Date: Fri, 4 Jan 2013 03:28:34 +0000
From: Michael Offutt <kavrik@hotmail.com>
Subject: Chapter 13 - The Assassin's Apprentice - Gay SF

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      My website: http://slckismet.blogspot.com/p/books.html
      My email: kavrik@hotmail.com
      My art from my stories: http://slckismet.blogspot.com/p/my-artwork.html
      Forum discussion thread: http://slckismet.blogspot.com/p/discussion-board-for.html

      You will find a full color picture of Kian and Constantine on my art
page. I'm thinking of drawing a picture of Talen. I'd appreciate it if you
let me know how you imagine him.

      "The Assassin's Apprentice" is told in first person present tense and
has been heavily edited.

      If you like this story, please consider reviewing "Slipstream" and
"Oculus."

                                    *****

                               Chapter Thirteen

      The last sun is setting.

      I awake at the same time as Talen. Reluctantly, we part and the chill
of the room seems bolder without his heart beating against my chest to
remind me of the warmth he emanates. He pretends to still be sleeping, but
the angelic expression is a ruse. He doesn't want to get out of bed either,
and his eyes flutter with a silent wish for another ten minutes.

      He tightens his hand on my wrist when I move to the side of the
bed. "Tell me how much you love me again," he begs.

      I kiss him on the neck and give him a small hickey with my lips. Then
I whisper into his ear as seductively as I can, "I love you so much that I
don't want to just make love to you. I want to fuck your soul every hour of
the day."

      He shivers and squeezes my fingers.

      I slip over to the wash basin to light a lamp while he stares at my
naked butt. A thick trail of smoke spews from the end and draws itself
lazily across the ceiling.  He stretches behind my back, hops out of the
small bed, and pads to the sink. Once there, he brushes his teeth and opens
the door briefly to grab a large pitcher of water left by the staff of the
inn. He pours it in the basin while I unpack my armor.  Once he's done
washing down with a washcloth, I do the same. I can't help but kiss him a
couple of times, and it makes him giggle.  Between my legs, my dick starts
to harden, and I make haste to dress before it becomes impossible to put my
codpiece on.

      Before sliding into his shirt, he examines the bruise which has
swelled and now has the hue of a blood orange. His arm's so stiff that I
have to help him move it about. I do so carefully, massaging his scapula,
cooing to him, and stretching his hand out to get the blood flowing
again. All the while, Talen curses Swift's name in three different
languages.

      "If he lays another hand on you, I'll kill him," I say, face deadpan.

      "What?  No.  I can take care of myself, Kian. I may not have the
training that you have, but he took me a little by surprise, that's all."

      "He's a trained killer, Talen.  He's a little out of practice, but I
know that he could kill you.  This isn't meant to piss you off or to hurt
your feelings--it's just the truth.  You know it, and I know it." A tear
forms in my eye; I hope he fails to notice. As a precaution, I turn my head
but my reaction is too late.

      He opens his mouth as if to argue with me, but with one look, he
stops himself.  He puts his velvety hands on my face and lovingly kisses my
lips. "Okay. I still think that I could best him, but you're probably
right. You've an eye for these things."

      He wets my upper lip with his tongue and sucks on it gently.

      "In my case, it's probably just stupid pride getting in the way."
Another kiss. "That and I'm more than angry at the pain this bruise is
causing me." He dries my tear with his thumb, licks my nose, and
smiles. His teeth are so white and so perfect that I feel drawn to them
like jewels.  Whatever you think is best."

      He always knows just what to say. I barely have any rage at all
toward Swift now. In another five minutes, I'll probably want Swift as a
friend. I hate that Talen can manipulate me like this, so I give my head a
shake, trying to clear my mind. "He did that with his bare fist, Talen."

      "I know.  That's what scares me."

      I hug him, and he strokes my ears by thrumming them with his silky
touch. After a minute, he allows me to finish donning my armor, but he
watches every piece I attach with a lascivious grin.  I feel like a
performer, making exaggerated movements to tighten every buckle. I toss him
my priapus that has the stink of my balls in it. He snatches it from the
air and presses it to his nose.  After a minute, he stuffs it into his
pack, a memento of our night.

      Talen licks his lips; I lament that I'm getting dressed for a long
night of work.

