The Blind Assassin - Margaret Atwood [129]
He could always ditch her. Or stab her, dump her in a well.
No, he can’t.
There’s always the assassins’ den. That’s where they all go when offduty, to exchange gossip and share loot and boast about their exploits. It’s hidden audaciously right under the judgment room of the main palace, a deep cave lined with carpets – carpets the assassins were forced to make as children, and have stolen since. They know them by touch, and often sit on them, smoking the dream-inducing fring weed and running their fingers over the patterns, over the luxurious colours, remembering what these colours looked like when they could see.
But only the blind assassins are allowed into this cave. They form a closed society, into which strangers are brought only as plunder.Also, he’s betrayed his calling by saving alive someone he’s been paid to murder. They’re professionals, the assassins; they pride themselves on completing their contracts, they don’t stand for violations of their own code of conduct. They’d kill him without mercy, and her too after a while.
One of his fellows may well be hired to track them. Set a thief to catch a thief. Then, sooner or later, they’ll be doomed. Her fragrance alone will give them away – they’ve perfumed her up to the gills.
He’ll have to take her out of Sakiel-Norn – out of the city, out of familiar territory. It’s a danger, but not as great a one as remaining. Perhaps he can get them down to the harbour, then aboard a ship. But how to sneak past the gates? All eight of them are locked and guarded, as is the nightly custom. Alone, he could scale the walls – his fingers and toes can grip like a gecko’s – but with her it would be a catastrophe.
There’s another way. Listening at every step, he leads her downhill, towards the side of the city nearest the sea. The waters of all the springs and fountains of Sakiel-Norn are collected into one canal, and this canal takes the water out beneath the city wall, through an arched tunnel. The water is higher than a man’s head and the current is swift, so no one ever tries to get into the city that way. But out?
Running water will deaden the scent.
He himself can swim. It’s one of the skills the assassins take care to learn. He assumes, correctly, that the girl can’t. He tells her to remove all of her clothes and make them into a bundle. Then he sheds the Temple robe and ties his own clothes into the bundle with hers. He knots the cloth around his shoulders, then around her wrists, tells her that if the knots come undone she must not let go of him, no matter what. When they come to the archway, she must hold her breath.
The nyerk birds are stirring; he can hear their first croaking; soon it will be light. Three streets away, someone is coming, steadily, deliberately, as if searching. He half leads, half pushes the girl into the cold water. She gasps, but does as she is told. They float along; he feels for the main current, listens for the rush and gurgle where the water enters the archway. Too early and they’ll run out of breath, too late and he’ll strike his head against the stone. Then he plunges.
Water is nebulous, it has no shape, you can pass your hand right through it; yet it can kill you. The force of such a thing is its momentum, its trajectory. What it collides with, and how fast. The same might be said about – but never mind that.
There’s a long agonizing passage. He thinks his lungs will burst, his arms give out. He feels her dragging behind him, wonders if she’s drowned. At least the current is with them. He scrapes against the tunnel wall; something tears. Cloth, or flesh?
On the other side of the archway they surface; she’s coughing, he’s laughing softly. He holds her head above the water, lying on his back; in this fashion they float down the canal for some distance. When he judges it’s far enough and safe enough, he lands them, hauling her up the sloping stone embankment. He feels for the shadow of a tree. He’s exhausted, but also elated, filled with a strange aching happiness. He has