Free The White Dragon by Laura Resnick Page A

Aljuna, so he hoped the pirate wasn't dead or in chains. Aljuna reputedly led a dangerous life even apart from risking the wrath of Outlooker patrols. It was whispered that he had business with the Honored Society. If that was the case, Tansen's grandfather said, then the less they knew—or even thought—about it, the better. But Tansen did think about it. Who did not think about the Society, after all?
    He had not yet told anyone of his own ambitions to become an assassin, not even his grandfather. He knew his family would worry, might even object, considering what a dangerous life it was. But he was strong and quick, a good fighter compared to others his age. What else was there for him in Sileria, if not the Society and the life of an assassin?  
    His clan's bloodfeud with the Sirdari was finally over. The Sirdari had even given a bride to Gamalan in honor of the truce. So Tansen wouldn't be required to slice open his palm and pledge vengeance against that clan. Instead, he could choose his own destiny. He could go to a waterlord and offer his loyalty, his service, his life. Perhaps he would gain entry into the Society by fulfilling a bloodvow, by killing the enemy of a waterlord. Not only would it put his talents to better use than smuggling—or, he thought with disdain, than tending sheep—but it would also enable him to protect and care for his family.
    Tansen yawned sleepily, then realized with disgust that the night was nearly gone. Sitting here dreaming about being inducted into the Honored Society wasn't accomplishing anything. And if he got so tired he fell asleep on the beach, even the Outlookers were bound to notice him once the sun rose. He got up and quietly started heading back toward the hidden trail he'd used to descend the cliffs hours ago.  
    Tansen froze when he heard one rock strike another softly in the dark, as if displaced by a foot moving over the uneven ground. He had kept to the shadows and felt sure he had made no sound to betray his presence—but not sure enough to bet his life on it. When more stones shifted, his hand moved to his yahr , preparing to use it if necessary. He had never killed a man and didn't want the first time to be tonight. There would, of course, be a first time—for a shallah , there inevitably was—but he didn't especially want it to be now, alone in the dark, on a failed smuggling run, with Outlookers crawling all over the beach.
    Please, Dar, he prayed devoutly, let that be another smuggler I hear.
    Being caught by an Outlooker would be too humiliating. And killing one... Well, that would cause a lot more trouble than it was worth. The Valdani rarely interfered with Silerians killing each other, but they were so ruthless in punishing even the slightest offense against a Valdan that no one dared actually murder one. Tansen didn't think anyone had killed an Outlooker since the days of Harlon the waterlord some thirty years ago.
    He considered his options for escape, in case that was an Outlooker stalking him in the dark rather than another smuggler trying, as he was, to go unnoticed.  
    Now several rocks slid against each other at once.
    If that's a smuggler, he's a very noisy one , Tansen thought critically.
    He heard a stumble, a fall—and a stifled sound of pain.
    Not an Outlooker. Surely an Outlooker would call for help?
    This was someone who, like Tansen, wanted to keep his presence on the coast tonight a secret; someone who didn't want the Outlookers to catch him.  
    Another smuggler, then? Tansen thought it would be better not to get involved, better to escape quietly before more Outlookers happened along. But what if it was an assassin? Someone from the Society, who would remember the young shallah who had helped him tonight, and who would perhaps even bring Tansen to the attention of a waterlord?  
    Suddenly, it seemed worth the risk. Tansen decided to approach the unseen figure and, if it wasn't an Outlooker, offer assistance.
    He crept closer to where