Sacred Knight of the Veil (43 page)

"What about when that woman finds out that he will never be her lover? I think it is only her desire for Blade that makes her treat us well. She will make us all pay."

"She already knows," Blade murmured.

"You told her? What did she say?"

"That she would not bother me again."

"She was not angry?"

Blade shook his head. "I did not think she would be, actually. Considering her hatred for the Cotti, hearing more of their atrocities would make her hate them more, not us. She thinks we are all their victims."

Kerra opened her mouth to reply, but a bandit pushed open the tent flap and dumped three bowls of stew and a chunk of bread on the floor, ending the conversation.

Chapter Twenty Three

Kerrion looked up as Jadar entered his study, setting aside the papers he had been reading. Since returning to Jadaya, he had busied himself catching up with the work that had been left undone in his absence, while he waited for news of his wife. A niggling concern that Trelath may still have Minna ate at him. If that was the case, he should be out searching for her, but the possibility that Blade had freed her kept him in the palace. If he was not here when she returned, she may fall foul of his brothers again.

Each day that she did not return increased his worry, and horrors filled his dreams. Until he knew she was safe, he could do nothing, so Chiana remained at Endor's mercy. He had received no news from the Regent, but that was undoubtedly due to the Prince's control of her. He longed to congratulate her for sending Blade to free Minna, but the danger of alerting Endor and putting her in more danger frustrated him. The less his brothers knew about what was going on, the better, and he did not think Trelath would inform Endor if Blade had stolen Minna. What puzzled him was how Chiana had persuaded the assassin to take on such a dangerous task.

Jadar stopped before his desk and bowed. "My King."

"What news?"

"Nothing of great import, I am afraid. Prince Chaymin remains at Lord Rothgar's estate. No messengers have been there, nor has his familiar left him. Prince Trelath has travelled to several small towns, but as yet has not led us to his new hiding place."

"If he has one," Kerrion muttered. "His movements seem to indicate that he has lost her. But why has she not returned yet, if that is the case?"

"He probably knows that he is being followed, Sire. Even if he has not seen the spies, he would expect it."

"Yes. So you think he still has her?"

Jadar shrugged. "It is safer to assume the worst, Sire."

"And hope for the best."

"Indeed. Perhaps this rescuer is being cautious, and waiting for an opportune moment to return your wife. After all, if Prince Trelath finds him, he will be executed for slaying Prince Ronan."

"Or he is in some sort of trouble. My dreams are filled with visions of my wife dying of thirst out there, Jadar. Or being captured by bandits and abused. I can hardly sleep anymore."

Jadar nodded. "I understand. Yet you seem to respect this assassin. Surely he would be able to take care of her?"

"I respect his ability to kill, in that regard he is without peer. But he is Jashimari. He does not know the desert."

"Surely he would take no chances, knowing what would happen if he should allow your wife die, Sire."

Kerrion sighed and rubbed his brow. "I wish that was so, but in truth, he would not care if the kingdoms were plunged back into war. All he cares about is earning the fee he has been offered, and I do not know what that is."

"She was once his queen, Sire. He would not let her die, surely?"

"Unfortunately that is not true. Although I do not believe he would kill her, I also do not think he would care if she died."

"He must care about the reward he was offered," Jadar pointed out.

"Yes, and it must be considerable, to bring him out of retirement."

"Then we can only hope and pray."

Kerrion nodded. "And worry."

Blade gazed at the distant town through the spyglass that Asrah had given him, then handed it back to her. She tucked it away in her belt and cocked her head.

"So, when will you go?"

He glanced at the lowering sun. "Tonight, but it may take several days to accomplish."

"We'll wait here for your return."

"And you won't allow your men to molest my charges?"

"You're in no position to make demands, assassin." Asrah smiled. "But no, they won't. And remember, I want him to die slowly, as my mother did."

"I won't beat him to death, but he will suffer." He turned and started back towards the camp. "I'll have to renew my disguise, and I'll need my money back, so I can buy the things I don't have."

