“Where are we going?” Conash asked for what seemed like the eighth time, although it might have only been five.
At eighteen, he was almost as tall as Talon, and the rigorous exercise regimen his mentor had forced him to undergo had broadened his shoulders and padded his chest and arms with muscle. He now possessed a whipcord build with narrow hips and powerful thighs, the last of his childish scrawniness banished by a good diet and endless body building, at which he excelled. The manly features it bestowed pleased him, and, although his cheeks were still smooth, his face had become a little more masculine.
Talon cast him an irritated glance. “To buy something to use in your training.”
“What?”
“You'll see.”
The youth glanced around at the filthy streets of the poor quarter, not seeing any shops or vendors. Mystified, he followed his mentor into a smelly alley strewn with rubbish, where Talon stopped and knocked on the rickety door of a dilapidated hovel. The dwelling's roof sagged, and it appeared to lean against its equally squalid neighbour. Such shanties populated the entire area. A hag opened the door with a creak of rusty hinges, raking the elder assassin with a hard glance.
“We've come for the body,” Talon said.
“Right.” She shuffled aside and pulled open the door, which scraped across the floor with a screech that made Conash grit his teeth.
The crone led Talon into a dim interior and past a patched, moth-eaten curtain, Conash following. He stopped with a start of surprise when he spied an old man lying on a dirty bed, who, judging by his sunken eyes and exposed teeth, had been dead for several time-glasses. The hag gestured to the corpse with a gnarled hand.
“There he is, Elder.”
Talon bent to examine the corpse, then straightened with a nod. “He'll do.”
The woman held out her hand, and he counted six silvers into it. Conash shifted uneasily, averted his eyes from the corpse and tried not to think about what was causing the rancid, sickly smell. Talon turned to him as the hag pushed the money into her apron pocket and shuffled off to stand on the far side of the hovel.
“Bring him,” the elder ordered.
Conash shot a glance at the corpse. “You jest.”
“No, I don't. Pick him up and bring him.”
“He's dead.”
“I'm aware of that.”
Conash leant closer to his mentor. “He stinks.”
“I'm aware of that, too.”
“This is not something I'm willing to do.”
Talon's brows rose. “You refuse?”
“No, I...” Conash glanced at the cadaver again. “Couldn't we hire a man to do it?”
“Are you too weak?”
“No, I -”
“Aren't you a man?”
Conash frowned. “I'm an apprentice assassin, not a damned labourer, or undertaker, not to mention corpse carrier.”
“But you're my apprentice, sworn to follow my orders.”
“That doesn't include carrying stinking corpses all the way across the slums.”
“Actually, it includes anything I see fit, including ditch digging, floor sweeping, dish washing, boot polishing, dagger sharpening, clothes -”
“All right!” Conash said, his brows knotted.
“Wrap him in the sheet and bring him.”
The apprentice approached the bed warily, breathing through his mouth to cut down on the intensity of the stench. “Didn't she ever bathe him?”
“You're getting far too fanatical about baths, Conash. Every day is too often, in my opinion.”
“This man hasn't seen soap and water in at least five decades.”
Talon snorted. “He's dead, that's why he smells. It happens to corpses. As I recall, you smelt worse when I found you, and you were dead too, weren't you?”
“I didn't ask you to carry me.”
“But I did.”
Conash pulled the sheet over the corpse's face and around the body, swaddling it and cutting off some of the foetor. The old man's corpse was thin, but seemed heavy when the youth picked it up and slung it over his shoulder. The cadaver burped and farted, and Conash almost threw it down again. Talon's face went stiff as he struggled not to laugh, and they shuffled past the harridan, who watched them with tearful eyes.
“A decent burial, Elder, please,” she rasped.
“Of course, old mother. As if he was my own father, I swear.”
“Thank you, Elder. Tinsharon's blessings be upon you.”
Outside, Conash almost trotted down the alley, eager to get the arduous and odious journey over. Talon hurried after him, chuckling, and Conash shot him an angry look.
“This is disgusting.”
“If you keep jolting him, he'll fart some more.”
“God! Why do we need a stinking corpse, anyway?”
“When we get home, I'll show you.”
The youth quickened his strides, the carcass bouncing on his shoulder. He made a sound of disgust when the corpse farted again, and Talon chuckled. A yellow liquid seeped through the cloth in the region of the corpse's head, and Conash swallowed bile, almost trotting now. Talon kept pace, grinning.
“You're going to have to get used to death in all its forms, Conash. It's not pleasant.”
