According to my father, Recruiters for the People of the Carapace rarely visited interior villages. They usually stuck to the big coastal cities or the island colonies, and recruitment only occurred when one of the Assyn needed an apprentice. I was of an age to begin apprenticeship, and this was a rare opportunity for one of the Wosyn to jump to a higher caste, but only if I answered their questions correctly—more correctly than the thousand other candidates across the Imperiate.
I did my best to speak evenly, with no emotion showing on my face, trying to mimic my questioners. I kept my hands stuffed in my vest pockets, clenching and unclenching the knickknacks within: a polished garnet, a firecracker, the torso to one of my sister’s dolls.
My parents sat with us in the beginning, but the Recruiters didn’t allow them to speak. I think the Recruiters wanted to see if I looked to them for answers. My parents could not hide their fidgeting, my mother dry-washing her hands over and over, my father bouncing one knee. After the first half hour, the Recruiters ordered them to leave. Then it was just the five of us sitting around the scuffed table in my family’s one-room hut, me on one side and them on the other, a single whale-oil lamp between us. The Recruiters had brought the lamp. No one in my village could afford whale oil.
At one point, my brother Ray’fin burst through the door proffering a frog and squealing with an exuberance only a three-year-old can muster. My mother bolted in a second later. She snatched up the boy and murmured apologies. The Recruiters took this in stride. They never looked upset or disapproving or pleased. They provided nothing to indicate what they thought of me.
“Why do you wish to be Kyo’Assyn?” Scribbling-woman asked.
“To escape life as a village farmer,” I answered honestly.
“And what will you forgo to achieve that end?” one of the twins droned. His sister leaned forward and followed with, “Would you leave behind all your possessions and passions to become a mere instrument?”
“I have nothing worth holding onto,” I said, and that was also true. I couldn’t stand this nameless village on its way to nowhere. I resented my unambitious parents, my simple neighbors, my life of dirt and toil. My siblings were the only ones I might miss, my little brother adorable in his innocence, my gentle sister sweet as summer lilacs. But like everyone in my community, they were stuck here, their future written. Ray’fin would take over my parent’s homestead. Sun’rie would marry some neighbor’s son and bear four to six children, who would then labor in the fields until old enough to bear children themselves and perpetuate the cycle. The people here tilled, they planted, they harvested; and then they did it again, twice a year, every year, until hardship and old age ground them into dust.
I’d recently begun to wonder if I would make it to adulthood before I killed myself.
The plain-faced Recruiter knitted his fingers. He said, “Do you know the purpose of the Kyo’Assyn?”
“The People of the Carapace are the Imperator’s armor of blades,” I said. It was the beginning of a maxim picked up by every child in every huddled conversation on every playground across the continent. “They are the shadows cast from the light of the Imperiate. They are the whispers that prevent screams, the knives that cut away rot, the shepherds that cull the herd. They are the seven that serve and the shields that are swords.”
All four Recruiters just stared at me. So, I added, “And they do this by killing people.”
Plain-faced man cocked his head to the side. “And who is it you think they kill?”
“Exactly who they’re told to,” I said.
Scribbling-lady paused her writing. Plain-faced man unknit his fingers, then gave her a single nod.
She made a final mark, closed her book, and all four Recruiters stood. I stood with them. She said, “Ty’rin Dovu, we hereby raise you to the People of the Carapace and apprentice you to the Mantis.”
“Wha—I am? I mean, you do?”
She pulled a fine dagger from her belt and placed it on the table, then pointed at Plain-faced man across from me. “Your first assignment is to terminate this man. Now.”
It was a test. I didn’t hesitate, nor did I immediately go for the dagger. Instead, I dropped my firecracker into the oil lamp, grabbed the dagger, and sprinted to the opposite end of the room.
The fiery explosion wasn’t large, but it was hot enough to sear a man’s face should he catch it wrong. The miniature bomb blew apart the lamp and set fire to the table. All four Recruiters jumped back, the twins cursing, Plain-faced man shielding himself with his cloak. At the opposite side of the house, I turned and flung the dagger at him with all my strength. They would not expect a village boy to know how to hurl a dagger; it is a difficult skill, especially with a weapon not balanced for throwing. Even so, it was a good toss; I’d been practicing on rats and ground-squirrels ever since I’d found my father’s skinning knife—anything to avoid farm chores.
Plain-faced man reacted faster than I’d ever seen a person move, slapping away the dagger with a curved short-sword seemingly pulled from thin air. A second blade whirled across the room and thumped into the log wall behind me, quivering beside my throat.
My parents burst into the hut, staring wild-eyed at the scene. My mother grabbed a blanket and beat at the flames on the table. My father prostrated himself before the Recruiters, begging forgiveness. All four ignored him.
“The Firefly would enjoy this one,” Plain-faced man said. “A pity she took an apprentice last month. Regardless, I did not expect that. I will take him and see how he does.”
Scribbling-woman sniffed at the smoke filling the room, then reopened her book and made a note.
