Conash hefted the dagger, tossed it into the air and caught it again, then turned to Talon and nodded.
“These are good.”
“They should be, at a golden each.”
The merchant whose wares they were inspecting rubbed his hands with an ingratiating smile. “These are top quality, elder. You won't find better in all of Jondar, nor at a better price. They're crafted by -”
Talon raised a hand. “Yes, yes, a master crafter, blah blah. They all say that. I'll give you five silvers for them.”
The merchant's eyes widened. “That's a fraction of what they're worth. My lowest price would be nine.”
“Seven.”
“Eight.”
“Done.” Talon scooped up the four daggers and handed them to Conash. “Don't lose them, or you'll pay for the next set yourself.”
“With what?”
“I'll hire you out to sweep tavern floors.”
“You can't do that.”
“Says who?”
Conash shrugged, tucked the daggers into the belt sheath that came with them and buckled it on. “Me.”
Talon snorted and headed for the shop's door. “Don't try me, apprentice.”
When they arrived back at the hut, Talon flopped down in a chair and poured a cup of wine, studying his apprentice. Conash had gained weight over the last two moon-phases, although he remained slender. The boy took out a dagger and admired it, turning it slowly. He had chosen daggers as his weapon within a few days of starting his apprenticeship, and was learning all the methods of using one that Talon had to teach.
“So, have you chosen your favourite method? Throat, front, back, or flank?” Talon asked.
“Flank.”
“An odd choice. Why?”
Conash shrugged. “Less blood.”
“You don't like blood, do you?”
“Not particularly.”
“Odd, for an assassin.” Talon sipped his wine. “Now it's time to learn how to throw a dagger. When throwing, you hold it by the blade.”
Conash tossed the dagger into the air and caught it by the blade, then dropped it with a grunt and sucked his finger.
Talon smiled. “Not so easy, is it?”
“You haven't shown me how.”
“Don't you mean, 'please show me how, Master'?”
“No.”
Talon sighed, shaking his head. “I don't know why I put up with your disrespect.” He put down his cup and rose, approaching the boy. “Here, you hold it like this.”
Taking the dagger, Talon held it lightly by the blade, his fingers supporting it halfway between hilt and tip. “Hold it lightly, or you'll get cut. Then you flick it, like so.”
The assassin flung the dagger at one of the hut's beams. It bounced off the wall beside it and fell with a clatter. Conash snorted and smiled. Talon shrugged and returned to his chair.
“I'm not a dagger man, but that's the right way to do it.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Sarcasm isn't respectful.”
“How can you teach something you don't know yourself?”
“I've shown you the method. Use it. The rest is practice.”
Conash picked up the weapon and walked across the room, then held it as Talon had instructed and flicked his wrist. The dagger thudded into the beam, quivering. Talon's brows rose.
“Beginner's luck.”
Conash retrieved the dagger and threw it again, with identical results.
Talon frowned. “Still beginner's luck.”
The boy's third throw went awry, and the dagger clattered off the wall.
His mentor smiled, nodding. “You see?”
Conash flung the weapon again, and hit the beam for a third time.
Talon snorted. “A fluke.”
Five throws later, four of them accurate, Talon admitted, “You do seem to have a knack for it.”
Conash frowned at his bleeding fingers. “I'm doing something wrong.”
“You're gripping it too tight. You need to hold it like you would a woman's...” Talon coughed and sipped his wine.
“A woman's what?”
“Never mind, you've never held one, so there's no point in telling you.”
“But I will, one day.”
Talon nodded. “And when you do, you'll know what I'm talking about, but right now it won't help you, will it? Loosen your grip.”
Conash tried to throw the dagger again, but this time it slipped from his grasp and fell at his feet.
“Not that much,” Talon said.
The boy picked it up and threw it again, and Talon watched him, amazed by how quickly he learnt. Conash had a gift for handling daggers; it seemed to come naturally to him. Odd, for a goat farmer's son. Arming the boy made Talon uneasy, for he was all too aware of Conash's dangerously unstable nature. The youth had calmed considerably, however, and no more furious outbursts had taken place, although Talon was careful not to provoke one.
Often, he stopped himself from berating the boy, and he knew he was being far too soft on him. Conash needed little reprimanding, however. He spent all of his waking hours practicing his latest lesson until he had perfected it. It made him the perfect apprentice, but it also made Talon uneasy. He noticed that the boy was wiping blood from his fingers and stood up.