“I didn't know that assassins had to dispose of bodies, too.”
“We don't. This is for your benefit. Don't think I'm enjoying this any more than you are.”
“You're not the one carrying a belching, farting, oozing corpse.”
Talon chuckled again. “But I did, when I was an apprentice.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then you know a little of what I feel now. Only I'm probably more disgusted by it than you were,” Conash said.
“And why is that?”
“Because I wasn't raised in this stinking city, surrounded by garbage and squalor.”
“But I'll wager you witnessed far worse in the Cotti camp.”
As always, the mention of the Cotti brought silence from the apprentice, and the rest of the journey was achieved thus.
Talon pushed open the door of his shack, and Conash dumped the corpse on the floor, straightening with a grunt of disgust. Shaking his head, Talon indicated the table.
“Put it there.”
“We eat off that.”
“So you'll scrub it when we're finished.”
Conash lifted the corpse and dropped it on the table, turning away when his bile rose again. Greenish-yellow stains mottled the grey sheet, and a large, yellowish-brown patch sullied the region of the cadaver's rear end. The stench hit him, and Conash stumbled to the door and retched.
“God! He's got diarrhoea!”
“Well, he had to have died of something.”
“Couldn't you have chosen a younger, less diseased corpse?”
Talon shrugged, tugging off the sheet. “This one's fine, and cheap.”
“We could catch some illness from it.”
“No, he died primarily of old age, with a bout of diarrhoea for good measure.”
Conash glanced around and shook his head. “I'm not touching that.”
“Yes, you are. I'm not doing this for my benefit, you know.”
“I don't see the point.”
Talon frowned at him. “Conash, your obsession with cleanliness is becoming fanatical. Assassins can't be squeamish.”
“I still don't see the point.”
“We're going to have a look at his insides.”
“You jest!”
Talon shook his head. “Not even a little. This is an important lesson. You need to learn what the vital organs are, and where they reside, so you'll know where to stab your victims. If you miss the heart, you could end up dead. A dead assassin reflects badly on his mentor. Come here.”
The youth approached the table, holding a hand over his nose. Talon shot him an irritated glance. “Cut open his chest.”
“Ugh.”
The elder pulled a dagger from Conash's belt and pressed it into his hand. “Start just below his collar bone, here, and cut him all the way down to his abdomen.”
“That's bone.”
“Just cut the skin.” Talon turned to the cupboard and took out a meat cleaver. “Then you'll use this.”
Conash leant over the corpse and pressed the dagger to the skin of its chest, slicing it open from collar bone to pubis. Dark blood oozed out, and he ran to the door to empty his stomach outside. Talon clicked his tongue.
“Don't tell me you can't stand the sight of blood. How will you kill a man if you're busy vomiting all over the place?”
“I'll manage.”
“You'd better. I didn't train you for two years for you to turn green on me now. Or yellow, for that matter. Here.” Talon thrust the cleaver at him.
The youth took the utensil and returned to the table, gulping. Talon stepped back and nodded encouragingly. Gritting his teeth, Conash chopped through the cadaver's sternum, his face twisted with disgust. Talon stepped forward.
“Good, now pull it open.”
“Eew?”
“Stop acting like a girl, Conash.”
The apprentice pushed his fingers into the gash, shuddering, and pulled the corpse's ribs apart, wincing at the sound of cracking bone. Talon peered into the cadaver's chest, pointing.
“There, you see? That's the heart, between the lungs, on the left side.”
Conash nodded, biting his lip. Talon indicated various organs, then ordered the youth to pull out the corpse's intestines, exposing more organs, which he named, informing his apprentice of the efficacy of wounding a man there.
“For a slow death, you stab a man in his entrails, using a twist, like so.” Talon mimed the motion, then pointed to two organs close to the corpse's spine. “Also, flip him onto his stomach and stab him in those organs. He'll piss blood and die a little quicker. The slightest nick in the entrails will cause his death, however. He'll rot from the inside, and it takes about three days. It's also very painful.” He stepped back. “Now, stab him in your chosen area, and make sure you hit the heart.”
Conash picked up his dagger and stabbed the corpse in the flank, between the third and fourth ribs. It was sickening to thrust the weapon through sticky flesh and spongy lung. He was able to see the dagger penetrating the corpse's heart, however, and practiced it until Talon was satisfied. The experience nauseated Conash, but Talon was a thorough teacher, and would not allow the youth any leeway, despite his squeamishness.
