Tales From The Guilds Ch 01

Baldor Woodbead straightened his back and clenched his teeth. Being summoned by the Master of Assassins didn't always or even commonly end in inhumation. Most students survived. But most students at the Assassins' Guild School were aristocrats. Scholarship students like Baldor were seldom summoned to Lord Downey's office. Scholarship students had a hard enough time surviving bullying and hazing by the regular students and the ones who did usually managed by being as invisible as possible.

Baldor's invisibility was toast.

"Ah, Mr. Woodbead. Thank-you for coming so promptly," Headmaster Lord Downey gave the impression of being a kindly looking, distinguished old upper-class gentleman with white hair. And in fact, he was—so long as you kept your mind firmly on the fact that he was among the most renowned poisoners in the Guild's long history. "I am given to understand that there was a certain disturbance outside of Cobra House Thursday evening?"

"Yes, milord."

"And Mr. Mericet advises me that young Lord Cakewalk is in the Lady Sybil Free Hospital—still alive."

"Yes, milord."

"May I ask why?"

"Weren't no one payin' me t'kill 'im, milord."

Downey smiled, leaned back in his swivel chair and pulled a bell rope that was instantly answered by an under butler.

"Cranby, be so good as to fetch Mr. Woodbead a chair. It won't do to have our most promising Scholarship Boy standing at rigid attention like he was being called on the carpet."

Once the surprised Baldor was settled in a comfortable side chair, the Headmaster steepled his fingers in front of his face and regarded the student warmly. "NIL MORTIFI, SINE LVCRE indeed, my boy, no killing without payment. I'm glad to see you holding Guild tradition and rules in such rigorous form. Given the provocation and your young age it would have surprised no one if you had lost self-control. But no killing without payment is forever our watchword and you held to it. Of course, given the extent of his injuries, Cakewalk may regret your forbearance. I've been told it will be a year before he can return to his studies."

With the stress removed, Baldor returned to classroom pronunciation.

"Thank-you, so much, Sir. I did give an instant's thought to dismembering the scoundrel but reconsidered when I remembered the school motto. Of course, if anyone had offered me a farthing . . ."

His Lordship nodded approvingly. "Admirable. Restraint and good manners are, after all, what keeps us from being nothing more than very expensive thugs. The faculty is impressed. Moreover, so is Lady Cakewalk. She clacksed that this will hopefully cause her son to embark on a more mannered approach to life and insists that you take his place in Cobra House. Dr. Mericet agrees so this afternoon you will move your belongings from Welcome Soap to your new lodgings. Lady Cakewalk also extends to you a modest endowment to help you maintain a manner of dress suitable to your new status. Congratulations, Mr. Woodbead, and welcome to the ranks of full, fee-paying students."

The old man stood and extended his hand (which Baldor quickly and carefully scanned for any sign of a concealed pin or poison ring before he shook it) then ushered the amazed student Assassin out the door.

A young woman dressed in the slightly raffish but permitted tones of deep purple cocked her head at Baldor and raised an eyebrow. "Still alive, I see. And how did you pull that off, Woodbead?"

Baldor shot her a look. "By playing by the rules, Sinestra. Some of us have to!"

Sinestra flared her nostrils, "And now I suppose you think you can just keep up the fantasy that you're as good as your betters? I don't care how good you are in class, you're still a Welcome Soap House Scholarship worm. The best you can hope for is a job as a Patrician's Clerk and you know it."

Baldor tried to come up with a rejoinder that would cut her dead (figuratively, of course) when the Extremely Reverend A-Pox-On-All-Their-Houses Jenkins strode up and clapped the youth on the back.

"Well done, Woodbead. Your efforts in Hand-to-hand Smiting have been rewarded. Not only will you get full marks for the term but let me take you to my tailor for some appropriate new clothes. It won't do to have the first promoted Scholarship Boy going around shabbily." He regarded Baldor left and right. "Something in charcoal grey would be best with your complexion, I think. Can't have you parading the peacock like some students I know."

Sinestra went rigid at the rebuke. Baldor knew she didn't dare say anything to the tutor but the girl had a reputation for a hot temper and an ability to carry a grudge. She would bear watching, preferably from a good distance and for a long, long time.

*****

Dr. Mericet tapped his glass with his spoon for attention. It was a soft, ringing sound but such was the Master's reputation that the entire hall immediately fell silent. He stood.

