Conash followed his mentor towards the ring of standing stones amongst which the Guild was gathered, entering the torchlight. Talon approached a group of elders, leaving his apprentice to find a seat amid the band of youngsters awaiting initiation. Eight of them on this night, a large bunch. Conash hoped the stage wouldn't be too crowded. He had barely sat down when he noticed Talon arguing with his cohorts, and wondered what it was about. Straining his ears, he made out snatches over the muttering of the youths around him.
“...Only two years... He'll fail, and you'll be... No one could be...”
“He's made his first kill already.”
Conash smiled at Talon's statement, which was guaranteed to silence the other elders. From what his mentor had told him, this was Talon's decision alone, and once an apprentice had made his first kill he was obliged to take the test. If he failed, he would have to keep practicing the Dance until he got it right, but he did not have to make another kill. In fact, he was not allowed to do so until he got his mark. According to Talon, some apprentices failed the Dance until they gave up, and never became assassins. This was rare, however.
The knot of elders broke up, and the evening's business began. Two names were added to the Roll of the Dead, then the elders split the group of apprentices into two bands for the Dance, to Conash's relief. He was amongst the second bunch, and watched the first four dance, unimpressed by their performances. Only one qualified, and the rest quit the stage in disgrace, to be cuffed and scolded by their mentors. Conash strapped the metal tips and heels that Talon had lent him to his boots, then rose and stamped his feet before he followed the other apprentices onto the platform.
An elder directed him to a position at the edge of the group, and he measured the platform with his eyes, wishing Talon's had been this large, and that he did not have to share this one with three other youths. One day, he promised himself, he would have this stage all to himself. His heart pounded with nervous excitement, and his legs shook a little. He disliked being stared at by so many hard, glinting eyes, which measured his worth disparagingly. The drummer beat out the slow rhythm that started the Dance of Death, and the apprentices took up their stances.
Conash kept an eye on the youth beside him, striving to match his pace, which was far slower than he usually used. For the initiation, the apprentices had to dance in unison, and if he broke the formation he would fail. He kept pace with the dancer on his left, but concentrated on his grace and technique, ensuring that his steps were precise and his movements flowing. For the initiation, his performance only needed to be adequate, and he made no effort to stand out.
Conash's sprained ankle twinged when he stamped, and once almost buckled when he landed on it, despite the bandage that strapped it. His nose was still swollen, and his eyes were blackened. Another bruise, in the shape of Broman's foot, mottled his belly, and the exertion made his head ache.
Halfway through the Dance, sweat sheened his brow and his breaths came in rapid gasps, but his legs retained their vigour and his energy seemed boundless. He could, and had, completed the Dance many times with ease, since he practiced it in its entirety three times a day, twice while wearing chains and carrying rocks. His metal-shod feet clattered on the boards as he tapped and leapt, kicked up his feet or flicked one leg sideways at the knee. One of the youths stumbled, and quit the stage with a bowed head.
The remaining three reached the end of the Dance and fell to one knee in unison, then rose, panting. Conash's leg muscles tingled and his ankle throbbed. Three elders mounted the stage, and one shook his head at a gasping youth on the far side, who turned and stumbled off the platform to receive a ringing slap from his mentor. The second elder nodded at the young man on Conash's right, who grinned and shook the older man's hand before dashing off to receive congratulations from his peers and mentor. The last elder stopped before Conash and nodded.
“You've passed, boy. Well done.” He held out a hand.
Conash hesitated, then shook it. “Thank you, Elder.”
“Don't thank me. No one could have failed you. Your technique is perfect and your execution flawless. If you improve your speed and add some extra moves, you'll do well.”
“I can do it faster, but I had to keep to the same pace as the others.”
The elder inclined his head. “Of course. Then I look forward to your challenge for the belt in a year's time.”
“A year? I could challenge him tonight.”
“No, you can't. You're not allowed to challenge for your first year. It wouldn't do for an inexperienced assassin to hold the belt. He gets the most work, you see.”
Conash frowned. “I see.”
“You're Talon's apprentice, aren't you?”
“Yes.”
“You're overconfident, and brash. You need to work on your attitude. Clearly Talon didn't beat you often enough.”
Conash nodded and swung away, leaving the stage. Talon came over to thump him on the back, then he had to wait while the servile, cowering tattooist marked the other apprentice who had passed.
When Conash's turn came, Talon loomed over the tattooist and muttered, “Make sure you do a good job.”
