hauled them back and inspected them with interest. They were copper. If he'd tried the magnet technique, which was the usual method, he wouldn't have found them.
He thought for a while. He had slip-on priests in his pouch. They were devilish things to prowl around a room in, but he shuffled into them anyway. (Priests were metal-reinforced overshoes. They saved your soles. This is an Assassin joke.) Mericet was a poisons man, after all. Bloat! If he tipped them with that Teppic would plate himself all over the walls. They wouldn't need to bury him, they'd just redecorate over the top6. The rules. Mericet would have to obey the rules. He couldn't simply kill him, with no warning. He'd have to let him, by carelessness or over-confidence, kill himself.
He dropped lightly on to the floor inside the room and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. A few exploratory swings with the rods detected no more wires; there was a faint crunch underfoot as a priest crushed a caltrap.
'In your own time, Mr Teppic.'
Mericet was standing in a corner. Teppic heard the faint scratching of his pencil as he made a note. He tried to put the man out of his mind. He tried to think.
There was a figure lying on a bed. It was entirely covered by a blanket.
This was the last bit. This was the room where everything was decided. This was the bit the successful students never told you about. The unsuccessful ones weren't around to ask.
Teppic's mind filled up with options. At a time like this, he thought, some divine guidance would be necessary. Where are you, dad?'
He envied his fellow students who believed in gods that were intangible and lived a long way away on top of some mountain. A fellow could really believe in gods like that. But it was extremely hard to believe in a god when you saw him at breakfast every day.
He unslung his crossbow and screwed its greased sections together. It wasn't a proper weapon, but he'd run out of knives and his lips were too dry for the blowpipe.
There was a clicking from the corner. Mericet was idly tapping his teeth with his pencil.
It could be a dummy under there. How would he know? No, it had to be a real person. You heard tales. Perhaps he could try the rods— He shook his head, raised the crossbow, and took careful aim.
'Whenever you like Mr Teppic.'
This was it.
This was where they found out if you could kill.
This was what he had been trying to put out of his mind.
He knew he couldn't.
Octeday afternoons was Political Expediency with Lady T'malia, one of the few women to achieve high office in the Guild. In the lands around the Circle Sea it was generally agreed that one way to achieve a long life was not to have a meal with her Ladyship. The jewellery of one hand alone carried enough poison to inhume a small town. She was stunningly beautiful, but with the kind of calculated beauty that is achieved by a team of skilled artists, manicurists, plasterers, corsetiers and dressmakers and three hours' solid work every morning. When she walked there was a faint squeak of whalebone under incredible stress.
The boys were learning. As she talked they didn't watch her figure. They watched her fingers.
'And thus,' she said, 'let us consider the position before the founding of the Guild. In this city, and indeed in many places elsewhere, civilisation is nurtured and progresses by the dynamic interplay of interests among many large and powerful advantage cartels.
'In the days before the founding of the Guild the seeking of advancement among these consortia invariably resulted in regrettable disagreements which were terminated with extreme prejudice. These were extremely deleterious to the common interest of the city. Please understand that where disharmony rules, commerce flags.
'And yet, and yet.' She clasped her hands to her bosom. There was a creak like a galleon beating against a gale.
'Clearly there was a need for an extreme yet responsible means of settling irreconcilable differences,' she went on, 'and thus was laid the groundwork for the Guild. What bliss — ' the sudden peak in her voice guiltily jerked several dozen young men out of their private reveries — 'it must have been to have been present in those early days, when men of stout moral purpose set out to forge the ultimate political tool short of warfare. How fortunate you are now, in training for a guild which demands so much in terms of manners, deportment, bearing and esoteric skills, and yet offers a power once the preserve only of the gods. Truly, the world is the mollusc of your choice . . .
Chidder translated much of this behind the stables during the dinner break.
'I know what Terminate with Extreme Prejudice means,' said Cheesewright loftily. 'It means to inhume with an axe.
'It bloody well doesn't,' said Chidder.
'How do you know, then?'
'My family have been in commerce for years,' said Chidder.
'Huh,' said Cheesewright. 'Commerce.'
Chidder never went into details about what kind of commerce it was. It had something to do with moving items around and supplying needs, but exactly what items and which needs was never made clear.
After hitting Cheesewright he explained carefully that Terminate with Extreme Prejudice did not simply require that the victim was inhumed, preferably in an extremely thorough way, but that his associates and employees were also intimately involved, along with the business premises, the building, and a large part of the surrounding neighbourhood, so that everyone involved would know that the man had been unwise enough to make the kind of enemies who could get very angry and indiscriminate.
'Gosh,' said Arthur.
'Oh, that's nothing,' said Chidder, 'one Hogswatchnight my grandad and his accounts department went and had a high-level business conference with the Hubside people and fifteen bodies were never found. Very bad, that sort of thing. Upsets the business community.'
'All the business community, or just that part of it floating face down in the river?' said Teppic.
'That's the point. Better it should be like this,' said Chidder, shaking his head. 'You know. Clean. That's why my father said I should join the Guild. I mean, you've got to get on with the business these days, you can't spend your whole time on public relations.'
The end of the crossbow trembled.
He liked everything else about the school, the climbing, the music studies, the broad education. It was the fact that you ended up killing people that had been preying on his mind. He'd never killed anyone.
That's the whole point, he told himself. This is where everyone finds out if you can, including you.
If I get it wrong now, I'm dead.
In his corner, Mericet began to hum a discouraging little tune.
There was a price the Guild paid for its licence. It saw to it that there were no careless, half-hearted or, in a manner of speaking, murderously inefficient assassins. You never met anyone who'd failed the test.
People did fail. You just never met them. Maybe there was one under there, maybe it was Chidder, even, or Snoxall or any one of the lads. They were all doing the run this evening. Maybe if he failed he'd be bundled under there.
Teppic tried to sight on the recumbent figure.
'Ahem,' coughed the examiner.
His throat was dry. Panic rose like a drunkard's supper.
His teeth wanted to chatter. His spine was freezing, his clothes a collection of damp rags. The world slowed down. No. He wasn't going to. The sudden decision hit him like a brick in a dark alley, and was nearly as surprising. It wasn't that he hated the Guild, or even particularly disliked Mericet, but this wasn't the way to test anyone. It was just wrong.
He decided to fail. Exactly what could the old man do about it, here?
And he'd fail with flair.
He turned to face Mericet, looked peacefully into the examiner's eyes, extended his crossbow hand in some vague direction to his right, and pulled the trigger.