“Enough now, Conash, or you won't be able to practice tomorrow.”
“I'll practice the next lesson tomorrow, after I've perfected this.”
Talon approached him. “Stop now. It's enough. You can't throw with bleeding fingers; it's making the blade slippery.”
Conash drew back his arm, and Talon stepped in front of him and gripped his wrist. “I said stop. Obedience, remember?”
The youth met his gaze, and Talon quelled a shiver at the icy emptiness in his eyes.
“There's no need to hurt yourself,” the elder said.
“You should be pleased to have such a dedicated apprentice.”
“I am, but your dedication borders on fanaticism, and that worries me.”
“Why?”
Talon shrugged and released the boy's wrist. “Because it's not normal. You have no other interests.”
“What other interests should an apprentice have?”
“There's reading. Can you read?”
“Of course I can read.”
“Good. Or there's wood carving. My last apprentice enjoyed whittling, and he was quite good at it.”
Conash glared at him. “What's the point? The more I practice, the better I'll be.”
“You need to relax, too. You're far too tense. You're like a crossbow that's been cranked too tight. When that happens, sometimes they snap, and that's dangerous.”
“I'm not going to snap. I'm not a crossbow.”
Talon sighed. “No, you're just a boy, and you need to relax for at least a time-glass a day. I'm going to make it part of your training. An important skill for an assassin is patience. Sometimes we have to spend days waiting for the right moment, or lying in wait. Right now, you have no patience at all. I don't care what you do. You can sit and stare into space for all I care, or I'll bring you some books or a piece of wood. But you will relax, and right now, you'll put away that dagger and tend to the cuts in your hands.
Talon sat down and topped up his wine cup. “Your hands are your most important tools. You need to look after them, especially if you're going to be a dagger man. The dagger is the most difficult weapon to master. Sit down.”
Conash came over and sat opposite, pouring himself a cup of wine. Since his wounding, Talon allowed him to drink unwatered wine, hoping that it would help to calm him. The elder studied the cuts on the boy's hands.
“There's something else you need to learn. Usually I wouldn't start teaching you until after your first year, but it might help to relax you too.”
“What is it?”
“A dance.”
The boy's face hardened and his eyes grew colder. “A dance.”
“Yes. It's not any old dance, though. It's the assassins' dance, and it's a test of speed, agility, strength, co-ordination and stamina. You're required to master it. It will make you stronger, suppler and faster. It also teaches you self-defence.”
“A dance.”
Talon nodded. “It's called the Dance of Death.”
The boy jumped up and turned away, his hands clenched, then went over to the window and stared out at the dismal view of shacks and garbage. The elder watched him, curious and concerned. For Conash to show any emotion at all was unusual, and his reaction was unexpected.
“What's wrong?”
“I've seen its like before.”
“I doubt it. Only assassins perform it, and only at Guild meetings. Normal folk never see it.”
“I've seen the real thing.”
Talon hesitated, wondering if the boy was going to tell him something from his past, about which he remained taciturn. “In the Cotti camp?”
“Yes.”
“What do you mean, 'the real thing'?”
“Children... little girls, made to dance until they died.”
“Conash...” Talon rose and went over to the boy, unsure of how to deal with this revelation. “The Cotti are bastards, but whatever they did, this isn't the same thing.”
“It wouldn't be, would it? Pointless for assassins to dance until they drop dead.”
“And yet, it brings you terrible memories. You don't need to learn it yet.” The elder placed a hand on the youth's shoulder.
Conash shrugged it off and moved away, returning to sit at the table. “I'll learn it now. It doesn't matter.”
“All right.” Talon sat opposite again with a sigh. The boy never accepted sympathy. In fact, it seemed to anger him. “I'll start you with it tomorrow. We'll have to go to the edge of the forest to do it, where no one will see. I have a spot there, where I train apprentices.”
The boy stared across the room, looking bored, something he affected to do, Talon realised, when he struggled with some inner turmoil. The elder sipped his wine and cleared his throat, deciding to broach a subject that he had been unable to bring himself to speak about before.
“I know something of what they did to you, Conash.”
“Really?”
“Yes, and it's barbaric, shameful. But what's done is done, and I think you can use it to your advantage.”
Conash turned to stare at his mentor, his face expressionless. “And what might that be?”
Talon coughed, embarrassed. “You're sixteen; you should be interested in girls, but you're not.”
