
“Yes, you were.”
Conash shook his head. “That wasn't me.”
“Who was it, then?”
“It doesn't matter. Why aren't you telling me how I'd have been able to defend myself if I'd been your apprentice? Huh? Because I've seen through your plan, isn't that right?”
“You probably wouldn't have, after only a couple of moons of training. A fully trained assassin would have, though. I had no trouble with them, did I?”
Conash slammed his fist on the table again. “I knew it!”
“I didn't set it up, Conash.”
“What did they want with me then? What other possible reason could they have had for attacking me?”
Talon leant forward. “They're street brokers. They find pretty young boys and girls and sell them to brothels. I had nothing to do with it.”
“You'd like me to believe that, wouldn't you?”
“It's the truth. But you don't have to believe me. If I'm such a monster, you should leave, shouldn't you? Return to the gutter and die in it then.”
The youth opened his hand and scowled at the gash in it. “If I'd been an assassin, I'd have been able to kill them, wouldn't I?”
“Probably. If you'd been an assassin, it's unlikely that they would have attacked you.”
“How would they have known?”
“We wear black. Some others do too, and profit from its protection, but most cutthroats are wary of black-clad men.”
Conash glowered at him. “So that's why you wouldn't let me wear black. You wanted something like that to happen!”
“No. We don't approve of others wearing it, and discourage them. As an apprentice, you'll be allowed to wear it.”
“That's what it's all about, isn't it? The thugs, the clothes. It's all to force me to become your apprentice.”
Talon rose to his feet. “I can't force you, and you know, I've changed my mind. I think you'd make a terrible assassin. You're stubborn, argumentative and stupid. Get out.”
The boy stared at Talon with deep suspicion, wondering if this was another tactic. He leapt to his feet as the elder rounded the table and marched past to yank open the door.
“I've had enough of you. Get out.”
Conash hesitated, stepping back. “I'm hurt.”
Talon gestured to the door. “I don't care. Go now, or I'll beat you myself.”
“I thought -”
“You're wrong! This is the thanks I get for feeding and sheltering you for two moons? Accusations and insults? Bugger off, and don't come back!”
The boy clasped his injured hand, scowling. “All right.”
“All right what? You'll leave? You're still here!”
“I'll be your apprentice.”
“I just said I don't want you anymore. Do you have a hearing problem? Leave!”
Conash shook his head. “You didn't do all you've done to give up so easily now. I've agreed, and I know that's what you want.”
Talon took a step towards him. “You've got an overblown opinion of your worth, boy! You're a skinny little turd, and too full of yourself to accept my training.”
“I'll do it.”
“No, you won't, because I won't train you. You're mad!”
Conash tilted his head and smiled. “I'll be the best assassin you've ever trained.”
Talon stared at him, struck by the singular sweetness of the boy's expression, which lighted his dirty, battered face. It was the first time he had seen Conash smile, and it took his breath away. An expression like that would be a peerless weapon, if he taught the boy how to use it properly. He shook himself, remembering that he had decided not to apprentice the youth.
“I'll be the best assassin in Jondar,” Conash almost whispered.
“No...” Talon hesitated, torn.
“I'll be the greatest assassin who ever lived.”
“You're...” Talon trailed off as the youth lowered his eyes and bowed his head. He closed the door. “All right, this is your last chance. Disobey me once, accuse me of lying again, or do anything else that angers me, and you're gone, understand?”
“Yes.”
“Sit down, and I'll stitch that wound. You've got a gash in your head too.”
Conash fingered his temple, where a trickle of crimson ran down it to his cheek, and glanced at the blood on his fingertips. He paled, looking queasy, and returned to his chair. Talon took the bubbling pot off the stove and left it to cool, then went over to a cupboard for his bag of mendicants and dumped it on the table. Conash watched him take out a bottle of salve, a curved needle and thread, and a roll of clean bandages. Talon sat down and held out his hand.
“Give me your hand.”
Conash obeyed, and the elder took hold of the youth's thin appendage and pulled it towards him, turning it to inspect the gash. A little deeper, and it would have cut the tendons. Dipping a cloth in the boiled water, he let it cool, then swabbed the injury, glancing at Conash when he hissed, his hand jerking in the assassin's hold.
