The Queen's Blade Prequel I - Conash: Dead Son (12 page)

“You shouldn't
have grabbed me.”

“All right,
that was a mistake. I only wanted to see if your nose was
broken.”

“It's not,” the
boy retorted.

“Are you a
healer, now?”

“Are you?”

“Actually, I
know a fair bit about injuries. I've had a few, and inflicted a
good deal more.” Talon leant forward. “That kind of reaction is
useful for an assassin, which is why you're still here, and not
lying out there in a gutter. They're not much good to anyone else,
though.”

“They are if
you sleep in a gutter.”

“All right,
maybe. Is that what you want to do for the rest of your short life?
You won't last long.”

Conash looked
away, affecting an air of unconcern. “I don't care, and don't
pretend that you do, either.”

“You don't know
what I feel, boy.”

“I can see it
in your eyes. You have no pity.”

Talon nodded.
“That's true. Pity is no use to an assassin. You don't have any
either.”

“How long are
you going to keep me tied up this time?”

“As long as I
see fit. I intend to talk to you, and you're going to listen.”

“So now you
have a captive audience.”

Talon smiled.
“Indeed. Unpleasant, isn't it?”

The boy tugged
at the ropes and glared.

Chapter Seven

Conash wandered
through the slums, where the shack dwellers went about their daily
business. This seemed to consist of a lot of coughing, hacking and
spitting, followed by cursing, grumbling and scratching. The
vermin-infested huts were home to filthy families clad in rags,
whose bread-winner was usually a beggar or whore, and whose
children were already pickpockets or urchins. Some learnt simple
tricks to amuse the pedestrians, often with the aid of their
familiars, and he was now used to the sight of cats and little dogs
wearing clothes and dancing. It was demeaning for the beasts, but
they did it to help their friends.

A gamin-faced
girl held out a posy of blue hayslips, but he sidestepped her and
wandered on. He had spent two days tied up after he had attacked
the elder assassin, partly as punishment, he guessed, but Talon had
spent much of it talking to him about becoming an assassin, too.
Talon fed him well, and even gave him watered wine to wash down his
dinner. The shack was warm and the bed comfortable, and he now had
a limited selection of worn, second-hand clothes. The elder always
wore black, but insisted that Conash wear other colours, so he
opted for dark blue and grey.

Conash was
expected to keep the shack clean, do his washing and cooking, and
be there to meet Talon every day. The elder used the time to
continue to extol the advantages of becoming an assassin. Conash
had grown accustomed to the idea, although he still disliked it. He
had been living in the hut for two moon-phases now, yet still the
elder had not kicked him out. Talon's brown wolf familiar spent his
time in a shadowy corner of the hut, silent and unobtrusive, so
much so that Conash often forgot the wolf was there.

Conash turned a
corner and headed back towards the shack, not wishing to be late
for his meeting. Although he was still wary of the assassin, he had
come to respect him a little, and if all Talon asked of him was to
meet him at a specified time, he would ensure that he was
there.

Two rough
looking men stepped out in front of him, and he stopped, eyeing
them with suspicious surprise. One wore an eye patch and a lopsided
sneer; the other had a missing ear, a broken nose and a gap-toothed
leer. They were clad in dirty, torn clothes, and knives glinted in
their fists. The boy stepped back, alarmed, then turned and ran
when they strode towards him. He rebounded off something solid and
staggered back, sitting down in the trash with a thud. Another huge
man blocked his escape, grinned and hefted a cudgel.

“Wotcher think,
Gorrel?” the man with the patch drawled. “A pretty boy, hey?”

“He'll do
nicely,” the giant rumbled.

“The master
will pay two goldens for 'im, I reckon,” the broken-nosed man
observed.

Conash glanced
around for a weapon or an escape route, wishing he had a knife or
stick. Talon had forbidden him to carry any form of weapon,
claiming that he would be tempted to use it since he had no
compunction about doing so. Now he wished he had not listened, and
realised that he had done so primarily because of his slave
mentality. He was so used to taking orders he had not considered
that he had a choice in the matter.

