The Queen's Blade Prequel I - Conash: Dead Son (11 page)

“Not too
often.”

“What
mark?”

Talon glanced
around. “Mark? Oh, yes. All guild assassins have a tattoo, so we
can identify ourselves to potential clients, and each other. That
way, we're not mistaken for common murderers, too, should the Watch
catch us.”

“What does it
look like?”

“I can't tell
you that. You'll find out if and when you earn yours.”

“Why can't you
tell me?”

Talon smiled.
“So you don't get one without earning it. Then the Guild would hunt
you down and burn it off. That's painful.”

Conash frowned
at the table, and Talon sat opposite again.

“It's not a bad
life. You can earn a comfortable living from just one or two kills
a moon-phase, depending on what you charge. The fee varies
according to the difficulty of the job. Most assignments are
middle-class merchants and traders whose rivals want to be rid of
them. Some are philandering husbands or criminals the Watch can't
prosecute.”

“Why do you
think I'd make a good assassin?”

“Did I say
you'd make a good assassin?” Talon snorted. “You might, but that
would depend on how well you learnt the skills I'd teach you. If
you're lazy, you'll make a lousy assassin. You're a candidate
purely because you're homeless and orphaned. Families are usually
against their sons becoming assassins.”

“I don't blame
them.”

“You're cat
kin, aren't you?”

Conash nodded,
his frown deepening.

“You're Bereft,
then. The Cotti killed your familiar?”

“Yes.”

“Bastards.”
Talon sighed. “The training is hard, but at the end of it you'll be
fit and strong. Assassins may be scorned, but we're also respected
for our abilities. We're hunters. We track down our prey and kill
them quickly, and usually painlessly, and escape without detection.
It's a highly skilled trade. It takes four years of hard work to
become an assassin.”

“Why did you
become one?”

“I'm the son of
a nobleman's mistress. When my mother grew too old he cast her off,
and she ended up as a whore. She was beaten to death when I was
fourteen. I starved on the streets for a moon-phase before an elder
found me and took me in. I know what it's like to be where you
are.”

Conash glanced
at him. “What about your father?”

“He didn't want
me. He had five legitimate sons.”

“Did you kill
him?”

“No.” Talon
cocked his head. “Why would I do that?”

“He spurned
you. He left you to die in the gutter.”

“Yes, I suppose
he did. Still, he didn't deserve to die.” The assassin leant
forward, and the boy regarded him with deep suspicion. “Assassins
aren't allowed to kill without a client, Conash. We have a code,
and the foremost rule is that we only kill when and who we're paid
to. It prevents those of us with a strong bloodlust from becoming
common murderers. If an assassin kills without a client, he's
considered a rogue, and the Guild will hunt him down and execute
him. The fact that we won't kill unless we're paid to is what
separates us from the murderers.

“It's the
reason our trade is considered legal. The blame for our targets'
deaths falls on our clients, and we're considered tools, nothing
more. The only other time we're allowed to kill is if we're in
danger. For instance, if a target's bodyguard attacks you, you're
allowed to kill him, or you can kill a guard in order to reach your
target. If you're attacked by thugs, as, unfortunately, assassins
sometimes are, you're allowed to defend yourself with deadly force,
if necessary, but only if necessary, you understand?”

The boy nodded,
glaring at the table.

Talon rose and
went to the stove to stir the ryelen. “Do you have a strong wish to
kill people?”

“Some of
them.”

“The Cotti, I
suppose?”

“Yes.”

Talon nodded.
“That's understandable, after what they did to you, but -”

“You don't know
what they did to me.”

“No, I don't,
and I won't ask. If you want to tell me, I'll listen, but I'm not
the curious sort.” The elder sensed that he was on thin ice, and
skirted the subject. “I was going to say, you won't be able to kill
any Cotti in Jondar. If you only want to kill Cotti, you'd best
join the army, although they won't accept you until you're a bit
bigger.”

“I know. I
don't care who I kill.”

“But you won't
do it for fun.”

“No. It's not
fun. It's disgusting.”

Talon shot him
a sideways glance. “But you don't mind doing it.”

