This one, she remembered, was one she could climb.
The walk from the Drunken Dragon had taken almost an hour; getting through the gate and onto the roof of the kitchen took five minutes.
Tabaea knew that she had to hurry with this part; she was exposed as long as she was on the roof, and despite her black tunic and skirt anyone staying up late who came out to the courtyard and glanced in the right direction might see her. She scampered up the slope, her bare toes hooking over the joints between tiles to keep her from slipping.
At the top she worked her way carefully along the wall, checking each of the three windows. All three were shuttered for the night; in the first faint golden light shone between the slats, while the other two were dark.
Peering through the glass of the third window she was pleased to discover that she could see cobwebs in the corners—the shutters had not been opened recently.
That was good. This was how she had entered previously, so she knew it to be a little-used storeroom; the cobwebs indicated that the occupants had not rearranged the household, or taken to checking the room. Quite probably, they didn’t even know that a burglar had broken in before.
The window was locked, but she had brought her shim; she had the latch open in seconds. The hinges were stiff, and they creaked, but she swung the casement wide, ignoring the sound.
The latch on the shutters was even easier than the one on the casement; she flipped it up effortlessly, and slid into the darkness of the house’s interior.
The storeroom was just as she remembered it—linens and blankets stacked on painted shelves, a row of closed trunks along the wall on either side. The trunks were locked, but she had picked one when she was here before and found nothing but old clothing, broken toys, and the like.
She hadn’t bothered with the others, and she didn’t bother with them now; instead she opened the door slowly and carefully until she had a crack a few inches wide. She squeezed out through the narrow opening and emerged into the upstairs hallway, alert for any sign of danger.
Light leaked out from under one of the other doors; she could hear voices, as well. No one was in sight, though, and she heard no footsteps, no clicking latches, no squeaking hinges.
Prowling a house while the residents were still awake was not part of her ordinary routine, but the voices gave her the distinct impression that those residents wouldn’t be emerging right away. Besides, she was here, and she wanted to get it over with before her nerve gave out.
Remember that strength, she told herself, and she crept to the top of the stairs.
Last time, she remembered, the dog had been hiding under the stairs. She had gone down to the dining salon, looking for silver or other valuables, and it had come out behind her. Looking down toward the front room now she didn’t see it—it was probably lurking under the stairs again. She smiled, drew the black dagger, and started down the stairs, moving step by step, slowly and carefully, eyes constantly shifting.
At the bottom the dog still hadn’t emerged; she took three steps toward the dining salon—and then whirled, knife raised.
The dog was there, halfway out from its hiding place. It growled menacingly, and bared its teeth.
Tabaea didn’t wait for it to attack, or to start barking; she jumped on it, knocking the animal to the floor.
The dog yelped, and tried to get away, but she flung her left arm around its neck and hauled it closer, its claws scrabbling wildly on the hard wood floor. Without hesitating, she yanked its head back with her left arm and slashed its throat with her right.
Strength flowed into her like sudden fire; she slashed again, to be sure, and almost removed the dog’s head—her arm was already stronger, much stronger.
And that wasn’t all. The creature’s vitality burned through her with a force that made the strongest oushka seem like a pale shadow, and when it reached her head the whole world seemed to change around her. For a moment all the color drained away, and then it was back, but washed out, like an old, faded tapestry; meanwhile the outlines sharpened, and the darkness that filled the room seemed suddenly less. The last twitch of the dog’s hind leg caught her attention far more sharply than motion ever had before; she almost started at the intensity of it.
And then the smells hit—the hot red stink of the dog’s blood, the pungency of its fur, the oily reek of the polish on the wooden floor, the smoky odor of the lamp that was burning upstairs, a hundred, a thousand, a million other scents were spilling through her nose, so clear and sharp and distinct that they were like a painting of the house. It was like a banquet spread before her, each odor unique.
Her hearing was suddenly sharper, too—at any rate, she could hear the woman’s voice upstairs say, “Did you hear something?”
The sound was distorted, though; she was unsure whether that was because of the distance and intervening corners and doors, or because something had changed about her hearing.
Whatever had happened, there could be no question that the Black Dagger’s magic was not used up. Moving quickly, she rose and headed for the front door, the quickest way out, leaving the dead dog lying on the floor in its own blood.
She knew blood was all over her hands and tunic as well, but she couldn’t afford the time to do anything about it until she was well away from the house. She fumbled with the latch and bolt, and then swung the door wide and stepped out onto the stoop.
The smells of the city washed over her like a great storm-driven wave, and she paused for a moment, drinking them in, sorting them out; then she remembered herself and ran.
As she worked her way north through the city streets, staying out of the better-lit areas where her bloodstained hands and clothes would show, she thought through what had happened.
She had killed a dog, and its strength had flooded into her, as she had hoped—but more than that had happened. She had gained the dog’s senses, as well—the sensitivity to motion and strong night vision, the incredible sense of smell, and, she realized as she listened to the city around her, better hearing, but only in high pitches.
