Blade paused at the edge of the ring of stones, beyond the torchlight, to study the gathered assassins. It appeared to be a well-attended meeting, as autumn meetings usually were, due to the apprentices who came for their initiations before the winter snows made gatherings unpleasant for the elders, whose bones ached in the cold. That suited Blade, since he wanted a good-sized audience to witness his triumph. Tonight, he would challenge the current Dance Master for his title.
A year had passed since he had received his tattoo, and his arrangement with Permal had proven reasonably profitable. Blade had earned enough to rent a room in a shabby inn used mostly by whores. Sherin had persisted in her refusal to become a harlot until her landlord had thrown her out into the street. Blade had taken it upon himself to escort her to a brothel and leave her there, unmoved by her pleas. At the last, she had shouted curses at him, and he had walked away with no regrets.
Blade practised on Talon's platform every day, most of the time with chains on his ankles and rocks in his hands. Once a day, he set aside the weights and danced unfettered, revelling in the speed with which he was able to move now. He had made some good additions to the Dance, which he hoped would win him the belt. Many time-glasses of practice had gone into perfecting the new moves and honing his old skills. All his time was spent either practising his dancing or his dagger craft, and four assassinations had lent him some experience. Occasionally, he would encounter Talon's new apprentice at the platform, and then he would wait, concealed in the forest, for the boy to leave.
Blade had visited Talon after each assignment, to give him his share of the profit, and the elder seemed pleased with his progress. Now Blade possessed his own set of steel toe and heel caps, and practised in them daily.
Stepping out of the darkness, Blade joined the back of the throng, unnoticed by most. The elders added two names to the Death Roll, one of them Rage, one of the youngsters who had received his tattoo on the same night as Blade. The other was Frost, an older assassin who had been due to retire. Seven apprentices awaited their initiation, and Blade watched their clumsy rendition of the Dance of Death with a superior smile. Only two youths received their tattoos, and, once the celebrations were underway, Blade stood up and walked to the platform. As he mounted the steps, all eyes turned to him, and a nervous quiver went through him.
Blade stepped onto the platform and turned to face the elders, catching Talon's frowning gaze upon him. Stripping off his jacket, he tossed it over a post, revealing the tight leather vest he wore beneath it. A hush fell as he spread his arms and raised his voice to address the throng.
“I challenge for the title of Master of the Dance!” he cried.
A slim man with short, dark brown hair and angry black eyes strolled closer to the platform, a silver-patterned belt glinting at his waist. “And who might you be?”
“Blade.”
“Well, Blade, I'm Slash, the Master of the Dance, and I don't accept your challenge.”
Blade frowned. “Why not?”
Slash, who had been in the process of turning away, faced him again. “Unless I'm sadly mistaken, you only got your tattoo at this time last year.”
“What of it?”
“You're too young. You're still wet behind the ears, and not worthy of the title, even if you could win it, which you can't.”
“Why not?”
Slash smiled and shook his head. “You're not good enough.”
“You don't know that.”
“But I do. No assassin has won the belt after only a year in the trade. You may be allowed to challenge, but I don't have to accept.”
Blade glanced at the group of elders. “Isn't that for the elders to decide?”
“No, it's my choice.”
“That makes it easy for you to keep the belt then, doesn't it? All you have to do is refuse all challengers, and you can be the Dance Master until you retire.”
Slash frowned, shooting a glance at the elders. “I'll accept a challenge from a seasoned assassin who stands a chance of winning, not from a pup like you. You would waste my time.”
“I'll beat you.”
“Brave words, boy. You have no idea how good you would have to be to beat me, do you? Have you ever seen a master dance?”
Blade shook his head. “However good you may be, I'm better.”
“You're an arrogant little bastard, aren't you?”
“Accept my challenge, and find out if I speak from arrogance or confidence.”
“Do you want to be humiliated, boy?”
Blade shrugged. “Let's see if you can.”
Slash gave a harsh bark of laughter and looked around. “Who trained this buffoon?”
Talon stepped forward. “I did.”
Slash faced him. “Elder Talon, you should advise your former pupil that overconfidence will get him killed, or, in this case, lead to his humiliation at my hands.”
Talon glanced at Blade and shook his head. “You should take him seriously, Master Slash. He's the best I've ever trained.”
“You think he could beat me?”
“I do.”
Slash snorted. “He's a boy! Are you sure he has his mark?”
A wave of sniggering went through the throng, and Blade scowled.