“No.”

“What did you
feel, when you killed those two men?”

“Nothing.”

The elder's
brows rose, but he concentrated on stirring the porridge. “No
triumph? No satisfaction? No sense of achievement?”

“No.”

“I see. But
then, those were impulsive acts, weren't they? You didn't plan
them.”

Conash
continued to glare at the table. “No.”

“But you
planned to kill me, didn't you?”

“Yes. I needed
to do it. I was hungry.”

“So you need a
reason. That's good. I won't apprentice an indiscriminate killer
who murders for fun.” Talon returned to sit at the table again.
“When your training is complete, you'll be able to kill whoever
your clients want, regardless of whether they're rich or poor, or
extremely well-guarded. It's what we do.”

“I haven't
agreed to be your apprentice.”

“No, but I
think you will. What else will you do?”

The boy
shrugged. “I don't know. I could starve, I suppose.”

“Yes, that
would be the other option. Or you could sell yourself as a sport
boy. Those are your only other choices.”

“I won't become
a filthy boy whore.”

“Good.”

Conash picked
up a spoon and toyed with it. “Why don't you apprentice the street
urchins? There are plenty of them.”

“They're mostly
unsuitable, although occasionally we do. Most of them are the
children of beggars or whores, and they have parents. They're also
stunted from being raised in near starvation, and most are bonded
to small, harmless beasts like mice, rats, birds and the like. They
don't have the killer instinct.”

“I'm also a
runt.”

“No, you're a
little small for your age, but you're still growing. I'd say you
had a good upbringing before the Cotti captured you, so you have
strong bones. The Cotti didn't starve you, and with good food,
you'll achieve a reasonable stature. Also, being agile and light is
an advantage for an assassin. We often have to climb through
windows, and we use the assassin's highway sometimes, over the
rooftops. Your being cat kin is a huge advantage.”

The boy shot
him a calculating glance. “So, you do think I'd make a good
assassin?”

“All right,
I'll admit, I do. I wouldn't have made the offer otherwise. I think
you have a lot of potential, although you'll have to stop being so
eager to kill anyone who offends you. Do that once, when you're an
assassin, and you'll sign your death warrant. The Guild won't
tolerate it.”

“So you
said.”

Talon studied
him. “You're mature for your age, but you need to give up this idea
that you're dead.”

“You wouldn't
understand.”

“No, I don't.
But if you're going to last more than a tenday as an assassin, you
need to want to live, and accept that you're alive. There are too
many perilous situations for an assassin to have a death wish.”

The boy fiddled
with the spoon. “What do you care?”

“I care,
because I don't want to waste four years training you, only for you
to be killed on your first assignment.”

Conash glanced
at the bubbling porridge and shrugged. “All right, I'll stay alive
for two years, then.”

“So you accept
my offer?”

“Not yet.”

Talon gave a
frustrated snort and rose to dish up the porridge. “What more do
you want to know?”

“The rest of
the rules.”

“When you
accept.” The elder placed a bowl of steaming ryelen in front of the
boy and sat opposite with his own. “So you admit that you're
alive.”

The boy blew on
a spoonful of porridge. “My body is.”

“Ah, I
see.”

“I doubt
that.”

“Maybe not. It
doesn't matter, so long as you agree to stay alive for at least two
years after you become an assassin.”

Conash nodded.
“If I decide to become one.”

“Oh, I think
you will. Only a fool would accept the alternative.”

“Or someone who
doesn't care.”

“If you wanted
to die, you wouldn't be here, eating my porridge.”

“I'm
hungry.”

Talon frowned
as the first glimmer of understanding dawned on him. “That's all
that matters to you now, isn't it? You eat when you're hungry,
drink when you're thirsty and sleep when you're tired.”

“Yes.”

“And you'll do
whatever it takes to earn those things, right?”

“Yes.”

“Even kill
someone.”

The boy
shrugged. “That's easy.”

“It's been easy
because you surprised a weary traveller and a drunken fool. Not all
killing is so easy.”

“It will be
after you teach me though, won't it?”

