Way of Shadows nat-1

  Way of Shadows

  ( Night Angel Trilogy - 1 )

  Brent Weeks

  For Durzo Blint, assassination is an art - and he is the city's most accomplished artist.

  For Kylar Stern, just surviving is a struggle. As a guild rat, he's learned to judge people quickly - and to take risks. Risks like apprenticing himself to Durzo Blint.

  But to be accepted, he must turn his back on everything he has ever known.

  Weeks Brent

  Way of Shadows

  1

  Azoth squatted in the alley, cold mud squishing through his bare toes. He stared at the narrow space beneath the wall, trying to get his nerve up. The sun wouldn’t come up for hours, and the tavern was empty. Most taverns in the city had dirt floors, but this part of the Warrens had been built over marshland, and not even drunks wanted to drink standing ankle-deep in mud, so the tavern had been raised a few inches on stilts and floored with stout bamboo poles.

  Coins sometimes dropped through the gaps in the bamboo, and the crawlspace was too small for most people to go after them. The guild’s bigs were too big and the littles were too scared to squeeze into the suffocating darkness shared with spiders and cockroaches and rats and the wicked half-wild tomcat the owner kept. Worst was the pressure of the bamboo against your back, flattening you every time a patron walked overhead. It had been Azoth’s favorite spot for a year, but he wasn’t as small as he used to be. Last time, he got stuck and spent hours panicking until it rained and the ground softened beneath him enough that he could dig himself out.

  It was muddy now, and there would be no patrons, and Azoth had seen the tomcat leave. It should be fine. Besides, Rat was collecting guild dues tomorrow, and Azoth didn’t have four coppers. He didn’t even have one, so there wasn’t much choice. Rat wasn’t understanding, and he didn’t know his own strength. Littles had died from his beatings.

  Pushing aside mounds of mud, Azoth lay on his stomach. The dank earth soaked his thin, filthy tunic instantly. He’d have to work fast. He was skinny, and if he caught a chill, the odds of getting better weren’t good.

  Scooting through the darkness, he began searching for the telltale metallic gleam. A couple of lamps were still burning in the tavern, so light filtered through the gaps, illuminating the mud and standing water in strange rectangles. Heavy marsh mist climbed the shafts of light only to fall over and over again. Spider webs draped across Azoth’s face and broke, and he felt a tingle on the back of his neck.

  He froze. No, it was his imagination. He exhaled slowly. Something glimmered and he grabbed his first copper. He slithered to the unfinished pine beam he had gotten stuck under last time and shoveled mud away until water filled the depression. The gap was still so narrow that he had to turn his head sideways to squeeze underneath it. Holding his breath and pushing his face into the slimy water, he began the slow crawl.

  His head and shoulders made it through, but then a stub of a branch caught the back of his tunic, tearing the cloth and jabbing his back. He almost cried out and was instantly glad he hadn’t. Through a wide space between bamboo poles, Azoth saw a man seated at the bar, still drinking. In the Warrens, you had to judge people quickly. Even if you had quick hands like Azoth did, when you stole every day, you were bound to get caught eventually. All merchants hit the guild rats who stole from them. If they wanted to have any goods left to sell, they had to. The trick was picking the ones who’d smack you so you didn’t try their booth next time; there were others who’d beat you so badly you never had a next time. Azoth thought he saw something kind and sad and lonely in this lanky figure. He was perhaps thirty, with a scraggly blond beard and a huge sword on his hip.

  “How could you abandon me?” the man whispered so quietly Azoth could barely distinguish the words. He held a flagon in his left hand and cradled something Azoth couldn’t see in his right. “After all the years I’ve served you, how could you abandon me now? Is it because of Vonda?”

  There was an itch on Azoth’s calf. He ignored it. It was just his imagination again. He reached behind his back to free his tunic. He needed to find his coins and get out of here.

  Something heavy dropped onto the floor above Azoth and slammed his face into the water, driving the breath from his lungs. He gasped and nearly inhaled water.

  “Why Durzo Blint, you never fail to surprise,” the weight above Azoth said. Nothing was visible of the man through the gaps except a drawn dagger. He must have dropped from the rafters. “Hey, I’m all for calling a bluff, but you should have seen Vonda when she figured out you weren’t going to save her. Made me damn near bawl my eyes out.”