Talon said, “Let him dance, then we'll see if he's worthy to challenge you, Master Slash. If he is, you must accept his challenge to a Duel.”
Slash looked impatient. “There's no way a boy like him can be good enough to challenge for the belt. But if you're so eager to see him embarrassed, so be it.” He turned to Blade again. “Dance then, boy.”
“You accept the challenge?”
“It won't come to that, I assure you.”
“But you accept?”
“I said dance, didn't I?”
Blade nodded and drew his boot-caps from his pocket, crouching down to strap them on. His stomach clenched with nervous tension, making him a little nauseous. Slash chuckled and walked off to find a seat amongst his peers, and Talon watched his former pupil, his expression unreadable. Blade straightened and stamped his feet to settle the boot-caps, then pressed his forehead to his knees and shook his legs to limber up. After an experimental leap and a bit more stretching to warm up his muscles, he walked to the centre of the platform and took up his stance, nodding to the drummer.
As the slow beats began, Blade took the first simple steps of the Dance of Death, his boots tapping on the wood. Energy suffused him, his muscles thrummed and his blood quickened. The steel spring inside him coiled tighter, and released as he leapt high. His arms rose in a graceful sweep while he floated, his legs tucked up. He landed lightly, his feet hammering out the beat with crisp precision. Leaping again, he lashed out with one leg and spread his arms, his movements certain and graceful.
Talon glanced at Slash, who watched the young assassin with a deep frown, his eyes glittering. Blade moved around the stage on hammering feet, the tempo of his tapping far faster than any Talon had heard before. The taps blended into a rattling tune as Blade performed a set piece of complicated steps at more than twice the usual tempo, forcing the drummer to speed up his beat. Blade leapt and spun, lifting his legs to click his heels together behind him before landing with cat-like ease. Spreading his arms, he executed a series of forward kicks, flicking his lower leg sideways and striking his feet together each time with sharp clicks.
These were a set part of the Dance, but Blade's boots rose above knee level, which Talon had never seen before. Nor had he ever seen an assassin click his boots together as Blade did. It added to the swift tattoo of his feet, embellishing the already torturous feat with what appeared to be impossible additions. The young assassin raised his arms again and performed the next set of complex steps at an incredible speed, seeming to float across the platform sideways, his legs crossing as he also stepped forwards and back.
Blade set off in a stamping rhythm, kicking up his heels to hammer his feet on the boards. The beat resembled that of a galloping horse, and Blade used the length of the stage to accomplish it. He switched to the next series of spinning leaps, his feet lashing out with consummate grace. His legs seemed to have springs in them; his jumps carried him high into the air, where he appeared to float, defying gravity.
Sweat beaded the youth's brow when he stopped in the centre of the stage and beat out a rapid tattoo with one foot while his other foot tapped a slow cadence. He turned slowly, his arms outstretched, and speeded up the hammering of his feet, his right foot becoming a blur and the rattle a buzz. Talon realised that his mouth was open and closed it, shooting a glance at Slash, who looked stunned. Blade ended his stationary routine with a double stamp and returned to a series of set steps, moving around the stage with light, floating strides, his boots cracking down on the boards in a flawless rendition of the Dance.
Blade was halfway through the Dance now, and, as he completed the set piece, he took a few running steps and made a prodigious leap. His stiffened legs lashed out before him and crossed in mid-air, striking together with a sharp report and a shower of sparks before his descending foot hit the ground and his ascending foot rose above his shoulder. He wobbled a little when he landed, but Talon was too amazed to take much notice of the slight imperfection. The young assassin performed the next sequence of whipping spins with perfect ease, his feet describing elegant sweeps.
Blade's mouth opened to gasp, while his metal-shod feet hammered on the boards and his jumps allowed him to hang in the air. He performed the Dance with boundless energy and unmistakable pleasure, using the entire platform. His boots tapped out an impeccable rhythm, his high kicks reached above his shoulders and his lofty leaps were perfectly timed, so his landing continued the rhythm of the Dance.
The air around him seemed to crackle with energy, and his lithe grace was such that Talon could almost see the cat that aided his steps with its feline suppleness and agility. As he neared the end of the Dance, Blade sprang high again and lashed out with stiff legs, striking his boots together with a flash of sparks that was his own invention, and unrivalled. This time his landing was light and without flaw, and he made the final bound, fell to one knee and spread his arms. After a moment of immobility, he stood up and turned to face the elders.
