40

There!

The voice in the bracer spoke to Taul’s mind. A tingling heat spread from his arm to his brain stem. The eldest voice had taken charge of guiding him. The others simmered behind it, lending Taul gentler guidance to perfect his movements. This was the best way to learn, he thought. This is how my people once did things. It seemed natural. Hadn’t the orchard taught him similarly?

There!

The bracer’s voice insisted until Taul was facing the tenuous trail. It had taken him time to sort out what was common: flailing Dark tendrils versus ones that were in use. It was a strange world; one he’d nearly forgotten. In the groves, the Dark mingled with the living force of the plants and took on a unique form. Here in the crater, there was more kith than living matter; tendrils reached up to the sky, a choking lattice of power hidden a hair's breadth from normal vision. The previous owners of the assassin’s tools must know them with their own eyes, so accustomed to that side of Mornae experience.

Still, his heart throbbed in his throat from fear and excitement. The devices didn’t care about his feelings. They were at work again, those ancient minds summoned forth to aid their house once more, and they urged him on.

It seemed strange that Lor’Toshtolin, a quiet, peaceful house dedicated to growing brandy pears, could have such a heritage. We are not what we once were, his grandmother had always said. He wondered if a secret assassin had awaited her command. How long had it been since someone last wore the bracer? Who had been the assassin’s last target? When had he put the devices away and given up that work? Only the matron’s journals would tell if anyone even knew. House assassins left no trace of their activity, in life or death.

The man he followed must not be aware of the trail behind him, a hazy drift of cosmic dark. He didn’t have time to worry about his own trail. The trinkets filled him with confidence.

They will look in the shadow and not find you, they said in unison.

The bracer instructed him: where to place his feet, where to push off, which strand of Dark to adhere to.

Leap!

Taul vaulted over a villa wall, grimacing as the security glyph poked and prodded. He alighted on the ground, tipped, and bounced forward like an inflated bladder. The devices screeched within his head, rattling him, burning with frustration at his ineptitude.

I’m a tender, he thought, hoping they’d understand. He grasped at the razor thin grooves between the stone pavers and righted himself. The villa appeared unused. Strange, that. So many wanted to live in the crater, but here an ample villa sat empty. Pressed by his secret companions, he bounded through the door his target had used and down into a cellar.

Be careful!

Again, they railed within him. In each shadow, Taul imagined a menacing figure lunging at him.

Prepare yourself, his instructor said.

How long had it been since Taul used a dagger? He’d trained with one, of course. All knights of Isilmyr do, but he’d only ever sparred. He’d not been one for serious tournaments. His dagger was an ornament, a requirement of his station, because he was a target. All prime consorts were.

I’ll do better from now on, he thought to himself and to his instructors. The dagger slipped from its sheath and warmed. It neared Nishmur quality but was crafted by Hosmyr smiths who’d been trying for centuries to replicate the recipe. He thought it too expensive to buy a real Nishmur. Now he thought otherwise.

He paused in a shadow to calm himself. The rogue’s trail wisped and dissipated. At the base of a wall, there was an entrance to a rectangular chute. He’d have to crawl through, and that would be the most opportune moment to kill him.

Look first! Project yourself, the bracer seemed to say. Use the strands—see through them! Extend yourself!

Ah, he’d been taught such things. Yes, in a class taught by an old veteran knight. It had seemed like the ramblings of an old man. The students of his cohort had played dice while he babbled.

We should have listened. I should have listened!

Oh, to sit at the feet of my elders once more and learn the science of killing!

The devices shamed him now. His skull throbbed, burning at the seams. What a fool I have been, he thought.

No time to dwell on the past now. Not now when his present life was at risk.

He focused and moved his presence through the strands, his body staying fixed on the cellar side of the opening. His mind crept from strand to strand like a spider moving over its web. There was a narrow tunnel at the end of the chute. His target had moved through it quickly, in a straight line, without pausing.

He’s afraid of us, the devices said as one.

Taul’s spine heated; his limbs tightened. They wanted to kill their quarry, to know the victory of protecting their house once again. At this moment, he was grateful Balniss had discouraged him from bringing the assassin’s kithaun blade.

He followed the trail until it ended abruptly. Leaning against the side of the tunnel, he grasped his head.

Something like a creeping whisper entwined his throat.

Down, it seemed to say. Down into the crater’s heart.

Taul crouched and touched the edge of the tunnel where it met the floor. His hand vanished. Startled, he withdrew it.

Illusion!

The voices in the device seemed to cheer; they were gathering strength. Taul had worn the devices too long. He felt inside the illusion space. There was sufficient room to crawl in. He searched first, beyond, extending his awareness, but the tunnel was empty.

Go further!

He obeyed, extending his awareness down the tunnel, and found people.

Stop!

The voice screeched, and his head tingled.

Go!

Drawing his awareness back, he slid through the veiled opening into the next tunnel. The tunnel was so narrow he had to turn sideways and slide along. There’d be no room to fight or grapple or anything. Barely room to escape.

They do it this way on purpose, said a voice deep within the ring he wore on his right hand. The former kithvyrae seemed elated instructing him. Such was their nature, but they seemed alien to him. He was not a man who’d ever considered how to kill anyone. These ancient spirits craved it.

He reached the end of the tunnel and reconnoitered a vast cavern. Inside, from wall to wall and down in alcoves and dark spaces, was an underground market. He’d heard rumors of one but had convinced himself not to enquire further. It sounded desperate to sell precious heirlooms—even a crate of prized brandy—just for chits. Toshtolin was four months behind on taxes, though. No… it was seven months. Or was it eight? This was all on him. Ryldia wasn’t even aware. He’d been so good at protecting her from his failures. The devices wailed as he wondered how much one of them would fetch.

We’ll kill anyone not of our house, they seemed to say. House above all!

The voices hummed in his mind, and he hummed with them.

Disguise yourself, the ring said. Think of a face, anyone not you, not of our house.

He tried desperately, but his mind blanked.

I’ll dress him, said the elder voice. Let them look at me once again.

The voices seemed pleased. Taul felt no different, but the market goers and vendors turned to look at him. Too much attention, he thought.

Put your hood up, fool! Must I think of everything?

He obeyed and moved to the side.