Two nights later, Blade made his way to the Twine District along the assassin's highway. From the rooftops, he had the advantage of invisibility and a better view, able to watch what went on below with impunity. The Twine District's shanties clustered along filthy roads in lines of foetid squalor, and some of the roofs were in a poor state of repair, making them unstable and oftentimes dangerous to walk on. Therefore he moved carefully, keeping to edges or apexes, where beams strengthened them. He passed arguing fishwives and playing children, moving deep into the slums in search of his quarry. The two previous nights had been uneventful, and he grew tired of waiting.
Finding a fairly comfortable roost in the centre of the Twine District, he settled down to wait as the waning Tree Moon rose to bathe the ramshackle huts in silvery light. Most residents were safely locked inside by this time and the streets all but deserted, apart from a few drunkards reeling home and an occasional beggar. Blade listened to the various sounds, near and far, that broke the hush. A dog yapped and a tomcat yowled, chickens clucked and a barrow-hag rattled past, muttering. The scent of wood smoke and roasting meat crept past on the breeze, mingled with stew and urine.
Blade jumped when a crash of breaking pottery came from inside the house upon which he sat, and raised, angry voices followed. He cursed and relaxed, his nerves jangling. It would be a while yet before the whorehouses closed and any prey would be abroad for the rogue assassin to kill, and he wanted to snatch some sleep until then. The argument under him continued until the door banged open and a man stormed away down the street, his wife's flow of vitriol following him. Blade closed his eyes as it grew quiet again, listening to the faint night time sounds.
Blade jerked from his doze, wondering what had roused him. The moon sailed high above silent slums, so several time-glasses had passed. A faint scream came from the south, and he turned, then rose and trotted across the roof to the next shack, jumping the gap to land with a crash on its sagging roof. Another scream came from a closer street, and he changed direction. It could just be drunken men raping or chasing a harlot, but he had to find out. A third shriek came, closer still, and he crossed the next two roofs at a run.
As he neared the last location of the sound, he slowed to a walk, for running on rooftops caused far too much noise. A panting woman raced past below, her feet thudding on the cobbles, and a flitting shadow pursued her. Blade followed on the rooftops, falling behind. He had to be sure it was not just some drunken assassin bent on rape, and for that, he had to wait until the man killed her. Something Slayer had not done, since the Watch had only found his body. Blade increased his pace as the pair drew ahead, studying the black-clad man, who looked like an assassin, and his silence seemed to confirm it.
The woman screamed again, and Blade broke into a run as he almost lost sight of her pursuer, cutting across a corner to catch up. Soon the man would tire of the chase and catch her, but for the moment he was toying with her, enjoying her terror. Blade slowed to a walk when the two passed below him again, the woman's gasps telling him that she was close to exhaustion. Halfway along the street, she fell and lay panting, raising her hands in a pleading gesture. The man slowed to a walk and approached her, and Blade moved closer on silent feet.
“No,” she pleaded. “Please, don't hurt me.”
“That's it,” the man said in a soft, rasping voice. “Beg. I like it when you beg.”
“Please,” she said. “I've got children.”
“So much the better. Filthy whore. You and your kind are scum. You don't deserve to live, and especially breed.”
“I'm not a whore. I'm a washerwoman.”
“Liar. I followed you from the brothel.”
Blade paused at the edge of the roof, wondering what the rogue assassin had against whores. Not that he particularly cared. He took his boot blades from his pouch and strapped them on while the man sauntered up to his prey and crouched beside her. He had his back to Blade, but the woman's eyes were white-ringed and her mouth slack with terror. The man drew a pair of long silver daggers from his belt, making his intentions clear, and Blade did not need to wait any longer. He slid off the roof and landed on the cobbles with a clack of steel-shod boots. The rogue assassin swung around, his expression startled, then it twisted into a sneer, and he raised his weapons.
“So, another puppet of the Watch, no doubt?” His gaze dropped to Blade’s silver-studded belt. “Ah. But this time it's the Dance Master. Your cohort squealed most delightfully when he died.”