The hunched man nodded, his eyes darting. He found the company intimidating, Conash gathered. The tattooist painted a black dagger at the base of the youth's throat with great care, and Conash winced when the man set an instrument full of needles against it and tapped. Sweat trickled under his clothes and dripped from his chin, and his breath steamed in the chill autumn air. Talon hovered, watched the tattooist work and made the cringing man more nervous. Conash wished that he would go away. The tattooing seemed to take an age, and the other two boys and their mentors celebrated with cups of wine, toasting their success.
When at last the ordeal was over, Conash's chest smarted, adding its discomfort to his other aches and pains. The tattooist rubbed stinging black ink into the bloody holes he had poked in Conash's skin, then rubbed off the excess and inspected his work in the light of a torch that an apprentice held. Nodding, he packed away his tools, and Talon dropped a silver into his palm before stepping closer to peer at the mark.
“Not bad. Well done, Blade.”
Conash smiled, enjoying the sound of his new trade name. “Thank you, Elder.”
“Ah, now he decides to be civil. About time, too. My true name is Kai, but use it at your peril. It's considered an insult. Once we become assassins, we leave our pasts behind, including our names. You're no longer Conash of the cats; you're Blade, an assassin of the Jondar Guild. All that remains is to add your name to the roll, and make the announcement.”
“And drink some wine.”
Talon nodded. “That too. Come.”
Conash followed his mentor over to the knot of elders, who clustered around a heavy tome that rested on an apprentice's back. One of them bent over it, inscribing the trade name of the young man who had qualified with Conash. When his turn came, the elder glanced at him, quill poised.
“Blade,” Conash stated.
The elder wrote the name on a blank page, and Conash wondered what the rest of the page would be used for. Closing the book, the elder handed it and the quill to another apprentice and mounted the platform, where he raised his hands to silence the murmuring throng.
“Hear me! Tonight we add three names to the Roll of Assassins. They are Slash, Rage, and Blade. Let it be known, they are now active assassins, entitled to all the privileges of the Guild, and subject to its rules.”
Conash glanced at Talon. “What privileges?”
His mentor chuckled. “Good question. Supposedly, that we're not considered to be murderers.”
Conash rubbed his new mark. “That's it?”
“You were expecting more?”
“I suppose so.”
“Like what?”
The young assassin shrugged. “I don't know. Some sort of support, perhaps, for injured assassins, or crippled ones?”
“No. If you're injured or crippled, you're on your own. The only one who may help you, if you've endeared yourself to him during your training, is your former mentor.”
“Well then, I'll have to ensure that I'm not injured or crippled.”
Talon chuckled again. “Yes, you should.” He drew a wine skin from under his coat and offered it to Conash. “Time to celebrate.”
The young assassin glanced around at the dispersing throng, most of which the darkness had swallowed up, took the skin and sipped from it. “What happens now?”
“You can stay in the shack until you've earned enough to rent a room somewhere, and then you're on your own. You can continue to use the platform to practice on for the next two years. You'll see me when you visit to share your profits with me, and at meetings.”
“How do I find work?”
“Find a suitable taproom, and wait. The Grumpy Granny is a good spot, and so is the Herder's Son.”
Conash nodded and took another swig from the skin, handing it to Talon, who drank, then tucked it away.
“Come on, let's go home, Blade.”
***
Blade glanced up as a shadow fell on him, and found a woman gazing down at him with dark eyes. Tendrils of brown hair escaped from the coil at her nape, and her shabby blue dress hung on a thin frame. The corner of the Grumpy Granny was in deep shadow, and he could not make out many details. The taproom was much like any other in the slums, a run-down building full of shabby furniture, drunken whores, and smelly men, with dirty rushes on the floor. Rows of ale barrels were stacked behind the bar counter, and mugs lined the sagging shelves. A few battered copper pots hung over the fireplace, and bunches of dry, dusty herbs dangled from the beams.
The woman slid onto the bench opposite, casting a hunted glance over her shoulder. The light from the nearest lamp fell on her face, and he noted the bruise on her cheekbone. A spotted brown gecko clung to her blouse like a dull broach. She faced him, her hands twisting with nervousness, and leant closer.
“Are you an assassin?”
He inclined his head. “Yes.”
“You have a mark?”
Blade tugged open his collar to reveal his tattoo, and she peered at it, then nodded.
“And a name?”
“Blade.”
“I have work for you.” She chewed her lip, and he waited. “It's my husband,” she blurted. “I want him dead. How much is your fee?”
