Chapter One: Prove Your Worth
The head table was a broad crescent of dull marble. It fanned out imperiously across the raised platform and was steeped in shadow along with the seven members sitting around it. The Chiefs were faint silhouettes against the the background of plain, pounded steel. Taran snorted derisively and shook his head at the dramatic quality of the large auditorium.
A voice issued from among them, though it was impossible to tell from who.
"Attitude," commented a woman, as if she were remarking on the temperament of a thoroughbred race horse.
"Sadly, some," agreed Drake, stepping up right beside Taran. Compared to his young, wiry apprentice, Drake was aging and thick with muscle. His unruffled Chilean features masked a silent fury that boiled in him. Taran could sense his anger beneath the man's cool appearance and did not look at him.
"Cockiness is a poor trait in our line of work, Taran," said another voice.
"Emotion is the ink of all great writers," countered Drake, "the rhythm of all great musicians and the fire of all great warriors. Taran is ready, despite what he may seem."
"That's a lovely prepared speech, Master Drake," came the woman's voice again, dripping with scorn. The figure at the head of the table suddenly waved her hand, denoting her as the Legate of the Council. "Let's commence this session. Lords of the Council, we are here today to consider Taran Lewis for the rank of Brother within the Assassin's International Order. The advocator in this case is Master Drake, Summus Emmisarius of the South American Bureau and Paedegogus of Taran. We will begin with the advocate's testimonial. Master Drake, you have the floor."
"Thank you, Legate. Regulus Buleutarium, Council of Lords, thank you for having us." Taran suppressed a mocking grin at his Paedegogus's mannerly conduct. The Chilean avoided making eye-contact with Taran, lacing his every word with benevolence. Perhaps, pondered Taran, only he could see how fake Drake's altruism was.
Drake continued on.
"Ladies and gentlemen, Tiro Taran is a virtuoso of our trade. As you probably already know, he has lived the lives of five assassins, three of whom remain icons of our Order: Wei Yu of the Han Dynasty, Qulan Gal of Mongolia, and Yusuf Tazim of Constantinople. Each has instructed him in the history of our order and the legacy that it is our duty to protect. More importantly, though, they have augmented his physical and intangible skills.
"Believe everything you have heard. The boy is an excellent marksman and a master of parkour. In the Presto-Simulation, he scored an excellent ninety-seven our of one-hundred in his shooting. He broke the obstacle course record at the Bureau Headquarters in Santiago de Chile, New York, Copenhagen, and Chiang Mai in the same two week period. His 40-yard dash time is just above four seconds and he remains a challenge to free-run and free-climb professionals around the world.
"But that is not all. He is fluent in English, Spanish, Dutch and Mandarin. He has developed contacts inside multiple international circles including Drug Cartels and Corporate Executives, as well as National Defense Institutions like the CIA and MI6. To showcase his abilities, I have supervised his completion of four contracts with no aid required. Taran developed and executed each on his own, perfectly meeting the specifications for each kill.
"You may argue that a nineteen year-old is too young for Brother Assassin status. You will want to know more about his current casualty ratios, but I beg you to listen to him and see reason. Keeping him under my wing stifles his potential. I hope that you will see fit to elevate him from Tiro to Consor, from Apprentice to Brother, and allow his education to continue as he supports our cause."
Taran chewed his cheek bashfully. Fake or not, he'd never Drake sing his praises so lavishly. The term virtuoso the only way to explain Drake, who himself was one of the best agents in the Order. His title Summus Emissarius literally meant Supreme Agent, denoting him as the premier assassin for contracts in South America. While he still submitted to the Regulus Bule and the Bureau Mater of South America (Mother of the South American Bureau) he was given liberty to pursue his contracts in any way he saw fit. Also, his advice on carrying out contracts was above even the Regulus Bule, who merely chose targets and not methods.
After a short pause, the Legatus spoke. "Well said, Master Drake. I think I speak for the Council when I say that we submit to your opinion of Taran's abilities and potential."
"We have followed his progress for some time," commented another woman, her voice tinkling with feminine energy.
"Too handsome, I'd say," said another, turning the focus of the conversation to within the Regulus Bule, ignoring Taran and Drake's presence.
"The cockiness is palpable, is it not?"
"Indeed. A classic example of the disease."
"You and your intolerance for cockiness, my friend!" opposed a surly man on the right of the table. "What active member of our order is not cocky? It takes a superior type of being, even in our modern gun culture, to succeed as an assassin."
A woman leaned closed to the surly man, saying, "What he wants, dearest, is a hero who doesn't know he's a hero."
"Plenty are naturally like that. Don't underestimate the power of modesty!"
