Bastion

the deadly arts, the House of Sleepgivers was turning out . . . killing machines. As soon as a boy could walk, he was taken from his parents. He was put into training, a sort of training where friendships were discouraged and cutthroat competition encouraged. Then, at adolescence, the trainees were tested and divided into three sorts. The first were the expendable ones, who were led to believe that good performance would lead to a rise in the ranks. This was not true. This would never be true. They were well trained, yes, but they would never be missed if they were killed in their commissions. Those were the sort that had been sent north in the initial contract with Karse—because the Shadao felt that the House might as well have someone else pay for the expenses of the search for his missing heir and wife. If they were caught, their talismans would kill them, and they were allowed to be aware of this, as incentive not to get caught.
    The second rank was of those who were like Levor and Kan-li. They were very, very good and very, very skilled. They knew the secrets of the herbs and the talismans. They were entrusted with many things. But they were not the best of the best.
    Those were very few indeed, and Bey was one. They never used the herbs. They were never given those talismans, only another sort that hid them from Mind-magic and—other magic?
    Mags couldn’t quite grasp that.
    :Doesn’t matter,: Dallen insisted, and he trusted Dallen. Things was all fuzzy when we talked about the Truth Spell, and the stuff that guards Valdemar and drove that first fellow mad. Maybe it’s part of all that.
    All right then.
    The ones like Bey, the best of the best, the young ones at least, had grown restless since the old Shadao died, and the new one, Bey’s father, had come into power. They longed for the old days of real honor and ethics, when they served as the hand of the gods. They scorned the expendables as corrupt and the second rankers as those without vision. They wanted elite to truly mean elite.
    Bey wanted the old ways back. He wanted to know that when his knife brought the sleep of forever, it would be to one who deserved it, not to one who was merely inconvenient to someone else. On one level, Mags could almost agree with that. Almost. But it was still killing people, and it was one thing to kill someone when he was trying to kill you, and another thing entirely to go and kill him in cold blood, in stealth, and in full knowledge that you planned his death.
    But if it really was someone who deserved it? If he had a chance to kill the leader of the Karsites, or even one of those priests that summoned demons, would he? Could he?
    Just as he began pursuing that train of thought, Bey started to droop . . . then got pale.
    Dallen reacted instantly. :We need to stop now. This is beginning to hurt him. He’s not used to being examined with Mind-magic so intensely.:
    “Dallen says we should stop,” Mags said aloud, “I guess we are taking a good bit out of you with this.” And Bey breathed a sigh of relief.
    “Thank you, my cousin,” he said, and opened his eyes, then swayed a little. “I see now why we wear the talismans,” he continued, with a dry chuckle. “It is not only to hide ourselves from your magic, it is to protect ourselves from your magic. It is very powerful. You may not be my equal in arms, my cousin, but you are my superior in this. It seems there are warriors of the mind as well as warriors of the knife.” He bowed a little and swayed again, catching himself with one hand on the floor. “I believe . . . I should go and lie down now.”
    He got up, slowly and carefully, and staggered a pace or two until he could get one hand on the wall. As he leaned against the wall and took slow, deep breaths, clearly trying to find some strength, Mags was torn—should he go and help the young assassin? But that would put Mags right within easy striking range of a killer who could have been feigning all of this. How easy it would be to lure him on and on, then pretend weakness, so that he could get Mags close enough to do anything he wanted to.
    “Stay where you are, my cousin,” Bey said, waving at him. “A momentary weakness will not harm me. I will go to my rest place. I will return at dawn, I think. This time I will warn you.” He toed the talisman toward Mags. “Or rather, your familiar will warn you. I will leave this with you so that you may know I am honest. Sleep well, my cousin. We