After he had practiced the flank stab until the elder was content that he had mastered it, Talon made him stab the corpse in the eyes, then the neck and gut, impaling the two vital organs he had shown his apprentice earlier. Finally, Talon ordered him to close the corpse's chest and stab it from the front, then the back, until Conash was shaking from the ordeal
Talon nodded. “Good. I think that's enough. Bury him, then clean up this mess.”
“Where must I bury him?”
“I don't care.” Talon headed for the door. “I'm going home, before the smell sickens me, too.”
***
Conash stepped up onto the platform and glanced at Talon, who watched him, tapping his teaching staff. The elder had used the stick many times to rap various parts of the youth's anatomy, mostly his ankles and elbows, with painful effect. Over the past two years, Conash had received many stinging blows during his dancing lessons, and wondered what blunder would earn him another today. For five moons, he had carried rocks, then, when he had improved, Talon had wrapped chains around his ankles, weighing him down even more. Conash had struggled to perform even a clumsy, slow rendition of the Dance while so hampered, but gradually had improved until his performance was adequate.
Talon enforced a stiff regimen of daily exercise that consisted of running, push-ups, pull-ups and lifting weights. When Conash was not dancing or exercising, he practiced his dagger skills, throwing, thrusting, slicing and stabbing, until he had perfected all the moves.
The elder assassin rapped his staff on the platform. “Today you'll complete the Dance from beginning to end, without a single mistake. Throw away the rocks and take off the chains.”
Conash's brows rose, but he was eager to drop the stones and bend to remove the chains from his ankles. Talon tapped a slow rhythm on the boards with the staff.
“This is the beat that begins the Dance of Death. Find the cat inside you, and show me a performance that will win you the title of Master of the Dance. Now, begin!”
Conash bowed his head and looked deep within himself to find his tenuous, half-forgotten link to his kin. Closing his eyes, he flung back his head and raised his arms in a graceful sweep as he tapped the first slow steps on the boards. Springing high, he spun, tucked up his legs and clicked his heels behind him, his arms descending in a flowing motion. He landed lightly, his boots rattling on the platform in a set of complicated steps. Talon nodded, his eyes narrowing.
Conash leapt again, twisting as he spun, one leg lashing out, the other tucked up. His hands described graceful motions, and he hit the platform running, kicking up his heels in the next set of stamping steps. He seemed to float, his feet blurring as the taps blended into a buzz, then he spun and kicked, his foot ascending above his head. Talon fought to quell a surge of awe at his apprentice's performance, which outmatched the current Master of the Dance, Lash, by an entire category. The youth was faster, more precise and more graceful. His leaps carried him so high that he seemed to fly.
The performance was so far superior to anything Talon had ever seen before that he knew, without a doubt, that he was watching the next Dance Master. While weighed down by the chains and stones, Conash had given an adequate rendition. Without them, his dance was flawless and awe inspiring. Pride filled Talon's heart, and he smiled when Conash performed the final leap and fell to one knee, his chest heaving and sweat sheening his brow. He looked at Talon, his expression expectant.
The elder nodded. “Nice. You'll have to improve your technique, but that's not bad.”
“Not bad?” Conash jumped up. “I think it's better than the apprentices I've seen at meetings, and they got their marks.”
Talon hid a smile at this gross understatement. “I said it was good, but you need to do more work on it. You can dance once a day, at the end of your dance session, without the rocks and chains.”
“You mean I have to keep them on?”
“The rest of the time, yes.”
Conash groaned and sat on the edge of the platform. “Do you torture all your apprentices like this?”
“No, but they were all mediocre. None of them had the dedication, or perhaps stupidity, to obey me and use the rocks and chains all the time. They cheated, and by doing so, robbed themselves of greatness.”
“You think I'm stupid to obey you?”
“No.” Talon shrugged. “Maybe a little. The difference is that you've done nothing for the past two years except practice everything I've taught you until you've mastered it. They went drinking and wenching, or sat in the sun instead of training. Therefore, you're better than any of them.”
“So I'm ready to be tested?”
Talon turned away to hide his expression, which might have given away his agreement. Conash had, with that dance, convinced him that he had been a party to training the best assassin in Jashimari. He could not take all the credit, though, for his other apprentices had not excelled like this. “Not yet.”
“When?”
“Soon enough. Patience, remember?”
“I think I'm ready.”
Talon sighed. “You would. I still have a few lessons to teach you, though.”
“Like what?”
“Let's have some wine.” Talon set off through the trees.
