It was far too late to be traveling. However, that was the safest option for Rico, Christen, and myself. Personally, I myself don't mind traveling at night, I even prefer it, because though at night,Bandits and cutthroats, For me there were far more dangers that I needed to concern myself with. Half-breeds wishing for my death, old friends seeking my blood in vengeance, and likely many desperate fools I didn't yet know of wishing only to grab the silver from around my neck. I didn't want to be sleeping when they came for me.

However, between the capital, and Lord Necanda's villa, there was little in the way of shelter. The fields spread out, broken by Lake Artis, and one small farming village which likely still remembered me best for the slaying of their local priest. Artis would have been nice to rest in though. Shame it was now nothing but a smouldering pile of debris on the bottom of the lake.

“Stiri,We need to rest...” Christen said.

“Rico's resting.” I said. It was true. To extend the amount of time we could travel in a day, we had taken turns sleeping in the caravan while the others led the horses. The only problem about this was that neither Christen, nor Rico were able to handle the horses. This meant that I stayed most of the day, while they took turns sleeping. I rested the horses and slept a few hours before morning came, and just after noon, we were gone again.

“We need a real rest.” Christen replied. “I can't sleep properly in the caravan, and neither can Rico... And even you are used to more sleep, more rest, aren't you?”

In truth, I was tired. We had already spent three days travelling like this, with little food to eat, and with the cold winds cutting through us. The winter was threatening to come. Just the other night, As Christen slept, Rico and I saw the snow, the first snow of the winter start to fall. It was gone before Christen woke up, but all the same, it was snow, and it was cold. It had been too long since I had sat before a proper fire, and ate a proper meal.

I took a deep drink from my flask. I still had something to keep me warm. “Lake Artis should be before us.”

“The city is gone.”

“I know that!” I snapped. “I know that. But we're more likely to be able to find some shelter there, somewhere we can hide the caravan, somewhere we can have at least a small fire...” As I thought of Artis, now only a cold lake. I thought of very large fires, and devoured lives, homes, memories. “We will have to take out chances there with a full days' rest. If we continue like this another day, we won't be fit to defend ourselves from anything.”

“And if the half-Breed comes back-”

A muffled grunt came from the caravan. A moment later, the window behind me slid open. Rico stuck his head out of the caravan. “It's not morning yet...”

“No, it's not. You can sleep until sunrise, you know.”

Rico lay his head on the windowsill. I remembered when I first stole the caravan, I myself had built a window right behind the driver's seat, and I had even designed it to slide open, rather than to swing; in case the caravan was surrounded, and I needed to shoot some people with swift arrows from within.

“I can't sleep.” Rico said. “It's too cold, and everything moves to much. You're weapons seem like they might fall on me if I close my eyes for too long.”

“Nothing will fall. I have everything in there secured well. Not a jar of poison will slide out of place.”

“I'm not worried about the poison, I'm more worried about your little collection of swords swinging over my head.”

I stifled a yawn and rubbed the bridge of my nose. “Rico. Quiet.” I said. “Look. We'll be setting up a proper camp soon... hopefully... We'll rest better then.”

“A proper camp?”

“We're going to where Artis used to be.” Christen said.

Yes, we were going to where Artis used to be. Where Foster used to be. Where he died, and for the first time in a very long time a true fear was born. As Christen and Rico broke into their soft chatter, I again paused to examine my new fear, as a jeweler might examine a gem, as Foster might have examined his scrolls. A fear of my own stupidity.

On that night, only a few nights ago when I ran into the castle to kill the damned half-breed, something inside me had changed. Something broke. The cool logic that Foster, that Almond had taught me was abandoned and I ran in rage to kill the halfling Tenlon, whom I knew I could not kill.

And even now thinking of Foster, of Tenlon caused a nearly tangible, physical pain in my head. A bitter taste in my mouth as my tongue itched to whisper Foster's name, as though to bring his burnt corpse from the bottom of the lake, or to spit out Tenlon's name and someone curse him to the lowest level of the underworld.

I had become one of those fools who runs up to an unbeatable enemy because they've been hurt. A stupid idea of vengeance or loyalty, driving one to sacrifice one's life. A most dangerous kind of fool.

And yet, even though I knew this, even though I felt as thought I had a grasp on logic once more, and thought I seemed calm, I still desired to see Tenlon's head on a pike, I still wished for my dagger to taste his flesh. I wanted to seek him out and slay him.

The question popped to my mind before I could stop it, or drown it: Is this how Almond felt after I slew Cara.

Though I had no answer, a sick feeling started to ebb into my stomach, sweet, sticky, and heavy as a rock. What was that? Guilt? Why should I feel guilt: I was simply the hired weapon when she died.

However, hired weapons don't chase after halflings on their own, do they?

***

The grey light of dawn finally covered the still sleeping land. The lake was in sight, and I could see, to my surprise, that a new village was beginning to grow around the edge of the lake. The houses were small, poor houses with nothing but one room for each. Well, save for the house of the one facilitating the building of the new village. I was sure that that person, of course, would have a very lovely house to live in for sure.

I turned to see if Christen had yet woken up. She had fallen asleep just before the last star twinkled out of existence. Rico also seemed to have been able to sleep inside the caravan after exhaustion pulled him into slumber. I was the only one left awake. I could have slept, or I could have woken up Christen or Rico and told them to take over. However, the village was so close, I was sure I could make it there and find somewhere to hide my caravan, some food for the day, and perhaps even a job for later in the night. Yes, it was a poor little village, but I was sure that there were people who wanted the founder, whoever he was, out of the way.

My stomach churned. I remembered the night of my first assassination. Maybe it was because I had so recently told the story to Christen that the memory was so fresh. I remembered coming back to the camp, covered in the blood of the pregnant woman. That I hadn't told Christen. Afterwards I never told her how Cara was there, counting out a few golden coins that she had taken earlier that night. How old was I then, at the time of my first kill? Twelve Eleven? I didn't know. I didn't know my own birthdate, let alone my name.

Cara brought a bowl of water to the fireplace, and I cleaned the blood off as best as I could, slowly trying to scrub all the blood away, the skin away, trying to wash myself away. It hadn't been like the stories that Almond had told. No the stories Almond had told me were heroic, where people died quickly, pathetically. Fat old men begging for their lives at his feet, fearless warriors falling before his simple dagger. He didn't tell stories of women, standing, asking for only a few more months of life.

How my hands had shaken in the water, how clearly I remembered that. I remembered better how cold my hands were, colder than the rest of me though they had been resting in hot water, warmed by the fire only moments ago. Cara knelt down next to me, and took me by the shoulders. Gently, she pulled me into her arms and held me tightly. Then, she whispered into my ears: 'Assassin's are weapons, Stiri. You cannot blame a knife or arrow for the actions of the one who used it.'

I looked up at the dull sky. At the time, it had been what I needed to hear. At the time, it sustained me. It made me able to face each day, a heartless assassin. It allowed me to follow in Almond's footsteps. Even now, when I worked, when I took lives, I thought, 'I am not doing this to you. This is not my fault. Blame the one who sent me.' However, Weapons didn't attack on their own either. So, what did that make me? Something was different. Something changed.