Conash sat in a dim corner of a seedy taproom, Talon beside him, a mug of ale on the table in front of him. A buxom serving girl winked at Conash while she cleared the neighbouring table, and he scowled at her. The girl blanched and hurried away. A hunched, brown-haired man with a servile manner and rat-trap mouth approached their table and sat opposite, his eyes furtive. Talon nodded at him.
“Evening, Darnish.”
“Elder.” Darnish eyed Conash. “Is this the lad?”
“Yes.”
“He looks young.”
“He's old enough.”
Darnish continued to study the youth. “He's small, too. The target I've got for you is a big man, a drover.”
“He'll manage. What's the name and address?”
“Broman. He lives in the eighth district slums, Potpear Lane, number eleven. His familiar's a bull. It stays in a paddock up on the commons.”
Talon nodded, and Darnish dropped two silvers on the table, rose and left. Conash frowned at his back before turning to his mentor.
“He's the client?”
“No, he's a broker. Apprentice kills are always made through a broker. That way, if you botch it and get caught, you don't know the name of the client. It's also cheaper. Darnish must have got four silvers from his client, and he keeps half.”
“I won't botch it.”
Talon said, “Don't get cocky. You'll spend three days watching this Broman, whether you like it or not. At the end of it, you tell me what you've learnt, and your plan. I'll tell you if it'll work.”
“I want to know why someone wants this man dead.”
“That's not your business. Your only job is to kill him. Since it's your first kill, it's always a quick one. Come, let's go.”
Conash drained his ale, and they headed back to the shack.
Conash woke with a snort and grabbed a branch as he slid off his perch in the crook of a puffwood tree. Various parts of his posterior had fallen asleep during his vigil, and he shifted to allow blood to resume its flow to the tingling areas. Spying on a victim was boring, he had decided. During the first day, he had learnt enough about the man to make his kill, in his opinion, and disliked Talon's insistence that he spy on the drover for three days. The man was boring, and remained at home, for the most part, with his wife and two sons.
Apart from two forays to a nearby alehouse, Broman had risen at sun up, eaten breakfast and lazed around, either in the house or the park nearby. His wife cooked and cleaned, and his sons went to school. The older one was about twelve and his brother a little younger. The drover went to bed at dusk in the bedroom upstairs. The houses in the poor suburb all had cracked, peeling paint, and this one's roof sagged on one side. A window offered entry into the bedroom. All he had to do was climb the rough stone wall, which, after Talon's intensive wall climbing lessons, he was confident would be no problem.
Conash yawned and climbed down the tree, heading back to the shack.
In the morning, Talon listened to his brief assessment and shook his head at the end of it.
“What familiar does his wife have?”
Conash shrugged. “A dog, I think.”
“You think? You'd better know. If you go in there without knowing all the familiars in that house, you could be dead.”
“I'll deal with it.”
“Your over confidence is astounding, and stupid. Even if it's just a small dog, it can wake them up while you're in the room.”
Conash shrugged again. “Then I'll kill them all.”
“No, you won't. You'll kill the drover, no one else!”
“If they're a threat to me -”
“You avoid them. You ensure your target's alone. You don't slaughter the entire household! This isn't an excuse for a killing spree.” Talon looked pensive. “Is that what you want?”
“No.”
“You'd better make sure it doesn't happen. You'll study that household until you know every person in it intimately before you make your attempt. For all you know, your client covets the drover's wife. Do you think he'll pay you the second half of your fee if she's dead?”
“She's a frumpy -”
Talon thumped the table. “That's not the point! You were hired to kill one man!”
“All right!” Conash scowled. “I'll just kill him, then.”
“You think this is going to be so easy, don't you? You're in for a shock. If assassinating a man was so easy, you wouldn't need two years of training to do it well, and most apprentices take four!” Talon shook his head. “Many apprentices never get their marks, because they're killed on their first attempt, or captured and handed over to the Watch, which imprisons or executes them because they don't have a mark.”
“Then why aren't they given the mark before their first kill?”
“Because so many of them fail! You have to prove that you can carry out an assassination before you become an assassin. You think the Guild wants to be credited with so many failures? It doesn't.”
Conash frowned. “Then why aren't apprentices trained better, so they don't fail?”
