Chapter 2

“Have you ever killed a man, Tug?” inquired Rice Straw.

The question was not entirely irrelevant, as Tug had him firmly gripped in an armlock and was holding a knife at his throat. Just because they were in a training session in the seniors’ gym did not mean that the blade was not razor sharp.

Tug said, “Yes. Do you want to be the next?”

“No. Please.”

Tug released him and returned the knife. “Then tell me what you did wrong this time.”

Two days earlier, Rice Straw had been promoted from postulant to novice. Having been taught everything he could ever need to know about the Gray Helpers’ official business of cleaning up and cremating corpses, he had now embarked on learning about their private sideline, part of which was creating them. So far, his efforts to make a mock victim out of Tug had all ended in mock disasters.

Tug himself was still only a novice, although overdue for initiation to full helper status. His training had indeed required him to advance a man, but it had been on Brother Providence’s contract; Tug had inserted the knife as directed, but the outing had counted on Providence’s score. Tug’s still officially stood at zero.

The sun was setting, and even at noon, the seniors’ gym was never bright, for the exercises performed there belonged to darkness and shadow. Tug was aware that a third person had entered, but Rice Straw was not, and he jumped like a flea when a raspy voice spoke his name.

“Rice Straw!”

The boy shot across the room and flopped down on his knees before the newcomer. Master of Archives was a plump, soft man with badly rotted teeth and a face scarred by smallpox. He sprayed when he spoke, and his breath was recognizable at five paces.

“We have a logjam of discards developing in the washing room. Go and help clean it up.”

Rice Straw snatched his robe off its peg by the door and vanished without even bothering to put it on. Tug had by then arrived in front of Archives. He offered a three-quarter bow.

“Master?”

“Good news. As the venerable Abbot has told you several times, we have been delaying your initiation until a worthy client appears, and it seems very likely that one will come calling on us this evening. If not tonight, then tomorrow. If he waits longer than that, it will be too late, and he will not be worth saving.”

Excellent news! Tug managed to hold his heartbeat at its normal level, although that required as much effort as it had when he performed that outing for Brother Providence. He tried not to lean backward as Archives continued his fetid narration.

“You will recall that you conducted funeral rites for a merchant, Jade Harmony 6, last year.”

“Certainly, Master.” It had involved the Ritual of Supreme Desolation—not one of the very highest, but lavish enough, and for a mere postulant to be put in charge had been a great compliment. That scale of funeral implied considerable wealth, if not quite first rank in a city as rich as Wedlock. The Emperor’s death tax would have pushed the deceased’s son even lower in the standings.

“Then go and watch at the door this evening. You will recognize Jade Harmony 7 if he comes?”

“Certainly, Master,” Tug said again.

“And you are confident that he will not recognize you?”

Tug let a thin sliver of indignation show in his voice. “Of course!” The director of lamentation at a Ritual of Supreme Desolation must be a very senior Helper, which is how the mourners would have seen Tug.

“Then go and prepare.”

Tug strode back to his cell and attended to his toilet. He wrapped himself in a fresh gray robe of flimsy summer cotton, leaving his arms and left shoulder bare. He sat cross-legged before the mirror and contemplated his appearance until he was satisfied that he seemed appropriately juvenile and innocent; he must not appear to his prospective employer as in any way threatening, despite the Gray Helpers’ sinister reputation. He then padded to the great door, where old Brother Moon had the watch that evening. He glanced in surprise at Tug and then smiled and nodded, guessing why he had been sent.

It had been Moon who had admitted Tug nine years ago, so his presence tonight felt as if it should be a favorable sign. Truly, this might be his naming day at last!

By its very existence, the House of Joyful Departure condemned its environs to becoming an area of penury and ill omen. No wealthy merchant would be seen dead there unless some very close relative was, in fact, dead there. Jade Harmony 7 would certainly not come in daylight, for that would add the danger of finding his way blocked by a funeral procession, a most dire augury.

Night had fallen, but the air felt like hot blankets, and was equally hard to breathe. What excuse, Tug wondered, could a man such as Jade Harmony invent for venturing into these insalubrious surroundings at all? To order a one-year memorial service for his father? He could arrange that by sending a runner from his home, although to attend to the matter in person might be seen as a meritorious display of respect for ancestors.

Aha! Tug heard a distant clang of a gong signaling to the unwashed and unworthy herd to clear the way. It grew rapidly louder, until its source ran into the tree-shrouded courtyard in the shape of a lithe and very sweaty youth. He was followed by a grandiose palanquin borne on the muscled shoulders of four well-matched hulking young barbarians from the Outlands, no doubt prisoners taken in some borderland disciplinary action. Behind them came no less than eight guards in bright plumes and lacquered armor, equipped with muskets, pistols, and swords. They ought to deter any evil-intentioned rabble away from serious violence, but might well invite well-aimed airborne handfuls of dung.

