Conash lived in the garbage dump for seven days, eating stale, soggy bread and offal from the butcheries. He fought the stray dogs that challenged him for the choicest bits, using his fists, and occasionally a dagger. The cat did not return, and he sensed that he never would. Rivan lived now only in the frozen pit where his heart had been. His hands turned brown and his clothes stank, but he did not care. Urchins who picked through the garbage fled from the madman who lived there, or shouted and hurled rocks at him. Conash threw stones back or chased them, and they soon learnt to leave him alone.
On the eighth day, he left his nest of dirty rags and walked back into the city. His stench made people recoil, and he enjoyed their horrified expressions and hands clamped over their noses. He was repugnant, and that suited him. Entering a shop, he swept up a handful of sweetmeats and walked out, ignoring the shopkeeper's irate shouts. On his way through the market, he plucked fruit from the stalls. Vendors chased him, but when he turned to face them, they stopped and walked off, muttering and making the curse warding sign. Conash smiled and wandered on.
Two nights in the gutter convinced him of its unsuitability as a home, and at noon the following day he found himself outside Talon's shack, not remembering how he had got there. The elder appeared at dusk, and swept Conash with a disbelieving glance before he unlocked the door and entered. Handing the boy two buckets, he turned to light the stove while Conash went to fetch water.
When the boy emerged from the tub, clad in a clean pair of grey trousers and a blue shirt, Talon sat at the table, sipping a cup of wine. He poured another and pushed it across the table when Conash sat down.
“I don't want to know where you've been or what you've done, except whether or not you killed anyone. Did you?”
“No.”
“Did you break any other rules?”
“I stole food.”
Talon sighed and sipped his wine. “I'll deal with it if anyone comes looking for you.”
“They won't.”
“Good. Are you injured at all?”
“No.”
“Right then.” Talon rose and slugged back the rest of his wine. “I'm going home. There's dried meat in the cupboard. Tomorrow we continue with your training.”
After the elder left, Conash pushed up his sleeve and gazed at the festering scratches on his forearm. The pain gladdened him, and the infection would make the scars more prominent. He wanted it to fester, but it was almost healed.
The following day, Talon took Conash to the clearing at the edge of the forest where he trained his apprentices to dance. Talon had built the wooden platform at the beginning of his career, after he had earned enough from his first few kills to buy the wood. The boy was pale and drawn, and he recalled the unbelievable fetor that had surrounded him when Talon had found him outside the hut. Conash had washed his clothes, and was clad in black once more, his daggers sheathed in his belt. Talon was glad the boy had not sold the weapons to feed himself, and wondered what he had lived on for the tenday that he had been away. Not much, judging by how much weight he had lost. Once again, he wondered at the depths of the youth's insanity.
Talon stepped up onto the platform, turned to his apprentice and struck a pose, one foot in front of the other. “Watch me.”
The elder tapped a slow cadence on the boards, then leapt and spun, his feet following the precise discipline of the Dance of Death. His swift, certain steps beat out a tattoo that contained a rhythm and a tune. He spun around the platform, leaping high to click his heels together behind him, his arms making sweeping gestures that added to the grace of the Dance and aided his balance. His feet rattled on the boards as he kicked them up before him and flicked them sideways, crossing at the knee. Stamping and spinning, he drifted around the stage, revelling in the freedom and joy the Dance always brought him. He had only been the Master of the Dance for a moon-phase, but he treasured the memory of it.
Talon performed the final stamp and fell to one knee, gasping. Sweat ran down his face and trickled under his clothes, and his legs burnt. Conash watched him, his arms folded, looking singularly disinterested. Talon rose and stepped off the stage.
“Now you, boy.”
Raising a scornful brow, the youth ascended the platform. He performed the first slow taps, then spun and leapt, landed clumsily and tripped over his feet to land with a grunt on the ground beside the stage. Talon walked over to the tree where he kept his stick and pulled it out, strolling back to the boy as he climbed to his feet.