Conash looked away. “I am.”
“If you were, you'd be down at the tavern, flirting with them. But you never leave this shack, except for your daily walk in the slums. That's not a life.”
“I'm dead, remember?”
“We agreed that you'd be alive, for now.”
The boy nodded. “All I want is to practice. That shouldn't bother you.”
“There's a reason why you're not interested in girls, isn't there?” Talon leant across the table and stroked the boy's cheek.
Conash jerked away and stood up, turning to stare out of the window again. “Mind your own damned business.”
Talon rose and stood beside him. “You should have started to grow a beard at your age.”
“I will. I'm just slow to mature. It runs in my family. My brother didn't have a beard at my age, either.”
“Really? Was he also castrated?” Talon coughed as the point of Conash's dagger pricked his throat.
“There's nothing wrong with me,” he said.
“You'll never grow a beard. You need to accept it. That's why you're not interested in girls.”
“I'm too young!”
“How old are you?” Talon gripped the boy's wrist and twisted it in an expert move that turned the point of the weapon away from his throat.
Conash glared. “Maybe I'm not sixteen. Maybe it only felt like four years. Perhaps it was less.”
“The Rout of Ashtolon happened four years ago.”
Conash's frown grew fiercer. “You want me to flirt with girls, then I will!”
“You should want to.”
“I do! I thought you wanted a good apprentice, not a womaniser.”
Talon shook his head. “You need to accept what they did to you. Eventually you'll have to.”
“No, I won't. There's nothing wrong with me!”
“You know what they did to you just as well as I do. Perhaps better. You were twelve, right? A child.”
Conash wrenched free and swung away, the dagger gripped in a white-knuckled fist. Talon experienced a frisson of unease as the youth turned to glare at him with eyes as frigid as a midwinter storm, and wondered if he had made a mistake by raising the subject, but persevered.
“You can use this, Conash. You can turn a disadvantage into a tool. First you need to accept what's happened to you.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
Talon sighed, shaking his head, but kept a wary eye on the youth. He did not trust the boy, even though he had sworn to uphold the code, and while he had chosen to broach the subject early on to minimise the risk, Conash was, and always had been, dangerous.
“You could become a master of disguise, Conash.”
Talon used the boy's name often, to remind him of who he was and prevent him from slipping into his cat persona, which the elder had glimpsed when the thugs had beaten the boy. When he had run up to the struggling men, Conash had been so cat-like in his actions and sounds that Talon could almost see the ebon form of the cat whose personality he had taken on.
It was known as familiar possession, when a person's dead familiar seemed to overpower their personality, so strong had the bond between them been in life. In times of extreme duress, the human part of the person would recede, and their beast kin's traits would take over to save them. This was, he surmised, how Conash had crawled out of the desert, with the aid of the feline gifts his cat kinship bestowed.
The boy did not appear to be listening, but Talon continued, “When I found you in that alley, I thought you were a girl, Conash. Do you know how much easier it would be to lure your targets into a vulnerable situation if they thought you were a girl? A little powder and paint, a pretty dress, and -”
Conash swung away and strode to the door, yanked it open and slammed it behind him so hard that the shack shuddered. Talon sighed and returned to sit at the table, picking up his goblet of wine. He had expected an adverse reaction, but at least it had not been a violent one this time. The boy appeared to be learning some self-control, or perhaps his oath was truly binding. Nevertheless, his aversion to the idea was clearly immense, and Talon could not blame him. If anyone had suggested that he would look attractive dressed as a woman, he would also have been offended. He stroked his short beard. Not that that was every likely to happen. He could not imagine what it must be like; to be a eunuch.
Conash wandered along a garbage-choked alley, kicked the refuse at his feet and muttered curses under his breath. The fury that ate at him combined with hatred to form a vitriolic bitterness. He had wanted to kill Talon for his suggestion, and even for noticing what had been done to him. It would not work, he had told himself a thousand times. He would grow into a man like any other, with a beard and a woman to warm his bed and bear his sons. He rubbed his chin with fingers that stung from the cuts the dagger had inflicted. One day hair would sprout from it. He was just slow to mature.
Emerging into a broader street, he strode towards the alehouse at the end of it. A few coppers resided in his pocket, although Talon gave him no money. He had found them in the gutter, and they would purchase a mug of ale. Talon was wrong about him, and he would prove it by becoming a man. Perhaps it would speed up his maturity.