“It's not a matter of training. It's what's in here.” Talon tapped his chest. “And here.” He tapped his head. “Learning how to stick a dagger in someone is far easier than actually doing it. That's one reason why the dagger isn't the favourite weapon of assassins. Most prefer the crossbow, the garrotte or cudgel, even the poisoned blade. With the crossbow, they kill from a distance, so the risk is negligible. With the garrotte, the man has no hope of escape. With the cudgel, it's too quick for a man to retaliate or flee, and with a poisoned blade, the target's death is assured, even if the assassin isn't all that skilled. All he needs to do is draw blood.
“You must enter that man's house undetected, and preferably kill him without causing a ruckus. You have to get close enough to slip your dagger between his ribs, and make sure you hit the heart. If he wakes up, he'll fight you, and you're not a fighter. You're not there to fight him, only to kill him, understand?”
The youth nodded, sighing.
Talon rapped on the table. “Listen to me. A lot of apprentices fail because they panic. They freeze up or try to flee. Some find that they can't go through with it; others, like you, are overconfident, and aren't careful enough. A careless assassin is a dead one, Conash. Maybe not on his first kill, but eventually. You must pay attention to every detail, and plan the kill meticulously, allowing for every eventuality you can think of.”
He raised a finger. “That one small thing that you overlooked, be it the wife's familiar or the man's bout of diarrhoea, can, and will, get you killed. Assassins have died because the wind changed at an inopportune moment, and a familiar smelt them. Others came to grief because they didn't notice a rug or the door creaked when they opened it. Everything is vital. I've taught you all the skills you need to succeed, but it's now up to you to use them correctly.”
“I will.”
Talon shook his head. “No, already you've failed by not finding out what the wife's familiar is. I should cancel this kill and train you for another year, I think, until you learn your lessons properly.”
“No! I'm ready for this. I'll find out what the wife's familiar is.”
“You'd better. If you get caught, I can't, and won't, help you. You'll be on your own. Attempted murder carries a sentence of twenty years hard labour. Murder will get you executed. You botch this kill, and it'll be your last.”
“I won't botch it.”
“Then get back to work.”
Conash left the shack and headed back to Broman's house, cursing his mentor for making him spy on the man for another day. Since he was unable to return to his perch in the puffwood tree that grew in the yard across the road during the day, he took up vigil on the neighbour's roof, crouched beside the chimney, out of sight. He watched the boys go off to school and the wife leave to go to the market. A spotted dog followed her, and the boys did not appear to have bonded yet.
Broman emerged at midday and wandered up the street to the nearest alehouse. He returned at dusk, by which time his wife had come back with a basket of fresh produce and started dinner, judging by the aroma that made the youth's mouth water. Realising that he had not eaten all day, he climbed down and visited the alehouse, where he ate an oily goat stew.
By the time he made his way back to Broman's house, dusk had fallen and the lamps were lighted. Settling into his perch in the puffwood tree, he watched the house, noting movement past the windows. The family congregated downstairs for the evening meal, then the boys went to bed, carrying lamps upstairs before snuffing them out. Another light ascended to the main bedroom, carried either by Broman or his wife, or both. The wife's familiar would doubtless sleep in the bedroom with them, and was therefore unavoidable, but it was only a small dog.
Conash waited until the light in the master bedroom was snuffed out, then pondered his plan. Climbing in through the window allowed him swift access to his target, and was the easiest way in. He licked a finger and tested the wind, which was negligible, then glanced up at the Sea moon. Perhaps not as auspicious for his first kill as a Death moon would be, he mused, but this was the beginning of his journey as an assassin.
Conash considered returning to the shack to report to Talon, as he was supposed to do, but there seemed little point. His plan was good, and the fact that he now knew that the wife's familiar was indeed a dog made little difference. He wondered why Talon had been so insistent on his finding out. He would assassinate the man tonight, he decided, and prove himself to Talon.
Climbing down, he slipped across the road to the front of Broman's house and set his fingers into the nooks and crannies in the wall, ascending it with ease. Reaching the window, he tugged at the shutters, finding them locked. He cursed, groping for the tools in his belt. The fingers of his left hand held him to the wall, hooked into the crack between the stone and the window frame. His boots' toes gripped the narrow lip of a supporting beam.