"Gentlemen," the voice was as much a hiss as a tone, "tonight we meet under historic circumstances. For the first time in the Guild's (and Cobra House's) long and honored history, a scholarship boy has been promoted to the ranks of King's Scholar. Let us welcome Mr. Baldor Woodbead, whose reputation, I believe, precedes him."

There was a rattle of very restrained and polite applause and the students sitting on either side of Baldor discretely sidled away. Word around the Guild School had it that young Lord Cakewalk not only had been dealt sufficient injury to require the attention of the Lady Sybil Free Hospital ('some patients get well'), but that he would be returning to his ancestral estates for a year's convalescence before coming back to the school. Whether any of the other boys wanted to be his friend remained to be seen, but no one wanted to be his enemy!

That night in his new room, Baldor sat on the bed and looked around. Welcome Soap House accommodations were Spartan, at best, with the Scholarship boys all sleeping in a single room, on cots in a straight line. Here in Cobra House, he had a room to himself but having few belongings it was far from inviting. Still, for an impoverished sixteen-year-old boy it was luxury.

A knock sounded on the door, a very respectful and polite knock. Baldor opened it. Standing in front of him were four other boys from the House.

"Uh—hello?"

"H—hello, Baldor? I—I'm Arthur, uh, Viscount Bakewell? And this is Matheus, Ronald and Godfrey? Uh, would you like to go edificeering with us? We've seen you on the walls and you're really are quite the Tallboy? Cobra House had a very strong edificeering team but with Lindley, that's Cakewalk, out we need a—new member?"

Edificeering, the sport of climbing buildings! Along with Hand-to-Hand Smiting it was Baldor's favorite part of life at the Assassins' Guild School. He's grown up listening to his uncle's tales of his days as a Scholarship Boy and had been enthralled by the descriptions of the various structures of Ankh-Morpork and their ratings. By now he'd gotten good enough to nearly run up and down the sides of the Guild's main buildings but had never dreamed of being allowed to do it competitively.

"I'd love to. Thank-you so much, uh, Arthur. I can call you Arthur, don't I?"

The relief on the other boys' faces was obvious.

"Of course," the one named Ronald replied with a grin, "You're Cobra House. That's the only title that matters here. Other houses might stay stuck in Twerp's Peerage but a Cobra is a Cobra!"

As they all rushed out to work their way up and across the façade of the Commons (a simple climb rated at no more than 2.1 except when covered in ice during the winter) Miss Alice Band watched them fondly. Tump House, which she proctored, had a long-standing alliance with Cobra and even now that it had been converted to an all-girls' residence, the connection continued. As the Guild's instructor in Climbing and Traps, the skills of edificeering were her primary concern. An Assassin needed more than mere agility. Getting up to the client's tower bedroom was simple. Getting there unscathed was ever the challenge. Many were the ways a skilled graduate could booby-trap the exterior of a stately manse and more than one young Assassin had failed to return from an inhumation because of them.

She turned as Lord Downey approached, "Well, Headmaster, do you think that possibly young Woodbead will be the first of the King's Scholars to join the ranks of independent Assassins? By now word has reached the Patrician. Lord Vetinari

will

make note."

"Lord Vetinari

always

makes note," Downey observed dryly, "which is one reason why he remains Patrician after all these years. Too many of his predecessors failed in that crucial regard. Their pictures hang in the Portrait Gallery because of it."

Miss Band nodded soberly. "You'd think," she said reflecting, "that graduating from the School would give the general run of the aristocracy a better understanding of the dangers of power. Sadly, there always seem to be those few that truly believe they are too good to be inhumed."

"And they are always wrong—at least until the present. But then, Havelock doesn't really try to defend himself. He simply has made himself so irreplaceable to all the Guilds that we prefer to see him alive and ruling. Much as many dislike the man, he's preferable to any of the rest of us. It's a work of genius."

"Indeed. And is it true he consorts with a vampire?"

"For a given value of 'consort'. However, she isn't just

a

vampire. Lady Margolotta is the

de facto

ruler of Far Überwald! He met her on the Grand Tour and they've been—friends ever since. There is much speculation about the extent of that friendship and both of them are quite content to let the speculating continue."

Miss Band nodded again. "Friendship is such a flexible relationship."