Brother Archives had prophesied that Jade Harmony 7 would come calling this evening, so the occupant of that palanquin was undoubtedly Jade Harmony 7.

The doorway to the Gray Sisters’ quarters being closed, the gong beater knew to trot around the courtyard and halt before the steps where Brother Moon kept watch, and where two postulants were already unrolling a red carpet. The Gray Helpers’ efficiency and propriety were legendary. The bearers set down their burden with obvious relief. By then, Tug had already gone, for he knew exactly what was about to happen.

Jade Harmony would be conducted by two novices bearing lanterns along passages of stark and somber stone—a curiously long way, much longer than the path that Tug used to reach the same destination. By the time the merchant arrived at a secluded cloister, smelling of blossoms and incense, and made private by the tinkling of some nearby stream and a choir rehearsing nearby, the angular figure of Gray Abbot himself would be there to welcome him. Gray Abbot was very old, his face long gone past wrinkles to the leathery texture of the truly ancient, lacking even eyelashes or eyebrows, although he did seem to have retained most of his teeth and his gaze was shrewd. Tall, thin, leaning on a staff, he stood like some ancestral apparition in the weak gleam of a pink and green lantern. At his feet, two cushions and a tray of refreshments were already set out for a conference, another display of the legendary efficiency. Tug stood unseen in the shadows, waiting for his cue.

Jade Harmony had changed since his father’s advancement to the Fifth World—he had gone from prosperously plump to overtly obese. Perhaps he was getting more to eat with one less mouth to feed? His embroidered silks must cost as much as his train of eight guards and four bearers. Just from memories of that funeral he had arranged, Tug doubted very much that the man could afford such display.

After a brief argument over precedence, the two men settled on their cushions. As decorum required, they began by exchanging pleasantries while sipping warm wine, but suddenly the Abbot said, “If Your Eminence has come upon some private matter, then our conference at this time should be brief.”

Such directness verged upon the indecent, but the merchant clearly saw the wisdom of it in this case. He drew a deep breath. “I do have certain troubles, Reverend One. Your counsel would be of inestimable value to me.”

Birdlike, the ancient head nodded. “I can offer experience and wisdom, yes, but for action we must rely on the young.”

Without turning his head, he beckoned to Tug, waiting behind him. Tug padded into the light, silent on bare feet. He sank to his knees and touched his shaven head to the paving, directing his reverence midway between his superior and the visitor.

“With respect, Reverend One,” Jade Harmony protested, “discretion—”

The ancient raised a skeletal hand. “I assure you that, despite his admitted youth, I have enormous confidence in this man, one of our finest initiates in several years. If you need the sort of assistance I think you need, Eminence, you will find no better aide than he. Regard our guest, Brother.”

Tug sat back on his heels and fixed dark eyes on the merchant, still portraying a childlike innocence belying the gruesome tales whispered about the Brothers’ shadier activities. Surely no one could suspect him of anything!

“I trust your judgment implicitly, Holy One,” Jade Harmony muttered.

“Then,” said the Abbot, “let us quickly summarize your problems for the boy’s information. Your daughter’s marriage brought her husband a dowry that was the wonder of the bazaars, but tragically, soon after that happy day, your honored father unexpectedly released his spark to ascend to the Fifth World, glorious be his memory among us. By now, the governor’s clerks will have collected the Emperor’s death tax and some generous share for themselves. Doubtless many of your father’s contracts included penalty clauses exercisable upon his demise; those may have proved expensive for you. In short, and I trust Your Eminence will understand that only the need for a speedy resolution compels my lapse into crudity, you probably find yourself, through no fault of your own, in a financially vulnerable state. And we all know that every harbor swarms with rats.”

Appalled, Jade Harmony let out a long breath and then shrugged dismissively.

“Who in particular threatens?” asked the Abbot softly.

“Lemon Grass 3,” Jade Harmony muttered. Now there was no doubt where the discussion was leading.

The old man smiled. “I expect there are others, but he is your most immediate oppressor?”

Jade Harmony nodded, now looking so miserable that Tug had trouble withholding a smile.

The Abbot looked to him. “If so directed, you could assist the noble merchant in this matter, Brother?”

“Yes, Father.” Tug kept his voice low but confident.

“Then, Eminence, I think you may put your mind at ease. We will appoint this fine young monk to assist you. First you must name him.”

“Name him?” Jade Harmony repeated, bewildered at the way the discussion had taken off like a spooked horse.

“Certainly. Give him a name that you will remember, one that will not clash with any names in your household or business dealings to create misunderstandings. A name that resonates with good fortune for you alone and will not draw others’ attention! Think back to some of your travels or triumphs, perhaps?”

Jade Harmony held Tug’s steady gaze for a moment. Contemptuously, he said, “Silky.”

Tug-who-was-now-Silky genuflected to him. “My ears are honored to hear this name you grant me, Eminence. I will serve your needs in all things and ahead of all other loyalties.”