She cast him a puzzled glance. "What things? You wait for him in a dark alley and stab him, it's simple."

"If it was so simple, any idiot with a knife could do it. I would risk injury, and a fight would alert the Watch. My way has no risk of injury or discovery. That's what assassins do best."

"Then how do you intend to do it?"

"Clients don't have the right to know how an assassin will make his kill."

She smiled. "Tricks of the trade, hmmmm?"

"Exactly."

"What assurance do I have that you won't run away?"

"Only my word. But you can kill him yourself, if you like."

Asrah kicked the sand. "I would, but his hound knows my scent."

"Do you think you could?"

"I've killed men before."

"In combat."

"Yes."

Blade nodded. "It's different to kill a man in cold blood. More difficult."

"How do you do it?"

He shrugged. "I have no pity."

"I wouldn't pity him."

"I'm certain he does not deserve your pity, but beware that your bitterness does not sour your existence."

"As it has yours."

He stopped and turned to face her, squinting as the slanting rays of the sunset stabbed his eyes. "Had I been able to choose a different path, I wouldn't be what I am today."

She gazed past him, her expression bitter. "My path is also set, and my father moulded me into what I am. You'll have everything you need, I'll see to it."

Asrah turned and strode away towards the camp, and after a pause, Blade followed.

Several time-glasses later, he rode through a bustling town to the address Asrah had given him, stabled his horse in a nearby livery and found an inn down the street. His Cotti disguise had been renewed, and he wore his jelabah over his leather clothes, since the night air was chill. As soon as he had locked his pack in his room, he found a suitable rooftop and settled down to watch the rather grand house in a quiet street. Affluent merchants usually dwelt in this sort of abode, though it was not as imposing as its Jashimari equivalent.

Asrah had told him that her father had guards, but he could find none, which meant they were inside. He had decided that he would not kill Zendril at home, due to the number of dogs that shared it with him. On this night, Zendril remained at home, however, and when all the lights had been extinguished within the mansion, Blade left his perch and returned to the inn for a meal and some sleep.

The following day, he found a merchant who sold cosmetics and bought the necessary items for his next disguise, then spent the remainder of the day resting in his room. Assassinations took a lot out of him, so he found it beneficial to rest and eat well beforehand. At dusk, he returned to his perch and watched the house once more. This time, his patience was rewarded when Zendril left on foot with two bodyguards and a vicious looking hound at his side.

Blade followed them to a prosperous looking brothel at the far end of the street, where Zendril spent several time-glasses before returning home. The bodyguards spent their time in a taproom across the road, which pleased the assassin. Apparently the merchant thought himself safe in the brothel, which undoubtedly had hired men to protect its clients, as many did. This did not bother Blade, since no one would suspect that an assassination was being carried out when it happened. The lack of street harlots hampered him, however. All Cotti whores belonged to brothels, which forced him to make his move inside the establishment. Blade slipped into the whorehouse and toured it, selecting the best room for his purpose.

The following night, he unpacked the hated disguise in his room, setting out the items on the bed. Although he had done it many times before, he still found the transformation unpleasant and disturbing. Becoming a Cotti whore was particularly difficult, since they wore little clothing, unlike their Jashimari counterparts. Despite the chilly nights, brothels were warmed, and their inmates disported themselves in near nudity. He had bathed earlier in the day, scrubbing off any male odour, and inhibiting its return with scented powder in his armpits.

Stripping to his baggy flannel shorts, he donned the tight top that Cotti women wore. Two small water bags filled out the bosom, and he padded his hips with swaddling cloths to give himself a buxom figure. Over this, he wrapped a length of red silk in the Cotti manner, formed it into a pleated skirt and draped the end over his shoulder, thereby concealing his ridged belly. Since the outfit offered few places to conceal his daggers, he secreted two in the padding. He used a dagger to scrape the hair off his legs below the knee, wondering if his muscular arms would betray him. To ensure that they did not, and to disguise the pale skin of his back, he added a gossamer shawl to his ensemble.

