Invisible Assassin (22 page)

"I thought it a good name at the time. Better than Talon."

"Ah, well, we must try to be original, but all the best names have been used. Remember Sword?"

Blade nodded. "He was also called the Butcher, for the way he used to hack up his kills."

"And yet he was quite popular, for there is much in a name. Look at the young fool who called himself Death."

"That shouldn't have been allowed," Blade muttered.

"I agree, but the boy had so much work he couldn't cope, and was killed within a few moons of his initiation."

Blade looked around as the drum's first booms announced the beginning of the Dance, and the five nervous boys froze in their starting positions. At their initiation, the apprentices had to perform the Dance in unison, sometimes as many as ten at a time. No additions were allowed, and indeed these youngsters were incapable of doing more than they had learnt.

As Blade watched them go through the first movements of the Dance of Death, he remembered his own initiation. Unlike others who failed many times, he had only danced once to receive his tattoo. Now he could not remember the names of the other two boys who had passed with him, three out of seven on that occasion.

The dancers sprang and spun, beating out the rhythm with uncertain feet, an occasional misstep breaking the melody. Foil performed adequately, Blade judged, for although he lacked technique and danced rather rigidly, his arms at his sides, he did not falter. Halfway through the Dance Talon shook his head and looked away.

"Mine has failed. Twice he has missed his beat. Why do mentors enter boys who are not yet ready?"

"I remember you thought I wasn't ready."

"It's better to err on the side of caution."

"But not too far."

A boy at the back stumbled, losing his rhythm, and quit the stage in shame, vanishing into a crowd of his peers. Blade concentrated on Foil, who had lost what little technique he possessed as he grew tired. Now he did little more than hammer out the rhythm, his jumps lacking height and landed heavily, yet he had not erred from the Dance.

"Yours persists," Talon muttered. "Yet you should fail him."

"He has not erred."

"He has no style, no grace. You'd do him a favour to make him learn it better."

"He'll improve himself even if he passes, but at least he will have the encouragement of it."

"Ah, Blade, you will make a foul teacher."

The Dance ended, and two boys slumped with exhaustion as soon as they completed it, the other two managed to stand. Talon stood up, brushing grass from the seat of his trousers.

"Come, there's no reason to delay. We must tell our dancers of our verdict."

Blade followed him to the stage and watched him approach the hopeful, gasping boy who wanted to be called Slayer. Talon shook his head as he walked up to the youth, who sagged in disappointment even before the elder put it into words.

"You've failed, boy, you know you have."

"I completed it!"

"You missed your beat on more than one occasion. Learn it properly."

The boy turned away, stumbling over to an elder who still had a youthful look about him, and who glared at Talon.

Talon shook his head. "Fire. No wonder, the man could hardly dance himself, even in his prime. Come, Blade, put your lad out of his misery."

Blade looked around for the panting Foil. The boy stood alone on the stage, not yet judged and still hopeful, but nervous. One boy had passed, and basked in his moment of glory, receiving congratulations from his mentor and peers. Blade approached Foil, who gaped him, his eyes fixed on the silver-patterned belt Blade still wore. Blade forced a smile, which only made the youth cringe further.

"Rest easy, boy. I've judged you as adequate, but you must improve your technique a great deal."

The gangly boy, who had a shock of dark brown hair and pimples, appeared on the brink of tears. "T-truly? I've passed?"

Blade nodded. "You have."

Foil's face stretched in a broad grin, and he held out his hand, which Blade stared at in puzzlement. The boy looked confused, and Talon appeared at Blade's elbow.

"Have you forgotten everything? It's customary to shake his hand."

"Oh, right." Blade shook the boy's hand as cheers arose from his peers.

"I'm honoured to have been judged by you, Master, truly honoured!"

"Good, fine." Blade extricated his hand from the youth's sweaty grip and stepped back. "Go and have some needles stuck in you, it's great fun."

Foil grinned and dashed away to join his friends in a back-slapping contest that almost pounded the wind out of him. Talon smiled and clasped his hands behind his back.

"See all the fun you've been missing?"