The old man clicked teeth in satisfaction. “An excellent name! Congratulations, Brother Silky.”

“He reminds me of my first concubine,” Jade Harmony said. “The one my parents gave me on my fifteenth birthday. He has the same cow eyes.”

“Quite,” said the Abbot. “Serious matters are best dealt with expeditiously. I will have a contract drawn up, Eminence, and Brother Silky will bring it to you tomorrow if that will suit. Our terms are standard, but there are always details to discuss.”

“And things are always clearer in daylight. However, Your Reverence …”

Tug-Silky had a strong suspicion that Jade Harmony 7’s conscience was now demanding to know what fit of insanity had brought him to such an abomination as murder for hire. Whatever he had been about to say, the Abbot forestalled him.

“He will not be wearing his present habit. What guise will you sport, Brother Silky?”

Silky flashed a boyish, extremely juvenile smile. “Do you ever sponsor sand warriors, Eminence?”

Jade Harmony shuddered. “Of course not.” Barbaric!

“Sponsoring sand warriors can be an extremely profitable public service. I will bring you a business proposal on the subject tomorrow.”

“I look forward to it,” Jade Harmony croaked. “One hour past noon.”

His house would be quiet then. Even if the crazy impulse that had brought him here was already fading, he could go home and sleep on it and decide tomorrow. He moved to rise. Instantly, Silky was on his feet, offering assistance. He placed his hands under his prospective employer’s elbows and raised him. He caught a twinkle of amusement from the Abbot. Jade Harmony 7’s impressive girth advertised his prosperity for all the world to see, but he had failed to notice how little effort the newly named Silky seemed to need to lift him with those reed-thin arms.

He who had been Tug and was now Silky ushered the fat man out to the courtyard where his guards and palanquin waited. Kneeling with head bowed, he watched unobtrusively as the wretched Outlanders hoisted their load of lard shoulder-high for another journey. He touched his forehead to the ground in obeisance as the parade moved away. Then he went back inside, heading into the true monastery, not the part that visitors saw.

He walked slowly, practicing calm. He had been named at last, so he was now a full brother in the order. Very soon, he would make his first credited score, and he was annoyed that the prospect had raised his pulse above its normal rate, although that was only half of a layman’s. This time, he might still have to tolerate a supervisor, but the score would go on his tally, and it would be a very easy one if—as seemed most likely—the fat man himself was to be the subject.

Silky! A wonderful name from a lackluster client. The fat man was probably already regretting his impulsive leap out of mediocrity, but Silky’s first contract would be very short-lived. Pity! It would have been interesting to teach the fat man the advantages of the Helpers’ unorthodox business methods.

The abbey premises were much larger than realized by any outsider, even the governor’s tax assessors; they housed one of the largest chapters in all the Good Land, ranking as a house of 400-ply. Large was not endless, though, and he came to the door of the Abbot’s reception room at last. It stood open, so he slipped through the bead curtain beyond and sank down in obeisance. By day, this was a magnificent chamber, furnished in silks and precious woods, decorated with jade, fine porcelain, tiles, and stone. It was a safe guess that the mandarin governor himself had nothing to match it, nor would that blubbery client of Silky’s, for all his vaunted wealth.

By night, it was a mysterious universe of its own, lit by a single colored lantern hanging at head height near the far side. The Abbot and Brother Archives sat on cushions below it. They were visible, as was the low table on which their tea set stood, but all the rest of the great room was a darkness twinkling with points of reflection from gems or porcelain or mother-of-pearl.

“Enter, Brother Silky,” the Abbot called. “Close the door and come join us.”

Silky obeyed, dropping to his knees on the tiles near the table, although farther from it than the elders sat.

The old man—who did not look as old as he had earlier, but was still old—poured a bowl of tea for him. “Congratulations on your contract, Brother. I see it being enormously profitable, both for our House and for yourself. Officially, if the question is ever asked, your client came to negotiate a one-year memorial for his father, but Brother Archives has been expecting for some time that he would soon come calling on more serious business.”

Silky said nothing.

“He is a fool,” Archives said. “The moment he got his hands on the family seal, he started making very rash ventures. He should have spun out his daughter’s dowry payments for years. Lemon Grass and Distant Cloud are planning to split him between them.”

Silky waited, confident that the Abbot would know what bothered him.

The old man did, of course. “You have questions, Brother?”

“Father, is not the merchant Lemon Grass a client of our house?” The brotherhood never tolerated conflicts of interest, and Lemon Grass was one of the richest men in Wedlock and, thus, in all Shashi Province. By asking for his death, Jade Harmony should have condemned himself to becoming a routine score on Lemon Grass 3’s contract.

“Indeed, yes.” The old man turned the leathery mask of his face to Archives. “How many years have we been assisting him, Brother?”

“Six, Father. His count now is seven routine and only three requests. He is a shy man.” The archivist’s laugh was foul but his memory was legendary.