“And doubtless you will too.”
“He was a bungling, cowardly fool.”
Blade shrugged. “Probably. He was cheap.”
“You didn't get your money's worth.”
“I was tired of him hanging around my haunt, anyway.”
“Glad to be of service. Leave now, and live. I have nothing against you.”
“Your death's been purchased.”
The rogue assassin peered at Blade. “You're just a boy. Are you here to distract me while another sneaks up on me? A crossbowman, no doubt.”
“Don't flatter yourself.”
The man's black eyes glittered in a lined, narrow face with a broad nose and jug-handle ears. “You may be good at dancing, boy, but you really don't want to tangle with me. I was a Dance Master too.”
“But now you're a common murderer, and a disgrace to your Guild. They should have killed you.”
“They tried. Many died, so I left. You and your brethren should stay out of it. It's the Watch's job to kill me.”
“Until they paid me to do it. Now it's my job.”
“Ah, that's a shame. Pitting assassins against each other doubtless pleases them.”
The gasping woman stared at them with bulging eyes, apparently too scared to move. Blade walked closer with clicking footsteps, drawing the rogue assassin’s attention to his lethal footgear.
He smiled. “So, you came prepared. Using those in a fight is a lot harder than dancing in them, you know.”
“But, since you're not wearing any, they'll serve me well.”
He nodded. “And it proves your cowardice.”
“Why would I risk injury to snuff out a criminal?”
“Perhaps to prove that you can kill me without them. I mean, we know you're going to try, but succeeding is another matter.”
“I think I'll manage, and I've learnt the folly of pride.”
“Have you now? Yes, I'll wager you've had the stuffing beaten out of you a few times. Smarts, doesn't it? So, now you take no chances, but what satisfaction is there in having an unfair advantage?”
Blade scowled, annoyed by the man's baiting. “I'm here to kill you, not prove my prowess. I just want it over and done with as soon as possible, and with the least effort on my part.”
“So, a pragmatist. How droll. You should have just used a crossbow from the rooftop in that case, son.”
Blade shrugged. “I'm not a crossbowman, but I'm just as good with a dagger.”
“So what are you waiting for?”
“Your tongue to stop flapping.”
“Does it bother you then?”
“It's annoying, yes.” Blade drew the daggers from his belt.
The rogue's eyes narrowed. “I'd say killing a fellow assassin bothers you more.”
“You'd be wrong.”
“Oh, I think –”
The rogue threw himself aside as Blade's dagger hissed past his throat and clattered off the wall beyond, missing by a hair. The well-disguised flick of Blade's wrist had been barely noticeable, and only the rogue's training had saved him. Blade, however, had anticipated the rogue's reaction, and his second dagger, thrown a split second after the first, impaled the rogue's shoulder with a meaty thud. The man grunted and sprawled, rolling to his feet with his daggers raised. He glanced down at the weapon buried hilt deep in his shoulder, and a sickly smile twisted his thin lips.
“I see dancing isn't all you're good at, boy.”
Blade circled to his left, allowing the weapons from his wrist sheaths to slide into his hands. “Remember that you face a Dance Master before you assume that my youth makes me gullible or inexperienced. It doesn't.”
“Well now, that makes it more interesting, doesn't it?”
The rogue hefted his weapons and lunged at Blade, who skipped back and kicked. His boot blade impaled the man's forearm just behind his wrist, knocking the weapon from his grip. The rogue hissed, scowling, and drew another dagger, flinging it with a sideways flick of his wrist. Blade threw himself backwards and rolled to his feet as the weapon hit the wall behind him with a tinkle. He lunged at his opponent, slashing sideways. The rogue jerked his head aside, and the dagger sliced a shallow cut in his cheek. He grunted and wiped the blood off with the back of his hand, his expression ugly.
“You begin to annoy me, boy.”
Blade glanced past him at the whore, who rose to her feet and scuttled away to cower beside a wall, her eyes wide. The rogue shot her a quick look.
“I'll get around to you, sweetie, as soon as I've finished with this whelp.”