“Again.”
“It's stupid!”
“I didn't ask you what you thought of it, boy. It's required, and you will learn it.”
Conash mounted the platform again and took the first steps, then spun and leapt. His foot twisted when he landed, and he staggered off the platform. Talon rapped the stage and glared.
“Again.”
Conash spat, then stepped onto the platform and performed the first steps again, but his leap lacked height and his spin was devoid of zest, although this time he did not fall over. His next leap was more ill-fated, and he fell to his knees with a grunt. Talon rapped on the stage with the stick.
“Concentrate, boy! Step, step, spin and jump.”
Conash growled and climbed to his feet to begin again. His landed badly from the first jump, and sprawled with a curse. He shook his head.
“This is idiotic! I'm supposed to learn how to kill, not prance about like a damned dandy!”
Talon stepped onto the stage and gripped his apprentice's collar, hauling him to his feet. “This is a dance for killers, stupid boy. It epitomises the speed and grace that an assassin must aspire to in order to succeed. Fail this, and you'll never become an assassin. It's required.” He thrust his face closer. “I know you have a cat inside you, Conash. Release him. Let his speed, strength and grace fill you, let his suppleness aid you. Become the cat!”
The boy glowered at Talon, who released him and stepped back. The elder stepped off the platform and turned to face it again. He rapped the stick on the boards. “Dance!”
Conash gazed down at his feet, looking pensive, then he made the first slow steps. His leap lacked height, and he landed awkwardly, but recovered. The next jump made him stumble, and he reeled off the platform.
Talon rapped on the boards. “Find the cat, Conash! Release the cat! Dance!”
“I'm not a bloody cat!”
“Yes you are. Let the cat guide you. Again!”
The boy mounted the platform and performed the first steps and leap adequately, but clumsily, his arms hanging at his sides. The next leap made him stumble, and the following jump took him off the stage. Talon rapped on the boards.
“You want to be the best assassin in Jashimari, boy?” he shouted. “Then you have to become the Master of the Dance. He's the best! Our skill isn't measured by how many we've killed, but by this. If you don't excel at this, you'll never be the best, even if you kill three hundred men. You're clearly useless, so the best you'll ever be is mediocre. Now dance!”
Conash glared at him, then frowned at his feet again. Talon's eyes narrowed when the youth closed his eyes and raised his head, a look of intense concentration on his face. He raised his arms, his eyes closed, and his hands weaved in strange graceful motions. Talon's heart quickened. Until now, he had thought the youth lacked all vestige of grace. The boy lowered his arms and took the first slow steps, then leapt high, his feet tucked up. He hit the boards tapping, his steps clumsy, but firm, and leapt again, spinning, his arms rising in a flowing gesture.
Talon could almost see the shadowy cat within him, leaping on spring-loaded legs. Conash spun and jumped again, but stumbled when he landed. Recovering, he tapped out the next set of steps, his feet slow and erratic. His next leap carried him higher than the first, but again he fluffed the landing and staggered sideway to sprawl on the grass.
The elder nodded. “Good. Now practice.”
Talon walked back to the shack, well pleased. The boy had potential as a dancer. He might even do well, now that he had acquired a yen to succeed at it.
The next morning, Talon found the hut empty and went to the clearing, standing amongst the trees to watch the boy dance. As with every task that Talon set him, Conash had already improved vastly, and beat out a precise, if somewhat slow, rendition of the Dance. Less than halfway through it, however, he stopped, his chest heaving and his face flushed. Talon strode over to him, collecting his staff along the way, and Conash glared at him when he mounted the stage. Talon prowled around his apprentice, then stopped before him and rapped the staff on the boards.
“You're weak, boy! Weak! That's pathetic! Are you a girl?” Talon frowned as fury glinted in the boy's eyes, then continued, “You want to be a man? Do you want to be strong? How about muscles? You want those?”
Conash nodded.
