Chapter 2
Tinglet lay half awake, and a little sore. Somewhere the sun blazed, but the cell, probably an abandoned cistern, was pitch black. Drip. Drip. Drip. Water oozed from the dank walls to pool a few feet away. Where the water fell the stones were trecherously slimy. It was only safe to stand on the drier part of the floor and then the arched ceiling too low to stand upright. The sleeping nest was coarse, but at least it was dry.
Was the chain still there?. His fingers groped at his neck. Yes. A fine silver chain. The jewel-inlaid human teeth strung on it made a great trophy. Tinglet's stomach growled, but the pool and walls didn t hide anything else big enough to be worth getting up for. HIs thoughts started to explore, to make sure it was safe to sleep: "It had been very thoughtful of Gommorah to find such comfortable and homey quarters. Surprising that a human could be such a good hostess. Her own rooms were creepy. How could anyone rest with openings in the walls? Or behind such a flimsy door? Obviously she didn t care much. Maybe loss of kin had started the deathwish in her. Strange though, for all that she sleeps in the open, she seems so angry when I report in. More strange, she s human, but the priestess says to follow her orders. In my guts that makes her Boss Lady. She s Boss Lady, but she often doesn't notice when I'm disrespectful and when she does, her anger dosen t matter; in fact my gut wants to defy her. In everyone gut fights with brain everyday. But now gut disagrees with gut. Strange."
The crying of an urchin in the street below impinged on her consciousness. Then in her left cheek the tic began again. Her concentration collapsed. She sighed, repostioned herself slightly and began the meditations over for the third time.
Moon
Red Moon
Round Red Moon;
Like the gate to the Garden of Peace Round Red Moon
Like...The empty eyesocket of a damp, pinkish, fresh-picked,
tusk scarred and caved-in skull staring at her across her
pillow.
Gommorah lept to her feet and savagely kicked cushions across her small room. Her grotesque new trophy clattered to the floor. With an effort she caught herself in the act of throwing her meditation beads after it. The Round Red Moon, the Seven Mantras of Composure, nothing worked. Her cheek twitched again. It was because of the Dart Contest. She had participated in more contests than she could count, but always as the detatched observer, the hired dart, the assasin. How different it was to direct the path of death....and to be a target yourself. She would not have believed the tension it brought.
Why did it have to be her? Why all of a sudden had the family dreams and nighmares of her childhood returned. What was the point of status and wealth, of heritage, if there wasn t really anyone alive to share it with? Her old life had seemed fine. Locate the victim. Get within striking distance. Finish the job by the appointed deadline. The guild offered comraderie, but no real support or closeness. How could you trust someone whose next employer might want you dead, who you might have to kill to finish your next job? They could never be like family. Shelter was the best the guild could offer. The ones who had acted friendly had always turned out to be "mouthies" out recruiting. They made her soul shiver. So blind in obediance. So deceitful. There were three drools running when she left. None would acknowledge the other.
She had rather stayed with her first aweful choice. Gorgorma had been a fierce mistress, but gave strength for the task. The rage, the strength of the killing earth let her fight back the pain, the shame, the suffering. She had only been a child. Had her attacker in his lust, not overlooked her wounded but still armed nurse, she would've been dead as well as violated. Gorgorma had kept her secret, had made her pain into power. The cult leaders were grim, but would not betray her. They were dedicated, but they didn't hinder. Now, that old life didn t fit. Taking up the war directly robbed her of the inner violence that Gorgorma needed. The cult that could accept a cold stilleto rejected warm memories of a distant hearth. Its members had torn out that part of themselves. She chose instead to give up her rage. Now she prayed to the family spirits. Those ghosts, those memories, and an doddering old servant named Eicobon called her back to the life before her old life, to a home that stood no more, to lead the deadly game, to finish the family work.
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