There was a metallic twang.
There was a click as the bolt ricocheted off a nail in the window sill. Mericet ducked as it whirred over his head. It hit a torch bracket on the wall, and went past Teppic's white face purring like a maddened cat.
There was a thud as it hit the blanket, and then silence.
'Thank you, Mr Teppic. If you could bear with me just one moment.'
The old assassin pored over his clipboard, his lips moving. He took the pencil, which dangled from it by a bit of frayed string, and made a few marks on a piece of pink paper.
'I will not ask you to take it from my hands,' he said, 'what with one thing and another. I shall leave it on the table by the door.'
It wasn't a particularly pleasant smile: it was thin and dried-up, a smile with all the warmth long ago boiled out of it; people normally smiled like that when they had been dead for about two years under the broiling desert sun. But at least you felt he was making the effort.
Teppic hadn't moved. 'I've passed?' he said.
'That would appear to be the case.'
'But-'
'I am sure you know that we are not allowed to discuss the test with pupils. However, I can tell you that I personally do not approve of these modern flashy techniques. Good morning to you.' And Mericet stalked out.
Teppic tottered over to the dusty table by the door and looked down, horrified, at the paper. Sheer habit made him extract a pair of tweezers from his pouch in order to pick it up.
It was genuine enough. There was the seal of the Guild on it, and the crabbed squiggle that was undoubtedly Mericet's signature; he'd seen it often enough, generally at the bottom of test papers alongside comments like 3/10. See me.
He padded over to the figure on the bed and pulled back the blanket.
It was nearly one in the morning. Ankh-Morpork was just beginning to make a night of it.
It had been dark up above the rooftops, in the aerial world of thieves and assassins. But down below the life of the city flowed through the streets like a tide.
Teppic walked through the throng in a daze. Anyone else who tried that in the city was asking for a guided tour of the bottom of the river, but he was wearing assassin's black and the crowd just automatically opened in front of him and closed behind. Even the pickpockets kept away. You never knew what you might find. He wandered aimlessly through the gates of the Guild House and sat down on a black marble seat, with his chin on his knuckles.
The fact was that his life had come to an end. He hadn't thought about what was going to happen next. He hadn't dared to think that there was going to be a next.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. As he turned, Chidder sat down beside him and wordlessly produced a slip of pink paper.
'Snap,' he said.
'You passed too?' said Teppic.
Chidder grinned. 'No problem,' he said. 'It was Nivor. No problem. He gave me a bit of trouble on the Emergency Drop, though. How about you?'
'Hmm? Oh. No.' Teppic tried to get a grip on himself. 'No trouble,' he said.
'Heard from any of the others?'
'No.'
Chidder leaned back. 'Cheesewright will make it,' he said loftily, 'and young Arthur. I don't think some of the others will. We could give them twenty minutes, what do you say?'
Teppic turned an agonised face towards him.
'Chiddy, I— 'What?'
'When it came to it, I— «What about it?'
Teppic looked at the cobbles. 'Nothing,' he said.
'You're lucky — you just had a good airy run over the rooftops. I had the sewers and then up the garderobe in the Haberdashers' Tower. I had to go in and change when I got here.'
'You had a dummy, did you?' said Teppic.
'Good grief, didn't you?'
'But they let us think it was going to be real!' Teppic wailed.
'It felt real, didn't it?'
'Yes!'
'Well, then. And you passed. So no problem.'
'But didn't you wonder who might be under the blanket, who it was, and why— 'I was worried that I might not do it properly,' Chidder admitted. 'But then I thought, well, it's not up to me.'
'But I— ' Teppic stopped. What could he do? Go and explain? Somehow that didn't seem a terribly good idea.
His friend slapped him on the back.
'Don't worry about it!' he said. 'We've done it!'
And Chidder held up his thumb pressed against the first two fingers of his right hand, in the ancient salute of the assassins.
A thumb pressed against two fingers, and the lean figure of Dr Cruces, head tutor, looming over the startled boys. 'We do not murder,' he said. It was a soft voice; the doctor never raised his voice, but he had a way of giving it the pitch and spin that could make it be heard through a hurricane. 'We do not execute. We do not massacre. We never, you may be very certain, we never torture. We have no truck with crimes of passion or hatred or pointless gain. We do not do it for a delight in inhumation, or to feed some secret inner need, or for petty advantage or for some cause or belief; I tell you, gentlemen, that all these reasons are in the highest degree suspect. Look into the face of a man who will kill you for a belief and your nostrils will snuff up the scent of abomination. Hear a speech declaring a holy war and, I assure you, your ears should catch the click of evil's scales and the dragging of its monstrous tail over the purity of the language.
'No, we do it for the money.
'And, because we above all must know the value of a human life, we do it for the a great deal of money.
'There can be few cleaner motives, so shorn of all pretence.
'Nil mortifi, sine lucre. Remember. No killing without payment.'
He paused for a moment.
'And always give a reciept,' he added.
'So it's all okay,' said Chidder. Teppic nodded gloomily. That was what was so likeable about Chidder. He had this enviable ability to avoid thinking seriously about anything he did.
A figure approached cautiously through the open gates7. The light from the torch in the porters' lodge glinted off blond curly hair.
'You two made it, then,' said Arthur, nonchalantly flourishing the slip.
Arthur had changed quite a lot in seven years. The continuing failure of the Great Orm to wreak organic revenge for lack of piety had cured him of his tendency to run everywhere with his coat over his head. His small size gave him a natural advantage in those areas of the craft involving narrow spaces. His innate aptitude for channelled violence had been revealed on the day when Fliemoe and some cronies had decided it would be fun to toss the new boys in a blanket, and picked Arthur first; ten seconds later it had taken the combined efforts of every boy in the dormitory to hold Arthur back and prise the remains of the chair from his fingers. It had transpired that he was the son of the late Johan Ludorum, one of the greatest assasins in the history of the Guild. Sons of dead assasins always got a free scholarship. Yes, it could be a caring profession at times.
There hadn't been any doubt about Arthur passing. He'd been given extra tuition and was allowed to use really complicated poisons. He was probably going to stay on for post-graduate work.
They waited until the gongs of the city struck two. Clock work was not a precise technology in Ankh- Morpork, and many of the city's variuos communities had their own ideas of what constituted an hour in any case, so the chimes went on bouncing around the rooftops for five minutes.
When it was obvious that the city's consensus was in favour of it being well past two the three of them