Talon looked at Slash, who closed his mouth and swallowed. The elders glanced at each other, shaking their heads in amazement, and a hush hung over the throng. Blade gazed around with a puzzled frown, wiping his brow, then strode to the edge of the platform and leant on a post to scowl at Slash.
“Tell me that wasn't good enough to challenge you, and I'll call you a liar!” he shouted.
Talon chuckled at Slash's dumbfounded expression. The Dance Master stood up and mounted the platform, his expression thunderous. For a moment Talon was afraid that Slash intended to beat Blade with his fists, since it was painfully obvious that he would not win a Duel against the youngster. Instead, he stopped before Blade and regarded him with a frown.
“Who taught you to dance like that, boy?”
“I did.”
The Master nodded. “You must have, because none of Talon's other apprentices have ever danced as well as you.”
“So do you accept my challenge?”
“I don't have a choice now. Rest a while, then we'll begin.”
Blade went to the steps and sat on the topmost one, bowing his head. Sweat ran down his cheeks and dripped from his chin, despite the cool autumn air.
Talon took a water skin over to him. “So, you've been practising, I see.”
Blade accepted it and took a gulp. “Yes.”
“I'm impressed. I always knew you were good, but never thought you were that good. Slash has no hope of beating you, and he knows it, as does everyone else here tonight. You must have practised a lot.”
“What else have I to do?”
Talon shrugged. “There's drinking, I suppose. You're also allowed to have friends in the Guild.”
“I'm not interested in friends.”
“You'll have a lot more work once you win the belt.”
“Good, I haven't been able to find much.”
Talon eyed the youth. “You've done better than most your age.”
“Then I'll do better still, once I have the belt.”
The elder leant closer. “The Master of the Dance also gets all the most difficult jobs. You may be an excellent dancer, but how good are you at assassinations, after only five?”
“Good enough.”
“Beware, Blade, you're embarking on a dangerous path. Beating Slash may bring you a great deal of satisfaction, but becoming the Master at your age and level of inexperience is fraught with peril.”
Blade shot him a scathing glance. “I'm touched by your concern, but I'll manage. More work will give me more experience, and then I'll improve quickly.”
“Or end up dead. The belt isn't a prize, it's a status symbol. It means that you're the best assassin in the Guild, not just the best dancer. You're not the best assassin by a long shot though, are you?”
“I will be.”
Talon sighed and glanced at Slash, who limbered up on the stage. “Sometimes a master is beaten, like now, but more often they're killed.”
“Are you trying to talk me out of it?”
“No. This is your decision. I'm just warning you.”
Blade handed back the water skin. “I want that belt.”
“Oh, you'll get it, never fear. I just hope you can deal with the consequences.”
Blade rose to his feet and swung away to mount the stage. Talon returned to his seat, his heart filled with a mixture of pride and trepidation. None of his previous apprentices had become the Master, and Blade's status would increase his own. If Blade was killed, however, that, too, would reflect on him, badly.
Blade faced his opponent, who retreated to the edge and leant against a post, gesturing to the stage to indicate that Blade should begin the Duel. Blade swung away and took a few light, floating steps, tapping out an unfamiliar rhythm, then leapt high, clicking his heels behind him. He beat out a complicated tattoo in a buzz and jumped again, his scissoring legs passing each other with a sharp crack and a flash of sparks as his metal-shod boots brushed together. Landing on one leg, he stamped and spun, lashing out in a double kick, then ended with another stamp.
Slash pushed himself away from the post and approached the youngster, his eyes glittering with ire. The high heel-clicking leap did not challenge his abilities, but he performed the complicated steps slower than Blade, and, although he managed the scissoring jump, he failed to brush his boots together and landed a little heavily. He executed the double kick adequately, then added a sequence of rapid heel-toe tapping, his feet blurring while he moved around the stage.
Talon smiled, shaking his head. Never had he seen a Master so outclassed as Slash was on this night. His attempt to emulate Blade's moves made him appear clumsy, yet he was an excellent dancer. The young assassin smiled while he performed Slash's routine faster and with more flamboyance, then executed a series of whipping spins that carried him around the stage in graceful bounds, his boots lashing out. Reaching the far edge of the platform, he switched to a stamping run, his steel-shod boots rapping on the wood, and ended with a high spinning leap.