      Once I'm geared from head to toe, I check myself in the mirror. It
all fits perfectly just as Constantine said it would.

      How does it feel to wear a fortune in armor?

      The hand-crafted "kill" suit hugs my svelte figure like a second
skin. My muscles are accentuated by the corobidian mesh, my thighs are an
inch apart at any point as I walk, and the breastplate divides right over
the abdomen which has a black protective-covering highlighted to display my
deeply cut washboard stomach.

      The last thing I don are my shoulder pads, glossy black wings that
look gladiatorial and somehow primal. They're smaller than what knights
wear in full jousting gear and a hell of a lot more flexible. The neck
guard chafes my skin somewhat and rises like the top of a turtleneck
sweater to press against my lightly dimpled chin. It hugs my flesh so tight
that when sweat drips from my ears, it rolls right over the top of the
armor shielding my neck; it's so snug that my Adam's apple forms a knuckle
sized knot in the coif.

      My codpiece is barely adequate; it's nothing short of an awkward
protrusion on my flat front, especially visible when viewed sideways. I
have only my parents to thank for this curse.

      But my boots fit my heavily-veined feet perfectly, supporting my high
athletic arches, and giving each of my long toes a perfect cradle.

      Talen presses his hands over the round spheres of my bubble
butt. "This armor looks incredibly sexy." He runs his middle finger between
my armor-clad cheeks and discovers a small opening over my anus the size of
a copper farthing. "What's this?" he pokes with curiosity.

      "It's so I can go to the bathroom without taking it off," I answer
with a shrug. "Whoever put this together thought of everything, including
the need to go while on the run."

      "A fecal slit? Now that's clever." He removes his finger and sniffs
it.

      I raise my eyebrows a couple of times, and he laughs, stepping back
so that I can tighten the buckles down on my boots. He hands me my belt,
and I notch it around my 28-inch waist. I retrieve my pack that holds my
other belongings and head for the exit. The pommel of my katana pokes
through one side.  I touch it reassuringly, open the door, and step into
the hall.  Talen waits a moment to check the room before following me into
the dimly-lit corridor. Then he raps his knuckles on the next room over
from us, shouldering his pack on the arm that isn't injured.

      A minute passes.  I step over to the stairs and hear laughter coming
from inside the tavern.  I glance over my shoulder, and Ambrell appears
rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Swift follows her out and seeks me almost
immediately.  He's tired and probably hasn't slept a wink all afternoon;
that's what the dark circles under his eyes tell me.

      No matter; it's not his mission anyway.

      Last to emerge from the chamber is Elliot, looking sleepy and with a
bush of unkempt bed hair clustered atop his pate.

      I whistle to catch Talen's attention.

      I'll be waiting outside, I tell him, using the secret thieves' cant.

      See you in a few minutes, he responds.

      The movements of his fingers are quick and agile while mine remain
somewhat stiff. I envy him for his fine motor skills and affinity with
languages. Or maybe it's just that I love his fingers and other
extremities.

      I move up the stairs and into the common room.  The place is packed
from wall to wall with bodies eating dinner. A heavy smoke drifts around
each table; the air's thick and tainted with odor.  I realize I'm hungry,
but I don't want to eat here. Talen and I must've missed the food that
supposedly got sent to the rooms while I seeded his guts.

      Given a choice, I'd make the same one again.

      I look at plates of heaping rice covered with curry...Korimarian
cuisine...something for which this place is famous. I think it'll just give
me an upset stomach. I set my jaw and move through the crowd. I escape
notice for the most part, because I'm dressed in black and look like a tall
warrior that you don't want to mess with.

      "Would you like me to clear you a table sir?"

      I whirl and stand face-to-face with a plump girl in her mid-twenties.
Her hair drifts in a sweaty clump about her neck and her apron's covered in
gravy stains.

      "No thank you," I say as politely as I can, "Ma'am."

      For as long as I live, I'll never shed myself of the manners my
parents ingrained on me as a prince in a palace.

      She smiles as if I've just said something that's very unusual. She
fans herself with her hand.  "Just as good; this time of day's
busiest. Especially with the bad times 'anging over the city.  The good
people of the town 'ave come indoors to spread their news and to remind
themselves of better times.  If you don't mind my sayin', you don't look
much like you're from around 'ere?"