Blade took two steps towards his opponent, spun and leapt, his steel-tipped boots lashing out. The rogue dropped in the nick of time, but Blade lunged as he landed, his dagger slicing into the rogue's shoulder. The man hissed again and moved towards Blade with a series of swift sideways steps, revealing his dancing skill. Blade circled away from him, his feet tapping on the stones, his awareness expanded to ensure that there were no obstacles or threats behind him. The rogue leapt at Blade and kicked. His boot caught the assassin in the ribs as he jumped back, making him stagger. Blade brought a dagger up in a scything stroke that the rogue countered with a lightning-fast retaliation, the blades clashing with a glint of sparks.
Blade's left hand flashed in from the side, impaling the rogue in the flank. The man reeled sideways with a cough, clasping the wound. Blood oozed between his fingers, and he knew as well as Blade that his life was forfeit. That made him even more dangerous, Blade knew. The rogue charged, raising his weapons with the obvious intention of ramming them into Blade's ribs. The assassin skipped back and leapt high, hurling himself backwards as he kicked. His right boot cracked into the underside of the rogue's jaw with a sickening crunch that snapped his teeth together, the three-inch blade slicing deep into his throat.
Blade landed on his back with a grunt, his head hitting the stones, and stars flashed in his vision. The rogue stumbled towards him, his mouth a bloody ruin of broken teeth and slashed tongue, his weapons aimed at Blade's chest. The assassin rolled away as his foe fell to his knees and brought his daggers down on the cobbles where Blade had been an instant before. The rogue lunged before Blade could scramble to his feet, and his weapon sliced into Blade's hip. The assassin gritted his teeth and kicked the rogue again, this time in the side of the head. The man sprawled, jerking Blade's leg, due to the fact that the boot blade was wedged in his skull.
The assassin struggled to yank it free while the rogue twitched and gurgled, the stench of blood sickening him. The dying man’s shudders were conveyed to Blade through the weapon stuck fast in the rogue's skull, and he turned his head away and retched. By the time the nausea passed, the rogue had ceased to move. Sheathing his weapons, Blade placed his other boot on the corpse’s cheek and tugged on his trapped leg, striving to free it. His hip smarted and his trousers were growing wet with blood. Blade kicked the corpse's head, and his boot blade slid free with a dull grating sound. He rose and moved away, pausing beside the wall to unbuckle his boot blades and stow them in his pouch. His back ached, his hip burnt, his ribs smarted and his head pounded.
Rubbing the lump on the back of his head, he turned to face the whore, who stared at him.
She murmured, “Thank you, Dance Master.”
“I didn't do it for you, you stupid trollop,” Blade said.
She recoiled, but rallied. “No, of course not, but I'm still grateful to you for saving me.”
“You were just bait, now bugger off.”
“You're hurt. Can I help?”
“No.”
As she turned away, Blade remembered that he was supposed to inform the Watch of the rogue’s demise and the location of the body. “Wait!”
She swung to face him again, looking nervous. “Yes, Dance Master?”
“Go to the Watch. Tell them what you witnessed, and bring them here. Tell them who killed him. Do you understand?
The whore bit her lip, nodded and hurried away, glancing back often. Blade squatted beside his victim and cut a strip from the rogue's shirt to bind his hip. The placement of the injury made it difficult to bandage, however, and he pressed the cloth to it to slow the bleeding. While he waited, he examined his victim in the moonlight. The rogue was younger than he looked, Blade surmised, disgusted by the stench that came from him. When he tugged open the man's shirt to inspect his tattoo, he found a string around his neck with bits of shrivelled meat threaded on it, whence the stink came. He could not identify what the dried bits were, but moved upwind, bile stinging his throat. Evidently the rogue had collected trophies.
After half a time-glass, Blade decided that the bleeding had slowed sufficiently and rose to his feet to limp up the lane, heading for his haunt.
By the time Blade reached the run-down whorehouse, sweat beaded his brow and his stomach churned. Staggering into Lilu's empty room, he flopped down on the bed. His hands shook and his breath came in harsh gasps. He knew what it was, but he had not had a fever since he was ten, and wondered at the reason for it. Whereas then he had passed out, now he remained lucid when his muscles went rigid and his back arched in a convulsion.
