The Queen's Blade Prequel I - Conash: Dead Son (15 page)

Conash released
her and stumbled back to trip over something and sit down with a
thud. Elly gasped and pawed at her throat while she stared at him
with bulging eyes. He leapt up and ripped open the door, skidded
into the corridor and ran down it to the kitchens, where cooks
jumped from his path with curses and dropped bowls. The alehouse's
back door flew open when he crashed into it, and he stumbled into a
deserted street. Rats and cats dashed for cover as he ran up the
road, his boots ringing on the cobbles.

Conash turned
corners without seeing them and raced past houses, brothels and
taprooms, inns and liveries, businesses and trading posts. He had
no idea where he was going. He only wanted to run until he could go
no further. Elly's words rang in his ears, goading him when his
legs flagged, and the sight of her swollen face and bulging eyes
blocked his vision. Cobbles passed under his pounding feet, miles
and miles of them, endless, unyielding, uncaring, just like the
glowering moon and the cold buildings. No one cared. He had almost
killed her. He had not wanted to kill her, but something had
overridden his will and taken control. A thing for which he had no
name, which lived deep within him and sprang to the fore whenever
he was hurt.

A shadow
bounded beside him, keeping pace, and golden eyes glanced at him.
Rivan was back. Conash welcomed his presence, and fresh strength
seeped into his burning legs. His aching lungs eased, and he ran
faster. The city passed in a blur of dull buildings and street
lamps. A group of young men shouted at him, and a harridan railed
at him from a window. His heart hammered and his throat grew dry.
Rivan kept pace, loping past parked carts and people who did not
appear to see him. A couple jumped from the boy's path, and the man
shouted curses after him.

Conash ran on,
uncaring, unflagging, trying to outrun his shame and humiliation. A
gelded dog. Not a man; not a cat; not even a boy anymore. A
nothing. A shadow in the dark, a speck of dirt on the street, a
piece of trash blowing down an alley. A dead killer with a
grave-name, bonded to a dead cat. He tried to become the cat again,
but it eluded him. Rivan loped beside him, calling to him with
purring chirps.

The boy
stumbled to a halt and doubled over, clasping his knees as he
wheezed and panted. His legs were on fire and cold pain filled his
lungs. He fell to his knees and bowed his head, then leant on his
hands, gasping. A rancid foetor surrounded him, and he gazed at the
garbage beneath him. Apparently his wild run had led him to the
city dump, where he belonged. He was detritus. A ruined person,
stripped of his dignity and manhood, useless to anyone for
anything.

Warm fur
brushed his face, and a tongue rasped against his cheek. He closed
his burning eyes, and painful tears squeezed from under his eyelids
and ran down his cheeks. Grasping handfuls of garbage, he
straightened and howled at the moon. His dead heart ached, and his
dead familiar kept him company as he roared his hatred and anguish
at the uncaring rats and cats that inhabited the dump. There was no
pity within him, even for himself, only loathing and fury.

They would pay.
They would all pay for what they had done to him. Not just the
Cotti, but all of mankind deserved his loathing, and he was good at
hating everything. He had perfected the skill in the Cotti camp,
and now turned it upon himself, too. Drawing a dagger, he slit his
throat. Warm liquid ran down his chest and soaked into his
trousers, and he welcomed the weakness that washed through him on
its heels. The dagger fell into the garbage as he touched the
crimson flood that flowed down his chest.

Rivan spat, and
Conash glanced at him. The cat's ears were flattened and his eyes
glared with fury.

“I want to
die!” the boy shouted. “Let me be! Go away!”

The cat arched
his back and moved closer. His paw flashed out to claw Conash's
arm. The boy stared at his ripped sleeve and the blood that oozed
from the cuts. That was not possible. Rivan was dead. The cat spat
again, and Conash reached for him, his bloody fingers brushing
soft, warm fur. Rivan’s dark form became a fall of shadows that
faded and sank away into the ground. Conash tried to grasp the
fading tendrils, sensing the cat's warm presence in his mind,
soothing him. Rivan was gone, this time forever.

Conash sat
back, raised a hand to his throat and found it whole. His daggers
were still sheathed in his belt. His chest was innocent of blood,
but his sleeve was ripped, and blood oozed from four deep scratches
there. Rivan's mark. At last, he had inflicted the scars that
marked Conash forever as cat kin, indelible and beloved. Conash
clasped the cuts and bowed his head. Rivan did not want him to die.
That was the message he had returned from the grave this time to
impart. Why, he did not know.

Lying down in
the refuse, Conash closed his eyes and let himself slip into the
darkness where Rivan waited.

Chapter Nine

Conash lived in
the garbage dump for seven days, eating stale, soggy bread and
offal from the butcheries. He fought the stray dogs that challenged
him for the choicest bits, using his fists, and occasionally a
dagger. The cat did not return, and he sensed that he never would.
Rivan lived now only in the frozen pit where his heart had been.
His hands turned brown and his clothes stank, but he did not care.
Urchins who picked through the garbage fled from the madman who
lived there, or shouted and hurled rocks at him. Conash threw
stones back or chased them, and they soon learnt to leave him
alone.

On the eighth
day, he left his nest of dirty rags and walked back into the city.
His stench made people recoil, and he enjoyed their horrified
expressions and hands clamped over their noses. He was repugnant,
and that suited him. Entering a shop, he swept up a handful of
sweetmeats and walked out, ignoring the shopkeeper's irate shouts.
On his way through the market, he plucked fruit from the stalls.
Vendors chased him, but when he turned to face them, they stopped
and walked off, muttering and making the curse warding sign. Conash
smiled and wandered on.