      It must be the shanks of white-blond hair hanging past my eyes that
give me away

      I think this to myself and of course, I'm being sarcastic.

      No one in the tavern has blond hair; it's the rarest of colors among
people in this part of the world (especially now that Atlantea is gone). I
reason that I might be the only tow-headed youth in this part of the
country.

      "I'm not," I answer her. "Say, can you tell me where Black-Eyed Jacks
is?  It's a--"

      "Tavern.  Yeah, I know. Frequented by 'alf-giant kin because of their
'igh ceilings and 'uman women who like bedding a larger man. It's on Silk
Street near the wharf. Seems like kind of a rough and tumble place for a
youth like you." She fans her bosom and stretches her neckline lower,
exposing a fair amount of sweaty cleavage. "My it's 'ot in 'ere, isn't it?"

      "I hadn't noticed," I say. "Thank you for your assistance."

      After ten seconds of awkward silence, she smiles once more and pushes
beyond me, grabbing a tray loaded with dirty dishes destined for the
washroom.

      I see Talen briefly. He shakes his head, scolding me with his eyes. I
shrug my shoulders mouthing "What?"

      But he disappears again.

      I slip to the front of the inn following in the wake of the barmaid
who is the epitome of a sexual object to this crowd. I count half a dozen
men who grab the girl's ass in passing. They're approaching sloppy drunk
and just want some pussy before the night gets old. I can't see as I blame
them, considering all that's going on in the city.

      Once I get to the bar, I proceed through the hanging curtain above
the portico and push my way to the door. The squashed fruit on the floor is
still there. If anything, it's been joined by a little more garbage that
now forms a pile just shy of the welcome mat. Once outside, I step clear of
six cats fighting for scraps from the kitchen, and the cool of the night
air smacks me like a shovel.

      Mondath, the silver wizard moon, drools its ghostly light about my
shoulders. I breathe clean air into my lungs. The alleyway is quiet; I
relax my muscles.

      Suddenly, I feel a pressure in my mind. I see a wall with five
barrels stacked in a triangle: three form the base. Disoriented, I look
around. In my mind the vision continues. I see myself standing on the
cobblestones but looking from behind these barrels. No, that's not quite
right. I'm in a stable and the barrels are just on the left-hand side of
this "other me" who's sharing my thoughts. Then, the presence flees.

      I realize Logren's trying to communicate with me, but I'm being
thick.

      I step to the front of the alley, occasionally checking behind me for
my boyfriend and the others of our group.  I spot the stable directly
across from the tavern. Logren's standing there, lifting barrels from a
cart.  A man in a blacksmith's apron pays a copper farthing and thanks him
by shaking the giant man's hand.  The job done, he goes back to tending his
horses.

      Acting cool, I put my back to the cold stone, one heel against the
wall, and my head angled slightly down. Behind me, Talen and the others
emerge into the alley.  They do as I did, pausing to take a deep breath of
fresh air. Quicker than the others, Talen jogs over to me. I'm about to
greet him when another barrage of images enters my mind. I see a man four
buildings down trying to look inconspicuous as he observes the inn. A black
cloak is draped around his shoulders; soft leather shoes wrap his feet. I
spot striped pants and a leather tunic under the hem, but I can't see his
face.  Then, the communication ends.

      Talen halts in his tracks.  "Did you catch that, Kian?" he
whispers. He holds his hands up to warn the others off.

      I nod.  "I don't think he's seen anyone 'cept Logren yet."

      "Probably not.  I'll go back and tell the others."  Talen turns and
slips back into the alley.  He uses the cant. The others tense up and
instinctively step to the sides. Then Talen returns to me, and we speak in
whispers. "Swift wants us to take the giant with us. He's going to find
another way to Black-Eyed Jacks.  Is that cool with you?"

      I look back into the alley. "Is it cool with Ambrell? What about
Elliot?"

      Talen shrugs. "She's a big girl, Kian. The three of them shared a
room, and they're none the worse for wear. But Ambrell in particular can
take care of herself."

      I look hard at his shoulder and Talen grimaces. "Well, she didn't
seem too hip on the whole idea, if that's what you're getting at.  But I
think she doesn't mind.  It's probably for the best seeing as Swift knows
where the tavern is as well as Logren.  They're both a little more familiar
with Ladika than myself, and I'm not letting you out of my sight."

