The Way of the Black Beast Read Free Page A

at such a young age and having been tossed aside by the bastard magicians Jarik and Callib, Malja had no desire to be educated on that topic.
    "Why do you believe I want to kill you?"
    Malja held out the Nolan coin. "I found this on the body of your assassin."
    "I see," Ms. Nolan said with a distasteful frown. "Follow me, please."
    The two women walked through a hall lined with ornate paintings of the Corlin countryside. Tommy flitted around them, never taking his eyes off Malja for too long. This time the attention pleased her — it meant the boy would not notice the open booths built into the walls. She had never seen a focus booth before but had heard about them in every starving town she visited.
    Before the Devastation, wealthy people owned private collections of magicians to provide electricity, food, heat, everything. These heartless closets were where the magicians slaved away their days — easy to access by the Masters but out of view to guests. One booth had its door closed. Malja thought Ms. Nolan was about to comment on this, but she closed her mouth while observing Tommy. She's noticed the tattoo.
    "In here," she said and opened a heavy door carved with the Korstrian symbol — four lines intersecting to form an intricate M. At least, Malja always thought it looked like an M.
    Ms. Nolan took one step, stopped, and faced Malja with a look of concern more unnerving than her contorted grin. "We call this the Dry Room. Perhaps," she said, tapping her lips like a worried grandmother, "the boy should wait out here."
    "He goes with me."
    "I understand; however, in this room—"
    "He goes with me," Malja said, her patience dying.
    "Very well."
    As Malja entered, she saw the horrible reason Ms. Nolan wanted Tommy outside. An emaciated woman clung to the thick, wooden bars of a cage. The cage, shaped like an enormous egg, had wooden spikes pointing in and out — the woman could not escape and nobody could help her. Madness drenched her. She howled as if calling the moon and followed the mournful sound with an abrasive cough. She tore a strip of gray cloth from her shredded dress and coughed mucous into it. When she attempted to reach through the bars, Malja saw the tattoo — a bluish swirling like the wind blowing through clouds or a tide splashing the rocks.
    Malja glanced down at Tommy. He spied the woman from behind Malja — curious, but scared. Not for the first time, she wondered how old he really was. Based on his height, the little bit of fuzz on his upper lip, and his odor, she placed him at twelve, on the cusp of puberty. His reactions, though, ranged from the cold pragmatism of a seasoned warrior to the trembling fear of an abused child. The latter appeared to be winning out now.
    "Enough," Malja said, her firmness snapping Tommy from his fear as well as re-focusing her own purpose. "Tell me why you sent that man, or I'll just kill you and forget about it all."
    "Do you solve all your problems by killing?"
    Malja held still. The question had plagued her thoughts for some time now. She hated killing. She believed that. Each time she cut open an enemy, part of her became less than before, made her smaller. Yet, if she wanted to be honest, killing did solve a lot of her problems. She often eased her worries by remembering that violence ruled the world around her. No governments. No laws. She killed to survive.
    Ms. Nolan walked to the cage with an arrogant stride, but stopped just shy of the madwoman's reach. Speaking firmly but in a calm, controlled tone — a warrior's tone used to command but not agitate — she said, "I didn't hire anyone to kill you."
    "This coin calls you a liar."
    "No, it calls you naïve. Do you think I'm stupid? Why would I pay an assassin with a coin that identifies me?"
    "You think someone wanted me to think it was you?"
    For a breath, Ms. Nolan's eyes lost focus as if she had lost herself in some indulgent memory. With a sudden sadness, she said, "I wish you were right, but I think