“But, but you’re supposed to be over there!” I complained, waving my hand toward the man moving along the street.
“You use your eyes, but you do not see,” Blackstone said. He gestured toward the same shape. “Look at the way his shoulders lurch when he walks. Have you ever seen me move that way?”
I looked at the man below us again. I saw the nervous tightness in his neck, like he expected an attack at any moment. I saw the slight limp in his step that I had missed before.
“Dammit, you told me to follow you, and that’s what I was doing!” I cried out.
“No. You were following the green jacket. Not me.”
My cheeks burned. I’d fallen for his decoy. “That’s not fair,” I pouted.
“Life isn’t fair, Dagan. The streets aren’t fair. They will swallow you whole before you get your feet on the ground if you don’t watch what you’re doing.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “When did you have time to change? How did you get behind me?”
He scoffed. “You were so focused on the green jacket that you forgot to watch your surroundings. What did I teach you?”
“He who closes his eyes is dead,” I recited by rote.
“Correct. And you never even opened them this morning.”
I looked down at my feet.
Blackstone clicked his tongue. “Oh, stop looking so dejected. Everybody falls for a trick like this their first time. It’s what you learn from it that shapes who you become.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
After I learned to follow Blackstone without losing him, we began new exercises.
We would start each morning in the heart of the merchant district of north Hallengard. The plaza began filling up with people from the first rays of the sun. It was busy until long after sundown.
Blackstone would pick a person at random and slip a small item in their pocket. Sometimes it was a worthless jewel. Other times, a coin. Yet other times, a simple rock.
It was up to me to follow that person and get the item back.
It was an exercise in caution and patience. I had to wait for the perfect moment to strike. Since I was doing it in the daytime, I did not have the luxury of blending in with the shadows, as I’d done before when I was on my own.
It was not easy. With so many eyes around you, discretion was the most important virtue. I was not always successful. Sometimes, the person disappeared before I had a chance to get close. Other times, I hesitated a second too long, or went a heartbeat too soon, and had to stop before I could even stick my hand in his pocket.
Progress was slow. My excitement about finally being let outside quickly faded. Blackstone gave me little feedback. In fact, he had grown uncharacteristically quiet. I was not sure how to take his shift in mood.
After two months of practice, however, I was getting better. My successes were not guaranteed, but nine times out of ten I did manage to get the item back.
There was no further mention of the heist that Blackstone told me about. I did not ask him about it, either. I figured that he thought I was simply not yet ready to take the next step.
The third month, an event occurred that changed my life forever.
It was a day like any other. Blackstone had woken me early and we walked to the plaza. That day, I was trailing an elderly gentleman with greying hair and the air of an aristocrat.
My job appeared to be easy at the start. The target did not seem particularly aware of his surroundings. Yet, every time I got close, a peculiar prickle in the back of my mind stopped me from acting.
It was the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. While I knew Blackstone kept an eye on me at all times, this was different.
I trusted that feeling. Sometimes, your unconscious mind is able to pick up cues that your waking mind might not. Something was not quite right. I began to suspect the man I was trailing was more dangerous than I first thought.
I followed him like a shadow as he made his way through the city. Oftentimes, he stopped to greet a passing friend. Conversation was always quick, and those were the moments I thought I should make my move. If I waited too long, I knew, the man might eventually disappear into a building—his home, for example—and not come out for hours.
That scenario presented a set of circumstances that I was not eager to explore. Breaking into a house is a lot different from pickpocketing somebody. For one, there was the front door. Blackstone had taught me to open locks. I had a pretty good hang of it, and could already do three-tumbler pins in under a minute.
Sometimes, breaking into a home could be easier, because a good thief knew to enter only if the place was unoccupied. Yet the anxiety of not knowing exactly how long you had before the occupants returned wreaked havoc on your nerves.
Nonetheless, every time I came close to the man, that prickling feeling intensified, and I was forced to stay my hand.
I followed him for hours. By appearance, I thought he might be a banker. I saw the heavy coin purse on his belt. I knew that it was just a distraction. He would have notes of tender on him, carefully concealed in his inside pockets. They were each worth three or four times the amount in his purse even if every coin were gold.
Eventually, he made his way to a reputable-looking tavern. I couldn’t get in through the front door—not in my clothes—but I wasn’t about to give up.
I circled the building once, looking for an alternate way in. I found it in the back. It was not the backdoor where deliveries were made and garbage was thrown out, but higher, above that: a small, diamond-shaped window leading to the attic.
A pair of men—probably cooks, by the flour on their aprons—gave me curious looks when they saw me in the back alley. I didn’t want to give them reason to get suspicious, so I kept my head down and walked past. I stopped on the other side of the corner and waited. When I heard them head inside, I turned back.
I climbed onto a stack of barrels, jumped to reach the edge of the roof, and pulled myself up. I walked over to the window, which was a foot or so below me. It’d be awkward to get into, but not impossible.
I hung down over the ledge and used my toe to push at the window. It was unlocked. My foot found the windowsill and I dropped inside.
