The blind assassin hauls the dead sentry out from under the bed and arranges her on the coverlet, with her scarf concealing the slash in her throat. She’s not cold yet, and has stopped dripping. Too bad if the fellow has a bright candle; otherwise, in the night all cats are grey. Temple maidens are trained to manifest inertia. It might take the man—hampered as he is by his ponderous god costume, which traditionally includes a helmet and visor—some time to discover he’s fucking the wrong woman, and a dead one at that.
The blind assassin pulls the brocade bedcurtains almost shut. Then he joins the girl, squeezing the two of them as flat as possible against the wall.
The heavy door groans open. The girl watches a glow advancing across the floor. The Lord of the Underworld can’t see very well, evidently; he bumps into something, curses. He’s fumbling now with the hangings of the bed. Where are you, my pretty one? he’s saying. It won’t surprise him when she doesn’t answer, seeing that she is so conveniently mute.
The blind assassin begins to ease himself out from behind the door, and the girl with him. How do I get this damn thing off? the Lord of the Underworld is muttering to himself. The two of them creep around the door, then out into the hall, hand in hand, like children avoiding the grownups.
Behind them there’s a shout, of rage or horror. One hand on the wall, the blind assassin begins to run. He pulls the torches from their sconces as he goes, hurls them behind him, hoping they will go out.
He knows the Temple inside out, by touch and smell; it’s his business to know such things. He knows the city in the same way, he can run it like a rat in a maze—he knows its doorways, its tunnels, its bolt-holes and cul-de-sacs, its lintels, its ditches and gutters—even its passwords, most of the time. He knows which walls he can scale, where all the toeholds are. Now he pushes on a marble panel—it has a bas-relief of the Broken God on it, patron of fugitives—and they’re in darkness. He knows this by the way the girl stumbles, and it occurs to him for the first time that by taking her with him he’ll be slowed down. He’ll be hampered by her ability to see.
On the other side of the wall, feet hammer past. He whispers, Take hold of my robe, adding, unnecessarily, Don’t say a word. They’re in the network of hidden tunnels that allows the High Priestess and her cohorts to learn so many valuable secrets from those who come to the Temple to meet or confess to the Goddess or pray, but they have to get out of it as quickly as possible. It is, after all, the first place the High Priestess will think to look. Nor can he take them out via the loosened stone in the outer wall by which he originally entered. The false Lord of the Underworld may know about that, having arranged for the killing and specified the time and place, and must by now have guessed the blind assassin’s treachery.
Muffled by thick rock, a bronze gong sounds. He can hear it through his feet.
He leads the girl from wall to wall, and then down an abrupt, cramped staircase. She’s whimpering with fear: cutting out her tongue hasn’t stopped her capacity for tears. Pity, he thinks. He feels for the disused culvert he knows is there, lifts her up to it, offering his hands for a stirrup, then swings himself up beside her. Now they must worm their way along. The smell is not pleasant, but it’s an old smell. Clotted human effluvium, gone to dust.
Now there’s fresh air. He sniffs it, testing for the smoke of torches.
Are there stars? he asks her. She nods. No clouds then. Unfortunate. A couple of the five moons must be shining—he knows that from the time of month—and three more will shortly follow. The two of them will be clearly visible for the rest of the night, and in daylight they’ll be incandescent.
The Temple won’t want the story of their escape to become general knowledge—it would lead to loss of face, and riots might ensue. Some other girl will be tagged for the sacrifice: what with the veils, who’s to know? But many will be hunting for them, on the hush but relentlessly.
He can put them into a hiding hole, but sooner or later they’d have to come out for food and water. Alone, he might get by, but not the two of them.
He could always ditch her. Or stab her, dump her in a well.
No, he can’t.
There’s always the assassins’ den. That’s where they all go when off-duty, to exchange gossip and share loot and boast about their exploits. It’s hidden audaciously right under the judgment room of the main palace, a deep cave lined with carpets—carpets the assassins were forced to make as children, and have stolen since. They know them by touch, and often sit on them, smoking the dream-inducing fring weed and running their fingers over the patterns, over the luxurious colours, remembering what these colours looked like when they could see.
But only the blind assassins are allowed into this cave. They form a closed society, into which strangers are brought only as plunder. Also, he’s betrayed his calling by saving alive someone he’s been paid to murder. They’re professionals, the assassins; they pride themselves on completing their contracts, they don’t stand for violations of their own code of conduct. They’d kill him without mercy, and her too after a while.
One of his fellows may well be hired to track them. Set a thief to catch a thief. Then, sooner or later, they’ll be doomed. Her fragrance alone will give them away—they’ve perfumed her up to the gills.
He’ll have to take her out of Sakiel-Norn—out of the city, out of familiar territory. It’s a danger, but not as great a one as remaining. Perhaps he can get them down to the harbour, then aboard a ship. But how to sneak past the gates? All eight of them are locked and guarded, as is the nightly custom. Alone, he could scale the walls—his fingers and toes can grip like a gecko’s—but with her it would be a catastrophe.
There’s another way. Listening at every step, he leads her downhill, towards the side of the city nearest the sea. The waters of all the springs and fountains of Sakiel-Norn are collected into one canal, and this canal takes the water out beneath the city wall, through an arched tunnel. The water is higher than a man’s head and the current is swift, so no one ever tries to get into the city that way. But out?
Running water will deaden the scent.
He himself can swim. It’s one of the skills the assassins take care to learn. He assumes, correctly, that the girl can’t. He tells her to remove all of her clothes and make them into a bundle. Then he sheds the Temple robe and ties his own clothes into the bundle with hers. He knots the cloth around his shoulders, then around her wrists, tells her that if the knots come undone she must not let go of him, no matter what. When they come to the archway, she must hold her breath.
The nyerk birds are stirring; he can hear their first croaking; soon it will be light. Three streets away, someone is coming, steadily, deliberately, as if searching. He half leads, half pushes the girl into the cold water. She gasps, but does as she is told. They float along; he feels for the main current, listens for the rush and gurgle where the water enters the archway. Too early and they’ll run out of breath, too late and he’ll strike his head against the stone. Then he plunges.
Water is nebulous, it has no shape, you can pass your hand right through it; yet it can kill you. The force of such a thing is its momentum, its trajectory. What it collides with, and how fast. The same might be said about—but never mind that.
There’s a long agonizing passage. He thinks his lungs will burst, his arms give out. He feels her dragging behind him, wonders if she’s drowned. At least the current is with them. He scrapes against the tunnel wall; something tears. Cloth, or flesh?
On the other side of the archway they surface; she’s coughing, he’s laughing softly. He holds her head above the water, lying on his back; in this fashion they float down the canal for some distance. When he judges it’s far enough and safe enough, he lands them, hauling her up the sloping stone embankment. He feels for the shadow of a tree. He’s exhausted, but also elated, filled with a strange aching happiness. He has saved her. He has extended mercy, for the first time in his life. Who knows what may come of such a departure from his chosen path?