  The lanky man turned. His voice was slow, broken. “I killed six men tonight. Are you sure you want to make it seven?”

  Azoth slowly caught up with what they’d been saying. The lanky man was the wetboy Durzo Blint. A wetboy was like an assassin—in the way a tiger is like a kitten. Among wetboys, Durzo Blint was indisputably the best. Or, as the head of Azoth’s guild said, at least the disputes didn’t last long. And I thought Durzo Blint looked kind?

  The itch on Azoth’s calf itched again. It wasn’t his imagination. There was something crawling up the inside of his trousers. It felt big, but not as big as a cockroach. Azoth’s fear identified the weight: a white wolf spider. Its poison liquefied flesh in a slowly spreading circle. If it bit, even with a healer the best an adult could hope for was to lose a limb. A guild rat wouldn’t be so lucky.

  “Blint, you’ll be lucky if you don’t cut your head off after all you’ve been drinking. Just in the time I’ve been watching, you’ve had—”

  “Eight flagons. And I had four before that.”

  Azoth didn’t move. If he jerked his legs together to kill the spider, the water would splash and the men would know he was there. Even if Durzo Blint had looked kind, that was an awful big sword, and Azoth knew better than to trust grown-ups.

  “You’re bluffing,” the man said, but there was fear in his voice.

  “I don’t bluff,” Durzo Blint said. “Why don’t you invite your friends in?”

  The spider crawled up to Azoth’s inner thigh. Trembling, he pulled his tunic up in back and stretched the waist of his trousers, making a gap and praying the spider would crawl for it.

  Above him, the assassin reached two fingers up to his lips and whistled. Azoth didn’t see Durzo move, but the whistle ended in a gurgle and a moment later, the assassin’s body tumbled to the floor. There were yells as the front and back doors burst open. The boards flexed and jumped. Concentrating on not jostling the spider, Azoth didn’t move, even when another dropping body pushed his face briefly under water.

  The spider crawled across Azoth’s butt and then onto his thumb. Slowly, Azoth drew his hand around so he could see it. His fears were right. It was a white wolf spider, its legs as long as Azoth’s thumb. He flung it away convulsively and rubbed his fingers, making sure he hadn’t been bitten.

  He reached for the splintered branch holding his tunic and broke it off. The sound was magnified in the sudden silence above. Azoth couldn’t see anyone through the gaps. A few feet away, something was dripping from the boards into a puddle. It was too dark to see what it was, but it didn’t take much imagination to guess.

  The silence was eerie. If any of the men walked across the floor, groaning boards and flexing bamboo would have announced it. The entire fight had lasted maybe twenty seconds, and Azoth was sure no one had left the tavern. Had they all killed each other?

  He was chilled, and not just from the water. Death was no stranger in the Warrens, but Azoth had never seen so many people die so fast and so easily.

  Even taking extra care to look out for the spider, in a few minutes, Azoth had gathered six coppers. If he were br
aver, he would have looted the bodies in the tavern, but Azoth couldn’t believe Durzo Blint was dead. Maybe he was a demon, like the other guild rats said. Maybe he was standing outside, waiting to kill Azoth for spying on him.

  Chest tight with fear, Azoth turned and scooted toward his hole. Six coppers was good. Dues were only four, so he could buy bread tomorrow to share with Jarl and Doll Girl.

  He was a foot from the opening when something bright flashed in front of his nose. It was so close, it took a moment to come into focus. It was Durzo Blint’s huge sword, and it was stuck through the floor all the way into the mud, barring Azoth’s escape.

  Just above Azoth on the other side of the floor, Durzo Blint whispered, “Never speak of this. Understand? I’ve done worse than kill children.”

  The sword disappeared, and Azoth scrambled out into the night. He didn’t stop running for miles.

  2

  Four coppers! Four! This isn’t four.” Rat’s face was so rage-red his pimples only showed as a scattering of white dots. He grabbed Jarl’s threadbare tunic and lifted him off the ground. Azoth ducked his head. He couldn’t watch.

  “This is four!” Rat shouted, spit flying. As his hand slapped across Jarl’s face, Azoth realized it was a performance. Not the beating—Rat was definitely hitting Jarl—but he was hitting him with an open hand. It was louder that way. Rat wasn’t even paying attention to Jarl. He was watching the rest of the guild, enjoying their fear.