The curfew bell tolled. No one expected the students to immediately report for bed. After all, as the Head Master often said, no assassin ever became a success by following all the rules. On the other hand, no assassin ever became a success by breaking the rules

and getting caught

! So a reasonable time for young scamps to get back to the Houses and make their beds appear to be occupied was allowed. Afterwards they could return to their nocturnal amusements. In life, the night belonged to the Guild—and to the Undead, of course.

*****

Some weeks later Baldor was crossing Sator Square when an immediately identifiable stench struck his nostrils. He shuddered and pulled a penny from his pocket and tossed it to one of the city's premier beggars. "Good day to you, Ron," he said while trying to not inhale.

Foul Ol' Ron held his strange little dog's leash with one hand and expertly caught the coin with the other. "Garny man, the lot of 'em," he muttered, "Millennium hand and shrimp I tol' 'em. Buggerit if I di'nt." The incomprehensible muttering continued as Baldor stepped away and turned to go.

"Queen Molly says to take a shilling to Bunkin's Bakery, Mister. Tomorrow."

Baldor turned in surprise. He'd never heard Ron make a statement so coherent before and looked from the beggar to his dog in confusion.

"Woof?" said the dog.

Baldor shook his head and continued on his way. For some reason he had the strangest feeling that the dog had actually

said

'woof' instead of barking. But that was nonsense. Everyone knows dogs can't talk.

Unsure why the chief of the Beggars Guild would send a student Assassin a direct order, Baldor consulted his House Master after supper.

Mericet blinked slowly like an old turtle and breathed, "Do it. I have my suspicions. There are rumors that the Beggars are distinctly displeased with someone, something that is never good for the offender's health. Why you? That remains to be seen."

And the next day, Baldor walked into the local Dwarf Bread Bakery and dropped a sixpence coin on the (very) low counter. The dwarf behind it squinted up at him. It was, Baldor mused, probably Mrs. Bunkin because he thought he saw a glint of gold earring. However, beneath the traditional iron helmet and above the normal bushy beard, it was hard to tell. Until recently it had been hard even for other dwarfs, though social change seemed to be leaking in. Some lady dwarfs were even so daring as to wear floor length leather skirts instead of the traditional chainmail. The more traditional members of the community considered it scandalous.

Possibly-Mrs. Bunkin nodded curtly and then reaching under the counter brought out a fresh loaf of dwarf bread, carefully wrapped in paper. Without a word, she handed it to him. Since no change seemed to be forthcoming (making this quite the most expensive loaf of dwarf bread Baldor had ever heard of) he took his 'purchase' and went back to the Guild. Placing the parcel on his desk, he looked at it one way and then the next before unwrapping it.

The inside of the wrapping seemed to have writing and a picture on it so he set the bread aside and dusted the grit off the wrapper. There, marked in both Modern Mor-Porkian (with its normal eccentric spelling) and dwarfish runes was a schematic of a stately townhouse. The floorplan was nothing unusual. Many of the Guild's members lived in houses like it but in the backyard, next to the fence that separated it from the next lot was a crabbed note:

Cellr door: Neiver lokked nor opened 4 monfs. Duz not appeer booby-trapped.

Baldor took a deep breath and exhaled. There were recorded occasions when student Assassins had, on holiday, actually inhumed a client. However, those students had tended to come from families with a long history of successful killings, like the Ludorums or the Wiggs. Never, to his knowledge, had any Scholarship Boy ever gone on to a career in 'the black'. Those few who survived their years of tormented education and managed to pass the exit exam had, like his uncle Algernon, entered Government Service and had become 'Clerks' to the Patrician. But now, it seemed, someone somewhere had selected him, Baldor Woodbead, for a commission. He suspected that the commission had been brought on by the Beggars' Guild, but the identity of the 'client' remained unknown. He needed to know more.

"It is, indeed, unusual," Miss Band declared with her hands clasped over her teacup. "Normally commissions come from members of the aristocracy against other aristocrats or, in more recent times, from business rivals. The Guilds have not, to my knowledge, ever engaged us, except for that peculiar incident with the Musicians' Guild. This is understandable. Who in his right mind would so offend a House of Negotiable Affection enough as to direct the attention of the Agony Aunts in his direction? Those ladies are not bound by our rules about neatness and the avoidance of torture. Likewise, it would be terminally foolish to make either the Thieves' Guild or, gods forbid, the Breccia angry. So I am intrigued as much as you are. However, I can tell you that the residence in question is currently being rented by one Fothergill Horsefry, a banker whose older brother Crispin died under mysterious and very messy circumstances during the dispute between the Clacks syndicate and the Royal Mail."