      I arch my blond eyebrow. "Don't trust me?"

      "Not on your life. Everyone with a pulse wants to fuck my boyfriend,"
he winks, "including that hag back there who calls herself a woman. Why the
fuck do you have to look so good in everything?" His tone is full of gentle
ribbing, and it makes me smile. "This armor is smashing on you; it's like
it got poured on."

      Ironically, there's some truth to that statement. But I see him
wince, and the humor flees as I once again consider his injury.

      My shift in mood isn't lost on him; he places a hand on my glove.

      "Elliot's going with them too, Kian. Remember that. If it boils down
to a fight, it's two against one.  I'm pretty sure one of them can outrun
Swift. Once that person gets back to you, Swift knows he's good as
dead. Just the thought of that probably has him pissing in his boots like a
cowardly dog."

      I nod. "All right then. So what do we do? If that guy's been watching
the inn for us, I want him to follow us and NOT them. I'd bet one testicle
he's a member of the Ladikan thieves' guild."

      Talen agrees. "He can follow me and Logren. I'll go out and meet with
the giant. We'll make our way down the street kinda slow, and you see if
you can't catch up to that spy and kill him. How does that sound?"

      "It's a good plan," I say. "All right, give me three minutes to get
into position."

      Talen grins. "I'll go and tell Swift."

      He turns back and speaks quickly to the others. My friends are all
skilled rogues and fade to invisibility in the shadows of the alley.

      I turn my attention to the wall at my back.  It's made from brown
brick and crumbly mortar.  The spaces between them are wide enough for me
to wedge my fingers, but this isn't an efficient way to get to the roof. I
walk back down the alley, avoiding the mud, puddles, and bits of rotten
fruit because they'll just make my boots slippery. I walk past my friends
who are busy paying attention to Talen's rapidly moving fingers.

      Swift eyes me coldly but says nothing. Fuck him.

      A ten-foot wall that runs parallel to the next street over serves as
a dead end.  This wall's made of wood; it sways when I push on it.

      However, it seems steady enough for me.

      I reach up with my hands and grab hold, lifting myself up onto the
top with ease; it creaks under my light weight. I jump up and across, onto
the tavern wall where a six-inch ledge offers my toes some footing.  It's a
full three feet above the tavern entrance and at least ten feet above the
ground. I land but don't stop. If I had stopped, I would have
fallen. Instead, I use my momentum to propel higher. I clear four more feet
and grab the awning with one hand.

      With my other, I grab the pack which slips from my shoulder.

      For a moment, I swing precariously over the alley, hanging by the
strength of three fingers.  I'm easily twenty-feet above the walk.

      Beneath me, Ambrell gasps. But, I dangle for only a second.

      Holding my breath, I swing my leg up and loop it over the
awning. Once I'm secure, I lift myself onto the steep roof and look around
me. Sweat drips into my eyes and pastes my locks to my forehead.

      The top of the building offers me an excellent view of Ladika by
night. I see thousands of chimneys billowing smoke into an ultra-clear
sky. Earlier, when clouds covered the plains, I felt warm.  Now the clouds
are gone, and the darkness between the stars sucks the heat from this world
to fill the void of its own belly.

      An almost supernatural chill seeps into my bones, and I attribute it
to the armor because I'm naked under a super-conducting metal skin.

      I'll have to learn to adapt to it if I'm to be worthy of my
self-chosen moniker: hunter.

      A hunter does not flee the cold.

      I warm my fingers with my breath.

      By the harbor, moonlight reflects off the dark ocean. It bathes the
ships in a silver hue, and I can see the pearl-topped minarets of the
temple of Milbar, god of magic and time and the stone turrets to the local
Valion Knight Chapterhouse.

      Seeing this ancient citadel reminds me briefly of Cutter, the knight
who showed me how to use a sword. I miss him and say a silent prayer to
Tethyr.

      And with that done, I focus on business.

      I withdraw my katana and strap the scabbard across my back. Then I
pause long enough to retrieve the bag containing the soot and grease
mixture that I concocted at home in Clothol. I smear my face and hands with
it, trying to be as thorough as possible.

      Next, I coat the blade of my sword with weapon black. I hold it up,
occasionally inspecting the length of the metal for any glimmer. When I'm
finally satisfied that it'll give off no reflection, I turn my attention to
my blond hair. I pull grease through every strand, turning it an ashen
brown.  Now, I'm ready for the night.