  “Who’s next?” Rat asked, dropping Jarl. Azoth stepped forward quickly so Rat wouldn’t kick his friend. At sixteen, Rat was already as big as a man and he had fat, which made him unique among the slaveborn.

  Azoth held out his four coppers.

  “Eight, puke,” Rat said, taking the four from Azoth’s hand.

  “Eight?”

  “You gotta pay for Doll Girl, too.”

  Azoth looked around for help. Some of the bigs shifted and looked at each other, but no one said a word. “She’s too young,” Azoth said. “Littles don’t pay dues till they’re eight.”

  Attention shifted to Doll Girl, who was sitting in the dirty alley. She noticed the looks and withered, shrinking into herself. Doll Girl was tiny, with huge eyes, but beneath the grime, her features were as fine and perfect as her namesake’s.

  “I say she’s eight unless she says different.” Rat leered. “Say it, Doll Girl, say it or I’ll beat up your boyfriend.” Doll Girl’s big eyes got bigger and Rat laughed. Azoth didn’t protest, didn’t point out that Doll Girl was mute. Rat knew. Everyone knew. But Rat was the Fist. He only answered to Ja’laliel, and Ja’laliel wasn’t here.

  Rat pulled Azoth close and lowered his voice. “Why don’t you join my pretty boys, Azo? You’ll never pay dues again.”

  Azoth tried to speak, but his throat was so tight that he only squeaked. Rat laughed again and everyone joined him, some enjoying Azoth’s humiliation, some just hoping to put Rat in a good mood before their turn came. Black hatred stabbed through him. Azoth hated Rat, hated the guild, hated himself.

  He cleared his throat to try again. Rat caught his eye and smirked. Rat was big, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew how far he was pushing Azoth. He knew Azoth would crumple, afraid, just like everyone else.

  Azoth spat a wad of phlegm onto Rat’s face. “Go bugger yourself, Ratty Fatty.”

  There was an eternity of stunned silence. A golden moment of victory. Azoth thought he could hear jaws dropping. Sanity was just starting to reassert itself when Rat’s fist caught him on the ear. Black spots blotted out the world as he hit the ground. He blinked up at Rat, whose black hair glowed like a halo as it blocked the noon sun, and knew he was going to die.

  “Rat! Rat, I need you.”

  Azoth rolled over and saw Ja’laliel emerging from the guild’s building. His pale skin was beaded with sweat though the day wasn’t hot. He coughed unhealthily. “Rat! I said now.”

  Rat wiped his face, and seeing his rage cool so suddenly was almost more frightening than seeing its sudden heat. His face cleared, and he smiled at Azoth. Just smiled.

  “Hey-ho, Jay-Oh,” Azoth said.

  “Hey-ho, Azo,” Jarl said, coming to join Azoth and Doll Girl. “You know, you’re about as smart as a box of hair. They’ll be calling him Ratty Fatty behind his back for years.”

  “He wanted me to be one of his girls,” Azoth said.

  They were propped against a wall several blocks away, sharing the stale loaf Azoth had bought. The smells of baking, though less intense this late in the day, covered at least some of the smells of sewage, rotting garbage piled on the banks of the river, and the rancid bite of the urine and brains of the tanneries.

  If Ceuran architecture was all bamboo and rice fiber walls and screens, Cenarian architecture was rougher, heavier, lacking the studied simplicity of Ceuran design. If Alitaeran architecture was all granite and pine, Cenarian architecture was less formidable, lacking the deliberate durability of Alitaeran structures. If Osseini architecture was airy spires and soaring arches, Cenarian architecture only soared above one story in a few nobles’ manses on the east side. Cenarian buildings were everything squat and dank and cheap and low, especially in the Warrens. A material that cost twice as much was never used, even if it lasted four times as long. Cenarians didn’t think long term because they didn’t live long term. Their buildings frequently incorporated bamboo and rice fiber, both of which grew nearby, and pine and granite, which were not too far away, but there was no Cenarian style. The country had been conquered too many times over the centuries to pride itself on anything but survival. In the Warrens, there wasn’t even pride.

