by Duncan, Dave
After a brief argument over precedence, the two men settled on their cushions. As decorum required, they began by exchanging pleasantries while sipping warm wine, but suddenly the Abbot said, “If Your Eminence has come upon some private matter, then our conference at this time should be brief.”
Such directness verged upon the indecent, but the merchant clearly saw the wisdom of it in this case. He drew a deep breath. “I do have certain troubles, Reverend One. Your counsel would be of inestimable value to me.”
Birdlike, the ancient head nodded. “I can offer experience and wisdom, yes, but for action we must rely on the young.”
Without turning his head, he beckoned to Tug, waiting behind him. Tug padded into the light, silent on bare feet. He sank to his knees and touched his shaven head to the paving, directing his reverence midway between his superior and the visitor.
“With respect, Reverend One,” Jade Harmony protested, “discretion—”
The ancient raised a skeletal hand. “I assure you that, despite his admitted youth, I have enormous confidence in this man, one of our finest initiates in several years. If you need the sort of assistance I think you need, Eminence, you will find no better aide than he. Regard our guest, Brother.”
Tug sat back on his heels and fixed dark eyes on the merchant, still portraying a childlike innocence belying the gruesome tales whispered about the Brothers’ shadier activities. Surely no one could suspect him of anything!
“I trust your judgment implicitly, Holy One,” Jade Harmony muttered.
“Then,” said the Abbot, “let us quickly summarize your problems for the boy’s information. Your daughter’s marriage brought her husband a dowry that was the wonder of the bazaars, but tragically, soon after that happy day, your honored father unexpectedly released his spark to ascend to the Fifth World, glorious be his memory among us. By now, the governor’s clerks will have collected the Emperor’s death tax and some generous share for themselves. Doubtless many of your father’s contracts included penalty clauses exercisable upon his demise; those may have proved expensive for you. In short, and I trust Your Eminence will understand that only the need for a speedy resolution compels my lapse into crudity, you probably find yourself, through no fault of your own, in a financially vulnerable state. And we all know that every harbor swarms with rats.”
Appalled, Jade Harmony let out a long breath and then shrugged dismissively.
“Who in particular threatens?” asked the Abbot softly.
“Lemon Grass 3,” Jade Harmony muttered. Now there was no doubt where the discussion was leading.
The old man smiled. “I expect there are others, but he is your most immediate oppressor?”
Jade Harmony nodded, now looking so miserable that Tug had trouble withholding a smile.
The Abbot looked to him. “If so directed, you could assist the noble merchant in this matter, Brother?”
“Yes, Father.” Tug kept his voice low but confident.
“Then, Eminence, I think you may put your mind at ease. We will appoint this fine young monk to assist you. First you must name him.”
“Name him?” Jade Harmony repeated, bewildered at the way the discussion had taken off like a spooked horse.
“Certainly. Give him a name that you will remember, one that will not clash with any names in your household or business dealings to create misunderstandings. A name that resonates with good fortune for you alone and will not draw others’ attention! Think back to some of your travels or triumphs, perhaps?”
Jade Harmony held Tug’s steady gaze for a moment. Contemptuously, he said, “Silky.”
Tug-who-was-now-Silky genuflected to him. “My ears are honored to hear this name you grant me, Eminence. I will serve your needs in all things and ahead of all other loyalties.”
The old man clicked teeth in satisfaction. “An excellent name! Congratulations, Brother Silky.”
“He reminds me of my first concubine,” Jade Harmony said. “The one my parents gave me on my fifteenth birthday. He has the same cow eyes.”
“Quite,” said the Abbot. “Serious matters are best dealt with expeditiously. I will have a contract drawn up, Eminence, and Brother Silky will bring it to you tomorrow if that will suit. Our terms are standard, but there are always details to discuss.”
“And things are always clearer in daylight. However, Your Reverence …”
Tug-Silky had a strong suspicion that Jade Harmony 7’s conscience was now demanding to know what fit of insanity had brought him to such an abomination as murder for hire. Whatever he had been about to say, the Abbot forestalled him.