The man returned his blade to a hidden sheath on his back, then crossed the room. He pointed at the identical blade stuck in the wall. “Take it. Once we reach the capitol, we will forge you a twin to match it.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Are you taking me to the Mantis?”
He pulled the cowl up on his cloak. “First lesson, Ty’rin: anonymity is a powerful weapon.”
3. INQUIRY
Jen killed her master?” I say, incredulous. “That’s impossible.”
“The Firefly was as mortal as anyone else,” the Mantis says.
“But Jen had to know there would be repercussions.”
“Yes,” the Mantis says. “Yet she killed her anyway. I have confirmed with several sources. Now Jen’lyn waits here, in plain sight.”
To say she waited in plain sight was a bit inaccurate; to passersby she appeared a bent and broken vagabond. To one of the Assyn, however, she sat woefully exposed. It didn’t make sense.
“So why?” I ask. “What is she doing?”
“That is what you will find out,” the Mantis says. “It is not without precedent for an apprentice to murder her master prior to retirement. Impatience often leads to recklessness. However, Jen’lyn’s subsequent behavior does not fit that narrative. I would know what motivates her recent actions.”
“And you want me to just go down and ask her?”
“She may open up to you. Intimacy also leads to recklessness.”
I feel my face reddening. “When has Jen ever been reckless?”
“Only once that I have witnessed,” he admits, “when she became involved with you.”
I wipe sweat from my brow to hide my discomfort. “All right, say she does explain herself, then what?”
“Then, Ty’rin, we do what we came here to do.”
This preamble is to sate my master’s curiosity. I know this. I don’t know why I asked.
The thought of killing Jen settles on me like a slow sickness. It leaves an ache, like the weariness that comes with too little sleep. I accept it—I’ve come too far to shy from my purpose—but this will be difficult, and not just because she is a trained killer.
“Find out what you can,” the Mantis says, “but do not try to re
lease her on your own.”
“Where will you be?” I ask.
“Watching.”
I sigh, my master forthcoming as ever.
I make my way down to the street. More and more people trickle into the square, colonists on their way to the docks and petitioners hoping for an audience with the Tyressry. I take my time crossing the expanse, boots crunching on black stones, casual, unhurried. Just another traveler from the mainland. Perhaps one of the People of the Hand in search of new merchandise for trade in the capitol, or a government messenger waiting for a reply to some missive. This is how I present myself, though I do not doubt Jen notices me as soon as my feet touch the cobblestones.
She remains sitting as I stroll near, her head bowed, bowl lifted in supplication. She smells of sweat and offal, but that is mostly her robe. I sit down beside her and lean back against the building.
“You split your lip,” she says.
“You smell like a privy.”
I can’t see her face, but I feel her smile underneath her hood.
“I’m glad you’re here, Ty.”
“I’m not! The islands always this humid? Place feels like a damn steam tent.”
“You know,” she says, “for someone born a farmer, I’m always amazed at how much you whine.”
I shrug. “Well, I wasn’t a very good farmer.”
I feel her smile again.
“I miss humor,” she says. “Before my recruitment, I used to share jokes with my ladies-in-waiting. We had code phrases so my mother and her sycophants wouldn’t know we were mocking them. It remains one of the few aspects of my childhood I don’t despise.”
It always strikes me how much Jen and I have in common, despite coming from opposite ends of the caste hierarchy.
“Are you comparing me to a lady-in-waiting, Jen?”
“Don’t be foolish. You bellyache far too much for a lady-in-waiting.”
My turn to smile. I hadn’t realized how much I missed her playful jabs. “So what are we doing here, Your Radiance?”
“You are here to kill me.”
I consider how best to respond. “No,” I say, “the Mantis is here to kill you. I’m just here to chat.”
She emits a soft sigh. “I hope that’s true, Ty. You are my only chance.”
Her only chance? What is that supposed to mean? She has no chance of surviving this day, no matter what has transpired between us. I am no lifeline. Despite my fondness for her, I won’t hesitate to plunge a blade through her eye should my master order it. She must realize that.
“Jen …” I begin.
She interrupts me. “Do you believe in redemption, Ty?”
I am good at dealing with the unexpected, but this segue takes me off guard. “Redemption from what?”
“From the sorrow and emptiness we leave in the world.”
“That is the most naive thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
“Is it? Tell me, how many people have you killed?”
Again, the question surprises me. “I have no idea.”
“Yes, you do. You know exactly how many.”
Fourteen people, plus one. The number comes unbidden. I keep it to myself.
Jen sets her bowl down, does not lift her head. “I have killed twenty-nine people. Eighteen men, eight women, and three children. The first twenty-four didn’t bother me. We Assyn are instruments, are we not? The knives that cut away rot, and all that.”
“So our creed states,” I say. “What happened with the last five people?”
Jen takes her time answering. “My supposed Trial came last year. The Trade Administration voted out Mother, and her former compatriots decided she knew too much to live. They thought matricide an appropriate test of my loyalty.” She makes a snorting sound beneath her hood. “None of them realized how much I despised Mother. Killing that abusive bitch was easy. I even made certain she saw my face, just before the firework under her carriage exploded. She was number twenty-four.” Jen’s voice is an octave lower than normal, almost a growl. I’ve no doubt she would go back and kill her mother again if she could.