He shrugged. “That depends. What can you afford?”
“Not much.” She glanced around again, as if expecting her husband to pop out of the woodwork. “Five silvers?”
“That's not much.”
“It's all I have.” Her face twisted with despair.
“I didn't refuse. Why do you want him dead?”
She looked down at her hands. “He beats me.”
“Many men do that.”
“He rapes me.”
“Also not uncommon, and, since you're his wife, it's not considered rape.”
Tears ran down her cheeks. “He's going to kill me one day, I know it. He beats our children, too. They're just babies, they don't deserve it.”
“Do you?”
“No! I'm a good wife, obedient, hardworking; compliant.”
“So why does he beat you?”
“He enjoys it!” She rubbed her eyes and wiped her cheeks. “He drinks, then comes home and beats me. Will you do it?”
Blade sighed. “It's not really enough -”
“You're just a youngster. Can you afford to be choosy?”
“I was going to say I'll do it anyway.”
“Oh, thank you!” She made a grab for his hand, but he jerked it away.
“Three silvers now, the rest when he's dead. I need to know his name, address and what kind of familiar he has.”
She smiled, looking relieved. “His name's Rendar. We live in the poor quarter, Frey Flower Street, number four, and his familiar is a fork-tailed rathawk. When will you do it?”
“That depends. If you help me, I can do it sooner.”
“What must I do?”
“Let me into the house when he's asleep.”
She nodded. “I can do that. Tonight?”
Blade was tempted to say yes, but remembered Talon's advice and shook his head. “The day after tomorrow.”
“All right.” She dug in her bodice and drew out three silvers, placing them on the table. “Will he suffer?”
“Do you want him to?”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “No. Just kill him.”
Blade nodded. In her situation, he was surprised that she had not resorted to poison, but evidently she had enough sense to know that if she did, suspicion would fall on her. The woman rose and vanished into the crowd. Blade finished his wine and walked back to the shack. Two tendays had passed since his initiation, and this was his first job. The fee was miserly, but better than nothing. Talon had advised him to accept whatever was offered until he gained a reputation. The elder was also of the opinion that it would be hard for Blade to find work, due to his extreme youth, and that seemed to be true.
The following morning, Blade found Rendar's house and chose a vantage point on a wall opposite it, not really caring if his intended victim noticed his presence. Rendar had no way of knowing that he was the target. Blade lounged on the wall, watching the pedestrians pass below. A tall, muscular man emerged from the appointed residence and sauntered up the street, whistling. A fork-tailed rathawk perched on his shoulder, and he carried himself with a bully's confident swagger, which reminded Blade of a Cotti.
Rendar was, he sensed, the kind of cowardly bully who liked to humiliate those weaker than him. His eyes narrowed as he studied his intended victim, noting the knife sheathed in the big man's belt, and he wondered if Rendar knew how to use it. Even if he did not, it added to the danger of his mission, since Rendar might keep it within reach when he slept. The man vanished around a corner, and Blade glanced back at the house, where the woman peeped out of the door at him and smiled. He wondered if she expected him to smile and wave, and looked away.
Rendar returned at dusk, apparently to eat his dinner. Blade left his perch to visit an alehouse down the road for a meal. Soon after he returned, Rendar left the house again without his familiar, which would doubtless be asleep on its perch. Blade surmised that he was going to visit his favourite taproom, and settled more comfortably atop the wall to await his return. A few minutes later, the abode’s door creaked open and the woman emerged, carrying a plate of food. Blade watched in astonishment as she crossed the road and stopped below to smile up at him.
“I brought you something to eat,” she stated, as if that was not already abundantly clear.
“Go away,” he muttered.
“Why? You must be hungry.”
“Do you want everyone to know you hired an assassin?” Blade glanced up and down the busy street.
“How would they...?” She bit her lip. “Oh. Sorry.”
Blade frowned as she trotted back into the house, amazed by the depths of her stupidity. Then again, perhaps he should not have allowed his presence to be quite so visible. Settling back on the wall, he shifted his posterior to ease it, cursing the time-glasses that he would need to wait still. A group of officers of the Watch sauntered past, casting him dark looks that made him further revise the practicality of his plan. Perhaps Talon was right, and he was a bit overconfident.
Rendar returned when the waxing Tree moon sailed high above the city, with two companions who sang a ribald ditty with him. Blade, safe in the darkness, watched them bid Rendar goodnight and stroll away down the road. Within minutes of Rendar entering the house, screams and crashes came from within. Evidently the neighbours were used to the ruckus, for no one emerged to see what was happening.