This was amazing; she had a whole new way of perceiving the city. She could smell things she had never smelled before—but she couldn’t always identify them. She knew the salt was the sea, and the smoke came from the lamps and fires of the city; she knew the scents of men and women; but what was that odor like rust, like ... she had no words for it.
Would this fade away gradually, she wondered, or was this permanent? The dog was dead, nothing could heal it, nothing could give it back its strength—but could she really keep it forever? She flexed her arms, feeling the power there—not, perhaps, any stronger than a big man, but far stronger than the young woman she had been an hour earlier, probably stronger than any woman she had ever known. She could feel it.
She could smell her own excitement, though it took her a moment to recognize it for what it was.
Was that permanent? Would she be able to use her nose like this for the rest of her life? She wasn’t sure she would be able to sleep, with that flood of sensory impressions pouring in on her.
And all this came just from killing a dog. Think how strong she would be if she killed a man.
And think what she might be able to do if she killed a magician!
Chapter Twelve
The cat’s death did little for Tabaea’s strength, but it gave her incredibly quick reflexes, even sharper night vision and movement perception than killing the dog had provided, and perhaps some other abilities—she wasn’t sure whether or not those were real, or her imagination at work. She had never heard that cats could speed up or slow down their perception of time, and suspected it was simply an illusion. The ability to balance was very hard to judge. And the ability to cat-nap was probably there all along, just not used.
Still, she was satisfied with the results.
Killing a dove, on the other hand, was a serious disappointment; no matter what she did, Tabaea still could not fly, nor see behind herself without turning her head. Nor, i
t seemed, did birds have any abilities she hadn’t known about.
It was perfectly clear why she couldn’t fly, of course—she had no wings. Whatever magic the Black Dagger performed, it did not alter her physical appearance. Her eyes were still on the front of her head, rather than the sides; they had not become slitted like a cat’s, either.
Only belatedly did she realize that this was a good thing—otherwise she might have grown fur or feathers or claws, and become a freak unable to live a normal life among normal people.
Not, she admitted to herself, that her life was exactly normal. With her improved sense of smell she could now locate gold by scent alone, and with her cat skills she could now prowl silently in near-total darkness, so her thievery had become markedly more successful—but she still had no permanent home, living instead in a succession of cheap inns; she had no real friends; she saw nothing of her family.
Her new abilities showed no signs of fading, and they gave her the money for a more comfortable existence, but as she sat at a table in yet another inn, staring at yet another six-bit dinner of chicken stew and fried noodles, she found herself profoundly dissatisfied.
She was becoming successful as a thief. But so what?
She had originally taken up a career in theft in order to survive, to put food in her belly without her mother’s and stepfather’s reluctant help. She had wanted to strike back at the family and the city that had ignored and neglected her. She had wanted to become rich, to have all the things she had been denied. She had wanted everyone to know who she was, and to admire her skill and courage and determination.
She had discovered years ago that it didn’t work that way. Thieves did not become rich or famous—at least, burglars and cutpurses didn’t; there were those who accused various lords and magicians of robbery, but that was an entirely different sort of theft.
In fact, a thief couldn’t afford to become rich or famous. Too great a success put one in front of the Minister of Justice, and then on the gallows or in a slaver’s cells. Even the limited notoriety of being well-known among other thieves was dangerous; Tabaea had, over the past few years, seen virtually every well-known thief arrested or beaten or killed. The world of thieves was not closed; word could always leak out into the larger world of victims and avengers. The less-successful criminals were always ready, willing, and even eager, from jealousy or simple hunger, to sell news of their more prosperous brethren.
So she dared not try for more than a reasonably comfortable existence—and even that was risky.
As for paying back her family and the rest of Ethshar, that didn’t work, either. Her family had ignored her before, and they ignored her now. The city had always had thieves, and paid no mind to another.
Theft was nothing but a means of survival, a career with no room for advancement. Now that she had the Black Dagger and knew how to use it, Tabaea was not satisfied with that. She wanted more.
But what?
She chewed idly on a noodle and thought about it.
She still wanted to be rich and famous and respected, to have everyone know who she was, to pay attention to her every wish. She couldn’t get that as a thief, but now she had the Black Dagger, so she could be more than a thief.
The question was, what could she be?
She still had never served an apprenticeship, and at nineteen she wasn’t ever going to. She was even past normal recruiting age for the city guard.
She was strong and fast enough to be a soldier now, she realized, and she gave that possibility some serious thought. She was still small, but she knew she could prove herself if she had to.
And then what? Speed and strength were useful in war, but Ethshar was not at war, nor likely to be. Tabaea did not even have a very clear idea what war was. In peacetime the city guard served mostly to guard the people of Ethshar from each other, rather than from outside enemies; they guarded the gates, guarded the Palace, patrolled the wall and the marketplace, ran errands for the nobility, escorted prisoners...