"That was just before the Post Office caught fire and the gods answered the Postmaster's prayers with a fortune, wasn't it? I remember reading about it though since it wasn't a commission I didn't delve into the details. Do you suppose that something similar is afoot?"

The attractive, but slightly menacing young woman shook her head. "We have not, as far as I know, even received a commission on the man. However, go check with the porter. Mr. Streamside will know of any recent additions to the list."

As it happened, Mr. Streamside had already left for the evening when Baldor entered his office. However, Death never sleeps and so the Guild commissions office was never closed. There the young man found a very fresh envelope with a commission so new the ink still glistened on the paper. He gaped. Six thousand AM dollars put up by the Beggars' Guild! Where would Beggars get that kind of money?

Dr. Mericet explained. "You must understand, young Woodbead," he rasped, "that the Beggars never actually

buy

anything. But consider the accumulated worth of all those pennies gleaned from the generous (or desperate!) fingers of our citizens over the years. The Beggars Guild is the oldest in the city. Where has all that money gone? There are a number of well-to-do individuals who would be surprised, nay stunned, to find out who at the long line of holding and investment companies really owns the property they rent. The Beggars are rich, boy! But this is the first time I ever heard of them using their wealth for anything other than increasing it. I wonder if Mr. Horsefry has made the mistake of thinking that he could embezzle from them. Six thousand dollars is a very serious sum. And there is a bonus for 'extreme prejudice' I see."

"But, sir, why me? Wouldn't it more likely that a senior Assassin would be successful?"

"Mr. Woodbead, you are the first King's Scholar since Zlorf Flannelfoot, our first Headmaster, to come from a similar social class. Perhaps they are trying to encourage your career?"

*****

That night Baldor dressed carefully in his new clothes. Charcoal grey flannel had two advantages. Not only was it nearly invisible at night, unlike the more commonly worn black, but the soft cloth was unlikely to give him away with any sound. Velvet was good, too, but Lady Cakewalk's generosity had had its limits.

Contemplating his modest tool kit, Baldor chose first a poniard. Sinestra would have been outraged that someone of his lowly estate should be carrying the weapon traditionally associated with gentlemen but as far as Baldor was concerned, it was purely utilitarian. With its blade properly blackened, the likelihood of the client seeing anything before it penetrated his heart was small.

But what else? While the poniard might be his weapon of first choice, it was a foolish, nay terminally overconfident Assassin who didn't carry backups. In Baldor's case, his ability to kick, punch or grapple the client into the next world had almost reached legendary status among his fellow students but he still wanted something that didn't require getting that close. You never knew how skilled or how well-armed the client might be and as highly as the Guild valued the lives of its clientele, it valued its own even more so.

He really wished he'd been able to afford a pistol crossbow like the ones Miss Band used so skillfully but Burley and Stronginthearm weapons came far too dear for his meager purse. So instead he settled for a blowpipe, sliding it down the back of his neck into the subtle sheath built into his jerkin. Then, from his collection of braille-coded darts, he chose a half dozen. Not for tonight the more extreme toxins. Blort would make the client swell up and explode, coating the room with his mortal remains. It was a spectacular way to make a point but the Guild frowned on mess. Besides, it was noisy. No, tonight's cork-tipped darts were all chosen for their ability to make the client sigh once before expiring. It was a minimalist kit but one he had confidence in, so taking a deep breath, the young Assassin opened his window and silently clambered up the side of Cobra House, onto its roof and out into the city night.

The Big Wahooni never slept, it was said, because you never knew when there might be a chance to make a dollar in the wee hours of the morning. Still at this late hour even the forges and furnaces of the Street of Cunning Artisans were mostly banked and only the Disc's tiny moon gave any light. It hardly mattered. After four years of hard study of the city's geography, Baldor could skip lightly across the city's roofs and leap the spaces between them whenever there was no convenient plank to tiptoe across. Of course, one never knew when the plank might have been

in

conveniently removed. Student lore was full of stories of students who had terminally failed the final exam because they hadn't taken that possibility into account.