had left those objects on the floor of her favorite two-son’s shrine. She did
not
wonder what they were, however, nor how to use them; and their use had, indeed, becomealmost second nature in the few days since she had acquired them.
And there was her target now!
The bridge terminated in a guard station staffed by Priests of The Eight. Or, more properly, by Priests of the Ninth Face, since that radical sept now governed its parent clan. The guards changed shifts eight times a day, generally at cross-eighths, so that the portentous times—midnight, dawn, sunset, and sunrise—were always policed by the same person. That guard would have come on duty almost two hands ago, and if he was true to his habits would step outside precisely at midnight, take a turn around the station, perhaps piss over the parapet if he thought no one was looking, then return to duty.
When he did, Tyrill would be ready.
Another breath and she staggered farther up the way, but not far—never far—from the wall. She also coughed into her fist again, but when she lowered it, fingers still deft from eighty years of smithing snared something from the folds of her clothing—something a quarter of whose length she could conceal in her hand, while the bulk ran up her sleeve. Something she had previously loaded with a small glass dart tipped with one of the most potent poisons in existence.
And there was the guard: right on time!
He had sauntered out of the back of the station and disappeared around the farther, western, side. Tyrill quickened her pace in his absence. Range could be crucial with this particular weapon. He turned the corner obligingly; she slowed again as he started past the station’s front wall and toward her.
It was now or never.
But he wasn’t turning! He was coming toward her! Had she drawn more attention than she thought?
“Lady,” the man called with polite authority. “It’s late, and there
is
a curfew. I must ask—”
He never got a chance to frame his question, because Tyrill chose that moment to cough again. Only she didn’t really cough. The hand she raised contained a blowgun of Ixtianorigin, and that blowgun housed a dart tipped with scorpion poison. The cough was a puff of wind carefully applied. And such was Tyrill’s luck—or skill—that her first attempt struck home. She couldn’t see the dart, of course, but she did see the man swat his neck where bare skin showed above his blue surcoat. Nevertheless, she betrayed nothing, merely reeled to the rail again and used it to brace herself (with the blowgun still in her hand in case she had to drop it into the river hastily), while the man continued forward. He managed three more steps before his eyes went very wide and he stumbled. Turning clumsily, he fled back to the guard station—perhaps to summon help—except that he could not cry out, for that poison froze the voice early on. Then the breath. Then the heart. Tyrill didn’t even have to dispose of the body, for the man—frantic in his haste—struck the wall as he tried to turn the corner onto the bridge, slipped on something she couldn’t see—and tumbled over. She heard the splash as he struck the water a span below her feet.
One less whisker on the Ninth Face
, she chuckled to herself, then continued drunkenly on. And Fate was not merely with her tonight, He was courting her, it seemed. For not only had the guard disposed of his own body, he had also knocked the poison dart free. It glittered on the stones where he had stood, visible courtesy of particularly cooperative moonlight. Tyrill ground it to dust beneath her heel, wondering why she felt so little remorse about killing that man; wondering, more to the point, who should be next to taste the scorpion’s sting.
Tyrill was not the only person haunting the smoky shadows of Tir-Eron that night. Her senior squire, Lynee, was also busy, but much farther down the River Walk, where the private estates of the less prosperous members of High
not
wonder what they were, however, nor how to use them; and their use had, indeed, becomealmost second nature in the few days since she had acquired them.
And there was her target now!
The bridge terminated in a guard station staffed by Priests of The Eight. Or, more properly, by Priests of the Ninth Face, since that radical sept now governed its parent clan. The guards changed shifts eight times a day, generally at cross-eighths, so that the portentous times—midnight, dawn, sunset, and sunrise—were always policed by the same person. That guard would have come on duty almost two hands ago, and if he was true to his habits would step outside precisely at midnight, take a turn around the station, perhaps piss over the parapet if he thought no one was looking, then return to duty.
When he did, Tyrill would be ready.
Another breath and she staggered farther up the way, but not far—never far—from the wall. She also coughed into her fist again, but when she lowered it, fingers still deft from eighty years of smithing snared something from the folds of her clothing—something a quarter of whose length she could conceal in her hand, while the bulk ran up her sleeve. Something she had previously loaded with a small glass dart tipped with one of the most potent poisons in existence.
And there was the guard: right on time!
He had sauntered out of the back of the station and disappeared around the farther, western, side. Tyrill quickened her pace in his absence. Range could be crucial with this particular weapon. He turned the corner obligingly; she slowed again as he started past the station’s front wall and toward her.
It was now or never.
But he wasn’t turning! He was coming toward her! Had she drawn more attention than she thought?
“Lady,” the man called with polite authority. “It’s late, and there
is
a curfew. I must ask—”
He never got a chance to frame his question, because Tyrill chose that moment to cough again. Only she didn’t really cough. The hand she raised contained a blowgun of Ixtianorigin, and that blowgun housed a dart tipped with scorpion poison. The cough was a puff of wind carefully applied. And such was Tyrill’s luck—or skill—that her first attempt struck home. She couldn’t see the dart, of course, but she did see the man swat his neck where bare skin showed above his blue surcoat. Nevertheless, she betrayed nothing, merely reeled to the rail again and used it to brace herself (with the blowgun still in her hand in case she had to drop it into the river hastily), while the man continued forward. He managed three more steps before his eyes went very wide and he stumbled. Turning clumsily, he fled back to the guard station—perhaps to summon help—except that he could not cry out, for that poison froze the voice early on. Then the breath. Then the heart. Tyrill didn’t even have to dispose of the body, for the man—frantic in his haste—struck the wall as he tried to turn the corner onto the bridge, slipped on something she couldn’t see—and tumbled over. She heard the splash as he struck the water a span below her feet.
One less whisker on the Ninth Face
, she chuckled to herself, then continued drunkenly on. And Fate was not merely with her tonight, He was courting her, it seemed. For not only had the guard disposed of his own body, he had also knocked the poison dart free. It glittered on the stones where he had stood, visible courtesy of particularly cooperative moonlight. Tyrill ground it to dust beneath her heel, wondering why she felt so little remorse about killing that man; wondering, more to the point, who should be next to taste the scorpion’s sting.
Tyrill was not the only person haunting the smoky shadows of Tir-Eron that night. Her senior squire, Lynee, was also busy, but much farther down the River Walk, where the private estates of the less prosperous members of High
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