A babble of voices greeted me. The tavern had an open design with thick oak beams running across the ceiling. I could see the whole layout from my perch.
I looked around and found the grey-haired banker in one corner. His eyes kept darting around the room. He tapped his fingers against the table in a quick, nervous, tat-tat-tat-tat.
To my disappointment, he’d left his jacket on. It would have been much easier to retrieve Blackstone’s coin if the man had hung it up.
Of course, I knew by now that I could not expect things to be so easy.
I balanced myself on the largest beam and started to creep across. I stayed low and moved slowly. I could not risk attracting attention by rushing over and making.
I was halfway to my destination when the sound of one particular voice stopped me in my tracks. It rose above the others and was immediately distinctive to my ears.
Three-Grin’s voice.
A cold chill ran down my back. I looked below and saw him.
He was moving through the bar with an entourage of six men. He walked with a cocky strut, towering a head taller than anybody else. His voice was loud and rude as he called out for drinks.
I saw the banker straighten as Three-Grin approached him.
A painful cramp shot through my hand. I looked down and discovered that I’d unconsciously started gripping the hilt of my ivory knife.
Hard.
I eased my fingers loose and did not dare move as my eyes followed Three-Grin.
He walked toward the banker and sat down at the table with a crash. The men who came with him formed a formidable wall, cutting off access to that corner to the rest of the patrons.
Five running steps and a silent leap had me on a nearby beam that positioned me right above their table.
“What we’re d
oing for you,” the banker’s voice filtered up to me, “is highly suspect. The contents we’re moving around are attracting attention. People are starting to ask questions.”
“Deal with it,” Three-Grin growled. “I don’t pay you to complain. I pay you to care for my investments.”
The other man swallowed. “Yes. About that. You see…”
Three-Grin leaned close. “You wouldn’t be suggesting that you’re having... problems?” There was an undeniable threat held in the final word.
“No, no, not problems exactly,” the banker corrected quickly. He tugged on the neck of his shirt. “It’s just… more difficult than we expected. Moving that type of cargo around the city arouses curiosity, and curiosity turns to rumor, which filters up to the city guard…”
“Then make sure it doesn’t,” Three-Grin hissed. “Because if you fail me... Xune will know.”
The other man started stammering placating words. I stopped listening. My fingers hovered over the sheaths of my throwing knives.
Blackstone forbade me from using those knives unless my life was at risk. He made me swear an oath that I would use them only in case of life or death.
I pulled one out and idly ran my thumb over the edge.
Three-Grin was completely vulnerable. I burned with hatred for him. The six men who came with him ensured that nobody approached from within the pub. They did not protect him from enemies above.
All it would take was one well-aimed throw, and the monster who defined my childhood would finally be dead.
Or would he? I remembered the uncanny way he sensed my last attack against him. Three-Grin was a large man, and I was still a boy. Hearing his voice brought me back to all the times I had hidden when I heard him approach. I remembered his drunken ramblings, and the way he killed for pleasure.
Would one knife be enough? Could I trust myself to throw the blade straight and true?
I saw his heavily-muscled neck. My throw had to be absolutely perfect if I intended to kill him. And after, could I get out in time?
I glanced back the way I came. The window was far—too far for me to make a quick exit. The moment the knife left my hand, everybody would know where it came from.
I would not escape.
That was the reasoning that ran through my head as I perched on the beam, still as a statue. You would think that logic would be enough to convince me not to strike.
But logic was secondary to the strength of my hatred for the man. I hated Three-Grin for what he did to his daughters. I hated him for what he did to his slaves. I hated him for who he was and what he represented.
I wanted revenge for Alicia. That feeling had subdued somewhat in the nearly two years I’d spent with Blackstone, but seeing Three-Grin again rekindled it with a searing passion.
I wanted revenge now.
If I could take this monster out of the world, my ambitions would be complete. Perhaps it didn’t matter if I did not escape. Perhaps this was what I was meant to do.
Maybe, just maybe, this was fate’s way of ensuring that my life could mean something.
If I attacked Three-Grin, I would die. I saw the crossbows slung across the shoulders of two of his guards. As soon as the knife left my hand, they would look up, see me, and fire…
But maybe I would be redeemed in death. It would be a glorious way to go.
I took another throwing knife out of its sheath. My eyes focused on Three-Grin’s bulging neck. Two knives. Two chances. If I could sever his spinal cord—
My thoughts were interrupted when a commotion rose amongst the men standing guard.
Quickly, I pressed myself to a vertical beam. Then, I tilted my head and peered down.
There was a seventh man in the group. A drunk, if his lurching movements were any indication. He wore a hood so I could not see his face.
He was trying to break through the human wall and get to Three-Grin and the banker.
“Hoy!” he called out. “Hoy, it’s me, Johnny! Don’t you remember me? Johnny!”
Three-Grin turned back and shot a disgusted look at the man. He flipped his hand, and one of the guards pushed Johnny down.
He stumbled and fell. His hood dropped from his head. I saw his face, and an immediate tightness exploded in my chest.