"Any illusion of modesty in our line of work is a sham," said the surly man. "For your part, don't ignore the link between cockiness and ability."
"None here are cocky in the same sense," replied a thin, pointed man from across the table. His enigmatic silhouette, all that was visible of him, leaned forward with long fingers intertwined. "Still, we were all assassins once. What does that say about us? And about experience?"
"That may be right Don, but I would say that you're boldness originates from a partiality towards ordering the deaths of your enemies. Don't imagine for a second that you are not cocky."
Don clucked. "That would be another matter. Regardless, my issue with Taran is that his cockiness is vibrant and intoxicating. Age and wisdom will teach him the error of his ways."
"Yes," interrupted the Legatus, "that is the crux of the conversation. Taran is arrogant, but is it an arrogance best learned from further apprenticeship or from working as a Brother?"
Taran smoldered silently for long enough. Drake had not honey-coated how the Regulus Bule functioned or how they would approach his case, but it didn't stay the pain. The sensation of being inhuman, of having particularly finite worth, was a pain to experience.
"Stop!" he ordered suddenly. Drake grabbed his shoulder as the Regulus Bule became utterly silent, watching him intensely. He shrugged off Drake's shoulder and stepped closer to the Council table. "Enough. Stop acting like I can't hear you."
Silence reigned over the auditorium. Finally, the Legate stood and walked around the table into the light, holding a cream-colored file in hand. She appeared haggard and waxy in her suit-skirt and plain flats. She stopped before Taran, looking up into his eyes like a snake waiting, coiled, over a busy rabbit warren. When she spoke, the Legate's voice was emotionless.
"Boy. It is unprecedented that we are even considering to promote a nineteen year-old to the status of Brother Assassin. The rank requires such profound dedication. Do you believe you are ready for that commitment?"
"I am ready," retorted Taran.
"So you believe," said the surly man.
"Tell me," continued the Legate, "the first tenet of our creed."
"Stay your hand from the the blood of innocents," Taran replied, his jaw tightening.
"Indeed. Then tell me, why did you achieve excessive casualty rates in completing your four contracts? Your file shows a total of twenty-five deaths in executing four contracts. That is an average of over five innocents per target."
Taran cleared his throat. "I apologize for how my Mark Reports might look. But I have explanations."
"And I know them," she interrupted, opening the file. "Let's see here. Target: Burmese politician, location: unspecified, method required: freak and tragic accident. Your decision? Level a building under construction onto his head. Execution: successful. Casualties: eleven."
"Yes, but -"
"Target: journalist, location: Afghanistan, method required: friendly fire. Your decision? Instigate a skirmish between Afghan and British forces. Execution: successful. Casualties: six."
"I didn't -"
"Target: BP executive, location: unspecified, method required: high-profile and/or shock and awe. Your decision? To infiltrate the Transamerica Pyramid Office Suite in San Francisco. Execution: successful. Casualties: four. Not to mention, of course, that the hit went viral and you placed yourself on the CIA's most wanted list until I, personally, had it swabbed. from the record."
"I can explain those," said Taran.
"Mark reports don't lie," tittered one woman.
"They don't explain the circumstances!"
"What they present, Taran, is a pattern of reckless death," scolded the Legate, silencing the other councillors with a piercing glance. "If any of these cases were a rare occurrence, I might be willing to hear your excuses. But not today."
With that she turned on her heel and returned back to her seat. When she finally sat, she cleared her throat and continued.
"As Legate of the Regulus Buleutarium, I motion for a vote on the present case: whether to promote Taran Lewis to the rank of Brother Assassin. All those in opposition, raise your hands."
Seven silhouettes raised their right arms.
Taran rolled his eyes and gnawed violently at the inside of his cheek, tasting blood.
"Before we conclude our meeting," said the Legate hesitantly, "I would like to add this statement, for the record...and for you, Taran.
"I have seen your psychological reviews, and physical and intellectual assessments. You are qualified for this position in many respects. But age and experience will hone the sensibility you very much need. The rank of Brother or Sister Assassin demands an appreciation for death that those who have not fully experienced life cannot grasp. In this case, we are setting the precedent for not accepting candidates too young for the position. That is not to say we are basing our decision on anything more or less than your skill and temperament; we deem that you are too inexperienced to have acquired all the skills necessary to for our Order. We anxiously await the day that you will assume the robes and join our Order as a fellow rather than as an apprentice.
"Do either of you have any last words for the Regulus Bule?"
Taran did not bat an eye. Without a word, he turned on his heel and strode toward the exit. Drake, his face contorted in anger, bowed to the Council and followed Taran out.