Conash caught up to walk beside him, and the elder patted him on the back. Over the years, the youth had come to accept Talon's rare gestures of appreciation, encouragement and even affection, though he did not seem to appreciate them. He no longer shrugged them off quite so often, though.
Talon sensed that the youth was still half wild, and had learnt to treat him with a great deal more kindness and consideration than he had shown previous apprentices. As the wild boy had grown into a young man, Talon had formed the opinion that not only was Conash extremely dangerous and unstable, he was also devious. His smiles never reached his eyes, which remained frigid and empty, even when he laughed or joked, though that was rare. The final lesson he was about to impart to Conash now, at the end of his training, would make him more dangerous still, even to his mentor, and remove the only weapon Talon had retained against him. Talon was jerked from his reverie as Conash spoke.
“You're not planning on getting me drunk and dressing me up as a girl again, are you?”
“No, once was enough.”
“Good.”
Talon spotted a loitering beggar and hailed the man, who looked wary and shuffled his feet.
“How would you like to earn three coppers?” the elder asked.
“Reckon I would. Fer doing wot?”
“Nothing harmful or strenuous, my good man. All it requires is your co-operation.”
The beggar shrugged. “All right.”
Conash shot Talon a suspicious look as the elder opened the shack and ushered the man inside.
“What do you need him for?”
“You'll see.”
Conash followed him inside, where the beggar glanced around curiously, and appraisingly.
Talon gestured at a chair. “Have a seat.”
“Do I get some wine, too?” The man eyed the bottle on the table.
“Afterwards.”
The beggar sat down, watching the elder and his apprentice. Talon turned to Conash. “I'm going to show you how to render a man senseless with just a touch. It's one of your final lessons. Tomorrow I'll find a broker and set up your first kill.”
“So you do think I'm ready?”
“Perhaps. That depends on whether or not you succeed.” Talon wandered behind the beggar and placed his hands on the man's neck. “Watch closely, now. This is where you place your fingers, here, and here.”
Conash studied Talon's hands, nodding. The elder squeezed, and the beggar slumped. Conash straightened in surprise.
“That looks easy.”
“It is, when you know how to do it. But it takes practice. That's what he's here for.”
“I'm surprised he trusts an assassin.”
Talon smiled. “I'm an elder, and everyone knows we don't kill. Even active assassins need a client.”
“How long does it last?”
“That depends on how long you press for. He should wake up in a minute or two.”
The man roused after a couple of minutes, looking a little dazed, and Conash tried to emulate his mentor. His first few attempts brought only hisses of pain from the beggar, and Talon demonstrated again. On Conash's fifth attempt, the man slumped.
Talon nodded. “Good. Do it a couple more times, and you'll have it.”
By the time the beggar left, rubbing his neck and clutching three coppers, Conash had mastered the technique. Talon sat and poured two cups of wine, and the youth settled opposite.
“Why didn't you teach me that before? Do you think I'll use it on you?”
“You could. I seem to remember you attacking me on more than one occasion.”
“You think I'm dangerous,” Conash stated.
“You are.”
“Then you shouldn't have taught me to kill.”
“You already knew how to kill. I hope I've given you a reason not to do it without payment.”
Conash leant over the table. “You have. But I take the oath I swore seriously. You have no need to fear me.”
Talon shook his head. “You're still dangerous. When the fury consumes you, no one is safe from you.”
“I've learnt to control it.”
“Have you?”
“Yes. He's gone.”
“Who?”
The youth leant back, frowning. “My familiar's spirit.”
“Ah. Was it he who made you kill?”
“He helped. He kept me alive. He's the reason I wanted to kill, because he was dead, and, therefore, so am I.”
Talon sighed. “I don't understand the Bereft, so I won't pretend I do.”
“I'm glad you realise that. When he was with me, I was insane.”
“You still are.”
“No. I was maddened by grief. I couldn't let him go. But then he left of his own accord.”
Talon sipped his wine. “Because he was hurting you.”
“No. He helped me, but his presence wouldn't let me deal with my grief.”
“And now you have?”
“As much as I'm able.”
The elder rubbed his brow. “You're not really sane. You have no conscience, no remorse, and no pity.”
“What good are they to a killer?”
“None. That's why I trained you. Killing is something you'll always be good at. All I've done is ensure that you do it well, you won't get caught, and don't do it for no reason. I've turned a murderer into an assassin.”
“What better clay to work with?”
“So long as you never slip back into your old ways.”
Conash nodded. “I won't.”