Blade pressed the rag to his wound to slow the bleeding, which the spasms worsened, wondering if he would survive this time, and what had brought on his childhood illness again. It had something to do with the shrivelled bits of meat around the rogue's neck, he was sure, but he did not understand it. Sweat trickled inside his clothes, but he could not summon the energy to remove them, although he was burning up. Perhaps this was it, he thought with dull resignation. Maybe this time the fever would claim him. Darkness nibbled at his vision, and he let it wash away the pain.
Lilu glanced around with a frown as the fluting notes of her familiar's most haunting song echoed in her mind. Symbell never contacted her when she was not alone, and she sat in the busy taproom with laughing, shouting, singing men and harlots around her. Something was wrong. Radiants hardly ever showed themselves to strangers, and especially not a crowd, but clearly Symbell needed to speak to Lilu now. Freeing herself from the groping hands of the muscular blacksmith upon whose lap she sat, she rose and headed for her room, where Symbell could appear in private.
Lilu stopped in the doorway, her breath catching. Blade lay on her bed, one leg dangling, and blood pooled around his foot. A bloody rag lay beside it, and the assassin's pallor was marked. Sweat ran down his face and soaked his hair, his eyes were closed and tremors racked him. Lilu dashed to his side and took hold of his hand, shaking him, then placed a hand on his brow. She swung away to fetch a basin of water, sloshing it in her haste. Banging it down on the bedside table, she grabbed the nearest cloth, dunked it in the water and placed it on his forehead.
With trembling hands, she unlaced his jacket and stripped it off, glad that he was not a heavy man. Beneath it, his shirt was soaked with sweat, as was his leather vest. She tugged off his garments as quickly as she could, placing more cold, wet cloths on his chest before pulling off his boots and trousers. Every so often, his back arched in a convulsion, and she chewed her lip, wondering if she should summon a doctor.
No, a silvery voice murmured in her mind.
Lilu looked up as Symbell appeared with a faint pop and a flash of light. The radiant dragon hovered over the assassin, her wings fanning him.
“What's wrong with him?”
He seeks to quit this world. His soul strives to be free of his mortal form.
“Why?”
He has witnessed something terrible this night.
“Terrible things are nothing to him, he –”
Hush.
Symbell drifted down to land on Blade's chest, her sharp white claws leaving spots of blood on his skin. Arching her neck, she looked down at him, within him, Lilu realised. Symbell spread her wings with a soft, fluting call. Lilu sensed the temperature in the room drop as the radiant summoned the Cold Fire. Where it came from, Lilu had no idea, nor had she ever seen Symbell use it before. It spread from her in frigid, misty flames, licking over the assassin's skin. She glowed with it, brighter than Lilu had ever seen her.
The assassin's tremors subsided, and the sweat that sheened him dried as Symbell cooled him as only a radiant could, sending her chill deep within him. Lilu sank down on the chair, stunned. Mere moments passed before Symbell recalled the Cold Fire, which soaked back into her, and her glowing skin dulled to its usual medley of hues. The radiant sat on Blade's chest, looking a little smug.
He will live.
“Why did you save him? I thought –”
He has a destiny to fulfil.
“But radiants don't save people, not even their friends.”
Symbell tilted her head. No. We do not. But he is God Touched. He must be saved. Without him, much will not happen that must happen.
“Would he have died?”
Perhaps. It was not certain, but probable. His wish to leave was strong. You might not have saved him.
“What about his wound, can you heal it?”
Symbell trilled. I am not a healer. The cold is all I have to offer, on my own.
“And if there were others?”
Together we can do many things, but only Tinsharon can command us.
Lilu's brows rose. “Did Tinsharon tell you to save him?
No. I knew what must be done. You should tend his wound now, and I should leave.
“What did he see that was so awful?”
Symbell shook her head. I know not. I do not believe he knows either, but he will. She glanced around. He watches and waits, but he has a long vigil ahead.
