She knew blood was all over her hands and tunic, as well, but she couldn’t afford the time to do anything about it until she was well away from the house. She fumbled with the latch and bolt, then swung the door wide and stepped out onto the stoop.
The smells of the city washed over her like a great storm-driven wave, and she paused for a moment, drinking them in, sorting them out; then she remembered herself and ran.
As she worked her way north through the city streets, staying out of the better-lit areas where her bloodstained hands and clothes would show, she thought through what had happened.
She had killed a dog, and its strength had flooded into her, as she had hoped—but more than that had happened. She had gained the dog’s senses, as well—the sensitivity to motion and strong night vision, the incredible sense of smell, and, she realized as she listened to the city around her, better hearing, but only in high pitches.
This was amazing; she had a whole new way of perceiving the city. She could smell things she had never smelled before— but she couldn’t always identify them. She knew the salt was the sea, and the smoke came from the lamps and fires of the city; she knew the scents of men and women; but what was that odor like rust, like... she had no words for it.
Would this fade away gradually, she wondered, or was this permanent? The dog was dead, nothing could heal it, nothing could give it back its strength—but could she really keep it forever? She flexed her arms, feeling the power there—not, perhaps, any stronger than a big man, but far stronger than that of the young woman she had been an hour earlier, probably stronger than any woman she had ever known. She could feel it.
She could smell her own excitement, though it took her a moment to recognize it for what it was.
Was that permanent? Would she be able to use her nose like this for the rest of her life? She wasn’t sure she would be able to sleep, with that flood of sensory impressions pouring in on her.
And all this came just from killing a dog. Think how strong she would be if she killed a man.
And think what she might be able to do if she killed a magician!
CHAPTER 12
The cat’s death did little for Tabaea’s strength, but it gave her incredibly quick reflexes, even sharper night vision and movement perception than killing the dog had provided, and perhaps some other abilities—she wasn’t sure whether or not those were real, or her imagination at wo±. She had never heard that cats could speed up or slow down their perception of time and suspected it was simply an illusion. The ability to balance was very hard to judge. And the ability to catnap was probably there all along, just not used.
Still, she was satisfied with the results.
Killing a dove, on the other hand, was a serious disappointment; no matter what she did, Tabaea still could not fly, nor see behind herself without turning her head. Nor, it seemed, did birds have any abilities she hadn’t known about.
It was perfectly clear why she couldn’t fly, of course—she had no wings. Whatever magic the Black Dagger performed, it did not alter her physical appearance. Her eyes were still on the front of her head, rather than the sides; they had not become slitted like a cat’s, either.
Only belatedly did she realize that this was a good thing-otherwise she might have grown fur or feathers or claws and become a freak unable to live a normal life among normal people.
Not, she admitted to herself, that her life was exactly normal. With her improved sense of smell, she could now locate gold by scent alone, and with her cat skills she could now prowl silently in near-total darkness, so her thievery had become markedly more successful—but she still had no permanent home, living instead in a succession of cheap inns; she had no real friends; she saw nothing of her family.
Her new abilities showed no signs of fading, and they gave her the money for a more comfortable existence, but as she sat at a table in yet another inn, staring at yet another six-bit dinner of chicken stew and fried noodles, she found herself profoundly dissatisfied.
She was becoming successful as a thief. But so what?
She had originally taken up a career in theft in order to survive and to put food in her belly without her mother’s and stepfather’s reluctant help. She had wanted to strike back at the family and the city that had ignored and neglected her. She had wanted to become rich, to have all the things she had been denied. She had wanted everyone to know who she was and to admire her skill and courage and determination.
She had discovered years ago that it didn’t work that way. Thieves did not become rich or famous—at least, burglars and cutpurses didn’t; there were those who accused various lords and magicians of robbery, but that was an entirely different sort of theft.
In fact, a thief couldn’t afford to become rich or famous. Too great a success put one in front of the Minister of Justice, and then on the gallows or in a slaver’s cells. Even the limited notoriety of being well known among other thieves was dangerous; Tabaea had, over the past few years, seen virtually every well-known thief arrested or beaten or killed. The world of thieves was not closed; word could always leak out into the larger world of victims and avengers. The less-successful criminals were always ready, willing, and even eager, from jealousy or simple hunger, to sell news of their more prosperous brethren.
So she dared not try for more than a reasonably comfortable existence—and even that was risky.
As for paying back her family and the rest of Ethshar, that didn’t work, either. Her family had ignored her before, and they ignored her now. The city had always had thieves and paid no mind to another.
Theft was nothing but a means of survival, a career with no room for advancement. Now that she had the Black Dagger and knew how to use it, Tabaea was not satisfied with that. She wanted more. But what?
She chewed idly on a noodle and thought about it. She still wanted to be rich and famous and respected, to have everyone know who she was, and to pay attention to her every wish. She couldn’t get that as a thief, but now she had the Black Dagger, so she could be more than a thief. The question was, what could she be? She still had never served an apprenticeship, and at nineteen she wasn’t ever going to. She was even past normal recruiting age for the city guard.
She was strong and fast enough to be a soldier now, she realized, and she gave that possibility some serious thought. She was still small, but she knew she could prove herself if she had to.
And then what? Speed and strength were useful in war, but Ethshar was not at war, nor likely to be. Tabaea did not even have a very clear idea what war was. In peacetime the city guard served mostly to guard the people of Ethshar from each other, rather than from outside enemies; they guarded the gates, guarded the palace, patrolled the wall and the marketplace, ran errands for the nobility, escorted prisoners...
None of that sounded very exciting. And much of doing it well depended, she realized, not on actual strength, but on the appearance of strength, on being big and fearsome enough that people didn’t start trouble in the first place. She looked at the slender fingers holding her fork and grimaced. She didn’t look big and fearsome.
Did soldiering pay well? The guard spent freely enough in the brothels and gambling dens of Soldiertown, but on the other hand they lived in the barracks towers, not in big houses, and they owned no fancy clothes, only uniforms and weapons.
And as far as fame went, Tabaea knew the names of half a dozen guardsmen, none of them officers, and those few only because she had encountered them personally. What sort of fame was that?