“He will not be wearing his present habit. What guise will you sport, Brother Silky?”
Silky flashed a boyish, extremely juvenile smile. “Do you ever sponsor sand warriors, Eminence?”
Jade Harmony shuddered. “Of course not.” Barbaric!
“Sponsoring sand warriors can be an extremely profitable public service. I will bring you a business proposal on the subject tomorrow.”
“I look forward to it,” Jade Harmony croaked. “One hour past noon.”
His house would be quiet then. Even if the crazy impulse that had brought him here was already fading, he could go home and sleep on it and decide tomorrow. He moved to rise. Instantly, Silky was on his feet, offering assistance. He placed his hands under his prospective employer’s elbows and raised him. He caught a twinkle of amusement from the Abbot. Jade Harmony 7’s impressive girth advertised his prosperity for all the world to see, but he had failed to notice how little effort the newly named Silky seemed to need to lift him with those reed-thin arms.
He who had been Tug and was now Silky ushered the fat man out to the courtyard where his guards and palanquin waited. Kneeling with head bowed, he watched unobtrusively as the wretched Outlanders hoisted their load of lard shoulder-high for another journey. He touched his forehead to the ground in obeisance as the parade moved away. Then he went back inside, heading into the true monastery, not the part that visitors saw.
He walked slowly, practicing calm. He had been named at last, so he was now a full brother in the order. Very soon, he would make his first credited score, and he was annoyed that the prospect had raised his pulse above its normal rate, although that was only half of a layman’s. This time, he might still have to tolerate a supervisor, but the score would go on his tally, and it would be a very easy one if—as seemed most likely—the fat man himself was to be the subject.
Silky! A wonderful name from a lackluster client. The fat man was probably already regretting his impulsive leap out of mediocrity, but Silky’s first contract would be very short-lived. Pity! It would have been interesting to teach the fat man the advantages of the Helpers’ unorthodox business methods.
The abbey premises were much larger than realized by any outsider, even the governor’s tax assessors; they housed one of the largest chapters in all the Good Land, ranking as a house of 400-ply. Large was not endless, though, and he came to the door of the Abbot’s reception room at last. It stood open, so he slipped through the bead curtain beyond and sank down in obeisance. By day, this was a magnificent chamber, furnished in silks and precious woods, decorated with jade, fine porcelain, tiles, and stone. It was a safe guess that the mandarin governor himself had nothing to match it, nor would that blubbery client of Silky’s, for all his vaunted wealth.
By night, it was a mysterious universe of its own, lit by a single colored lantern hanging at head height near the far side. The Abbot and Brother Archives sat on cushions below it. They were visible, as was the low table on which their tea set stood, but all the rest of the great room was a darkness twinkling with points of reflection from gems or porcelain or mother-of-pearl.
“Enter, Brother Silky,” the Abbot called. “Close the door and come join us.”
Silky obeyed, dropping to his knees on the tiles near the table, altho
ugh farther from it than the elders sat.
The old man—who did not look as old as he had earlier, but was still old—poured a bowl of tea for him. “Congratulations on your contract, Brother. I see it being enormously profitable, both for our House and for yourself. Officially, if the question is ever asked, your client came to negotiate a one-year memorial for his father, but Brother Archives has been expecting for some time that he would soon come calling on more serious business.”
Silky said nothing.
“He is a fool,” Archives said. “The moment he got his hands on the family seal, he started making very rash ventures. He should have spun out his daughter’s dowry payments for years. Lemon Grass and Distant Cloud are planning to split him between them.”
Silky waited, confident that the Abbot would know what bothered him.
The old man did, of course. “You have questions, Brother?”
