will take the risk.”
“We should not take any risk,” the thin man said. “Not with this. Not with her.”
“Don’t grow too attached to your plans, old friend. She is a useful tool. But if a tool turns out to be flawed, one discards it, yes?”
The thin man lifted his hand toward his earlobe, then caught himself and scratched his chin instead. He bowed his head briefly, then turned and left.
The master of assassins thought for a long time, his fingers drumming steadily on the arm of his chair, his eyes on the bruised purple hues the sky took on with the fading of night.
Chapter 6
M uch to her surprise, Ileni fell asleep instantly after she crawled into her cot. She dreamed of falling, of toppling over the edge of a stone windowsill, of the master’s cold eyes watching her from the hard ground below. She woke up sweat soaked, sandy eyed, and in no mood to tutor a group of killers who would die as easily as they would kill.
Sorin, when he arrived, looked as rested as if he had spent the entire night asleep in his cot. With him was a boy, wearing the assassins’ typical gray clothes, who couldn’t have been more than eight years old. Without a glance in her direction, the boy went to her bedside, picked up her chamber pot, put an empty one in its place, and left the room.
Sorin made no mention of last night’s events as he led her to the dining cavern for breakfast. Ileni kept glancing at him sideways, searching for a trace of the vulnerability she had seen—or imagined—at the Roll of Honor. She might as well have been looking at a marble statue.
Like the day before, he left her at a small round table on one side of the rectangular cavern, then crossed to where twenty young men sat together at a long table. There were five such tables, all occupied by the older assassins, and one of them must have an empty seat today. Did the other assassins know yet what had happened to Jastim? That his life had been ended for her benefit?
Was that something the master of assassins did for every new Renegai tutor? Sacrifice one of his killers to show how absolute his control was?
If that was even why he had done it. I can’t fathom his reasons, Sorin had said. Remembering those dark eyes, that cold, knowing smile, Ileni believed him.
She stirred her spoon through the thick porridge she couldn’t bring herself to taste. The students probably had no idea, but maybe one of the teachers would know if this was standard procedure or a special performance staged just for her.
At the sixth table sat a dozen older men, some of whom she recognized from the training arena, some of whom she didn’t.
A fit of recklessness came over her. She was a teacher, wasn’t she? She should sit with the teachers. Tell them what had happened, see how they reacted. She certainly wasn’t going to learn anything by sitting here alone, watching her porridge grow cold.
She picked up her bowl and was about to swing her legs over the bench when the door opened and a tall man walked in, so lanky his arms seemed awkward despite his assassin’s grace. He was older than any of the teachers at the table, with white-flecked gray hair. Ileni had never seen him before.
“A summons from the master,” he said, and the room was instantly silent. Every person in it bowed his head briefly.
Ileni fought an urge to bow her own head with them, and even that small defiance made her heart hammer as if she was doing something wrong. Her glance darted toward Sorin, but he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were fixed on the tall man, and for once his expression was transparent: hope, so intense it was almost painful to see.
That same hope was mirrored on every boy in the room. With some, there was a bit of trepidation too. But not with Sorin.
“Ravil,” the man said, and the black-haired boy next to Sorin leaped away from the table, his face shining.
“I am honored to serve,” he said.
The gray-haired teacher turned and walked out, and the young
“We should not take any risk,” the thin man said. “Not with this. Not with her.”
“Don’t grow too attached to your plans, old friend. She is a useful tool. But if a tool turns out to be flawed, one discards it, yes?”
The thin man lifted his hand toward his earlobe, then caught himself and scratched his chin instead. He bowed his head briefly, then turned and left.
The master of assassins thought for a long time, his fingers drumming steadily on the arm of his chair, his eyes on the bruised purple hues the sky took on with the fading of night.
Chapter 6
M uch to her surprise, Ileni fell asleep instantly after she crawled into her cot. She dreamed of falling, of toppling over the edge of a stone windowsill, of the master’s cold eyes watching her from the hard ground below. She woke up sweat soaked, sandy eyed, and in no mood to tutor a group of killers who would die as easily as they would kill.
Sorin, when he arrived, looked as rested as if he had spent the entire night asleep in his cot. With him was a boy, wearing the assassins’ typical gray clothes, who couldn’t have been more than eight years old. Without a glance in her direction, the boy went to her bedside, picked up her chamber pot, put an empty one in its place, and left the room.
Sorin made no mention of last night’s events as he led her to the dining cavern for breakfast. Ileni kept glancing at him sideways, searching for a trace of the vulnerability she had seen—or imagined—at the Roll of Honor. She might as well have been looking at a marble statue.
Like the day before, he left her at a small round table on one side of the rectangular cavern, then crossed to where twenty young men sat together at a long table. There were five such tables, all occupied by the older assassins, and one of them must have an empty seat today. Did the other assassins know yet what had happened to Jastim? That his life had been ended for her benefit?
Was that something the master of assassins did for every new Renegai tutor? Sacrifice one of his killers to show how absolute his control was?
If that was even why he had done it. I can’t fathom his reasons, Sorin had said. Remembering those dark eyes, that cold, knowing smile, Ileni believed him.
She stirred her spoon through the thick porridge she couldn’t bring herself to taste. The students probably had no idea, but maybe one of the teachers would know if this was standard procedure or a special performance staged just for her.
At the sixth table sat a dozen older men, some of whom she recognized from the training arena, some of whom she didn’t.
A fit of recklessness came over her. She was a teacher, wasn’t she? She should sit with the teachers. Tell them what had happened, see how they reacted. She certainly wasn’t going to learn anything by sitting here alone, watching her porridge grow cold.
She picked up her bowl and was about to swing her legs over the bench when the door opened and a tall man walked in, so lanky his arms seemed awkward despite his assassin’s grace. He was older than any of the teachers at the table, with white-flecked gray hair. Ileni had never seen him before.
“A summons from the master,” he said, and the room was instantly silent. Every person in it bowed his head briefly.
Ileni fought an urge to bow her own head with them, and even that small defiance made her heart hammer as if she was doing something wrong. Her glance darted toward Sorin, but he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were fixed on the tall man, and for once his expression was transparent: hope, so intense it was almost painful to see.
That same hope was mirrored on every boy in the room. With some, there was a bit of trepidation too. But not with Sorin.
“Ravil,” the man said, and the black-haired boy next to Sorin leaped away from the table, his face shining.
“I am honored to serve,” he said.
The gray-haired teacher turned and walked out, and the young
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