“Then you need to work at it. Work hard! You want to look like a man instead of a runt, you have to work! You get nothing for nothing! No effort, no results! Go and bring me two rocks, as heavy as you can easily carry.”
The youth quit the stage and hunted amongst the trees for several minutes, returning with two rocks that were rather larger than Talon had intended. The elder eyed them, shaking his head.
“Those might be a bit much for you to manage.”
“Just tell me what you want me to do with them,” Conash said.
“Well it's not bash in my skull, as you'd dearly like to do.” Talon stepped off the platform. “Dance!”
“You jest.”
“No, I don't! Do it!”
Conash hefted the rocks, then took the first slow steps, but his attempt at a spinning leap ended in a fall as the weight of the rocks dragged him down.
“Pathetic!” Talon cried. “You're weak! Again!”
The boy picked himself up and tried again, but fell once more with a growl of rage. “I can barely do it, and now you make it harder!”
“Because you're weak! It's going to get harder still, mark my words! You want to be Master of the Dance?”
Conash nodded.
“Then get it right! Put some effort into it. This isn't a dance for pansies or weaklings! Again!”
Talon walked away as the boy tapped out the first steps again, a thud and grunt telling him of another failure. Returning to the shack, he read a book for two time-glasses, then put it aside, wondering what had become of his apprentice. A little worried, he went back to the clearing.
Conash was sprawled on the platform, the rocks beside his outstretched hands. Talon hurried to him and knelt, cursing as he felt for a pulse in the boy's neck.
“Bloody fool,” he muttered. “I said practice, not kill yourself.”
Hoisting Conash over his shoulder, the elder carried him back to the shack and dumped him on the bed, glad that he was not heavy. After a few pats on the cheek roused him, Talon retreated to sit at the table and pour a cup of wine.
“You're a fool, boy. You could kill yourself like that. Next time take a water skin with you. Here, drink this.”
Conash rose and stumbled to the table, sank onto a chair and picked up the cup of water Talon indicated. Draining it in a few gulps, he refilled it from the jug.
“Tomorrow, you rest,” Talon instructed.
Conash shook his head. “No.”
“You'll do as I say! Tomorrow you'll barely be able to walk. You will rest!”
“I'm going to be the Master of the Dance.”
Talon nodded. “Then you've got a lot of hard work ahead of you, but you're not going to achieve it in a few days. You have four years of training to do, and not all of it will be dancing. Tomorrow we'll do other exercises, to enhance your senses and teach you how to defend yourself. That's important for an assassin. We're often set upon by louts, braggarts and warriors with a yen to prove themselves better than a paid killer, so you need to be good at it.”
“Were you ever Master of the Dance?”
“Yes. For a moon-phase. It was the proudest time of my life. The stigma lingers, too. Most assassins never achieve it, and few keep the belt for more than a year or two. Next tenday there's a meeting, and you'll go with me. You might see the Master dance, if you're lucky and there's a challenger. His name's Shaft, and he's cat kin, like you.”
“How long has he been the Master?”
Talon considered. “Almost two years, I think. He's good. So, do you still think it's for pansies?”
“No.”
“Good. If you're going to become the Master, you've got to learn to love it, and right now, you don't.”
“It's no fun with rocks in your hands.”
“No,” Talon agreed. “And it's going to become less fun, but in the end you'll be a better dancer for it. Then you'll learn to enjoy it.”
The night air nipped Conash's skin as he paused to study the crowd of black-clad men gathered amongst the ancient standing stones. They marked the ruins of a temple that had last been used for religious rites aeons ago, during the Age of Elements. It would probably be rebuilt and used again in the next Age of Elements, still more than two hundred years away. Crowds made Conash uneasy, and a crowd of killers made his alarms jangle uncomfortably. Talon continued towards the torch-lighted gathering, his wolf beside him, and Conash trotted after him. A platform stood at the centre of the stones, and several youths, a little older than him, waited beside it. A group of four elders greeted Talon, and he introduced Conash with a gesture.