When he pushed open the alehouse's door and entered, a hush fell in the taproom, and he realised that in his black garb, most thought him an assassin. No matter, it would keep him safe, according to Talon. His aversion to crowds and confined spaces grew stronger as the redolence of unwashed bodies, stale ale and sour vomit made his stomach squirm. Men stepped from his path as he made his way to the back of the room and found an unoccupied table. The low hum of conversation returned when he sat down.
A voluptuous serving wench came over, swinging her hips and smiling. A pile of braided brown hair topped her plump, cheerful face. When she leant over, she displayed a deep cleavage, and he averted his eyes.
“What can I get ye, love?” she asked.
“Ale.”
“Coming right up.”
The girl left with swaying hips and a toss of her head, deftly avoiding groping hands. A minute later, she returned with a brimming mug of ale and placed it in front of him. He dropped two of his three coppers in her palm, then looked up at her and smiled. She hesitated, and a coquettish grin dimpled her round cheeks.
“Will you join me?” he asked.
She glanced around, then slid onto the seat beside him. “I ain't s'posed to, but just for a minute.”
Conash gulped, toying with the mug, then offered it to her. “Have some?”
She giggled. “You're s'posed to buy me a mug, if ye want me to stay.”
He dropped his remaining copper on the table. “That's all I have left.”
“That's a shame. Never mind.” She took a swig of his ale. “We can share. Yer just a young lad, ain'tcha?”
“I'm almost seventeen.”
“Ah, a man already, then.”
“Not quite.”
“Oooh, I see.” She giggled and leant closer to stroke his hair.
Conash wanted to jerk away from her caress, but forced himself to remain still, gazing at her with a slight smile. The girl's fingers moved to his cheek and lingered.
“Ye shave pretty good, don'tcha?”
“There's not much to shave, yet.”
“Hmmmm. Never mind, it'll come, lad. Have you a name?”
He nodded. “Conash. You?”
“Elly.” Her eyes roamed over him. “Are ye an assassin, then?”
“An apprentice.”
“Ooooh. That's exciting.”
His brows rose. “Is it?”
“Of course! All girls like a strong man.”
“Even a killer?”
“A killer most of all. It makes us girls feel safe, knowing that no one can harm us with a man like you to protect us.”
He cocked his head, longing to move away from her fingers, which had moved back to his ear and hair. “You're not scared?”
“Why would we be? Ye've got no reason to harm us, do ye?”
“I might get angry.”
She giggled and leant closer, slipping her arm around his neck. “Well now, that might be scary if ye were just a common murderer, but yer an assassin, so yer not going to kill anyone, are ye?”
“I suppose not.” Conash quaffed his ale, unnerved by the soft flesh that she pressed against him in blatant invitation.
Her lips brushed his ear as she whispered, “I've got a room in the back.”
Conash coughed as the mouthful of ale almost choked him, but nodded. He had not dreamt it would be so easy. All his instincts clamoured at him to jump up and flee, but he was determined to prove Talon wrong. Elly drained his mug and tugged him to his feet, ducking to avoid the eyes of the alehouse keeper as she dragged him to the back of the taproom and through a door. Hauling him around a corner, she pushed open another door and led him into a cramped storeroom. Sacks of flour provided a couch of sorts, and she pushed him down on it, pulling off her blouse with a sweep of her arms.
Conash gulped as she guided his hands to her flesh, rubbing against him with a moan. His alarm grew when she unbuttoned his jacket and pulled it open, then unlaced his shirt. Her hands roamed over his chest and down his belly, sending shivers through him. He stared at the flesh that she had pressed into his hands, not knowing what he was supposed to do with it. Her hands continued their exploration, and he sensed the steel spring inside him coiling tighter. His stomach clenched, and bile stung his throat. Elly fumbled with his trousers and pushed a hand into them. A frown furrowed her brow, and a vaguely bemused expression came over her face, then her eyes glinted, and she recoiled.
“What in Damnation? Is this a jest? Yer not a man!” She slapped him, making his ear ring. “Get out, ye damned gelded dog!”
The red tide rose like a flash of fire, blinding him. A roaring filled his ears, and soft flesh yielded under his hands. He was aware of choking, gurgling sounds, and that he was crouched over something that writhed and kicked. Hands clawed at his arms and heels thudded against the floor. His vision cleared as if a bucket of ice had put out the fire of his fury, and he found that he gripped Elly's throat. She flailed at him, gurgling, her face red and swollen.