“So he is ripe, you see?” the Abbot said. “We should gain little more by waiting until the end of his contract, whereas I foresee great things from Jade Harmony 7. You have heard of the Portal of Worlds?” For a man of such antiquity, his eyes were amazingly bright.

Silky knew very well of the Abbot’s obsessive interest in the Portal, but not why he thought it important. He had not expected to be discussing stupid legends on this, the night of his naming.

“Only stories, Holy One. Some say that it is due to open again soon.”

“Not in my lifetime here, I am afraid, but certainly in yours. There are signs! Celestial Rose breathed fire last year, during Thunder Moon. It is recorded that before every opening of the Portal, either Black Dragon Mountain or Celestial Rose will breathe fire in the Year of the Crow and the Emperor will send propitiatory offerings.”

So far as Silky knew, either Celestial Rose or Black Dragon Mountain erupted every two or three years and the Emperor always sent propitiatory offerings. He bowed his head in homage.

“I am elevated by this gift of lore, Holy Father.”

“Yes. Jade Harmony may be able to assist us in our preparations for that epochal event. Now, about tonight …”

“Tonight, Father?” Silky asked very calmly. He was fairly sure that he had not twitched as much as an eyelash.

“It must be done before you call on our client tomorrow. Natural causes, please. Any questions?” the Abbot demonstrated a saintly smile.

Very many questions! Lemon Grass 3’s aide was Sister Freshet, and Silky had no wish to find himself on the wrong end of her knife.

“I have great respect for Sister Freshet’s skills, Father.” The standard contract set no obligation on the Order to defend the client from third parties, but it was understood that it would normally do so to safeguard its own interests.

The old man chuckled. “So you should. She is a very dangerous woman, as she has demonstrated many times. But you are a very dangerous young man now. And you are named, Brother Silky, so it is permitted to reveal the last great secret to you. Recite to me some Outlandish poetry.”

Silky sensed that the old men were laughing at him, but he had been taught long ago not just how to suppress anger, but how to dismiss it altogether. The thought of a last great secret was intriguing, although there would undoubtedly be other, greater secrets behind that one.

“I confess that I cannot, Holy One, not a line.” Yet, ever since he had been admitted to the Order, he had attended the Abbot in his chamber once a month for the purpose of being instructed in Outlanders’ poetry. He ignored the Abbot’s gentle smile and Archives’s rotten-tooth leer. Of course it was understood that those one-on-one sessions were also a chance to complain about any brother or sister who had behaved badly, although Silky had never been rash enough to do so. Outlandish poetry? Not a line. “I must assume that the purpose of those sessions was otherwise than I was led to expect—and allowed to remember,” he added uneasily.

“Well done. You have taken that revelation much better than most do. Have you ever heard of a leash?”

“Only as a restraint for an animal, Father.”

“It is also a restraint for Gray Helpers. The poem the Order uses is very long and exceedingly bad, as you would expect. It is never likely to be quoted for its own merit. Sister Freshet’s leash is, I believe, lines twelve, thirty-nine, and seventy-four?” the Abbot looked inquiringly to Archives, who nodded. “Very well. When you meet her, you repeat these two lines:

“The heron and the swan against rain-dimpled water … Up golden ladders to the moon. Dreadful doggerel, but she will at once go into submission, and you may then give her your orders. Be quick, for you will have only a few moments before she lapses into coma. You bring her back with the release: Morning star that dies when its task is done. She will remember the incident with resentment unless you have instructed her not to, but either way she will obey your instructions with zeal.” He did not insult his new monk by asking him to repeat the words. “And tomorrow, I will call her in to change her leash and remove any residual compulsions you have implanted. I can’t imagine Freshet refusing a wholesome young man such as yourself if you asked her nicely, but if you plan to abuse your transient power over her, you had better do so tonight.”

“I would not do that, Father,” Silky said. “It would betray your teaching and my loyalty to the Order.” He had attended Sister Freshet on her sleeping mat twice, but both times at her command, never by his request. Besides, he could guess that the Abbot had ways of finding out when the leash was used; that ability to control must itself be controlled.

The old man nodded approvingly, but then his face had probably not betrayed his feelings once in the last fifty years. “Freshet can advise you on time and place and method and you should listen carefully, but you make the decision. This one is yours. You may dismiss her beforehand and do it alone if you wish. Archives?”

“It shouldn’t be too hard. Lemon Grass is a man of predictable routines. Don’t leave before I have shown you plans of his grounds and defenses.”

As if Silky would be so stupid! “Thank you, Brother.”

“Go, then.” The Abbot gestured their joint dismissal. “I envy you this night, Brother Silky. One’s first score is a great milestone in one’s life, a memory to be savored and enjoyed. May your ancestors guide your hand and bless your venture.”

Silky had no ancestors that he knew of. He must just hope that they knew him and had heard the Abbot’s prayer.