Talon shivered
and concentrated on his porridge. He had the unpleasant sensation
that he would create a monster if he trained this boy. There was
also no doubt in his mind that if Conash did not become an
assassin, he would continue to kill for food until he was caught
and executed. The boy had no conscience, which was good, for an
assassin. It seemed that he was devoid of just about all normal
emotions, and the elder assassin was certain that no one would ever
find pity from him.

Whatever the
Cotti had done to him had stripped him of every vestige of
compassion or remorse, perhaps because they had shown him none.
Once again, he wondered about the plaited hair that had been tied
around the boy's neck. It seemed to have no value to him, yet if
that was the case, why had he kept it? The boy had a mind like an
ice pit. Deep, dark, frigid and dangerous, and it showed in the
chilling glance of his strange grey eyes. He was also, Talon
sensed, a simmering volcano of fury and hatred, and the slightest
provocation could spark him into violence.

A strange and
dangerous combination, fire and ice, malice and ruthlessness. A
frightening one, if Talon made the mistake of sparking a deadly
outburst, and he did not know what would do that. His only
assurance was that the boy was small and weak, but that would
change if he chose to become an assassin.

For two days,
peace reigned in the shack. Talon brought food and talked to his
guest, who remained, for the most part, taciturn. The bruises on
his face darkened, and his nose swelled. Talon wondered if it was
broken, and on the third day, as he was about to leave, he walked
around the table to stop beside the boy, who stared ahead, clearly
trying to ignore him.

Without
considering what Conash's reaction might be, Talon gripped the
youth's chin to lift his face and examine his nose. Conash leapt
away as if Talon had stuck a dagger in him, the chair crashing
over. He snatched a knife from the stove and whirled to fly at
Talon. The elder assassin whipped around, narrowly avoiding the
first stab, but tripped over the fallen chair and sprawled. Conash
leapt at him, bringing the knife down in a scything stroke that
slashed Talon's sleeve and gashed his arm as he twisted aside.

Talon punched
the boy in reflex, sending him crashing into the wall, and he
slumped. Climbing to his feet, Talon clasped his arm and frowned at
the youth, surprised and unnerved by the boy's speed and the deadly
intent of his attack. He was tempted to toss the unconscious youth
out into the street, then paused to consider. Whatever trauma
Conash had suffered in the desert had left him with the kind of
reactions assassins were trained to have. His immediate, automatic
response to being handled was probably natural after his ordeal,
and beneficial to an assassin. It made him an even better prospect,
although it had been a painful lesson for Talon.

After he tended
his cut, Talon squatted down and slapped the boy's cheek until his
eyes flicked open. This time he was ready for the fist that lashed
out at his head, and he grabbed the boy's wrists and pinned him to
the floor.

“Don't touch
me!” Conash bellowed, struggling furiously.

“Calm down,
boy. I wasn't going to hurt you. Stop it!”

“Let me
go!”

“I will, when
you stop fighting me. You want me to tie you to the chair
again?”

The boy went
still, but remained tense. Talon released him and straightened.
Conash lunged at him, and his fist skimmed past Talon's cheek as
the assassin jerked his head aside. Talon slapped him, knocking him
backwards, then gripped his throat. He slumped, and Talon found a
rope and bound his hands behind his back before lifting him onto a
chair. Righting the fallen chair, Talon sat down and frowned at his
prisoner, pouring himself a cup of wine to settle his jangling
nerves.

Half a
time-glass later, the boy lifted his head and glared at the elder,
tugging at the bonds with a grimace. Talon eyed him, pondering how
close he had come to a serious injury, from a mere waif who looked
like he could not pull the skin off a narafruit.

“I don't want
to know what that was all about,” he said, “but don't ever try to
attack me again, or next time you'll get hurt.”

Conash glanced
at the bandage around Talon's arm. “It was you who got hurt, this
time.”

“Proud of it,
are you? Don't be. You took me by surprise this time. Next time you
won't. Even so, you're the one who got the worst of it, so don't
act like you got the better of me. This is just a scratch. And I
don't appreciate my kindness being repaid with violence.”