Assassin's Heart (Assassin's Heart, #1)(43)

I poked through his collection. Everything was serviceable and well maintained, but his collection was limited.

He chuckled in disbelief. “What else could I need?”

I dug through the pouches and pockets in my leathers and cloak and through my sheaths and weapons bags, which held much of what he’d laid before me, but also included brass knuckles, multiple knives, daggers and stilettos of varying weight and length, a collapsible blow dart tube and darts, a set of bolos on the off chance my mark fled, my sword, and of course, my large pouch of poisons.

“Why would I ever need all of this to drop a mark?”

“Not all of this is for marks. Some of this is for other clippers.”

His eyes flicked to mine. “Is that a common problem in Lovero? Clippers killing clippers?”

I wiped a speck of dust off the blade of my sword. “I’m here in Yvain, aren’t I?”

He nodded and returned to examining my weapons. “And this?” He pointed at the pouch.

“My poisons. Where are yours?”

He shook his head. “Master refused to teach me. He said I was more likely to poison myself or him than a mark.”

“Hmm.” A lot of clippers disdained poison, thinking it weak, or requiring no skill. But the truth was the opposite. Poison took more skill and knowledge than any of my other weapons. And often it took much more skill to get close enough to a mark to poison them, unseen, and escape, than it did to, say, leap off a roof, land on a mark, and sink a needle into their heart. “Where’s your sword?”

“I don’t have one. Just my cutter.” He tapped his knife affectionately.

“Well, if we’re going to make a true clipper out of you, you’re going to need a sword at the least. Every other clipper will have one, and I don’t care how long your arms are, that cutter’s not going to pull it off against them.”

He probed at the gap in his teeth with his tongue. “Master has a few in our weapons storage.”

“Then I’ll expect you to bring one tomorrow.”

He smirked, then turned away.

“What?” I asked.

He shook his head, hiding his smile. “It’s nothing.”

I felt my cheeks redden beneath my mask. “Tell me!”

“It’s only . . . look, it’s nothing. You just sounded like my master right then.”

“Oh. Well, our Family’s training has been handed down through the generations, so I’m sure what I’m telling you is very similar to what he was told. He’s been stopping himself from teaching you too much. Which is stupid. Why would he teach you enough to get in trouble but not necessarily enough to get out of trouble?”

His eyes narrowed. “I can get myself out of trouble.”

I waved my hand. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. I simply mean, it seems sloppy to train someone without finishing them. It’s dangerous. And cruel, too.”

“He’s an immovable rock when he wants to be. There was no changing his mind no matter how hard I pushed.”

If Marcello was really so stubborn, then how would Alessio get the Da Vias’ location from him? How would I change his mind and convince him to join me?

Les continued, “And then I’d start to worry he’d grow so angry that he’d leave me like he’d left his family in Lovero, and I . . . I couldn’t have that.”

I had a hard time believing my uncle would abandon Alessio over an argument. “He didn’t leave his Family. He was banished. Didn’t he ever tell you?”

Alessio shook his head. “No. He just said there was a falling-out with his Family and that he couldn’t ever go home again. Will you tell me?”

“I don’t know.”

His eyebrows creased. “How can you not know?”

“It was before my time. All I know is he was forced out for killing the head of our Family, his uncle. I don’t know why he did it, what could have driven him to take his own Family’s blood, but we weren’t allowed to speak about him.”

“Ever?”

I shrugged. “Ever.”

“That seems cruel.”

“He killed his uncle, his own flesh and blood. There is cruelty in that, too.”

We stared at each other. We had reached an impasse. This training session wasn’t starting as I’d imagined. One more thing I couldn’t do right.

Rafeo would make a joke, but I didn’t know any jokes. Father and Matteo would’ve known better and wouldn’t have found themselves in this place of pregnant silence.

“Can I see your mask?” Alessio’s question jostled me out of my rumination.

“I suppose.” I lifted it off my face and handed it to him.

He examined it closely in the fading light. “It’s cracked.”

I nodded. “I think it happened in the fight. Or the fire. I’m not sure which.”

He rubbed his thumb against the crack and across the eyeholes. I was glad of the darkening sky so he couldn’t see me blush.

“Why did you pick these stripes?” He traced the black marks on the left side of the mask.

“I didn’t.”

“Don’t you choose the pattern? Or am I mixing it up with the color?”

“No, you’re right. The color is signified by Family. Black for Saldana; red for Da Via; orange for the Accurso in the region of Brescio; gray for Bartolomeo, who cover Triesta to Parmo; purple for Caffarelli in the city of Lilyan; yellow for Maietta in Reggia, Calabario, and Modeni; brown for Addamo in Genoni; blue for Zarella in the farmlands; and green for Gallo in the far south. Sapienza, the royal line, has gold, though they don’t actually clip people. Their masks are for ceremony only.