From Sickly Dodger and the City of Assassins . . .
"The jimmied window slid upwards as delicately as a surgeon making the first incision. Gloved hands reached through, pulling a lithe figure forward into the darkened bedroom.
Two booted feet sank into the shag rug as softly as snowflakes landing on a feather.
They crossed the room, pausing only as their owner unhooked a razor thin wire tied to an alarm bell.
The intruder arrived at the moon-limned bed where a man lay, wrapped in blankets of wool and sleep.
A smoky grey blade flourished into view over the dreamer's neck. With this barest of noises, the would-be victim turned over, brow furrowed.
The world held its breath. A snore escaped the target's lips. Above, the knife hovered.
Sickly Dodger paused a moment, shifted the angle of the knife, and made an experimental swing through the air, rather like a golfer readying a drive from the first tee.
He frowned, examining the blade for an invisible speck of dust. He adjusted again, and took a second practice swipe. He closed his eyes, raised the knife and . . . stopped.
He stared down at the peaceful face of a middle-aged man, sighed, and sheathed the knife. His father would not have hesitated, he knew.
The proctors from the Assassins’ Guild grading his performance tonight would not be pleased. An assassin who couldn't kill was no assassin at all.
He ran a hand through his tousled black hair.
"Shite. It's your lucky day, mate," he whispered, at last. His stomach back-flipped.
He had always known deep down that he didn't have it in him.
The hairs on the back of Sickly's neck bowed under a slight change in air pressure. He turned just in time to see someone else dart through the window. . ."
