Jhereg by Steven Brust

figure out a way?"
    "No, thanks. I'll take care of it."
    "All by yourself? My goodness!"
    "No, I'm going to get Loiosh to help. There, feel better?" He snickered and left. I got up and opened the window.
    " Loiosh, " I thought to my familiar, " find Daymar. "
    " As Your Majesty requests, " he answered.
    " Feel free to save the sarcasm. "
    A telepathic giggle is an odd thing to experience. Loiosh flew out the window. I sat down again and stared off blankly for a while. How many times had I been in this position? Just at the beginning of a job, with no idea of where it was going, or how it would get there. Nothing, really, except an image of how it should end; as always, with a corpse. How many times? It isn't really a rhetorical question. This would be the forty-second assassination I'd done. My first thought was that it was going to be somewhat different than the others, at some level, in some way, to some degree. I have clear memories of each one. The process I go through before I do the job is such that I can't forget any of them--I have to get to know them too well. This would certainly be a problem if I were given to nightmares.
    The fourth one? He was the button man who would always order a fine liqueur after dinner and leave half the bottle instead of a tip. The twelfth was a small-time muscle who liked to keep his cash in the largest denominations he could. The nineteenth was a sorcerer who carried a cloth around with him to polish his staff with--which he did constantly. There is always something distinct about them. Sometimes it is something I can use; more often it is just something that sticks out in my memory. When you know someone well enough, he becomes an individual no matter how hard you try to think of him as just a face--or a body.
    But if you take it back a level, you once more wind up with the similarities being important. Because when they come to me as names mentioned in a conversation, over a quiet meal, with a purse handed over which will contain somewhere between fifteen hundred and four thousand gold Imperials, they are all the same, and I treat them the same: plan the job, do it.
    I usually worked backwards: after finding out everything I could about his habits, and following him, tracking him, and timing him for days, sometimes for weeks, I'd decide where I wanted it to happen. That would usually determine the time and often the day as well. Then it was a matter of starting from there and working things so that all of the factors came together then and there. The execution itself was only interesting if I made a mistake somewhere along the line.
    Kragar once asked me, when I was feeling particularly mellow, if I enjoyed killing people. I didn't answer, because I didn't know, but it set me to thinking. I'm still not really sure. I know that I enjoy the planning of a job, and setting it in motion so that everything works out. But the actual killing? I don't think I either consciously enjoy it or fail to enjoy it; I just do it.
    I leaned back and closed my eyes. The beginning of a job like this is like the beginning of a witchcraft spell. The most important single thing is my frame of mind when I begin. I want to make absolutely sure that I have no preconceived notions about how, or where, or anything. That comes later. I hadn't even begun to study the fellow yet, so I didn't have anything to really go on. The little I did know went rolling around my subconscious, free-associating, letting images and ideas pop up and be casually discarded. Sometimes, when I'm in the middle of planning, I'll get a sudden inspiration, or what appears to be a sudden burst of brilliance. I fancy myself an artist at times like this. I came out of my reverie slowly, with the feeling that there was something I should be thinking about. I wasn't really fully awake yet, so it took me awhile to become aware of what it was. There was a stray, questing thought fluttering around in my forebrain. After a while, I realized that it