A thick mist had rolled in from the river, which was a good omen for a young assassin on his first outing. No one could have told Silky from an artisan’s apprentice going home after a long day; his hands were dirty and callused, his walk depicted physical exhaustion. All the equipment he would need was in a satchel on his shoulder. He carried no visible weapon, but anyone who tried to rob him would not survive long enough to look surprised.

If this first contract turned out as profitable, as the Abbot had hinted, then Silky’s share would be substantial. Brother Bursar would invest it for him, and the Gray Helpers’ investments paid much better than most, because they could apply all the inside knowledge they gathered from their clients. Two or three good contracts and Silky would be rich enough to buy a priory somewhere—not a 400-ply abbey like Wedlock’s, of course, but even a 20-ply would eventually make him rich if it were well managed.

He thought back with amusement to that impudent, starving waif who had offered to kill somebody for Brother Moon. The Tug who had been born that day had died this evening. Silky! What a glorious, wonderful name for an assassin! He could not remember any of the names he had used before he became Tug. And what would he be tomorrow? An anonymous flunky in the Harmony mansion? Cook? Maintenance man? Guard? His talent was weaponry. He hoped his client could be persuaded to take him on as a sand warrior, fighting in the arena. That would be both an exciting life and a very convenient cover for his real work.

He had never visited the Lemon Grass mansion before, but Brother Archives had shown him the layout down to the last tree and closet. Although it stood in spacious grounds surrounded by spiked walls and well patrolled by dogs and armed guards, any Gray Helper knew how to deal with those.

Nobody registered the killer’s arrival at the wall. He found a place well shielded from view by a bush, then blew on the whistle to summon the dogs. He could just barely hear the tone himself, but no one much older than he would hear a thing. The dogs came to investigate, growling and snuffling; he tossed the bait over to them. While he waited for the drug to take effect, he changed into all-enveloping nightwork clothes that left only his eyes visible.

The spiked wall was a joke. The dogs were snoring.

Rummaging through his memory of the house plans, he located Sister Freshet’s window. Having poked a twig through the shutter lattice as a signal, he climbed into a nearby tree, and settled in for a long wait. In fact, it was little more than an hour before chinks of light appeared around the shutters.

According to Archives, Sister Freshet had been assigned as aide to Lemon Grass at the start of his contract six years ago. She had rapidly promoted herself from servant to concubine, a post she still held without complaint—Archives suspected that she was genuinely in love with the man, a complication discouraged but not unexpected. She found Silky’s signal and, in a few minutes, came strolling around the corner of the building, silent but not furtive.

He removed his hood and dropped gently to the ground behind her. Had she been his subject, she would have died instantly. Knowing what to expect, she was unsurprised and turned calmly.

“Tug? Nicely done. Is this for real?”

“Absolutely!” he said indignantly.

“Who’s your subject?” she demanded, her voice in the night suddenly crackling with suspicion.

He said, “The heron and the swan against rain-dimpled water. Up golden ladders to the moon.”

She winced and doubled over as if struck by sudden belly pains. “Oh! Rot me! You turd!” She sobbed a few times. “Stop it, stop it!”

“I have instructions for you.”

“Tell me! I’ll obey. You needn’t do this to me.”

“Yes, I do, because my subject is Lemon Grass 3.”

She groaned. “Please, please! It’s getting worse.”

He plunged ahead. “You will obey all my instructions, answer my questions truthfully, and you will not betray me or hinder my escape.”

“Yes, yes! Just make it stop.”

“Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“And you will obey?”

“Of course I will obey, anus worm! Didn’t he tell you? I’ll eat shit if you tell me to.”

“Not necessary. Morning star that dies when its task is done.”

She uttered a faint breathy sound, a whisper of relief, and then straightened up. She bared her teeth, but she did not try to knife him.

“Lemon Grass is a client!”

“There’s a conflict and he lost.”

She sighed. “I see. Then it’s over. … They gave you a big one to start with, Brother! The town will buzz tomorrow. What’s your name now?”

“Silky.”

“Good one! What do you need, Silky?”

“Advise me. Natural causes.”

She snorted. “He’s taking his usual exercise and Starry Pink gets the honor tonight. When he’s done with her, he’ll go to his own bed. Never varies.”

The novices’ toast: May all your subjects be predictable.

“What does he wear in bed?”

“Nothing. A sheet on top. He keeps a quilt handy in case he feels cold.”

“Show me where,” Silky said.

It was going to be drastically easy. Knowing the geography of the Cloud mansion, he could have done it alone, scrambling up the stonework to a window and lying in wait to break the subject’s neck when he returned, but he had been told repeatedly that safest and simplest were always best. His orders were that it had to be natural causes.

He followed Freshet indoors and up the stair to the master’s bedchamber. Then he sent her away, because he wanted to enjoy every moment of this, his first real score. He had worked hard and long to get to it.