Lilu followed Symbell's gaze, and, although nothing was visible in the gloomy corner, she knew what the radiant was looking at. The cat. Rivan, who waited and watched, but could not aid his friend any longer. Had he hoped that Blade would die, so they would be reunited? Probably, she thought sadly. Being parted from one's familiar was the most excruciating sorrow, it was said, and she could well believe it. That was one thing dragon kin did not have to worry about, though.
The only way the immortal beasts could die was to bond with a human in this, the Age of Beasts, so they would follow their friend into the unknown. The older ones did it, and Lilu suspected that Symbell was many aeons old. That was why radiants would not save their friends; it was the reason they bonded with them, and, while they mourned the passing of their human companion with the most beautiful song they ever sang, they rejoiced at their own demise. Symbell said the death song was a mingling of sorrow and joy, which was why it was so poignant. Apparently, radiants did save God Touched.
Lilu looked up with a smile when Symbell rose into the air on blurred wings. The radiant brightened, then vanished with a soft pop and a glimmer of light. Lilu arranged Blade more comfortably, his skin still cool from Symbell's fire, whose effects she suspected would linger for time-glasses. As she pulled the sheet over him, the door banged open and she whipped around to find Jezzel, the red-haired harlot from down the corridor, framed in it. The whore swayed, her face flushed and hair tangled, and eyed the man in Lilu's bed with a malicious sneer.
“So, 'e's bin pokin' ye again, 'as 'e? Yer two never seem to get enough. No wonder yer raced outta the taproom like the 'ounds of Damnation was after ye. Looks like yer rutted 'im 'alf to death, an' all.” She cackled.
“Get out,” Lilu snarled.
“Nah, I wants a bit o' the action too, indeed I does. 'E must 'ave a bit o' spunk left in 'im.”
“Don't you get enough from those louts in the taproom?”
“Aye, 'deed I do. But I wants 'im.” Jezzel stumbled into the room, grabbing the chair. The stench of sour wine hung about her. “Why should yer be the only one 'oo can say they was poked by the Master o' the Dance, eh?”
“I've never said that. You all just assume it, and you're wrong. He would never lie with a two-copper whore.”
“Lies! Why else would 'e spend so much time 'ere?”
“It's his haunt, you stupid cow.”
“Nah, nah, 'e spends too much time in yer room.”
Lilu grabbed the woman when she lunged towards the bed, shoving her at the door. Jezzel lurched back with a curse, her brow furrowing.
“I could 'ave yer thrown out, ye know!” she shouted. “I'm worth more'n yer! Rendal's always complainin' 'bout 'ow yer bother the lads with yer ugly mug!”
Lilu glanced at the comatose assassin, a suspicion forming in her mind. Rendal was the brothel keeper, and she did not think he would tolerate her if he did not have an excellent reason. She stepped towards the drunken whore and pushed her against the wall.
“He comes here because I help him, no other reason! He's wounded right now, you want to see?”
Jezzel stared at her, then nodded. “Aye, prove it if yer can.”
Lilu went to the bed and dragged down the sheet, exposing the assassin's blood-soaked shorts and the crimson-stained bed. Jezzel paled, raised a hand to her mouth, and bolted out of the door to vomit in the corridor. Lilu slammed the door behind her and bolted it. Turning to face the bed, she pressed her back to the door, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.
“You did this, didn't you?” she murmured. “You made this cesspit your haunt so Rendal would let me trade here.”
Lilu approached the bed and sat beside him, stroking the damp tendrils of hair from his brow. He looked gaunt and tired, his eyes sunken.
“God Touched,” she whispered, her heart aching. “What happened to you tonight? Who hurt you? What did you see that made you want to die?” She bent and kissed his forehead. “I love you so much.”
With a sigh, she fetched her needle and thread and stitched the wound in his hip, washed off the blood and dressed it as best she could. By the time she finished, the whorehouse was quiet and she was exhausted. She lay down beside him, the bed wide enough to accommodate her as well, and fell asleep nestled against him.