I feel as if I'm someone else, watching from a few feet away as I use my hands to fletch the veins in the correct pattern on the arrow shaft. You see, the master counts on me to get these right. It makes a difference, you know, where I put the feathers, how far apart they are, how tightly they are bound, whether or not they are exactly the right size and shape.
The arrows and darts the master uses must fly true every time, without reliance on magic. The poisons he uses must be mixed to exact proportions in order to inflict death slowly or quickly, as the circumstances warrant. И they didn't, what reputation would he have? As it is, people come from the farthest reaches to find Renek here in this gods-forsaken fleck on the Sembian plains. You'd think he might move to Water-deep or Suzail, or at least Tantras. Imagine how much business he might do then. People would call day and night seeking his services. Already, they pay the highest prices.
His last job fetched three perfect one-carat rubies and a gold medallion nearly as big as the palm of my hand. His mark, Han, was a top-ranking member of the thieves' guild -highly visible-and that, of course, drove up the cost. Still, the pay seemed outrageous to me. After all, using one of my darts, the master could hit a victim from a long way off with a movement almost as subtle as stifling a cough. In Han's case, the means of death was even less obvious.
I question whether, considering all the help I provided, Han's murder or any of my master's assassinations have been worth the price people paid. For that matter, when you think about it, should anyone be paid for another man's misfortune, another human being's demise?
When I think of Renek and his profession, I wonder how he became-how anyone becomes an expert… a noted expert… at killing? Is it something you decide to do? I mean, did Renek wake up one morning and say to himself, "From this day forward, I'm going to devote my energies to murder. I will become a first-rate assassin."? I can understand wanting thugs and murderers-Renek's typical victims-dead. But I find the idea of wanting to kill someone difficult to comprehend. I suppose some people might question my own involvement in Renek's deeds. But my work has never required me to kill anyone. Really, I'm a craftsman-a researcher and a craftsman.
At least that is how I had always thought of myself.
The first time I saw Ashana, I was working in my apothecary. That's what I call it. It's really just a glorified shed in which I keep the various components I use for my work.' hang branches and leaves to dry in the room, and I have grinding stones and shelving there. I bottle various components and catalog them carefully-everything from octopus ink to zinc powder and a few gemstones.
I was dicing the tender branches of a sweet brandyroot plant into fine slivers for drying when I saw her through the open door. Her hair was dark auburn, and it glistened in the spring sun. She was tall like me, but with none of my ungain-liness. Neither did she crouch as some tall women do. She walked quickly and surely toward me.
“Tine?" she inquired.
I nodded. I should have been more polite, said something more, invited her in, but I stood mute, staring, admiring. She stepped toward me. I backed up against a long work table, taking in the elegance of her movement as she stepped past and then turned to speak to me.
"Bokun, a cleric in the village, suggested I come," she said.
I nodded again. I remember thinking I should smile or say something, but I'm not sure if I did.
"My father is ill. It's a growth the healers can't stop. I've talked with several of them. And I've read everything I can find in the library-" Her words spilled out with a sense of urgency. "I've tried everything… He has this, this mucous-" She put her fingers to her neck and moved them lightly up and down. "It builds up in his throat, so thick he has trouble swallowing." She gulped hard, moving her chin down and up again with the effort, imitating his struggle.
I was immediately taken with her intensity. She gazed at me, unblinking, and then spoke again. "Bokun said you have many herbs, rare ones. He thought you might have this…" She paused to unfold a paper that had been clutched in her left hand. She moved very close to me and smoothed the note flat on the table alongside us.
As I turned to look at the paper, I found myself so near to her that I was overwhelmed by her fragrance-a whispering cleanness that made me want to close my eyes and inhale deeply. I forced myself to look at the note. The cleric's prescription was penned in large, fluid letters: Hsin-feng ku gen.
"I have it," I said. "A small piece."
She stood still, watching as I scanned through my catalog and then the shelves of my apothecary, searching for the datelike root. She talked to me all the while-in the gentle, friendly tones of a neighbor or a close companion. That's when she told me her name and where she lived.
I marveled at how easy it was for her to keep up a conversation. I groped for words to say in response. "This is the herb. It's used by the Wa people. My notes say the name means "bitter root of the fresh wind."
Ashana was impressed and said so. I could see from her eyes that her interest was genuine. I am no healer, but many of the tools of my work can be used to positive effect if applied differently, and I am not ignorant of their other functions. I scraped shavings from the wrinkled root and then mixed the herb in a paste with an inert powder and water. I explained to Ashana as I gave her a vial of the sticky mixture that her father must coat the back of his tongue and throat with the paste and leave it there for several minutes before washing it down with water. "It's exceedingly bitter. He'll think he's being poisoned," I explained, "but mixed at this proportion, it should be harmful only to what ails him."
Ashana gripped my hands in hers as she thanked me. My first reaction was to pull away, but I felt a warmth unlike anything in my experience. I have always felt dreadfully awkward around women, and few have shown any interest in me. I didn't take her touch as a sign of interest, but from that day on, I took every opportunity to ride to the neighboring town she lived in. I watched for her and tried to think of things I could offer to help her father… to make her notice me. And she did notice me.
I know I said I think of myself as a researcher, as well as a craftsman. Part of my "research" is observing my master carefully-in order to serve him better. I've always made a point of watching Renek closely-knowing his physical strengths and weaknesses-the fluidity and power of his movements, the slight trembling of hand that overtakes bin1 occasionally during "the hunt." He calls it that. I suppose it makes it seem less like murder to think of a victim as prey, but it's also part of his belief that he is somehow superior, specially talented, somehow uniquely deserving of the rewards of his trade.
He never seemed to realize the disadvantage, the complete unlikelihood of success, he would face without me. The thief he most recently killed was a snake. That was Han. And because of Han's own vile nature, he knew about the wiles of others. If Renek had tried to use ordinary means to kill Han, he probably would have wound up with his own entrails publicly displayed from the tower of the nearest thieves' guild hall.
But I had watched Han for Renek. I knew that he had few regular habits and fewer weaknesses. After several tendays of watching, I alerted my master to his opening. The thief, for all his stature in the thieves' guild, paid tithes to the order of Tymora. I saw no logic in a thief worshiping at the shrine of the goddess of good fortune. Maybe he'd made a habit of gambling. Or more likely he was trying to appease the goddess on behalf of someone for whom he grieved. I could only guess his motive, but my master's good fortune rested in the fact that on the sixth day of nearly every ten-day, Han could be found casting the crescent moons of fate and drawing lots before paying his tithe to the cleric at the shrine.