It was Blackstone.
His eyes darted up to me at that moment. I saw, for the flicker of a second that our gazes crossed, that he was fully lucid.
Then he resumed his act.
“It’s me! You don’t remember Johnny?” He stood and stumbled forward again, straight into the arms of one of the guards. “Johnny. Johnny! I was your best fighter.”
Again, he was pushed away. One of the guards drew his sword. “You take another step, you useless drunk, and you’re a dead man.”
Johnny-slash-Blackstone held up his hands, affronted. “All right, all right,” he said, backing off. “No need to get violent, now.”
“Piss off,” the guard spat.
By then, the confrontation had attracted the attention of the entire tavern. The owner ran over, trailed by three guards of his own.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I felt like a twig in a dry forest in the middle of the summer heat. The smallest spark would start an enormous conflagration.
“You,” the owner scowled at Blackstone, “get out of here.” He eyed Three-Grin and his entourage. “And you, sirs, I will have to ask to leave. Finish your drinks and go. I will not have you threatening my customers.”
Three-Grin roared to his feet. He was still as imposing as ever. The scars on his face twisted as he sneered in anger.
The owner did not back down. “I said,” he repeated, “that you are going to have to leave.”
“I heard what you said,” Three-Grin barked. He picked up his ale and chugged it down in a deliberate, angry swallow. He slammed the mug back on the table and wiped away the foam off his lips with one livid stroke of his hand.
“Piss on your bar,” he said, “and piss on you. Can’t even bloody serve drink that don’t taste like watered down goat’s milk.”
He stepped forward and addressed the men around him. “Let’s get out of here.” He gave a mock bow to the owner. “Obviously, we’re not high class enough for his establishment.”
Some of his friends snickered. He strode away, and they followed him in a bunch. All except the grey-haired man.
Only when Three-Grin slammed the door did the banker exhale a breath as heavy as his last and sag down.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“What the hell was that?” I practically screeched at Blackstone when I met him outside. “What were you doing in there?”
“Protecting you.” Blackstone shot me a hard look. “Did you forget your task?”
“No, I was going to—”
I cut off as a glimmer of metal flew from Blackstone’s hand to me in an arc. I caught it and looked in my palm.
It was the coin I was supposed to retrieve.
“How did you get this?” I stammered. “You didn’t even get close to the man once!”
“A thief must be quick, Dagan,” he said, “but an assassin, invisible. You were neither today.”
I gritted my teeth in frustration. “That’s not what I asked!”
Blackstone turned on me. “That’s the answer you get.”
I stared back at him, meeting his challenge head-on. The standoff lasted only a second before I relented and looked down.
It was the longest I’d ever defied Blackstone .
“You were asked to get that coin back,” Blackstone continued, his voice filled with anger, “not try to kill a man.”
I sputtered, flabbergasted. “I didn’t—”
“You did.” Blackstone’s voice left no room for argument. “If I hadn’t stepped in, you would have. Don’t lie to me.”
“I was waiting for the moment to get the coin back!” I defended. “I would still be in there, if you didn’t interrupt!”
“Oh no,” Blackstone said. “If I hadn
’t interrupted, you would be a cold body on the floor of that pub with half a dozen crossbow bolts stuck through you.”
“I wouldn’t—”
“You would.” Blackstone flashed his eyes at me. “You think you’re smart, Dagan. You think that just because I’ve given you two years of training you’re better than others. You’ve made progress. I don’t deny that. But you remain transparent in your desires. I saw the look in your eyes when you were crouched by the roof. You meant to kill.”
“I—”
“Do you deny it?” His hard voice cracked like a boulder fracturing. “Will you look into my eyes and tell me you truly did not intend to kill anybody today?”
I looked at Blackstone. There was an unnerving undercurrent of danger to his words. If I lied, I had a feeling he would see right through it.
I averted my eyes. “I may have thought about it,” I admitted.
“Thought about it,” he repeated, dissatisfied. “Hah! You had the look of a wild hyena circling its dying prey. If you believe you were just thinking about it, than you are more lost than I imagined.”
“I wanted to kill him,” I said. “I know what you told me about not using the knives. But you don’t know who that man is! You don’t know what he did to me.”
“Dagan.” Blackstone stopped and went down to one knee. He stared deep into my eyes. “I know Three-Grin.”
“What? You do? How?”
“I know,” he said, “because I was the only one of his slaves to survive the Arena.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
My mind spun. My world seemed like it would collapse on itself at any moment.
“You were one of Three-Grin’s slaves?”
Blackstone nodded once. “Yes. I was raised a slave, like you. Back then, the man you wanted to kill was not yet known as Three-Grin. But he was my master nonetheless.”
“And you escaped?” I marveled. “How?” Before he could answer, another thought occurred to me. I never told Blackstone about Three-Grin. “How did you know I was a slave?”
“I can put enough pieces of your past together. Did you think I truly took you in without knowing a thing about you?”
A Thirst for Vengeance (The Ashes Saga, Volume 1) Page 13