Slash grimaced and copied him, but his jumps and spins lacked Blade's speed or height, and the complex routine he added at the end of it did not challenge the youngster's talent. Blade exceeded him again, added another high foot-clashing leap, and ended with a rattling buzz of steps that defied the eye to follow his feet. When he stopped and turned to Slash, the Dance Master gazed at him with sullen eyes, and Talon knew that he was beaten. His efforts in no way rivalled Blade's ability, and to continue would only compound his humiliation at the young assassin's hands.
Slash unbuckled the belt and pulled it off, frowning down at the silver-studded length of black leather. Walking over to the panting youth, he held it out. Blade looked a little startled, but took it and gazed at it, a slight smile tugging at his lips. Slash walked off the stage and pushed his way into the throng, vanishing amongst his peers. Talon shook himself from his stupor when the most senior elder, Lance, mounted the stage and turned to address the assembly.
“We have a new Master of the Dance!” he proclaimed. “Let all of you witness, and let it be known, the Dance Master of the Jondar Guild of Assassins in now Blade! He defeats Slash, and his name will shortly be added to the Roll of Masters. His haunt is...” Lance turned to Blade, raising his brows.
The youth hesitated, looking puzzled, then muttered, “The Hangman's Noose.”
Lance shouted, “The Hangman's Noose!”
Blade frowned, clearly wondering why his haunt was being broadcast to the Guild. Lance turned to him again.
“Will you accept challengers now?”
Blade shrugged. “All right.”
“If there's one amongst you who wishes to challenge the Master of the Dance tonight, come forward!” Lance cried.
Talon glanced around at the assembly, most of which also searched for anyone foolish enough to tender a challenge to the youth who had just beaten Slash so resoundingly. After a full minute of silence, Lance turned to Blade and held out his hand for the belt. The young assassin hesitated before handing it over, and Lance walked behind him to buckle it on. Blade looked down at the belt and fingered it with a smile. Lance quit the stage, and the assembled assassins murmured, some drinking from wine skins.
Blade remained on the platform for a little longer, admiring the belt, then descended the steps, where Talon awaited him. The elder thrust out a hand.
“Well done, Blade.”
The young assassin clasped it, smiling. He looked a little stunned, as if he could not quite believe that he was now the Master of the Dance, a title to which all assassins aspired. The rest of the elders approached to shake Blade's hand, and several assassins did so too. Talon confiscated a wine skin from a young man and handed it to Blade, who gulped from it.
He wiped his lips and asked, “Why did Lance tell everyone where my haunt is?”
“Because, as Master of the Dance, your haunt must be known to all assassins. That way, when a client seeks the Master, any one of them can tell him where to find you. It's an important part of your office now, to be available for the really difficult assignments that only the Master should perform. You're required to wear the belt when you're seeking clients, so they know who they're hiring. You're also entitled to double or triple your fee, depending on the difficulty of the assignment. The Master is the best, and also the most expensive assassin in the city. You'll get the richest clients, too.”
“What happens to Slash now?”
Talon shrugged, glancing around for the former Dance Master, but not finding him. “He'll change his haunt and go back to being merely an assassin, like the rest. He'll always benefit from once holding the title.”
“What other privileges does the Dance Master receive?”
“Aside from the financial benefits, the rest of us have to call you by your title now, and you have a certain amount of influence with the elders. That's about it, really.”
Blade looked down at the belt again, rubbing it. “I told you I'd win it.”
“I never doubted it. Even during your training, you were better and faster than any I'd seen before. Don't imagine that it makes you invincible, though. It's just a belt; it doesn't have any magical properties. I'm glad you've won it, but I hope you make an effort to survive.”
“I gave you my word.”
“Yes, but you've just upped the stakes enormously. I don't think you realise what it means to be the Master, and I hope discovering it doesn't prove fatal.”
The boy looked up and smiled, the sweet innocence of his expression sending a pang through the older man's heart. Blade was still just a boy, Talon reflected, and wondered if he still searched his chin for the first signs of a sprouting beard every morning. For him, that would never happen, and eventually he would be forced to accept it. Not only was Blade the only assassin to have won the belt after just a year in the trade, he was also the youngest.
Blade plucked his jacket from the post and shrugged it on, then took a last swig from the wine skin and handed it back to his former mentor. The elder glanced around at the dispersing assassins, who vanished into the gloom around the standing stones, some in murmuring groups, but most alone. When he turned back to Blade, he found himself alone, and looked down at his wolf with a wry smile.
“He's getting good, that one.”