“My new apprentice.”
The men measured Conash with hard eyes, then turned to speak to Talon. Assuming that he was dismissed, Conash wandered over to inspect the platform, which was easily four times the size of the one on which he had been practicing. Stout uprights supported the expanse of boards, and stones and mud strengthened its foundations. A tall, slender man leant against one of the supports, talking to a shorter, stocky assassin. The tall man's silver-studded belt riveted Conash's attention. It could only mean that the slender assassin was Shaft, the Master of the Dance.
“What are you staring at, boy?”
Conash raised his gaze to meet Shaft's eyes, and shrugged. “Your belt.”
“You like it, eh? Maybe you think you can win it one day?”
“I will.”
“Really?” The Dance Master stepped closer. “You'll address me as 'master' when you speak to me, boy.”
“You're not my master.”
“I'm the Master of the Dance.”
Conash thrust out his chin. “You spoke to me. I only replied out of politeness.”
Shaft looked surprised, then slapped Conash, making him stagger. “Don't be insolent, apprentice!”
Conash resisted the urge to clasp his smarting cheek and glared at the Dance Master. “Don't touch me.”
“Or what? You'll hit me back? You're a runt!”
Conash kicked Shaft in the crotch, and he folded over with a groan. Several assassins approached, one of whom gripped Conash's ear and twisted it. The boy grunted and tried to punch and kick him, but the man held him away and turned sideways to protect his groin.
“Whose apprentice is this?” he bellowed.
Talon strode up, scowling. “Let him go. He's mine.”
“You should control him better, elder.” The assassin released Conash, who rubbed his ear. Talon gripped his shoulder and pulled him to his side, eyeing the groaning Dance Master.
“What did he do?”
“I believe he kicked Shaft in the crotch.”
Talon's lips twitched as he hid a smile, and he frowned at Conash. “You'll get a beating for this.”
“From you?”
“Yes.”
The boy shrugged. “All right.”
“You think it was worth it?”
“That depends on the beating.”
Talon nodded. “Indeed it does.”
“He hit me first.”
“Did he?” Talon swung to frown at Shaft, who had straightened, and did his best not to clutch his offended nether regions. “Why did you strike my apprentice, Dance Master Shaft?”
“He was insolent, and refused to use my title.”
“I hardly think that rates a violent reaction.”
“I'll punish impudent apprentices as I see fit.”
Talon shook his head. “Not when he's mine. You'll ask my permission first, or pay a penalty.”
“You're not even a senior elder.”
Talon stepped forward and thrust his face closer to Shaft's. “You'd better start using my title and showing some respect, or you'll be the next one to get a slap, Master Shaft.”
Shaft's scowl deepened, and he glanced past Talon at the stony-faced elders who stood behind him. “An unintentional slight, Elder.”
“It had better be. And if you ever lay a hand on my apprentice again, you'll answer to me.”
“He's impertinent! He doesn't even call you 'master'.”
“What goes on between an elder and his apprentice is no one else's business, Master Shaft.”
Shaft snorted and swung away, and Talon gripped Conash's arm and led him out of the crowd before turning to him. “I may allow you to be disrespectful when we're alone, but here you'll use my title or I will punish you.”
The boy shrugged and rubbed his cheek. “All right.”
“Don't make it sound like you're doing me any favours. Shaft's right, you have no respect.” A smile tugged at his mouth. “Who taught you to kick a man in the crotch?”
“The Cotti.”
Talons' smile vanished. “Right. Well, don't make a habit of it. It's not acceptable.”
“It works.”
“That doesn't mean you should do it.”
Conash smiled, and Talon muttered a curse as he marched back to the group of elders. The boy did not speak for the remainder of the night, during which seven apprentices performed the Dance of Death, and three attained their marks. He discovered that it was a small black dagger tattoo at the base of the neck, just beneath the hollow formed by the collar bones. Soon after the newly fledged assassins' celebrations were over, Talon took Conash back to the shack.