Drawing out a slim tool, he slid it into the crack between the shutters and lifted the latch. The shutters parted with a creak, and he almost dropped the tool when a light came on inside. He flattened himself to the wall. Mumbling came from within, then someone yanked the shutters closed and latched them again. Conash's heart raced and his palms sweated, weakening his grip. Cursing, he climbed back down and walked across the road, wiping his hands on his trousers. The sudden tension made his stomach knot, and he sat down in a shadow to recover.
Conash waited until the moon set, chafing with impatience. Boredom plagued him, and he shifted and fidgeted. Deciding that the drover and his wife must be asleep, he rose and returned to the house, ascending the wall again. The shutters creaked open when he lifted the latch, and he was forced to duck under the nearest one. Raising himself on quivering fingers, he peered over the ledge into a dark, hushed room. Two mounds filled the bed, and the dog slept at the end of it. The larger mound was furthest from the window, adding to his problem.
Pulling himself onto the ledge, he swung a leg inside. His boot struck something beneath the window with a thud, and he froze, glancing down to discover a table there. Fortunately, his foot had missed the pottery ornament atop it. The occupants of the bed shifted, mumbled and farted. Conash wrinkled his nose and climbed over the table, his boots silent on the worn rug. The dog was unlikely to smell an alien presence amidst the drover's spicy pungency. He paused to get his bearings, glancing at the stained, cracked walls and rotten curtains that framed the window.
Conash crept towards the bed, his heart hammering and his breath coming in jerky gasps. The tension within him mounted as he neared his target, and the steel spring inside him coiled tighter. A tug at his boot made him glance down in alarm, to find his toe hooked under a moth-eaten rug. Freeing it, he continued towards the bed. Broman's wife tossed and muttered, throwing out an arm that slapped her husband on the ear. He grunted and grumbled, and Conash froze while the drover thrust her arm off his head. Broman rolled onto his back and started a rasping snore, the volume of which astonished Conash.
It also, apparently, astonished his wife, who sat up and prodded her husband. Conash dropped to the floor, glancing at the open window. The drover rolled onto his side and fell silent, and his wife lay down again with a sigh, turning towards the window. She muttered a curse and climbed out of bed, going over to close the shutters once more. So she was the shutter-closing culprit. Conash whispered a curse. His exit had just become a little more complicated. The woman climbed back into bed and yanked the covers over herself, dragging them off her burly husband in the process.
The drover groped for the blankets and pulled them back, entering into a tug-of-war with his wife, which he won. Conash wondered if they were ever going to settle down and sleep. The woman, finding herself exposed again, dragged the blankets back, hauling herself closer to her husband, since he hung on. The dog, disturbed by all the grunting, farting, tossing and squirming, sat up and shook itself, turning in circles as it settled down again. It paused, sniffing the air, then, to Conash's horror, barked.
The woman muttered a curse, but the dog continued to yap in Conash's direction. She sat up and prodded her husband, who tried to slap her hand away, then growled and rolled onto his back.
“What in Damnation is it now?” he grumbled.
“Something's worrying Erril,” she said.
“Probably gas. You fed him sweets tonight, didn't you?”
“Only one. He thinks there's someone in the room.”
“He doesn't have enough brains to think. Tell him to be quiet and go to sleep.”
She shook her head, staring into the darkness with wide eyes. “Light a lamp, Broman.”
“For God's sake, woman!” The drover sat up.
Conash glanced at the window, calculating the distance to it and his chances of reaching it and climbing through it before the drover caught him. The fact that the shutters were now closed made his prospects slim. Either he had to flee, or attack. The drover was unarmed, and would be taken by surprise. He could still do this. Conash started to stand up, then remembered to draw his daggers. Their cold hilts filled his sweaty palms, but his heart was pounding so hard that it made him dizzy. The tightly coiled spring inside him released with a snap, and he launched himself from the shadows, hurdling the end of the bed.
The bedstead caught his foot, and he sprawled on top of the drover, his weapons impaling the mattress and pillow with lethal force. The drover's wife screamed and the dog yapped and snapped at Conash's ankles. He stabbed Broman in the arm, and the man roared. His huge fist slammed into the side of the youth's head, sending him sprawling across the woman, who shrieked and slapped him.