A rich man like Lemon Grass slept on a raised bed of bricks, into which braziers could be placed during cold weather. Wearing hood and gloves, Silky drew back the quilt and sprinkled powdered wolfsbane on the pillows and the topmost rug. The subject would ingest a fatal dose through his breath and his skin. He would be found there dead in the morning unless he awoke with hallucinations of flying and hurled himself out the window.

Silky had already warned Overt Operations. The Gray Helpers would be summoned to prepare the body, and they must make sure the deadly bedclothes claimed no more victims. He went back downstairs and let himself out. The dogs showed no signs of waking. No one saw him go over the wall.

His first outing was done. Not quite boring, but close.

He was home at Joyful Departure within the hour, finding a party to celebrate his naming already in progress. He was quite touched by all the cheers and little speeches, but he had displayed his own talent for hypocrisy at such events often enough to distrust most of them. Of course, he was having a double celebration—name and first score on the same day was unusual—so he got to kiss all the girls twice.

Sex was just another business technique to the Order, a craft that needed practice like any other. The wall dividing the nunnery from the monastery was of polished glass, topped with razor-edged spikes and regarded by novices on both sides as a skill-testing question. Any adolescent boy or girl who did not regularly break the rules against promiscuity would be recognized as unsuitable material and duly expelled, dead or alive. The only true prohibition was a visible pregnancy, for which all three parties involved would be put to death. Thanks to good pharmaceutical instruction and a shoddy lock on the pharmacy door, matters never went that far.

Following tradition, Silky announced that he must rest up for a busy day ahead and left early. The female novices then drew straws to see who would help the newly blooded brother celebrate. It was dark in his cell, and the girl who joined him there wouldn’t tell him her name. That didn’t matter, because he knew her scent and texture. After it was over, he slept very well.

Jade Harmony slept very badly. He thrashed and repeatedly wakened himself by crying out in nightmares for reasons he could not remember. His concubine was too pregnant to be of any help—he had limited himself to one as an economic measure—and he never lay with his wife now, not wanting more legal children to support.

He eventually gave up and went up to the rooftop shrine to pray for help from his ancestors. The sky was clear, and the uncountable worlds looked down on him coldly. How many of them had his ancestors reached? How many of those ancestors were advanced enough now to help their troubled descendant still trapped down here in the Fourth? He prayed for wisdom, but nothing changed.

He left early for the harbor, after issuing strict orders to set the dogs on any caller touting business ventures.

Rumors about Lemon Grass began to circulate by midmorning. Before noon, the criers had the news, and the governor ordered the trading floors closed. Nauseated and feverish, appalled at how easily he had been hoodwinked, Jade Harmony summoned his palanquin and guards and went home.

In Wedlock, the slums of the masses huddled near the water; the palaces of the rich stood on the uplands, enjoying vistas, cool winds, and springs of sweet water. Most of the palaces had been built by princes and were now owned by merchants or retired mandarins. Jade Harmony 7’s residence was not one of the best, but it was still a palace. From it, he had a good, if distant, view of the river traffic, a few modern paddleboats and stern wheelers spewing plumes of black smoke in among the swarm of traditional junks.

The thought that he might have lost all this but instead had saved it by complicity in a murder tore him to pieces. Poverty was unthinkable, but the death of a thousand cuts was even worse. Suddenly, he felt an unbearable urgency, and signaled with his drum for maximum speed. Unsatisfied, he signaled for even more, until he heard the crack of the guards’ whips on his bearer’s backs.

Arriving home, he gave instructions that a man named Silky should be admitted, blessing his foresight that he had not mentioned that name earlier and hence could not be seen to be countermanding his own orders. He declined food and again sought reassurance in the shrine of his ancestors. A right-thinking man should never order a murder, and yet the sense of relief that Lemon Grass was no longer holding a knife at his financial throat was undeniable. The very sunlight seemed to sparkle brighter.

Eventually, Jade Harmony crept out to sit in his water garden and wait for his visitor. Bamboo swayed gently in the breeze, caged birds sang, waterfalls purled their silver songs, and all he could think of was the execution ground before the governor’s mansion. That was where evildoers were sliced to death, immobilized in wooden cangues, screaming their lives away amid the mockery of the crowds. The spectators would lay bets on how long he would take to die, and bribe the tormentors to make the show last for days.

Surprisingly, First Musket himself came to announce the visitor. “A sand warrior, Eminent One, calling himself Silky! He refuses to surrender his weapons.”

Sand warriors paraded around festooned with fearsome shiny blades of all shapes and sizes, like walking bower birds’ nests. Jade Harmony could not imagine the doe-eyed boy he had met at the monastery adorned like that. “I hope you didn’t laugh too hard?”

First Musket blinked in bewilderment. “No, Eminent One.” He glanced around at the shrubbery. “You wish us to admit him? And stay close?”

“No!” More calmly the merchant added, “I will receive him in private. He is known to me.”