Conash released her and stumbled back to trip over something and sit down with a thud. Elly gasped and pawed at her throat while she stared at him with bulging eyes. He leapt up and ripped open the door, skidded into the corridor and ran down it to the kitchens, where cooks jumped from his path with curses and dropped bowls. The alehouse's back door flew open when he crashed into it, and he stumbled into a deserted street. Rats and cats dashed for cover as he ran up the road, his boots ringing on the cobbles.
Conash turned corners without seeing them and raced past houses, brothels and taprooms, inns and liveries, businesses and trading posts. He had no idea where he was going. He only wanted to run until he could go no further. Elly's words rang in his ears, goading him when his legs flagged, and the sight of her swollen face and bulging eyes blocked his vision. Cobbles passed under his pounding feet, miles and miles of them, endless, unyielding, uncaring, just like the glowering moon and the cold buildings. No one cared. He had almost killed her. He had not wanted to kill her, but something had overridden his will and taken control. A thing for which he had no name, which lived deep within him and sprang to the fore whenever he was hurt.
A shadow bounded beside him, keeping pace, and golden eyes glanced at him. Rivan was back. Conash welcomed his presence, and fresh strength seeped into his burning legs. His aching lungs eased, and he ran faster. The city passed in a blur of dull buildings and street lamps. A group of young men shouted at him, and a harridan railed at him from a window. His heart hammered and his throat grew dry. Rivan kept pace, loping past parked carts and people who did not appear to see him. A couple jumped from the boy's path, and the man shouted curses after him.
Conash ran on, uncaring, unflagging, trying to outrun his shame and humiliation. A gelded dog. Not a man; not a cat; not even a boy anymore. A nothing. A shadow in the dark, a speck of dirt on the street, a piece of trash blowing down an alley. A dead killer with a grave-name, bonded to a dead cat. He tried to become the cat again, but it eluded him. Rivan loped beside him, calling to him with purring chirps.
The boy stumbled to a halt and doubled over, clasping his knees as he wheezed and panted. His legs were on fire and cold pain filled his lungs. He fell to his knees and bowed his head, then leant on his hands, gasping. A rancid foetor surrounded him, and he gazed at the garbage beneath him. Apparently his wild run had led him to the city dump, where he belonged. He was detritus. A ruined person, stripped of his dignity and manhood, useless to anyone for anything.
Warm fur brushed his face, and a tongue rasped against his cheek. He closed his burning eyes, and painful tears squeezed from under his eyelids and ran down his cheeks. Grasping handfuls of garbage, he straightened and howled at the moon. His dead heart ached, and his dead familiar kept him company as he roared his hatred and anguish at the uncaring rats and cats that inhabited the dump. There was no pity within him, even for himself, only loathing and fury.
They would pay. They would all pay for what they had done to him. Not just the Cotti, but all of mankind deserved his loathing, and he was good at hating everything. He had perfected the skill in the Cotti camp, and now turned it upon himself, too. Drawing a dagger, he slit his throat. Warm liquid ran down his chest and soaked into his trousers, and he welcomed the weakness that washed through him on its heels. The dagger fell into the garbage as he touched the crimson flood that flowed down his chest.
Rivan spat, and Conash glanced at him. The cat's ears were flattened and his eyes glared with fury.
“I want to die!” the boy shouted. “Let me be! Go away!”
The cat arched his back and moved closer. His paw flashed out to claw Conash's arm. The boy stared at his ripped sleeve and the blood that oozed from the cuts. That was not possible. Rivan was dead. The cat spat again, and Conash reached for him, his bloody fingers brushing soft, warm fur. Rivan’s dark form became a fall of shadows that faded and sank away into the ground. Conash tried to grasp the fading tendrils, sensing the cat's warm presence in his mind, soothing him. Rivan was gone, this time forever.
Conash sat back, raised a hand to his throat and found it whole. His daggers were still sheathed in his belt. His chest was innocent of blood, but his sleeve was ripped, and blood oozed from four deep scratches there. Rivan's mark. At last, he had inflicted the scars that marked Conash forever as cat kin, indelible and beloved. Conash clasped the cuts and bowed his head. Rivan did not want him to die. That was the message he had returned from the grave this time to impart. Why, he did not know.
Lying down in the refuse, Conash closed his eyes and let himself slip into the darkness where Rivan waited.