      I lean over the edge of the building and signal to Talen. I have to
call attention to myself by tapping on the weather vane; he presses his
thumb and forefinger together to signal that he's seen me.  Swift, Ambrell,
and Elliot remain poised in the alley as Talen strides purposefully into
the street.  He meets up with Logren who's resting his arms on the top of
one of the barrels.  The two of them exchange greetings, and the giant
joins him in a noisy stroll down the avenue.

      I watch as the black-cloaked sentry in striped pants falls-in behind
my lover, mixing with a thinning crowd. He stays about a hundred feet back,
careful to not lose sight of the giant.

      I take off as quickly as I can, taking pains not to be heard or
discovered by anyone. I'm as silent as a monkey, leaping from the top of
the tavern roof to a collection of sheds which run alongside the road. Each
hop I make is executed with practiced perfection. I fall upon the roofs no
louder than a passing pussycat, absorbing impact and force in my knees and
chest.  My touch doesn't even rattle the shingles!

      I pursue Talen for five minutes in this manner when I spy a second
cloaked figure that's at eye-level with myself.  This second man's a
spotter, trained to relay messages to others and probably selected for his
keen observation skills.  He hops onto the shingled roof of a church
decorated with open-mouthed gargoyles.  He creeps carefully to the edge,
and I almost lose sight of him when he disappears behind the steep angle of
the steeple.

      Cursing I race to follow.  I almost pound down on top of him when I
break for the shadow cast by one of the immense, leering statues.  He
studies Talen and Logren intently.  The route they traverse is narrow; we
gaze down with the realization that soon, they may disappear from sight.
The buildings edging the boulevard arch over in several areas and almost
transform it into a covered road or tunnel.

      The figure on the ground signals the other.

      My quarry responds by dropping a small sack to the ground for his
companion to retrieve.  The man in striped pants unties the drawstrings and
pulls a bit of parchment out. It's some kind of message, and he reads it
quickly. The man on the ground nods, and then vanishes around a corner.

      I grind my teeth together thinking about my options. I wish I knew
what that note said.

      So far, the spotter remains frozen, content to perch in this one
spot.

      Half a minute slips by.

      He remains poised and motionless, his attention drawn to the traffic
thirty or more feet below us.  Gingerly, I slip further into the shadow
underneath the gargoyle. The stupendous form of the statue almost seems to
watch me from a frozen and expressionless face.  Its eyes, carved from
granite blocks quarried hundreds of miles from Ladika, still bear the
chisel marks of their maker. It has no regard for me this creature of
legend and myth, save to watch me mutely prowl its shadowed lengths--a
monster searching for blood.

      I watch my quarry with no emotion, and I decide to kill him.

      My target has his back turned, but there's a ten foot area awash with
moonlight that'll reveal me if I attack.  A better plan is needed: if I
crawl up the back of the gargoyle and leap over to the overhang that
creates the shadow, I'll remain hidden. I know I've got to close the
distance before I make an attempt. To do otherwise is foolish.

      Just then, he turns and looks directly into my eyes.  I freeze as his
gaze moves over my body and up the statue.  He's an older man, his face and
skin blemished by disease and a bitter, if not empty life.  His psychology,
however, doesn't concern me.

      What's more important is that I remain hidden right before his gaze.

      I watch him--this now dead man--casually re-adjust his cloak unaware
that these are his last moments-that the muddy street will be his last
treasured glimpse of life.

      Tonight I send a soul to hell; I hope the devil thanks me for the
gift.

      My heart pounds, I reach up and clutch the lower jaw on the gargoyle.
It feels smooth through my gloves, the lips of the carved beast upturned in
a slight sneer.  I never think that the statue might not support my
weight. I start to lift myself up when the concrete breaks.

      I come crashing down on the roof, and the man looks at me in horror.

      He retreats into the shadow, considering his options, and withdraws a
seven-inch serrated dagger.  I leap at him, and he slashes wildly with his
blade.

      I block his arm with mine and throw a punch to his mid-section.  He
doubles over for an instant, dropping the weapon.  He seizes me by the
ankle then, and attempts to muscle me back.  I jump up and break his jaw
with my right foot, flip and land.  He lays stunned for a moment, clutching
his bloodied face with his hands. Without hesitation, I grab him about the
neck. Then I swing him around to dangle his full weight over the edge.