  Azoth absently ripped the loaf into thirds, then scowled. He’d made two about the same size, and one third smaller. He put one of the bigger pieces on his leg and handed the other big piece to Doll Girl, who followed him like a shadow. He was about to hand the small piece to Jarl when he saw Doll Girl’s face pucker in disapproval.

  Azoth sighed and took the small piece for himself. Jarl didn’t even notice. “Better one of his girls than dead,” Jarl said.

  “I won’t end up like Bim.”

  “Azo, once Ja’laliel buys review, Rat’ll be our guild head. You’re eleven. Five years till you get review. You’ll never make it. Rat’ll make Bim look lucky compared to you.”

  “So what do I do, Jarl?” Ordinarily, this was Azoth’s favorite time. He was with the two people he didn’t have to be afraid of, and he was silencing the insistent voice of hunger. Now, the bread tasted like dust. He stared into the market, not even seeing the fishmonger beating her husband.

  Jarl smiled, his teeth brilliant against his black Ladeshian skin. “If I tell you a secret can you keep it quiet?”

  Azoth looked from side to side and leaned in. The loud crunching of bread and smacking of lips beside him stopped him. “Well, I can. I’m not so sure about Doll Girl.”

  They both turned toward where she sat, gnawing on the heel of the loaf. The combination of the crumbs stuck to her face and her scowl of outrage made them howl with laughter.

  Azoth rubbed her blonde head and, when she kept scowling, pulled her close. She fought against him, but when he let his arm drop, she didn’t scoot away. She looked at Jarl expectantly.

  Jarl lifted his tunic and removed a rag he’d had tied around his body as a sash. “I won’t be like the others, Azo. I’m not just going to let life happen to me. I’m gonna get out.” He opened the sash. Tucked within its folds were a dozen coppers, four silvers, and impossibly, two gold gunders.

  “Four years. Four years I’ve been saving.” He dropped two more coppers into the sash.

  “You mean all the times Rat’s slapped you around for not making your dues, you’ve had this?”

  Jarl smiled and, slowly, Azoth understood. The beatings were a small price to pay for hope. After a while, most guild rats withered and let life beat them. They became animals. Or they went crazy like Azoth had today and got themselves killed.

  Looking at that treasure, part
of Azoth wanted to strike Jarl, grab the sash, and run. With that money, he could get out, get clothes to replace his rags, and pay apprentice fees somewhere, anywhere. Maybe even with Durzo Blint, as he’d told Jarl and Doll Girl so many times.

  Then he saw Doll Girl. He knew how she’d look at him if he stole that sash full of life. “If any of us make it out of the Warrens, it’ll be you, Jarl. You deserve it. You have a plan?”

  “Always,” Jarl said. He looked up, his brown eyes bright. “I want you to take it, Azo. As soon as we find out where Durzo Blint lives, we’re going get you out. All right?”

  Azoth looked at the pile of coins. Four years. Dozens of beatings. Not only did he not know if he would give that much for Jarl, but he’d also thought of stealing it from him. He couldn’t hold back hot tears. He was so ashamed. He was so afraid. Afraid of Rat. Afraid of Durzo Blint. Always afraid. But if he got out, he could help Jarl. And Blint would teach him to kill.

  Azoth looked up at Jarl, not daring to look at Doll Girl for fear of what might be in her big brown eyes. “I’ll take it.”

  He knew who he’d kill first.

  3

  Durzo Blint pulled himself on top of the small estate’s wall and watched the guard pass. The perfect guard, Durzo thought: a bit slow, lacking imagination, and dutiful. He took his thirty-nine steps, stopped at the corner, planted his halberd, scratched his stomach under his gambeson, checked in all directions, then walked on.

  Thirty-five. Thirty-six. Durzo slipped out of the man’s shadow and eased himself over the edge of the walkway. He held on by his fingertips.

  Now. He dropped and hit the grass just as the guard thumped the butt of his halberd on the wood walkway. He doubted the guard would have heard him anyway, but paranoia begat perfection in the wetboy’s trade. The yard was small, and the house not much bigger. It was built on the Ceuran design, with translucent rice paper walls. Bald cypress and white cedar formed the doors and arches and cheaper local pine had been used for the frame and the floors. It was spartan like all Ceuran houses, and that fit General Agon’s military background and his ascetic personality. More than that, it fit his budget. Despite the general’s many successes, King Davin had not rewarded him well—which was part of why the wetboy had come.