“Father, is not the merchant Lemon Grass a client of our house?” The brotherhood never tolerated conflicts of interest, and Lemon Grass was one of the richest men in Wedlock and, thus, in all Shashi Province. By asking for his death, Jade Harmony should have condemned himself to becoming a routine score on Lemon Grass 3’s contract.
“Indeed, yes.” The old man turned the leathery mask of his face to Archives. “How many years have we been assisting him, Brother?”
“Six, Father. His count now is seven routine and only three requests. He is a shy man.” The archivist’s laugh was foul but his memory was legendary.
“So he is ripe, you see?” the Abbot said. “We should gain little more by waiting until the end of his contract, whereas I foresee great things from Jade Harmony 7. You have heard of the Portal of Worlds?” For a man of such antiquity, his eyes were amazingly bright.
Silky knew very well of the Abbot’s obsessive interest in the Portal, but not why he thought it important. He had not expected to be discussing stupid legends on this, the night of his naming.
“Only stories, Holy One. Some say that it is due to open again soon.”
“Not in my lifetime here, I am afraid, but certainly in yours. There are signs! Celestial Rose breathed fire last year, during Thunder Moon. It is recorded that before every opening of the Portal, either Black Dragon Mountain or Celestial Rose will breathe fire in the Year of the Crow and the Emperor will send propitiatory offerings.”
So far as Silky knew, either Celestial Rose or Black Dragon Mountain erupted every two or three years and the Emperor always sent propitiatory offerings. He bowed his head in homage.
“I am elevated by this gift of lore, Holy Father.”
“Yes. Jade Harmony may be able to assist us in our preparations for that epochal event. Now, about tonight …”
“Tonight, Father?” Silky asked very calmly. He was fairly sure that he had not twitched as much as an eyelash.
“It must be done before you call on our client tomorrow. Natural causes, please. Any questions?” the Abbot demonstrated a saintly smile.
Very many questions! Lemon Grass 3’s aide was Sister Freshet, and Silky had no wish to find himself on the wrong end of her knife.
“I have great respect for Sister Freshet’s skills, Father.” The standard contract set no obligation on the Order to defend the client from third parties, but it was understood that it would normally do so to safeguard its own interests.
The old man chuckled. “So you should. She is a very dangerous woman, as she has demonstrated many times. But you are a very dangerous young man now. And you are named, Brother Silky, so it is permitted to reveal the last great secret to you. Recite to me some Outlandish poetry.”
Silky sensed that the old men were laughing at him, but he had been taught long ago not just how to suppress anger, but how to dismiss it altogether. The thought of a last great secret was intriguing, although there would undoubtedly be other, greater secrets behind that one.
“I confess that I cannot, Holy One, not a line.” Yet, ever since he had been admitted to the Order, he had attended the Abbot in his chamber once a month for the purpose of being instructed in Outlanders’ poetry. He ignored the Abbot’s gentle smile and Archives’s rotten-tooth leer. Of course it was understood that those one-on-one sessions were also a chance to complain about any brother or sister who had behaved badly, although Silky had never been rash enough to do so. Outlandish poetry? Not a line. “I must assume that the purpose of those sessions was otherwise than I was led to expect—and allowed to remember,” he added uneasily.
“Well done. You have taken that revelation much better than most do. Have you ever heard of a leash?”
“Only as a restraint for an animal, Father.”
“It is also a restraint for Gray Helpers. The poem the Order uses is very long and exceedingly bad, as you would expect. It is never likely to be quoted for its own merit. Sister Freshet’s leash is, I believe, lines twelve, thirty-nine, and seventy-four?” the Abbot looked inquiringly to Archives, who nodded. “Very well. When you meet her, you repeat these two lines:
“The heron and the swan against rain-dimpled water … Up golden ladders to the moon. Dreadful doggerel, but she will at once go into submission, and you may then give her your orders. Be quick, for you will have only a few moments before she lapses into coma. You bring her back with the release: Morning star that dies when its task is done. She will remember the incident with resentment unless you have instructed her not to, but either way she will obey your instructions with zeal.” He did not insult his new monk by asking him to repeat the words. “And tomorrow, I will call her in to change her leash and remove any residual compulsions you have implanted. I can’t imagine Freshet refusing a wholesome young man such as yourself if you asked her nicely, but if you plan to abuse your transient power over her, you had better do so tonight.”