That done, he settled before the speckled mirror and glued on the long blond wig, then applied the kohl to his eyes before reddening his lips with berry juice and dusting his eyelids with pink powder, which he also used on his cheeks. Rummaging in a pack, he took out several cheap glass bead necklaces and put them on, slipping some brass bangles onto his wrists. He forced a pair of cheap earrings into the long-unused holes in his ears, which had closed up so much that it hurt. Cursing, he resolved to purchase a pair of gold rings to keep the holes open, the sort that men sometimes wore.

Each time he had donned the female disguise, he had sworn it would be the last, now he wondered if that time would ever come. He slipped his feet into a pair of sandals and inspected himself to ensure that he had not missed anything. The mirror showed a robust woman with cold eyes, but it would suffice, though it was not as perfect as his usual disguise. He hoped that Zendril liked strapping women, as many Cotti men did. Satisfied, he picked up the hooded robe he had purchased and put it on over the whore's disguise, turning himself into a Cotti priest.

Cotti women did not venture onto the streets unaccompanied, so he could not walk to the whorehouse dressed as one, and the clothes would hamper any attempt to take the assassin's highway. He may be able to get there using the cover of darkness, but if he was seen, he would be in trouble. As a priest he could walk about freely, and the long robe with its hood hid him completely.

Blade slipped out of the inn's back door and made his way to the dark alley across the road from the whorehouse. Much still remained to chance, for Zendril might not visit the brothel on this night, or the next for that matter. He might even choose to visit a different one. Blade had toyed with the idea of following him, but discarded it as too dangerous.

An assassin did not confront his victim on unknown ground if he wanted to succeed and escape. Blade had ensured that the brothel had an unguarded back door that led into a dark alley, suitable for his exit. Also, the rooms had doors, not curtains, which removed the risk of him being discovered in the act. Normally he would have spent several more days studying his victim, but he disliked being away from the queens, so he was rushing it a bit.

As he had half expected, Zendril did not visit the whorehouse that night, and he returned to the inn to remove the unused disguise. This he did with as much care as he had taken in donning it, ensuring that every vestige was gone. He slept late the next day, exhausted by the nervous energy that had coursed through him the night before, a state of heightened awareness that was akin to a drug.

In the afternoon, he bathed and went through the long process of donning the elaborate disguise once more, hoping that this would be the last time he would have to do it. He waited in vain again, however, and returned to the inn tired and fed up. If his luck was really bad, he might be forced to do this for several more days, a prospect he did not relish.

The next night, he underwent the transformation yet again, taking no less care than he had on the first occasion. Many assassins had perished through laxness, becoming conceited with their prowess or lazy, a mistake he did not intend to make. If he had had more time, he would have learnt how often Zendril frequented the brothel, thereby reducing his need for the disguise to a single occasion.

Blade waited in the dark alley for two time-glasses, as drunken patrons stumbled in and out of the establishment across the road. Two men walked through the alley, and scurried away when they noticed him standing there. Cotti priests were known as Watchers, and claimed to be the eyes of Tinsharon, showing him the evil that existed amongst the populace, which made them unpopular and feared. The disguise made his presence acceptable, and assured his safety.

Blade straightened when the tall, white-haired figure of Zendril entered the whorehouse. His guards wandered on towards the inn down the road. Leaving the shadows, Blade slipped across the street and down the narrow lane to the back of the brothel. Picking the lock on the back door took a few moments, and he headed for one of the rooms upstairs. Choosing the one nearest the stairs, he shed the robe and stuffed it under the bed, then took a vial of cheap, exotic perfume from the padding on his hip and sprinkled it over himself, especially on his skirt.

Blade inspected himself in the mirror, adjusted the beads and arranged the blond tresses so they cascaded over his shoulders, distracting curious eyes from their width. Closing the door behind him, he descended the stairs to the common room with a woman's distinctive swaying walk, scanning the opulent room for his target. There were so many blonde girls thronging the room that his presence would not be noted, and he spied Zendril lounging on a couch, a cup of wine in one hand and a whore's buttocks in the other.