Leaping up, he
made a dash for the narrow gap between two shacks, where the big
men would not be able to follow. One man stuck out a foot, and
Conash ploughed into the litter, slicing his palm on something
sharp. He gripped it, his fingers closing around a piece of glass,
and whipped around as one of the thugs grabbed the back of his
jacket and lifted him. The boy lashed out, slicing the man's arm,
and the thug dropped him with a curse. Another man lunged at him,
grabbing his arm, and he tried to stab him, but the third man
caught his wrist and twisted it.

Conash gasped
and dropped the broken bottle, then snarled and sank his teeth into
the cutthroat's arm. The man growled and punched him, making stars
flash in his eyes. He was back in the garden outside his house,
where Cotti warriors attacked him with flashing swords and
crimson-tipped spears, wet with his father's blood. A red tide of
hatred and fury washed away his reason and replaced it with a feral
need to survive. He became the cat that had saved him at the duck
pond. Claws sprouted from his fingertips and fangs filled his
mouth. He snarled and lashed out with curled fingers, lunging to
snap at his assailants. The banshee battle wail of a wood cat rent
the air.

Shouts rang out
and fists slammed into his face and belly, robbing him of air. He
scratched and bit anything that came within reach. Pain shot from
his arm and back. Something cracked into the side of his head, and
the ground hit him in the face. Boots thudded into his ribs, making
him writhe, yet still he kicked and punched, hitting nothing but
air. Someone pinned him down with a brutal hand on his head,
grinding his face into the garbage. His vision blurred, and a red
haze invaded his mind.

A grunt came
from above him, then a heavy weight fell on top of him, forcing the
air from his lungs with a cough. He struggled to crawl free as a
clatter of running feet receded down the alley. A hand gripped his
arm, and he sank his teeth into it. A familiar voice cursed, and
then the weight was lifted off him. The boy drew himself into a
crouch, ready to fight or flee, and shook his head to try to clear
his vision.

The familiar
voice said, “It's all right, Conash. It's me, Talon.”

Conash raised
his head. His breath came in quick, harsh gasps, and his muscles
thrummed with tension. The elder stood watching him, a miniature
crossbow dangling from one hand. The boy glanced around,
discovering that the biggest roughneck lay on the ground beside
him. A black bolt protruded from the side of his neck, and a
trickle of blood oozed from it. Conash scrambled away, then swung
around when he became aware that he strayed within Talon's reach.
The assassin stepped back, giving him more room.

The boy rose on
shaking legs, staggered and clutched his pounding head. His gut
ached and his hand throbbed.

“Are you all
right?” Talon enquired.

Conash tried to
nod, but shook his head instead, still confused by what had
happened and the speed with which it had taken place. Part of him
insisted that Cotti soldiers waited amongst the huts to attack him;
another part assured him that only Talon stood nearby. He wanted to
run, but did not know which direction to take. His breath came in
quick, ragged gasps as he glanced around, trying to orientate
himself. The elder tucked away the crossbow and stepped closer.

“Conash, look
at me. It's safe; they're gone. Come, let's go home and get you
cleaned up.”

Conash backed
away, raising a hand to clasp his brow, then recoiled from the
blood on it. He tried to wipe it on his jacket, but the pain made
him hiss, and he clasped his wrist to try to stop the throbbing
from travelling up it. Talon watched him with a wary
expression.

“Conash? Do you
know who I am?”

The boy
focussed on the elder and studied him for several moments before he
nodded. Talon stepped forward and tried to put an arm around his
shoulders, but he shied away. The elder gestured up the alley.

“Come. This
way; it's not far.”

Conash forced
his legs work, and followed the elder along the alley to the shack
a few blocks up the street. In the hut, Talon opened the curtains
to let in some light and placed a pot of water on the stove. Conash
sank onto a chair, his legs shaking and his stomach knotted. Talon
sat opposite and poured two cups of wine, placing one in front of
the youth.

“Drink that;
it'll make you feel better. Have you stopped talking again?”

Conash gulped
the strong wine, his injured hand dripping blood on the table.
Talon regarded him with apparent concern, glancing often at the
deep gash in the boy's palm.