The old musketeer’s mustache bristled in outrage, but he rose from his knees and withdrew, backing and bowing. It was unheard of for any man of status to receive a male visitor alone, armed or not. Jade Harmony wondered uneasily if loyalty might override obedience in this case, resulting in forbidden eavesdropping, but then the sight of his visitor drove all other thoughts from his mind.

No ash-gray robe now. No boy, even. He wore the scarlet knee breeches and leather boots of his pretended profession, and the traditional collection of weapons—at least a score visible, probably more hidden. A long sword hung on his back and two shorter ones at his waist. Baldrics forming an X across his chest were loaded with throwing knives while more were strapped to his forearms. Several paces away he drew his longest blade to salute, then went through the correct ritual of bowing and scraping until he was kneeling in the sand before Jade Harmony 7’s cushion. It was undoubtedly the same youth, the one he had named Silky, but he seemed to have aged several years. Arms and chest … even his neck looked thicker and more mature. His raven-black queue was gathered in the traditional topknot of a sand warrior, tied with purple and white ribbons.

Jade Harmony stared at that more than anything. “Last night, your head was completely shaven!”

Silky smiled disarmingly. “Last night, the light was not of the best, Eminence.”

There was nothing wrong with the sunshine now. “This is what you really look like?”

Again the boy showed a perfect set of teeth, a rarity in Shashi. “This is what I look like when I am dressed as a sand warrior. Last night, you saw me in a monk’s habit. People are happiest when they see what they expect to see.”

“Sorcery?” Jade Harmony whispered. His scalp prickled. It was unmistakably the same youngster—face, voice, eyes, oversize hands. He recalled now how easily those hands had lifted him.

The warrior shrugged today’s broad shoulders. “A minor occult skill.”

“Purple and white? Whose colors are those?”

Silky smiled, as if amused by his ignorance. “The House of Humble Followers of Martial Ancestors. There are six warrior lodges in Wedlock, but they are legal fictions. In fact, each sand warrior is sponsored by a gentleman of quality, one already licensed to maintain armed retainers. I will never sully your own noble colors by wearing them in the arena.”

No, he wouldn’t. The ritualized swordplay of the sand warriors was an entertainment for the masses, never gentlemen. “But everyone here would know what you are!”

“Officially, I would be, say, a clerk of accounts. I can look like that, too, but your household may be allowed to know that I am a sand warrior. Only you will know that I am a Gray Helper. May we proceed to the contract, Eminent One?” He stretched forward to offer a scroll.

Jade Harmony began to unroll it; exquisite brushwork swam before his eyes. He closed it. “Lemon Grass had a major seizure in the night. There is word that he may not live.”

The boy sighed. “He does not—the Helpers were summoned at the third hour. A funeral of the Most Exalted Grade is being prepared. May he prosper as well in the Fifth World as he did in the Fourth.”

“You killed him!”

Last night, the boy’s smiles had looked innocent.

“I helped him advance on the staircase of worlds. Does this not relieve the worst of your troubles, Eminent One—as we agreed?”

Yes! Yes, it did, and the thought was sickening. “I did not agree! I agreed to nothing. Now you expect me to pay you for committing this murder?”

“Not now, Eminence.” The killer looked quite shocked. “Our terms are explained in that scroll.”

Jade Harmony 7’s stomach churned like the river behind a sternwheeler. Again, he unrolled the contract and tried to read it.

“There are no names written here!”

White teeth flashed again. “Of course. No names given and no signatures required. That is purely a statement of terms already agreed between a gentleman and his servants.”

Jade Harmony could not read through his tears. He could not think. “Tell me briefly what it says.”

“All our contracts are for seven years or seven requested outings, whichever comes first. We may provide other incidents, at our discretion. We call those ‘routine’ and do not count them. An aide, meaning me, is assigned exclusively to your attendance during that time. I work to promote your interests and no others.’”

“‘Outing’ means ‘murder’?”

“We prefer to call them outings, or ‘incidents’.” The assassin smiled again. “We offer many more services than just murder, Eminence. Our information is unmatched in Wedlock and throughout the Good Land. For example, we know that the governor assessed your deeply lamented father’s worth at 473,000 taels and levied a death tax of 95,000 on it. Fortunately, his assessors overlooked your rice lands at Great Salt River and the silk partnership in the Mulberry Islands, not to mention the emerald collection your father had been amassing in his last years. The sudden, tragic advance of Lemon Grass offers several opportunities for those who can act quickly, of which the most promising will be a drastic drop in the price of salt, because he and some partners were holding it back from the market and the others don’t know how much he had in stock. I do.” And so on.

Jade Harmony listened in amazement to a display of financial virtuosity such as he had not heard since his father died. The monk child never hesitated or stumbled as he rattled off prices, amounts, locations, dealers, profits, or prospective partners, nor was he merely parroting a lesson, because whenever Jade Harmony asked a question, he answered promptly and lucidly. At the end, he raised an insolent and amused eyebrow to invite comment.