“I would not do that, Father,” Silky said. “It would betray your teaching and my loyalty to the Order.” He had attended Sister Freshet on her sleeping mat twice, but both times at her command, never by his request. Besides, he could guess that the Abbot had ways of finding out when the leash was used; that ability to control must itself be controlled.
The old man nodded approvingly, but then his face had probably not betrayed his feelings once in the last fifty years. “Freshet can advise you on time and place and method and you should listen carefully, but you make the decision. This one is yours. You may dismiss her beforehand and do it alone if you wish. Archives?”
“It shouldn’t be too hard. Lemon Grass is a man of predictable routines. Don’t leave before I have shown you plans of his grounds and defenses.”
As if Silky would be so stupid! “Thank you, Brother.”
“Go, then.” The Abbot gestured their joint dismissal. “I envy you this night, Brother Silky. One’s first score is a great milestone in one’s life, a memory to be savored and enjoyed. May your ancestors guide your hand and bless your venture.”
Silky had no ancestors that he knew of. He must just hope that they knew him and had heard the Abbot’s prayer.
A thick mist had rolled in from the river, which was a good omen for a young assassin on his first outing. No one could have told Silky from an artisan’s apprentice going home after a long day; his hands were dirty and callused, his walk depicted physical exhaustion. All the equipment he would need was in a satchel on his shoulder. He carried no visible weapon, but anyone who tried to rob him would not survive long enough to look surprised.
If this first contract turned out as profitable, as the Abbot had hinted, then Silky’s share would be substantial. Brother Bursar would invest it for him, and the Gray Helpers’ investments paid much better than most, because they could apply all the inside knowledge they gathered from their clients. Two or three good contracts and Silky would be rich enough to buy a priory somewhere—not a 400-ply abbey like Wedlock’s, of course, but even a 20-ply would eventually make him rich if it were well managed.
He thought back with amusement to that impudent, starving waif who had offered to kill somebody for Brother Moon. The Tug who had been born that day had died this evening. Silky! What a glorious, wonderful name for an assassin! He could not remember any of the names he had used before he became Tug. And what would he be tomorrow? An anonymous flunky in the Harmony mansion? Cook? Maintenance man? Guard? His talent was weaponry. He hoped his client could be persuaded to take him on as a sand warrior, fighting in the arena. That would be both an exciting life and a very convenient cover for his real work.
He had never visited the Lemon Grass mansion before, but Brother Archives had shown him the layout down to the last tree and closet. Although it stood in spacious grounds surrounded by spiked walls and well patrolled by dogs and armed guards, any Gray Helper knew how to deal with those.
Nobody registered the killer’s arrival at the wall. He found a place well shielded from view by a bush, then blew on the whistle to summon the dogs. He could just barely hear the tone himself, but no one much older than he would hear a thing. The dogs came to investigate, growling and snuffling; he tossed the bait over to them. While he waited for the drug to take effect, he changed into all-enveloping nightwork clothes that left only his eyes visible.
The spiked wall was a joke. The dogs were snoring.
Rummaging through his memory of the house plans, he located Sister Freshet’s window. Having poked a twig through the shutter lattice as a signal, he climbed into a nearby tree, and settled in for a long wait. In fact, it was little more than an hour before chinks of light appeared around the shutters.
According to Archives, Sister Freshet had been assigned as aide to Lemon Grass at the start of his contract six years ago. She had rapidly promoted herself from servant to concubine, a post she still held without complaint—Archives suspected that she was genuinely in love with the man, a complication discouraged but not unexpected. She found Silky’s signal and, in a few minutes, came strolling around the corner of the building, silent but not furtive.