Ducking her flailing hands, he twisted to face the drover again, stabbing the man in the belly. Broman bellowed and grabbed Conash's hair, yanking it so hard that the youth's eyes watered. He flailed at the big man, his daggers slashing the pillow and releasing a cloud of feathers. The dog's teeth sank into his ankle, and he yelped and kicked it off the bed. The drover hauled him closer by his hair and the woman grabbed his arm, hampering him. He jerked free of her as the drover punched him again, ripped out a hank of hair and sent him rolling off the bed to land on the floor with a thud and grunt.
Conash tried to leap up, but the blankets tangled his legs. Broman slid off the bed and kicked him across the floor, forcing a coughing grunt from him. The big man followed, while his wife fumbled with a tinderbox. Conash sensed the situation slipping from his control, if indeed, it had ever been in his control. He struggled to draw air into his aching lungs, his head spinning as he squinted at the muscular man with work-callused hands who stood over him. Broman bent and gripped the apprentice's collar, hauled him to his feet and punched him in the face again. Conash reeled into a dresser with a terrific crash of shattering glass. The dog yapped and bounced on the bed, adding to the ruckus.
Conash shook his head as stars flashed in his eyes, the back of his skull throbbing from its crack against the dresser. Broman stepped closer, blood seeping through his nightshirt. Conash raised his daggers, but Broman grabbed Conash's arm and twisted it behind him with enough force to make his tendons pop. The youth hissed, and the dagger fell with a tinkle. Releasing Conash's right arm, the drover grabbed the youth's left arm when he raised it and slammed him back into the wall, cracking his head on it. More stars flashed in the apprentice's eyes, and Broman caught Conash's right wrist, releasing his left. He gripped Conash's throat and pinned him to the wall, throttling him.
Conash yanked another dagger from his belt sheath with his left hand, glad that he had brought all four. He rammed it into the man's flank, cutting through meat and lung tissue, then it was almost ripped from his grasp as the drover recoiled. Conash jerked it out, realising that he had stabbed Broman in the right flank, and missed his heart. The apprentice's injured arm twinged as the drover released his neck and grabbed his wrist, slamming it against the wall. With both arms pinned, Conash stared into the big man's furious, bloodshot eyes, a sinking feeling in his gut.
The steel spring inside him coiled tighter, and raw instinct took over as a red tide of fury washed through him. His boot thudded into Broman's crotch, and the drover folded over with a groan, his grip on the youth's wrists weakening. Conash jerked one arm free and drove the dagger into Broman's chest, this time sensing the blade penetrate the man's heart. The drover sank to his knees, his eyes bulging and his mouth open, lips quivering. The dog yapped and the woman shrieked. She had lighted a lamp, and Conash squinted in its illumination, wrenching his wrist from the dying man's grasp.
Blood flowed down the drover's nightshirt, and the dagger grated against bone when Conash pulled it out. His stomach clenched at the scent of blood, and he sprinted for the window. He thought the shutters would give way when he hit them, but instead he rebounded with a crash and staggered back. Tripping over the rug, he fell against the bed, cracking his head on it. He struggled to his feet and staggered to the window, lifted the latch and shoved the shutters open. Broman's wife wailed, crouched beside her husband, patting his cheeks.
Conash climbed over the table, knocking off the ornament he had missed earlier, and slid over the ledge. As he lowered himself, he realised that he still clutched his daggers. Cursing, he dropped them to the street below, then descended the wall with shaking arms and sweaty hands. Halfway down, he lost his grip and fell, twisting his ankle. Picking up his weapons, he sheathed them and ran down the street. He wanted to put as much distance between himself and the screaming woman and her yapping dog as he possibly could, as quickly as possible.
Conash did not slow down until he reached a dirty alley four streets away. Leaning against a wall, he gasped and cursed. His fall from the window made him realise why the assassin's dance was so important. Without its training, his landing would have been far worse. His head pounded and his nose throbbed, his twisted arm and ankle twinged, and his gut ached. All in all, he thought, it had been fairly disastrous, even though he had succeeded.
Pushing himself away from the wall, he limped down the alley towards the shack. The faint light coming from under the door and through the coarse curtains told him that Talon still waited for him, and he cursed the elder's diligence. Shoving the door open, he stepped inside and closed it behind him. Talon looked up and raked him with a hard, disbelieving glance.