“Hold still. This is going to hurt even more with I stitch it, but if I don't it won't heal properly. You're lucky it isn't deeper, or you'd have lost the use of your fingers. How did you do this?”
“I grabbed a piece of glass in the rubbish.”
“Wonderful, it'll probably get infected, then.” Talon poured some salve onto the cloth and wiped the gash, making Conash hiss and try to snatch his hand away again. “Have some more wine.”
Conash drained the bottle while Talon sewed the wound and bandaged it. Then he stood up and swabbed the cut on the boy's temple, leant close to inspect it and found that it did not require stitches. Conash leant away from him, clearly disliking his proximity, and Talon was reminded of the first time he had touched the boy, and his reaction to it. Talon noticed that the youth's cheeks were as smooth as a child's, which was odd for a sixteen-year-old adolescent.
Becoming aware that Conash was eyeing him suspiciously, Talon straightened and set down the bottle of salve. “Any other wounds?”
“Maybe. They had knives.”
“Where?”
Conash eased off his jacket, wincing, to reveal a blood-stained shirt. Talon helped the boy to remove the shirt, finding two stab wounds in his back and one in his biceps.
“You bloody idiot. When were you planning on telling me about these?”
Conash shrugged. “They'll stop bleeding eventually.”
Talon examined the wounds. “You're lucky nothing vital was hit. I'll need to stitch these too.”
“Then I'll need more wine.”
“That's all there is. Grit your teeth.”
Conash groaned and hissed while Talon sewed the stab wounds, and the elder assassin was a little shaken by the time he finished. He was surprised that there were no whip scars on the boy's back, which was odd for someone who had been a Cotti slave.
“The Cotti didn't whip you?” he asked.
“They used their fists and boots.”
Talon returned to his chair and packed away the salve and needles, casting a mournful glance at the empty wine bottle.
“Tell me the rest of the rules,” Conash said.
“You must swear the oath first. Once you do, you're an apprentice, and a member of the Guild.”
“So what's the oath?”
Talon considered the boy, wondering if he was doing the right thing. “Do you swear to uphold and obey all the Guild's laws, and live your life according to them?”
“How do I know, when you haven't told me what they are yet?”
“That's the point. You have to swear to it without knowing what they are. There's no going back once you do.”
Conash snorted, glaring at the table. “All right.”
“You must swear it.”
“I swear it.”
“Do you accept that the punishment for serious transgressions against the Guild, and disobedience, is death?”
“Yes.”
Talon nodded. “I accept your apprenticeship, Conash. You're now a member of the Jondar Guild of Assassins.” He paused, pondering the information he was about to impart. “There aren't that many rules. First and foremost, you're not allowed to kill without a client, or tell anyone your client's name. You're not allowed to dabble in any other trades, or commit crimes like thievery or kidnapping. You're not allowed to use your trade to coerce, intimidate or otherwise solicit anything whatsoever against another person's will.
“All assassins must respect and obey the elders, and you're not allowed to kill other Jashimari assassins. You're allowed to reveal the name of your client only if he or she betrays you, and you're allowed to use your skills to protect yourself. You're not allowed to work for only one client, but must accept assignments from any who offer them, provided that they agree to pay the fee you demand, and the assignment is not beyond your abilities. You must always have the name and description of your target before attempting an assassination.
“You must obey me in all things during your training, and share half your fees with me for two years after you receive your mark. You're not allowed to perform an assassination until you receive your mark, except one, which I'll assign to you when I judge you to be ready. From now on, you must call me 'master'.”
Conash glared at him. “That's a lot of 'not alloweds'.”
“That's what rules are all about.”
He sighed, looking despondent. “So now I'm an assassin?”
“No, you're an apprentice.” Talon stood up and went over to a chest of drawers, taking out a black leather jacket, shirt and trousers. “Here, these are yours.” He tossed them on the table, and Conash fingered them, his expression inscrutable.
Talon reached under the dresser and picked up a pair of black boots, adding them to the pile. “Go and change.”
The boy rose and went behind the bathing alcove's curtain. When he emerged, he tugged at the jacket, which fitted well. Talon nodded, pleased with his accurate estimation of the boy's size.
“When your wounds have healed, I'll begin your training.”
Conash fingered the jacket. “You were confident that I'd accept.”
“Only a fool would choose to die in the gutter, and you didn't strike me as one.”