None of that sounded very exciting. And much of doing it well depended, she realized, not on actual strength, but on the appearance of strength, on being big and fearsome enough that people didn’t start trouble in the first place.
She looked at the slender fingers holding her fork and grimaced. She didn’t look big and fearsome.
Did soldiering pay well? The guard spent freely enough in the brothels and gambling dens of Soldiertown, but on the other hand they lived in the barracks towers, not in big houses; they owned no fancy clothes, only uniforms and weapons.
And as far as fame went, Tabaea knew the names of half a dozen guardsmen, none of them officers, and those few only because she had encountered them personally. What sort of fame was that?
Soldiers carried swords, which was appealing, and they could rely on a warm bed and filling meals and a modicum of respect—but it did not seem like a really wonderful career, especially for a woman.
She scooped a greasy lump of chicken to her mouth and chewed.
She had food and a bed as a thief; those were no incentive. And the guard would have no special use that she could see for her animal-derived talents.
Not the guard, then. What else?
Well, who was rich and famous?
The overlord was, of course, and the other nobles. But they had all been born into the nobility, a path that was not open to her.
There were rich and famous merchants, but they had had money to start out with, to buy their first cargos or finance their caravans, and most, if not all, had served apprenticeships in their trades.
There were the performers in the Arena, the jugglers and acrobats and singers and magicians.
There were the magicians, even those who did not perform—magicians of any sort could be assured of respect.
Performers ... could she use her feline reflexes to become a juggler or acrobat? She knew that most learned their arts during apprenticeships, but if she could learn the skills on her own, they could not stop her from performing.
And as for magic—well, she was a magician already, wasn’t she?
But she was not openly a magician.
She swallowed the chicken and started on a chunk of carrot, thinking.
She didn’t know all that very much about magic, beyond the secret of athamezation—and of course, she had gotten that spell wrong when she tried to use it. Still, it seemed to her that magic had real possibilities. There were all those different kinds of magicians, for one thing—wizards and warlocks and witches, theurgists and demonologists and sorcerers, illusionists and herbalists and scientists and all the others.
And with the Black Dagger, she could kill one of each and steal all their abilities!
Or could she? She frowned, and swallowed the carrot.
At least part of magic was knowledge, rather than anything physical, and she didn’t know whether the Black Dagger stole knowledge. She certainly hadn’t learned anything from the minds of the dog or the cat or the dove—but perhaps beasts were too different.
She hadn’t learned anything from the kilted drunk, either—but she hadn’t killed him, she had only stabbed him in the leg. She had only acquired the strength he had lost, and even that had returned to him and departed from her as he healed. Stabbing him hadn’t robbed him of any of his memories or wits.
Killing a person would steal those memories away, wouldn’t it?
But would the Black Dagger transfer them to her, or would they simply be lost?
Or was knowledge part of the soul, of the part of a person that did not die? If the victim became a ghost, the ghost would still have its knowledge and memories—the dagger couldn’t give them to Tabaea, then. If the victim’s soul escaped into another realm, wouldn’t it take the knowledge with it?
But then, it was said that certain magicks could even trap or destroy a person’s soul—what if the Black Dagger was one of them?
Tabaea had to admit that she had no idea whether her magic knife could steal souls, or transfer know
ledge. The only way to find out would be to kill a person, preferably a magician.
She pushed a lump of potato around the plate with her fork as she thought about that.
It would mean murder, cold-blooded murder. She had never killed a person. Killing dogs and cats was one thing, killing a person quite another.
But then, how else would she ever know what the Black Dagger could do? How else would she ever become a magician, or anything more than a common thief?
She might make it as a performer just with the skills of animals—but then she would never know. And performing might not work.
And magic—she wanted more magic.
And she could have it, if memories transferred, and maybe even if they didn’t. All she had to do was kill magicians with the Black Dagger.
Somewhere in the back of her mind it occurred to her that she had never seriously thought about murdering people before; she had never killed anyone in the course of her career as a thief. Cats, of course, were natural hunters and killers; dogs, too, were predators. She had absorbed abilities from a dog and a cat; might some of the predators’ blood-lust come along?
She dismissed the idea.
So if she was going to kill magicians to steal their abilities, which magicians should she kill?
Sorcerers and wizards seemed to depend on their tools and formulae—sorcerers, in particular, seemed to need the talismans and artifacts. And wizardry might bring her in contact with the Wizards’ Guild, and besides, she already knew that she could never make a proper athame—she had the Black Dagger instead.
So those were out.
That left demonologists and theurgists and witches and warlocks and herbalists and scientists and illusionists and plenty of others, of course.
Demonology looked risky—Tabaea thought it was significant that she had never seen an old demonologist.
Theurgists had to learn prayers and invocations and so forth to work their magic; if knowledge didn’t convey, then that wouldn’t work, she wouldn’t know the rituals she needed.
The Spell of the Black Dagger Page 10