fighting for them, at least that he knew of. So, if he were a weapon, who would wield him? Someone who could not wield a weapon for themselves?
Lad knew nothing of the wants or needs of men; power was a concept of which he was totally ignorant. Would a man use his skills to protect himself from others, or simply to slay his enemies? Neither struck Lad as a questionable pursuit, for he had certainly never been taught concepts of right and wrong, good and bad. He was made to kill—efficiently, economically, and silently if need be—without being killed himself. With that in mind, Lad stretched out his foot and took the first step down the hill into the valley of Twailin where his destiny lay, his curiosity burning within him like the fires that lit the city below.
When sun’s first ray touched the highest spire of the estate of the master of the Assassins’ Guild, the door to the Grandfather’s private chambers burst open with a resounding crash.
“Valet!” His voice cracked through the corridors with the echoes of his mistreated door.
“Yes, Grandfather.” The man materialized from the shadow of an alcove, bowing low, alert and attentive as always.
“Send a messenger to the House of Seven Sins.” He strode past his prostrate servant, continuing his instructions. “Inform them that their trainee did not withstand my attentions. She expired some time in the hours of the early morning. The agreed-upon sum will be sent via courier.”
“At once, Grandfather.” The man recovered from his bow and trotted to catch up to his master. “Your bath has been drawn, and breakfast awaits in the morning room, Grandfather. Also, a girl claiming to be in the employ of Master Hunter Targus arrived late last night with a message for you. She is waiting in the foyer.”
“From Targus?” He stopped so quickly that the valet had to sidestep to avoid bumping into him.
“Yes, Grandfather. She spouted something about finding a weapon that belonged to you. She would not leave. She was injured, but the healer has seen to her.”
“My weapon...” The valet kept his gaze lowered respectfully, and so did not see the narrowing of his master’s eyes, the thinning of his lips or the flush of color that flooded those wizened features. “Follow me.”
“Of course, Grandfather.”
The valet’s steps whisked quietly behind the utterly silent ones of his master as the two descended to the second floor, trod the carpeted halls to the front of the estate, then finally started down the broad sweeping stair that emptied into the foyer. So quiet was their approach that the slumped figure seated upon the lowest step did not stir until the glowering guard tapped her with his boot. The girl scrambled up. Her sleepy eyes darted around the room and centered on the guard, who nodded up the stair to the descending pair. She whirled and dropped to one knee at the last step, her hands out and open, palms up, her face down.
“Grandfather!” Her voice was thick with fatigue, her hair and clothing disheveled. “I bear news of your weapon, Sir. I saw him on the eastern road yesterday. I rode as fast as I could to bring you the news. He is headed this way, but may have already reached the city!”
At a twitch of his wrist, a broad-bladed dagger dropped into the Grandfather’s left hand. He brought the blade down in front of the girl’s face, and angled the tip upward until it touched her chin. She did not flinch, but tilted her head back as that deadly pressure indicated she should. Her face was slightly pale, and a light sheen of sweat had broken out on her brow, but her eyes were clear and sharp, and they met his without wavering.
“What is your name, girl?”
“Mya, Grandfather.” Her voice betrayed some of her fear, but not as much as he had expected. His lip twitched with a combination of disappointment and intrigue, the tip of the blade turning her head
Lad knew nothing of the wants or needs of men; power was a concept of which he was totally ignorant. Would a man use his skills to protect himself from others, or simply to slay his enemies? Neither struck Lad as a questionable pursuit, for he had certainly never been taught concepts of right and wrong, good and bad. He was made to kill—efficiently, economically, and silently if need be—without being killed himself. With that in mind, Lad stretched out his foot and took the first step down the hill into the valley of Twailin where his destiny lay, his curiosity burning within him like the fires that lit the city below.
When sun’s first ray touched the highest spire of the estate of the master of the Assassins’ Guild, the door to the Grandfather’s private chambers burst open with a resounding crash.
“Valet!” His voice cracked through the corridors with the echoes of his mistreated door.
“Yes, Grandfather.” The man materialized from the shadow of an alcove, bowing low, alert and attentive as always.
“Send a messenger to the House of Seven Sins.” He strode past his prostrate servant, continuing his instructions. “Inform them that their trainee did not withstand my attentions. She expired some time in the hours of the early morning. The agreed-upon sum will be sent via courier.”
“At once, Grandfather.” The man recovered from his bow and trotted to catch up to his master. “Your bath has been drawn, and breakfast awaits in the morning room, Grandfather. Also, a girl claiming to be in the employ of Master Hunter Targus arrived late last night with a message for you. She is waiting in the foyer.”
“From Targus?” He stopped so quickly that the valet had to sidestep to avoid bumping into him.
“Yes, Grandfather. She spouted something about finding a weapon that belonged to you. She would not leave. She was injured, but the healer has seen to her.”
“My weapon...” The valet kept his gaze lowered respectfully, and so did not see the narrowing of his master’s eyes, the thinning of his lips or the flush of color that flooded those wizened features. “Follow me.”
“Of course, Grandfather.”
The valet’s steps whisked quietly behind the utterly silent ones of his master as the two descended to the second floor, trod the carpeted halls to the front of the estate, then finally started down the broad sweeping stair that emptied into the foyer. So quiet was their approach that the slumped figure seated upon the lowest step did not stir until the glowering guard tapped her with his boot. The girl scrambled up. Her sleepy eyes darted around the room and centered on the guard, who nodded up the stair to the descending pair. She whirled and dropped to one knee at the last step, her hands out and open, palms up, her face down.
“Grandfather!” Her voice was thick with fatigue, her hair and clothing disheveled. “I bear news of your weapon, Sir. I saw him on the eastern road yesterday. I rode as fast as I could to bring you the news. He is headed this way, but may have already reached the city!”
At a twitch of his wrist, a broad-bladed dagger dropped into the Grandfather’s left hand. He brought the blade down in front of the girl’s face, and angled the tip upward until it touched her chin. She did not flinch, but tilted her head back as that deadly pressure indicated she should. Her face was slightly pale, and a light sheen of sweat had broken out on her brow, but her eyes were clear and sharp, and they met his without wavering.
“What is your name, girl?”
“Mya, Grandfather.” Her voice betrayed some of her fear, but not as much as he had expected. His lip twitched with a combination of disappointment and intrigue, the tip of the blade turning her head
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