“When do I pay you and how much?” Jade Harmony asked hoarsely.

“You pay the House of Joyful Departure, Master. It allots me a share.”

“How. Much. Do. I. Pay?”

“There will be a settlement at the end of the contract.”

“How much?”

“One quarter of your worth.”

“My … Quarter? Of my entire worth?”

The boy spread his hands as if to show that he was hiding nothing. They were the thick, callused hands of a warrior, not the small, soft hands of a monk. Or so they seemed at that moment. “We estimate your true present value at a conservative 500,000 taels, Eminence. We guarantee that it will increase manyfold during the life of the contract.”

“And if, in the meantime, the governor has cut us to shreds in the Place of Execution?”

Silky laughed. “The Emperor, bless his name, does not appoint fools to be governors! The last attempt to put a Gray Helper on trial was a hundred years ago in the city of High Vistas. The governor’s replacement’s replacement’s first act was to burn the indictment.”

“The Son of the Sun—”

“The Emperor knows that he is mortal also,” Silky said impatiently. “Do not worry about the Emperor or his minions. They will not trouble us. Now, you will see that it is to our mutual advantage for me to have some independent position in your household, so that I can come and go without having to ask leave of some servant or endure this absurd rigmarole over weapons every time I must speak with you. Sand warriors are very profitable for their sponsors. For example, last month’s bout between Carmine Fangs and Implacable Dragon … Mayhap you have heard of it?”

“No.” The mere thought of watching armed men fight made Jade Harmony 7’s skin crawl.

“Admittedly, it was a match to disablement, which is rare and more profitable than most. The two sponsors—including their shares of the gate and the book, but before paying the purse to the winner and a settlement for the loser’s widow—regrettably, he bled to death, which was quite unplanned—anyway, between them, the sponsors shared more than 7,000 taels. The winner’s sponsor netted 4,000 clear.” The monk smirked at Jade Harmony 7’s expression. “I do not lie to you now, Master, and I never will. Not a bad return on room and board, you must agree.”

“That is all? A room and your keep?”

“That will do to start with. As soon as you see the profits rolling in, you will be ordering me to expand your stable, hire trainers and so on. Most sponsors rapidly become enamored of the sport.”

How had Jade Harmony ever thought this young killer looked innocent? Trapped, trapped! This must be how it felt to blunder into quicksand. Public bloodshed and private murder! What would Jade Harmony 6 have said? What must he think if he was watching now? Better to think upon Jade Harmony 1, who had been the next worst thing to a pirate and who would approve. He had died on an impalement stake. “What choice do I have?”

“None, really,” Silky said sadly. “Last night, you asked me to kill Lemon Grass and I did. He did not suffer and the Good Land is better for his ascent. The contract is in force. Believe me, you will not regret it, Master, once you have adjusted to the idea.”

This was absurd! An illegal conspiracy in an unsigned document? Such a contract could never be enforced. But the gleam in the young killer’s eager eyes warned Jade Harmony that it was extremely enforceable.

“And who is next?”

“Master, that really is not a wise—”

“You said you would never lie to me!”

Silky looked sulky. “I did not say I would tell you everything.”

“But you will tell me this!” Jade Harmony shouted.

The sand warrior pouted for another moment and then shrugged. “Very well. The eminent merchant, Distant Cloud.”

The merchant wailed. “My son-in-law? My daughter’s husband?”

“Who is merely five years younger than your honored self,” Silky said snidely. “What did your fifteen-year-old daughter think of her gouty, baggy-faced, thrice-married bridegroom? In a year, he has not gotten her with child, which tells us much. Like you, he is a client of ours. A good financial match, you thought, but right after the wedding, Distant Cloud asked us to advance your father, his wife’s grandfather, which we did. Today, I requested—and received—permission to return the compliment, since your contracts are now likely to come into conflict. I think I will advance his sons first, and then him, because it will be tidier if your daughter returns to you bringing his entire estate intact, except for taxes and his bequest to the Gray Helpers. I will use some means that will not make three deaths close together seem suspicious. This program will triple your assets within the month and bring your daughter back to her mother’s loving arms. That should stop some of her moping. Do you see any flaw in this proposal, Master?”

Silence. Jade Harmony stared into the abyss. Triple?

Triple his assets?

Within the month?

Shut up Morning Jewel and stop her never-ending griping?

“Master?” Brother Silky muttered.

“You murdered my father?”

“Oh, not I, Eminence! You are my first client.”

“But Distant Cloud paid your House to have my father murdered?”

“He ordered your esteemed ancestor’s death and will pay for it in the manner I just explained.”

After another long pause, Jade Harmony whispered, “I approve your proposal, Brother Silky. Does that make the proposed incidents requested or routine?”

Suddenly, the boy was back with his eager childish grin. “Since I already proposed them and received the Abbot’s approval, they won’t be charged to your account, Master. You still have six outings in hand.”