"What fun?"

Talon chuckled and quit the stage, wandering away. "Now the fun starts as we watch the challengers dance."

Blade fell into step beside him. "We'll be here all night at this rate."

"True, but assassins are nocturnal creatures, are they not?"

"Sometimes," Blade allowed. "Is there a limit to the number of challengers?"

"That's for you to decide."

"Good, then I'll allow no more than five. After that I'll be too bored to judge them."

"And after that you'll have to dance."

Blade groaned. "I'm too old for this."

"Come, man, you're never too old to dance. Even I take an occasional spin around my garden, at my age."

Blade looked around as one of the elders mounted the stage and called out for challengers for the title of Master of the Dance. More than a dozen stepped forward, and Talon grinned.

"You'll have to select five from that lot then."

"How?"

Talon shrugged. "Any way you wish."

Blade sighed as they wandered over to the eager bunch, which comprised seasoned assassins and expert dancers in their prime. Strike stood amongst them, looking smug. Blade raked them with a gimlet eye when he stopped before them.

"I'll not judge more than five. I'm an old man who needs his bed." Everyone chuckled. "I have a preference for those who are the kin of warm-blooded beasts, the rest may step back."

Strike stepped forward, scowling. "That's not fair! This is a test of skill, not kinship!"

"Blade makes the rules this night, not you," Talon said.

"I'll challenge his choice as soon as it's made then!"

"That's up to you."

Strike marched off, along with six others, leaving seven behind. Blade studied them.

"How many of you are the kin of cats?"

Three stepped forward, and he indicated that they would dance. He ascertained that two of the remainder were the kin of wolves, one of bats and the last of foxes. With a wry glance at Talon, he chose the two wolves to compete with the cats, and the rest turned away, disappointed. Blade went with Talon to a seat before the stage, where they waited for the first dancer to strap on his steel boot-caps. As soon as he mounted the stage, the drummer pounded out the rhythm that started the Dance of Death, and the dancer began his performance.

The first dancer impressed Blade with his precision and endurance, but he added nothing to the Dance. The second added several rather inelegant moves that only detracted from the grace of the rest of his performance. The third made some good additions but lacked style, making no hand gestures, a failing he shared with Swift. The fourth dancer impressed Blade, his additions were good and his hands graceful, his feet fast and precise, yet his performance would never have challenged Blade's. Still, when the fifth dancer proved to be lacking in grace, although consummate in technique, Blade had no doubt about his choice.

He turned to Talon. "The fourth is my choice."

"A good one. He's kin of cats, if I'm not mistaken, though his name escapes me."

Blade rose and walked over to the five sweating men, Talon at his side. He stopped before the fourth dancer. "What's your name?"

The slender, dark-haired man raised his chin and met Blade's gaze with blue eyes so dark they appeared black. "I'm Flame."

"A good name. And you're kin of cats. What's your method?"

Flame drew a curved dagger from his belt and held it up. "I slit throats."

"Messy." Blade held out his hand. "You're my choice."

Flame grinned as he shook Blade's hand, his dark eyes glinting with pride. "I have not had the privilege of seeing you dance. Am I as good as you?"

Talon chuckled. "Nowhere near!"

Blade shot him a quelling look. "Let him have his pride, Talon. Would you bring him down in his moment of triumph?"

"Perish the thought; you'll soon do that yourself." He shook Flame's hand. "Well done."

A few generous youngsters applauded, and Flame turned to find a seat.

Talon gripped Blade's arm and steered him away. "Now it's your turn."

"Must I?"

"You must."

Blade sighed. "It serves no purpose."

"It gives them something to aspire to. Good God, man, there's not one here who's anything like as good as you. You wouldn't want Strike to think he's better than you, would you?"

"But he is, for I cannot finish the Dance, and I have no wish to expose my weakness."

"You're retired. It makes no difference now, and all here know that at your age they probably won't even be alive, never mind able to complete half the Dance. Strike will not sneer once he's seen you. I believe he was absent when Swift challenged you, as was, it seems, Flame. And you could still defend your title, for it doesn't involve completing the Dance of Death. Why don't you really put Strike in his place and accept his challenge?"