      I hear a sharp snap.

      His neck breaks like a bundle of twigs.  He twitches some as I pull
him onto the roof and drop him where he won't roll off. I push his body
into the shadow of the overhang, hands trembling.

      My first kill!

      I don his cloak and pull the hood over my head.  Then I pause for a
brief moment to collect my thoughts. I realize that the body lying prone on
the rooftop could just as well have been me.  How many days would he lay
here undiscovered?  And with morning the flies would lay their eggs on his
body which would by then, be cold and stiff with rigor mortis.  My throat's
dry of spit just thinking about it.  I swallow, hands still trembling.  I'm
a murderer now, and hell reserves a special place for my ilk.  What have I
become?  And to do this on holy ground seems even worse!  The skin on my
neck burns hot under the neck guard, and sweat trickles down the skin of my
back.

      I know I've got to get off this church. The way below is (for the
time) empty. But it's also a three story drop. If I jump, I'll most
certainly injure myself. I can't afford to break an ankle.

      I swing over the edge of the roof feeling with my toes for any place
where I can find a foothold.

      Nothing.

      I try again at a different spot.

      I spy the top of a window on one side, but it's two stories down.
However, it's large and made of stained glass, held in place by lead.  I
let myself drop, and I manage to clench the sill with my left hand. I feel
a sharp sting in the pectoral and bicep of that same arm; a numbing
sensation soon follows.  My feet are a good deal closer to the ground.  I
shove off the stone brick with the soles of my boots and strike the ground
in a tight acrobatic roll.

      It ends with me standing.

      I rub my left arm carefully, trying to work sensation back into my
muscles.  I move my fingers reflexively, taking a moment to look
around. Ahead of me is Black-Eyed Jack's.  It lies at the end of the
covered road.

      The front of the tavern's comprised of a single sitting area lit by
five blazing torches.  Ringing this is a copse of spruce trees. Above the
door's a wooden plaque bearing the picture of a suit of cards spread atop
an inviting table.

      Talen and Logren are nowhere in sight.

      "Just my luck," I curse.

      I readjust my cloak and try to think of where I might go if I were
Talen.

      My body stings from the cold; this armor has no insulation.

      As the outdoor temperature drops, I see a few wisps of my breath.
It's unusual for a coastal town to be this cold so early, but Clothol and
Ladika are both northern cities and winter keeps no schedule.

      I scan the surrounding buildings with my eyes.  Off to my left and
across the street's a warehouse. There's plenty of window panes, and one of
them has a bit of fog playing on its surface.

      Wait a minute...

      It isn't something the untrained eye will notice. But I see it, and I
surmise that the man with the striped pants is behind that glass, probably
at the source of that misty breath.

      I cross the road a hundred yards to the south of Black-Eyed Jacks,
and I creep along a path that runs past a barber shop, a smithy, and a
cloth emporium. A half-dozen times, I walk past people deep in conversation
and not a one of them gives any sign that they know I'm there. I cross to
the blind side of the warehouse facing away from the tavern and search
along the wall.  My fingers touch three shards of broken glass. I gaze
upward and discern a hole where a window once sat.

      A few shards on this side, no doubt.

      But I reckon the majority of the glass is on the other.

      I leap onto the sill and slip into the darkness beyond by balancing
my thin body with only the strength of my fingers. I hurtle through the
opening.  I move so quickly, not even a stray beam of moonlight has a
chance to give away my silhouette.

      Carefully, I anoint one of my daggers with a drop of caasak poison.

      Then, I seal the bottle tightly with a small bit of cork.  I make
certain that I'm extremely precise with this bit of death in a glass.

      I let my sight adjust to the darkness.

      After two long breaths, I spot my new quarry.

      A wiry rogue, he rests his left hand on a window ledge, fingers
scraping in the dust.  He hardly moves, feet planted firmly on a wooden box
beneath him. But it's so unprofessional that I almost laugh.

      This is like spearing fish in a barrel.

      I take aim and toss the knife gingerly from my right hand. I see it
sail through the air and bury itself in his spine. He falls to the ground,
body jerking in passing. His legs kick twice, his eyes bulge like swollen
marshmallows being squeezed. Two seconds later, he lies still--a bit of
bloody spittle forming along his lips.