“That looks
like it needs stitches. Will you let me do it for you?”

The boy
refilled his cup. “Leave me alone.”

“Ah, so you're
still talking. Good.” He hesitated. “That wound needs stitches,
though.”

Conash clenched
his hand, making blood dribble from it, then slammed it on the
table. “Let it bleed!”

“All right, if
you want.”

“You sent
them!”

“Who? Those
thugs? Why would I do that?”

The boy shook
his head. “I don't know. Nor do I care!”

“I didn't send
them, Conash. I killed one to help you. I could have let them beat
and kidnap you, you know.”

“So why didn't
you? Huh? Why do you care what happens to me?”

“I still hope
to persuade you to become my apprentice.”

“You're a
liar!” Conash bellowed.

“No, I'm not.
Why would I wish to hurt you? And if I did, I could easily do it
myself.”

“You want to
make me feel weak and helpless, so I'll be your apprentice! Now
you'll tell me how I could have defended myself, if I'd been an
assassin!”

The elder
hesitated, then shook his head with a smile. “I must say, that
would have been a wicked plan, had I hatched it. I didn't though. I
came for our meeting, and heard you screaming.”

“I wasn't
screaming!”

“Yes, you
were.”

Conash shook
his head. “That wasn't me.”

“Who was it,
then?”

“It doesn't
matter. Why aren't you telling me how I'd have been able to defend
myself if I'd been your apprentice? Huh? Because I've seen through
your plan, isn't that right?”

“You probably
wouldn't have, after only a couple of moons of training. A fully
trained assassin would have, though. I had no trouble with them,
did I?”

Conash slammed
his fist on the table again. “I knew it!”

“I didn't set
it up, Conash.”

“What did they
want with me then? What other possible reason could they have had
for attacking me?”

Talon leant
forward. “They're street brokers. They find pretty young boys and
girls and sell them to brothels. I had nothing to do with it.”

“You'd like me
to believe that, wouldn't you?”

“It's the
truth. But you don't have to believe me. If I'm such a monster, you
should leave, shouldn't you? Return to the gutter and die in it
then.”

The youth
opened his hand and scowled at the gash in it. “If I'd been an
assassin, I'd have been able to kill them, wouldn't I?”

“Probably. If
you'd been an assassin, it's unlikely that they would have attacked
you.”

“How would they
have known?”

“We wear black.
Some others do too, and profit from its protection, but most
cutthroats are wary of black-clad men.”

Conash glowered
at him. “So that's why you wouldn't let me wear black. You wanted
something like that to happen!”

“No. We don't
approve of others wearing it, and discourage them. As an
apprentice, you'll be allowed to wear it.”

“That's what
it's all about, isn't it? The thugs, the clothes. It's all to force
me to become your apprentice.”

Talon rose to
his feet. “I can't force you, and you know, I've changed my mind. I
think you'd make a terrible assassin. You're stubborn,
argumentative and stupid. Get out.”

The boy stared
at Talon with deep suspicion, wondering if this was another tactic.
He leapt to his feet as the elder rounded the table and marched
past to yank open the door.

“I've had
enough of you. Get out.”

Conash
hesitated, stepping back. “I'm hurt.”

Talon gestured
to the door. “I don't care. Go now, or I'll beat you myself.”

“I thought
-”

“You're wrong!
This is the thanks I get for feeding and sheltering you for two
moons? Accusations and insults? Bugger off, and don't come
back!”

The boy clasped
his injured hand, scowling. “All right.”

“All right
what? You'll leave? You're still here!”

“I'll be your
apprentice.”

“I just said I
don't want you anymore. Do you have a hearing problem? Leave!”

Conash shook
his head. “You didn't do all you've done to give up so easily now.
I've agreed, and I know that's what you want.”

Talon took a
step towards him. “You've got an overblown opinion of your worth,
boy! You're a skinny little turd, and too full of yourself to
accept my training.”

“I'll do
it.”

“No, you won't,
because I won't train you. You're mad!”

Conash tilted
his head and smiled. “I'll be the best assassin you've ever
trained.”