“You bloody idiot!” he said.
Conash glanced at his hands and found them smeared with dried blood, so he went to the basin to wash them. Talon rose and stepped closer, studying him.
“What happened?” he demanded.
“I killed the bastard.”
“And it looks like he almost killed you. I take it his wife's screams roused the entire neighbourhood, and the Watch is searching for you even as we speak?”
Conash shrugged, scrubbing his hands. “They won't find me.”
“You'd better hope they don't. How could you be so stupid?”
“I succeeded!”
“Just barely. Sit down. Let me have a look at your nose. Where else are you hurt?”
The youth dried his hands and limped to the table to sink onto a chair and pour a cup of wine. “I'm all right.”
“You're limping. What did you do, trip on the rug and fall out of the window too?”
Conash snorted, then smiled. “Yes.”
Talon settled opposite. “Let me guess, the dog bit you, the woman clobbered you and the man almost throttled you.”
“Were you spying on me?”
“I didn't have to. My God, you're a fool. I told you to return here and report, not go ahead with it! Your plan was so full of flaws; I'm surprised you're still in one piece.”
“My plan worked!”
Talon leant closer, his brows knotted. “Shall I tell you why it worked? Because you're an excellent assassin already, and therefore you were able to overcome all the obstacles that your ridiculous plan put in your way. Not without injury, though. How bad is your ankle, and what's wrong with your arm?”
Conash sighed and took a gulp of wine, then told the entire story. At the end of it, Talon smiled and shook his head.
“Amazing. Anyone else would be dead, or in the hands of the Watch now. The drover was a dangerous man. He was assassinated because he murdered the son of a merchant in a taproom brawl. The Watch couldn't arrest him, because he had a lot of friends with him at the time, and they all vouched for the fact that, not only did the merchant's son start the conflict, but his death was an accident.
“The merchant found a witness who said otherwise, but one person's account was insufficient for the courts to convict Broman. That's why you were hired to kill him. It was a vengeance assassination. Those are the best, if they're justified, but they're also usually dangerous, and unsuitable for an apprentice. That's why I wanted to be cautious. Had there been a choice, I'd have picked another target, but Darnish only offered that one. I found out more about Broman, though.”
Conash drained his wine and refilled the cup. “What was wrong with my plan?”
“Everything! Broman was with his wife, and her familiar. You had no chance of killing him without waking them up.”
“What would you have done?”
Talon shrugged. “I'm not a dagger man, but if I was, I'd have made sure he was alone, for one thing. It doesn't matter now, though. You succeed, that's the main thing. So long as you haven't led the Watch to my door, you're all right. Let's get you cleaned up.”
Rising, the elder dipped a cloth in the basin and mopped the blood off the youth's face, then inspected his nose, finding that it was not broken. He examined the lumps on Conash's head, the wounds in his swollen ankle and his sprained arm. When he returned to his chair, he sighed.
“You won't be able to dance for a while, with that ankle. It's a good thing the next meeting is four days away. It may be healed enough by then.”
Conash yawned and knuckled his eyes. “I'll be able to dance.”
“How do you feel?”
“Tired.”
“No, I meant about killing the drover.”
The apprentice shrugged. “Nothing.”
“Not even a sense of achievement?”
“A little, I suppose. Mostly I'm glad it's over.” He scowled. “Why didn't you tell me about the drover before?”
“I was going to, when you made your final report.”
“Right.” Conash rubbed his face.
Talon looked pensive. “Now you have to choose a trade name. How about 'Claw'?”
“No. I've chosen one already.”
“What?”
“Blade.”
Talon snorted and chuckled. “That's awful. Blade! Why not just call yourself 'Dagger', or 'Weapon'? 'Claw' is better.”
“I like it.”
“Why?”
Conash shrugged. “It's deadly, cold and unfeeling. Like me.”
“It's also a tool.”
“So is a claw.”
“A blade isn't even a weapon; it's part of a weapon, incomplete with the hilt.”
The apprentice sipped his wine. “I like it, and my mind's made up.”
Talon gazed at him, shaking his head. “Very well. It's a good thing you didn't break your nose. Otherwise, if you ever wanted to use the female disguise, you wouldn't be able to.”
“I won't.”