“The next marks were my real Trial,” she continues, “though only I know it. I terminated a seamstress and her three children, children sired by a tax minister who decided he didn’t want evidence of his past infidelity. At my mistress’s instruction, I set fire to their shack and burned them alive.”
I am reminded of a time I tripped and fell against the iron cooking-stove built into the back of my parent’s hut. I was maybe four years old, and it remains one of my earliest memories. One I would forget if I could. I keep my face neutral, and say, “Sounds like you completed the assignment.”
“I did,” Jen says, “but I failed the Trial. Because those four, they bother me. They were not rot.”
“You have lost resolve,” I say. It’s a cold statement, but the work we perform requires detachment. No one appreciates that more than I.
“Maybe,” Jen says. “Or maybe I found something. What do the dark-haired peoples in the north call it? A soul, I think?” She laughs as if this is funny. “Did you ever think I would say such a thing?”
“No.”
“Me neither. But then, never before have I been unable to sleep for the screaming inside my head. I can hear each of them: the mother, her teenage daughter, her two young sons; each of their voices distinct, all begging and pleading and crying inside my skull.”
I know the voices. I’ve built walls to silence them.
“If that is how you feel,” I say, “then maybe this is for the best.” Jen’s walls have crumbled. It saddens me, but there is nothing I can do for her.
“It is,” Jen says. “I knew for certain when I terminated my twenty-ninth person—killing my own mistress does not haunt me.”
“So you want to die, is that it? Is that why you waited for us to come for you?”
Jen answers with a question of her own. “Did the Mantis tell you why the Firefly and I came to Xu?”
“Not in so many words, but if I had to guess, the Kyo’Vyar placed a mark on Tyressry Kaab.”
She nods. “That is what I thought, too. It wasn’t until we arrived that I learned the real reason.”
“So … the Tyressry wasn’t your target?”
“Oh, he was the target,” Jen says, “but the Vyar did not mark him.”
“I don’t follow, Jen.”
“Tyressry Kaab committed a grave transgression, and his fellow Kyo’Vyar want to send a message.” Jen looks up finally, and I’m shocked to see tears in her eyes. “They sent us to kill his infant son.”
4. TRAINING
Five years ago …
The dart lanced into my left buttock. I swore and ripped it free.
She wasn’t in the fountain. I’d thought for sure she lay in the fountain.
I raised my hand to acknowledge the hit and looked back down the busy street. My mark emerged from one of the barrels stacked against the cooper’s shop. I had checked behind the barrels as I stalked past but didn’t think to look inside them.
I sighed and leaned against the fountain lip, annoyed at my mistake and nauseated from the reek of the city. The smarting in my backside made me wince.
Jen’lyn tucked her blowgun up her sleeve as she approached, her eyebrows lifted in that smug manner of an opponent who’s beaten you and intends to passively rub your nose in it. “The fountain?” she said. “Really?”
“Thought you were hiding within the pool.” I realized how stupid it sounded as I said it.
She sat on the basin next to me, made a show of looking down at the water. “Not sure how I’d get in and out of there unnoticed.”
“I could do it,” I said. I’d no idea how.
“You upset? You get petulant when you’re upset.”
“You shot me in the ass.”
She patted my shoulder in mock empathy, then leaned in and whispered, “Maybe I can make it up to you tonight. If, that is, your master doesn’t pummel you worthless.”
As if on cue, the Mantis appeared among the street pedestrians. He wore the attire of a merchant of middling means, a once-valuable long-vest that was now thin and soiled, good boots with a hole in one toe, a cane to aid a fake limp. No one looked twice at him.
He leveled his unblinking stare at me. “You are dead, Ty’rin.”
“Yes,” I confirmed.
“Why?”
“She knows the city better than me.”
“Is that a reason or an excuse?” The Mantis wore an expression of cool disdain I’d come to know as dissatisfaction. In the four years I’d been with him, I’d never seen him angry. Only unimpressed. Such moments of disappointment were dangerous for me.
“I dismissed the barrels because I could not fit inside one,” I said. “But Jen is half a foot shorter and forty pounds lighter. I hunted her as if I hunted myself. I should have thought as my mark thinks.”
The Mantis accepted this. He would allow a mistake, but only once, and only if I reconciled it.
The rest of the day’s lessons involved walking the streets of the capitol, memorizing walkways and hidden alleys, identifying bottlenecks, learning approaches, and tailing random targets. Jen’s errors were fewer than mine, but I did not resent her. Quite the opposite: I’d come to enjoy her company—even when she killed me.
That night I climbed onto the roof of our inn to sit underneath the rising moons. The capitol was not as hot as my village out west, but it stank with a cloistered stuffiness. Pigs and rotting wood and heaped sewage and endless body-sweat piled atop one another in an effort to offend my nostrils, the effect of thousands of people all crammed into a city not three miles wide. The stench became slightly more tolerable up on the rooftops.
L. Ron Hubbard Presents Writers of the Future Volume 35 Page 27