The beating went on and on, and Blade wondered if his client would survive it. If not, he would be robbed of the second half of his fee. Was he supposed to carry out the assassination anyway? He hesitated, undecided, then jumped down and stretched to ease the stiffness that his long wait had engendered. He walked across the road and tested the door handle, finding it unlocked. Pushing it open, he stepped inside, wondering if this was a wise course of action. The man would be distracted, so perhaps it was an opportune moment.
Creeping along a short corridor with two dull paintings hanging on its patchy, grey-painted walls, he approached the doorway whence the shrieks came. Several wall-mounted lamps lighted a cramped kitchen with soot-stained walls and a scrubbed table and two chairs at its centre, a greasy stove with several dirty pots on it in one corner. Three brooms leant against the wall in another corner, and a washing basin stood beside a tall water urn.
The woman knelt before her husband, weeping. He bent over her, snarling insults and accusations, then his fist cracked into the side of her head, sending her sprawling. She tried to crawl away, but he gripped her hair and dragged her towards the stove. Blade froze, unsure of what to do. Rendar flung his sobbing wife down and unbuckled his belt, slid the sheathed knife off it and banged it down on the table. The crack of the leather belt brought fresh shrieks from the unfortunate woman, who cowered and raised her arms to ward off the blows.
Blade's mind flew back to the dim confines of a tent in the desert, where a burly Cotti warrior had flogged him with a belt, each blow sending a shaft of stinging pain through him. Drawing a dagger, he stepped into the doorway.
“Rendar.”
The man looked up, frowned, and straightened. “Who in Damnation are you?”
“Death.”
Blade flung the dagger, which struck Rendar in the chest, and he looked down at it in surprise. The young assassin wondered why Rendar did not fall dead like he was supposed to. He was certain he had hit the man's heart, but clearly the wound was not fatal. The woman gaped at Blade, then at her husband, crawling away from him. A bird's scream came from upstairs as Rendar's hawk sensed his pain, and Blade hoped that the darkness blinded it too much for it to fly. Although a hawk was not particularly dangerous, one flapping around while he was fighting with its friend would be a great hindrance. Rendar recovered from his shock and roared, grabbed his knife and drew it as he charged.
Alarmed, the assassin stepped back, fighting the urge to flee. If he did, not only would he fail, but Rendar would find out who had hired him, and probably kill her. Remembering that he had two more daggers, he yanked another one out and hurled it. Rendar ducked, and the weapon glanced off his temple, opening a gash. The hawk screamed again, and the big man bore down on Blade, who jerked the last weapon from his belt. Rendar lunged at him, forcing the assassin to duck, and he rammed his weapon into Rendar's flank.
The man bellowed and chopped at Blade with wild strokes, slicing the assassin's arm. Blade hissed and stabbed the man in the flank, but too low to hit his heart. The dagger that protruded from Rendar's chest was within reach, and Blade yanked it out, intending to use it again. Rendar staggered back, his face stretched in a horrified gape, then his knees buckled and he crashed onto his back. The dying man twitched, a bloodstain spreading over his chest like a blossoming crimson flower. Blade's bile rose, and he ran to the back door to retch in the alley outside.
A touch on his elbow made him spin around with a dagger ready, half expecting to find Rendar behind him. The woman shrank back, her eyes fearful, and he lowered the weapon before turning to vomit again, emptying his supper into the gutter. When he stopped heaving, he wiped his mouth with a shaking hand and went back into the kitchen, averting his eyes from the corpse. The woman hovered, wringing her hands, while he splashed his face in the basin, washing the blood off his hands and weapons. Taking a swig from the water jug beside it, he rinsed the acid taste from his mouth and spat into the basin.
When he turned, his daggers sheathed once more, Rendar's wife sat at the kitchen table, watching him with wide, dark blue eyes. Fresh bruises reddened her cheek and temple, and blood oozed from one nostril. There was no sign of her familiar, which had probably sought refuge away from her when the beating started. Blade retrieved the weapon that had bounced off her husband's head and shoved it into a belt sheath, then approached her.
“Have you got the rest of my money?”
She nodded and drew two silvers from her bodice, holding them out. Blade tucked them away and headed for the back door.
“Wait!” she cried.
He turned, frowning. “What?”
“What do I do with the body?”
He shrugged. “Not my problem. Call the Watch and tell them your husband's been assassinated.”
“Won't they... suspect me?”