       I search him quickly.

      He has a few coppers on him in a belt pouch, but nothing else I want
to take. I pull my knife out of his back and wipe it on his messy
shirt. The dripping blood forms a widening pool of red on the floor of the
warehouse.  I leave him where he is and hop onto the wooden box he used as
a stool only a moment before.

      With the hem of my cloak, I clean a spot on the glass and gaze out
over the tavern where the others must be waiting for me.  Why else would
this guy be casing the joint?

      From my vantage point, I can see the tops of the spruce trees which
sway gently in a night breeze.  But before I move, I spot something else.
It's a single candle burning in a room on the second floor.

      That's Talen. It has to be, because I'd set a candle in the window
for him if he ever lost his way.

      I exit the warehouse swiftly, avoiding the shards of broken glass
that scintillate in the silver light.  I cross the narrows between the
warehouse and the tavern, and I make toward the stable behind Black-Eyed
Jacks.  I'm close to the shore here, and I sense the movement of a ship by
the dock. Waves slap its hull like hands on a drum.

      As dark as the night seems, my eyes are so used to it that Mondath
glows like a huge torch in the sky.  I keep to the building's edge, muting
out the noise from within as selectively as I can. But the music is too
intrusive. It drifts aimlessly in the air surrounding the tavern and
threatens to dull my reflexes as it lulls me with its siren's song.

      At the back, I find myself alone.  I calculate that the roof is more
than eighteen feet up, three times my height.  Sizing the distance, I take
a running start aiming for a corner. I plant the sole of my boot against
one wall, shove off, and quickly plant the sole of the opposite foot on the
other wall and propel myself up in this manner.

      I take two more steps before I reach the top and grab hold of the
rain gutter to steady myself.  I pull my boots onto the shingles. Then I
head toward the window...behind which, a bobbing candle flame burns.

      I hop into the room.

      Talen looks up at me, surprise showing on his face.

      "That was quick.  Did anyone else follow us, or was it just that one
guy?"

      "Yes, but I took care of it."

      "Oh."

      I pinch the candle off and the wick hisses between my fingers.  I
draw the curtains closed, and Talen moves around in the room behind me.  He
brings over a basin filled with water and a wet rag.  By a sliver of
moonlight, I pull my cloak off, and he offers to wipe my face.

      "We're going into the tavern and if you go looking like this, people
will notice." He wrings out the wash cloth and presses it cold and wet
against my skin. "What possessed you to dirty yourself up like this?"

      "I'm too easy to spot," I explain. Talen twists the cloth again; in
the bowl the water's turning brackish.  He wipes my chin off before
attending to my prominent but narrow nose. Then he tries to get the ash out
of my hair, but it's to no avail.

      "Bother. Blond is too rare anyway, so maybe this is all for the
better. Whatever this color is won't burn itself into anyone's memory. At
least you look presentable again." His eyes fall to the cloak. "Where'd you
get that?"

      "Off one of the men I killed," I answer.

      Talen swallows uncomfortably. "How did you do it?"

      "The first was with my bare hands. I snapped his neck in three
places."

      Talen blinks and fingers his own neck. In the awkward silence that
follows, he clears his throat, but I wonder what he's thinking
about. "Logren's downstairs looking for Swift.  He doesn't stick out
because there're others of his size playing cards."

      Then we beat them here, I think to myself. "Do you think they were
followed too?"

      "No," Talen says. "However, Swift won't come here unless he's
positive of that." He pauses then as if considering something. "It seems to
me that Lyran knew we were coming. It's not like we were giving ourselves
away at all."

      "He might have been keeping a watch on the gate," I offer. "That
seems a likely choice, especially with as restricted as the city seems to
be right now."

      Talen considers this and nods.  "Let's go find us a mole."

      We stand up, and I check the window before joining him in the hallway
outside the door.  From downstairs erupts the riotous sound of celebration
and the peal of a hundred boots being clapped down simultaneously in
adoration of some, as yet unseen, entertainer.  Talen and I walk down the
dark corridor side by side and descend to the gloomy tavern that awaits us
at the bottom of a narrow stairwell.

                                    *****

I shall post Chapter 14 after January 13th as I will be out of town for the
Consumer Electronics Show in Las Vegas.