Steven Brust - Hawk

Well, all right then. I did have some advantages over the hypothetical Orca thug: Loiosh, Rocza, knowledge of my target, and the fact that I was much, much better than any of them were.

I looked around, considering.

The thing about merchants-even those at the upper end of the class-is that they’re predictable. If they don’t live behind or above their shop-which most of them do-then they get done with work around six hours after noon, go home, and usually stay there. Sounds dull to me, but I guess they like it. And this was an area with a lot of merchants, which means by the time darkness began to fall, the street was nearly empty. Other than really, really crowded, empty is best for my business.

The night descended gradually. The weather was cold but muggy-a trick Adrilankha would pull every once in a while. I drew my cloak around me to warm up, then started sweating. I was beginning to develop a bad mood. I hoped killing Terion would help. Killing someone doesn’t usually put me in a good mood. The set-up and planning do though, so that’s something. As for the killing, well, it doesn’t usually seem to affect my mood at all. Maybe this time would be different. I hoped so.

“Boss, when have you been so worried about mood? Who are you turning into, and how do I stop it?”

“If I can pull this thing off, that should fix it.”

“Yeah, and if you can’t, it won’t matter.”

“I was about to say that.”

Adrilankha hissed, moaned, thudded, and murmured around me, and I waited.

You know, with all its ugliness and stench and irritations, I really love this city.

A wind came up and my hair got in my eyes; something else I’d forgotten. I tied it back. What else had I forgotten? Rocza settled back on my left shoulder.

This guy, Terion, had annoyed me for a long time. Also scared me, and hurt me. I wanted him gone. And now he’d tried to put a shine on Kragar. That I wanted him dead didn’t mean I was any more prepared to kill him; that I wasn’t really prepared to kill him didn’t mean that I didn’t want him dead. Like that.

Time dragged just like it does-did-for a more standard job, like the kind I used to do and get paid for, when I was living a life that, in retrospect, seems simpler, even though it didn’t seem simple at the time and there was probably not much difference. But waiting was part of the job; you even factored it in. As the waiting time expired, as you got close to the moment to move, you got a little more excited, and a little calmer at the same time-everything got sharper and cleaner, and when it came you were utterly and completely ready. Back then, I’d never work with a three-hour window; I’d find another time, another place, another way.

I wiped the sweat from my palms.

I considered a stiletto again, but then rejected it and drew my rapier. This was not going to be clean. And making sure he couldn’t be revivified might involve severing his spine; that wouldn’t be clean either.

I kept the rapier down by my side.

Terion showed up a few minutes before the eighth hour, as near as I can tell. He was flanked by a couple of toughs, who seemed to be doing their job.

“All right, go,” I said, and Loiosh and Rocza left my shoulders. I remember distinctly feeling the wind from their wings on my ears as they flew toward the target.

And now I’d learn if Terion had been set up, or I had.

Turned out he had, and all was well.

Is that too perfunctory? Do you want to know what went down? I don’t want to tell you. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t elegant, and it wasn’t clean. It wasn’t like all of those times when the set-up was prearranged and perfect, with nothing left to chance. It wasn’t like that at all.

I’ll tell you, if it helps you sleep nights, that as soon as Loiosh and Rocza appeared, one of the bodyguards screamed and ran and that the other stepped back out of the way, so Loiosh and Rocza were able to concentrate on Terion, whom I caught completely off-guard. He never had a chance. But it still wasn’t clean.

He recognized me, and when the killing blow hit, he looked surprised.

Here’s a thing, if you’re taking notes: One indicator of how well you’ve done your “work” is the amount of blood on you when it’s over. If you do it right-one thrust straight into the eye is my favorite-you’ll hardly end up with a drop on your hand, because avoiding it is part of the planning. That’s important, because in case you get stopped on your way back from committing an antisocial act, the lack of blood might be enough for the Phoenix Guard to overlook you.

But sloppy work is, well, sloppy.

And this was sloppy.

When it was over, I didn’t hang around. I cleaned the blood from my rapier on my own cloak, because why not at that point. I kept the weapon with me, too; he had a weapon out, and if this was investigated and my name came up, I’d be able to make a case for defending myself.

I hugged walls and I used alleys. I hardly passed anyone, and none of them looked at me. Loiosh was quiet. I reached the secret entrance to Kragar’s office. I went past my old lab, and up the stairs, and into the room where I was staying. I realized that I was shaking with exhaustion.

Deragar came in and looked me over. I leaned against the back wall.

He said, “Where do you get your clothes?”

I became aware that all I had with me were some extra-warm things that would make me miserable in Adrilankha, so I told him. He asked for my measurements and I told him what I remembered, and I gave him an imperial. He nodded, and headed out. I’d never cleaned the blood off my boots, which was just as well, as I’d just have to do it again anyway.

I slumped down onto the floor.

“You all right, Boss?”

“Not sure.”

“You should eat something.”

“My stomach wouldn’t hold it. In a bit.”

Terion was gone. Just like that. The guy who’d been tormenting me for so long was now a useless pile of meat and bone. I wasn’t sorry; I mean, of the things I was feeling, regret was so far away from any of them that you couldn’t find a rider to carry a message there. But it felt odd. It felt like it should somehow have been harder, or more significant. I tried to figure out why I felt that way, and it hit me that this had never happened before. That is, I’ve never gone after someone because I wanted him dead. I’d killed cold because I was paid to; I’d killed hot because I was furious; I’d killed desperate because I was attacked. But I’d never just gone after someone for personal reasons, set him up, killed him.

Laris, for all I’d hated him, had forced it on me. Mellar, who had maybe come closer than anyone else to finalizing me, had been “work.” And Loraan had first been an accidental casualty, then had come after me. Ishtvan forced it on me. Boralinoi was going after Cawti.

And so on.

It was strange.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, opened them, and noticed there was something neatly folded in the corner: the cloak of Jhereg gray Morrolan had given me. And sitting on top of it was a small box that held a ring and a hawk’s egg and an enchanted lockpick. Yeah, things were coming together.

“Okay, Boss. Now what?”

My heart gave a little thump as I realized I was actually starting to get close to what I needed.

“Now I wait for clean clothes, because standing around in this is making me crazy.”

“Actually-”

“Shut up, Loiosh.”

I went out and found a closet that, years before, had held what I needed next; I was pleased to find it still did, all together in the same metal box I had always kept it in. I brought the box back to what I was now thinking of as my room. I took out what I needed, and carefully went to cleaning the blood off my boots.