“Why would they?”
She shot a glance at the corpse. “I don't know, but they might.”
“Not my problem, either.” He headed for the door again.
“Wait! Please!”
Blade turned in the doorway. “My job is done.”
“I - I can pay you more, to dispose of the body.”
“I'm not a damned undertaker.”
“Please!” She rose and approached him, her hands outstretched. “I beg you, help me. I'll pay you another five silvers to get rid of it, and... I can offer more. Now that he's dead, I... Do you need a place to stay, perhaps? Good food, a comfortable bed? I can offer you that in payment.”
“You've paid me. Our deal is done.”
“But not enough, I know. I want to help you, like you helped me. I think he might have killed me tonight if you hadn't stopped him.”
Blade's scowl deepened. “I took advantage of the situation to perform the assassination, nothing more. I have no wish to lug corpses around in the dead of night.”
“I'll pay you a golden.”
“You said you didn't have any money.”
“That was when he was alive. He has plenty, look.” She went over to Rendar's corpse and dug a money pouch from his pocket, emptying it on the table. Four goldens and a dozen silvers rattled onto the wood, and she held out a gold coin.
“Please?”
Blade considered the money, and how much he needed it, as well as a place to live. Talon's shack had lost all its dubious allure, and now seemed shabby and uncomfortable. Inclining his head, he took the coin and tucked it away with the silvers, glancing at the cadaver.
“Wrap him in a cloth. I don't want to get covered in blood.”
“Of course.” She headed for the door, then paused to glance back. “I'm Sherin.”
“Good for you.”
Within a few minutes, she had wrapped her husband's body in a sheet, and Blade bent to pick it up, grunting at its weight. Rendar was solid muscle, apparently.
Sherin touched his elbow. “Please come back. You can stay here for as long as you wish. I have a spare bed, and I'm a good cook.”
“I'll think about it.”
Blade pondered her proposal while he walked along the deserted street, weighing its merits. Why she would wish to room and board her husband's killer was a mystery, but perhaps she hated him so much that it would not bother her. Rendar's corpse was heavy, and he decided to drop it in the gutter between the house and whatever taproom the dead man had visited earlier. While Blade did not know which taproom it was, he knew that Rendar had used this street to reach it.
The Watch would, hopefully, think Rendar had fallen foul of cutthroats and been murdered for his purse. The only flaw in Blade's plan was the two companions who had walked home with Rendar, but if the Watch did question them, they still may think that Rendar had been returning to the taproom. Rendar did not appear to have been assassinated, Blade thought ruefully, since he had been stabbed three times. Choosing a suitable spot in an alley, Blade dumped the corpse and dragged off the sheet, rolled it up and headed back to the woman's house. Her offer had some appeal, and he decided to accept it.
Blade found the back door open and slipped inside, closing it. Sherin waited at the kitchen table, a wine bottle and two cups upon it. The blood pool had been cleaned up, and no sign of the struggle remained. She smiled and gestured to a chair, her eyes bright as she poured two cups of wine.
“You're hurt. Let me tend your wound.”
Blade glanced at his arm, fingering the slash in his jacket with a grimace. Sherin took a box from the cupboard and placed it on the table, removing a bottle of salve and a roll of bandage. Blade shrugged off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, pulling it off. Beneath it, he wore an assassin's traditional black leather vest, and her eyes roamed over him in a way that made him uncomfortable, lingering on his tattoo. She dabbed salve on the cut and bandaged it, and he put his shirt back on as she resumed her seat opposite.
“I'm glad you came back.”
He shrugged. “I need a place to stay.”
“You're so young. Is this your first assassination?”
“Yes.”
“You did well. Rendar was a good fighter.”
“I'm an assassin.”
She smiled. “Of course, I didn't mean that you weren't good enough. Where did you leave him?”
“In an alley on the way to the taproom. The Watch should think that he was attacked and robbed.”
“Good.” Sherin sipped her wine.
“When they tell you about it in the morning, you should try to look a bit grief stricken.”
“I will. I'm glad he's dead, though. I hated him.”
Blade drained his wine. “I'll return in a few days, when the hue and cry has died down.”
She nodded, standing up when he rose. “Thank you, Blade.”
“I don't require your gratitude. You paid me, remember?”
“You didn't have to kill him tonight. You saved me.”
He scowled. “I already told you -”
“I know, but whether or not it was intentional, you still saved me.”
Blade shrugged and headed for the door. “Think what you will, I don't care.”