"A duel to the death? Are you out of your mind?"

"No! That's forbidden. He challenged you to that?"

Blade nodded. "Perhaps he was jesting."

"Strike never jests. Do it. I've seen him dance, he's better than Flame. He'll have the belt within the time-glass if you don't, and that makes your choice look foolish. Tell him that if you beat him he's not allowed to challenge Flame, then we'll see how confident he is."

"I have a mind to throw the damned belt in the air and see who catches it. All I want is to go to bed."

Talon looked irritated. "Your successor must be well chosen; whoever follows you must be worthy. Flame's good, but Strike will beat him. The belt has not changed hands for eleven years; don't let it be fought over like a bone in a pack of wolves. Other than Strike, I don't see anyone challenging your choice for a while, but he'll do it this very night."

"Then let the elders forbid it. I really don't care, but I'm not dancing any more duels. Let Flame hold the title until the next meeting of the guild and profit from it. You know very well that the title brings employment, for people know the Master of the Dance is the best assassin in the guild. That's also why it makes no sense to allow me to retain it once I'm retired."

"You're a stubborn man. You always were, and you're still the best assassin in the guild."

Blade smiled. "Perhaps, but I'll still have a belt, in any case, the one I won from Swift."

Talon sighed in frustration. "Well, the decision must be yours. Then there's nothing left but for you to prove your inability."

"Good. Let's get it over with, then."

Talon signalled to one of the elders who stood near the stage, and the man mounted the platform to address the throng. "Let the Master of the Dance come forward now and prove his inability to complete the Dance of Death!"

Blade growled as he unlaced his jacket and strode to the platform, shoving the garment into Talon's hands when he reached it. Talon held out a set of bladed boot-pieces.

"This is your final performance. Do it properly."

"Is it required?"

"Preferred."

"Not by me." Blade took the knife-edged boot pieces. "I hope I don't do myself an injury."

Talon chuckled. "That would please Strike immensely."

Blade bent to strap the knives on. "You always know how to make me do as you want. It's a gift you haven't lost over the years."

"That's why I'm a good teacher. Greatness is born from adversity and challenge, without it we would all be soft and squeamish."

Blade straightened and stamped his feet to settle the boot-pieces. "After tonight, I'll be entitled to some softness and luxury." He plucked the daggers from his belt and handed them to his former mentor, retaining the ones in the wrist sheaths.

Talon gave a nod of approval. "You plan to do it in its highest form, then?"

"As much of it as I can. I'll never do it again."

"I'll have them set up the target."

Talon left, and Blade mounted the platform's steps alone. A hush fell as he walked to the centre of the stage, the heavy boot-blades clacking. There he stopped, myriad flickering torches and silver moonlight gilding the glittering belt.

Blade surveyed the sable sea dotted with pale faces, all awaiting the last performance of the Master of the Dance. The boot-blades made the Dance more difficult, something of which all present were aware, especially Blade. Many never attempted to dance in the lethal footgear, for it sapped the strength, a fact that would shorten Blade's already abbreviated rendition. He stretched, loosening his muscles before signalling his readiness to the drummer.

Once again, the cadence for the Dance of Death boomed forth. As the final blow fell, Blade tapped slowly, then leapt and spun, performing the prescribed series of fast, precise steps that beat out a complex rhythm. His steps were more than twice as fast as any of the other assassins who had danced earlier, more precise, graceful and apparently effortless. He made a prodigious leap, appearing to hang in the air as he lashed out with stiffened legs, striking his boots together before him in a shower of sparks as the sharpened edges clashed.

Landing lightly, he set off on a complicated dance of twisting, nimble steps, using heels and toes to tap out a masterful tattoo, his hands tracing graceful motions as his legs carried him easily. This was a set piece of the Dance, but he added three high leaps, flicking his legs back from the knee and clicking his heels together at the apex of each jump. He then started a strenuous, floating dance that carried him around the stage in a string of leaping steps, kicking up his heels with a flourish as he stamped out the rhythm.