Two nights in
the gutter convinced him of its unsuitability as a home, and at
noon the following day he found himself outside Talon's shack, not
remembering how he had got there. The elder appeared at dusk, and
swept Conash with a disbelieving glance before he unlocked the door
and entered. Handing the boy two buckets, he turned to light the
stove while Conash went to fetch water.

When the boy
emerged from the tub, clad in a clean pair of grey trousers and a
blue shirt, Talon sat at the table, sipping a cup of wine. He
poured another and pushed it across the table when Conash sat
down.

“I don't want
to know where you've been or what you've done, except whether or
not you killed anyone. Did you?”

“No.”

“Did you break
any other rules?”

“I stole
food.”

Talon sighed
and sipped his wine. “I'll deal with it if anyone comes looking for
you.”

“They
won't.”

“Good. Are you
injured at all?”

“No.”

“Right then.”
Talon rose and slugged back the rest of his wine. “I'm going home.
There's dried meat in the cupboard. Tomorrow we continue with your
training.”

After the elder
left, Conash pushed up his sleeve and gazed at the festering
scratches on his forearm. The pain gladdened him, and the infection
would make the scars more prominent. He wanted it to fester, but it
was almost healed.

The following
day, Talon took Conash to the clearing at the edge of the forest
where he trained his apprentices to dance. Talon had built the
wooden platform at the beginning of his career, after he had earned
enough from his first few kills to buy the wood. The boy was pale
and drawn, and he recalled the unbelievable fetor that had
surrounded him when Talon had found him outside the hut. Conash had
washed his clothes, and was clad in black once more, his daggers
sheathed in his belt. Talon was glad the boy had not sold the
weapons to feed himself, and wondered what he had lived on for the
tenday that he had been away. Not much, judging by how much weight
he had lost. Once again, he wondered at the depths of the youth's
insanity.

Talon stepped
up onto the platform, turned to his apprentice and struck a pose,
one foot in front of the other. “Watch me.”

The elder
tapped a slow cadence on the boards, then leapt and spun, his feet
following the precise discipline of the Dance of Death. His swift,
certain steps beat out a tattoo that contained a rhythm and a tune.
He spun around the platform, leaping high to click his heels
together behind him, his arms making sweeping gestures that added
to the grace of the Dance and aided his balance. His feet rattled
on the boards as he kicked them up before him and flicked them
sideways, crossing at the knee. Stamping and spinning, he drifted
around the stage, revelling in the freedom and joy the Dance always
brought him. He had only been the Master of the Dance for a
moon-phase, but he treasured the memory of it.

Talon performed
the final stamp and fell to one knee, gasping. Sweat ran down his
face and trickled under his clothes, and his legs burnt. Conash
watched him, his arms folded, looking singularly disinterested.
Talon rose and stepped off the stage.

“Now you,
boy.”

Raising a
scornful brow, the youth ascended the platform. He performed the
first slow taps, then spun and leapt, landed clumsily and tripped
over his feet to land with a grunt on the ground beside the stage.
Talon walked over to the tree where he kept his stick and pulled it
out, strolling back to the boy as he climbed to his feet.

“Again.”

“It's
stupid!”

“I didn't ask
you what you thought of it, boy. It's required, and you will learn
it.”

Conash mounted
the platform again and took the first steps, then spun and leapt.
His foot twisted when he landed, and he staggered off the platform.
Talon rapped the stage and glared.

“Again.”

Conash spat,
then stepped onto the platform and performed the first steps again,
but his leap lacked height and his spin was devoid of zest,
although this time he did not fall over. His next leap was more
ill-fated, and he fell to his knees with a grunt. Talon rapped on
the stage with the stick.

“Concentrate,
boy! Step, step, spin and jump.”

Conash growled
and climbed to his feet to begin again. His landed badly from the
first jump, and sprawled with a curse. He shook his head.

“This is
idiotic! I'm supposed to learn how to kill, not prance about like a
damned dandy!”

Talon stepped
onto the stage and gripped his apprentice's collar, hauling him to
his feet. “This is a dance for killers, stupid boy. It epitomises
the speed and grace that an assassin must aspire to in order to
succeed. Fail this, and you'll never become an assassin. It's
required.” He thrust his face closer. “I know you have a cat inside
you, Conash. Release him. Let his speed, strength and grace fill
you, let his suppleness aid you. Become the cat!”

The boy
glowered at Talon, who released him and stepped back. The elder
stepped off the platform and turned to face it again. He rapped the
stick on the boards. “Dance!”

Conash gazed
down at his feet, looking pensive, then he made the first slow
steps. His leap lacked height, and he landed awkwardly, but
recovered. The next jump made him stumble, and he reeled off the
platform.

Talon rapped on
the boards. “Find the cat, Conash! Release the cat! Dance!”

“I'm not a
bloody cat!”

“Yes you are.
Let the cat guide you. Again!”

The boy mounted
the platform and performed the first steps and leap adequately, but
clumsily, his arms hanging at his sides. The next leap made him
stumble, and the following jump took him off the stage. Talon
rapped on the boards.

“You want to be
the best assassin in Jashimari, boy?” he shouted. “Then you have to
become the Master of the Dance. He's the best! Our skill isn't
measured by how many we've killed, but by this. If you don't excel
at this, you'll never be the best, even if you kill three hundred
men. You're clearly useless, so the best you'll ever be is
mediocre. Now dance!”

Conash glared
at him, then frowned at his feet again. Talon's eyes narrowed when
the youth closed his eyes and raised his head, a look of intense
concentration on his face. He raised his arms, his eyes closed, and
his hands weaved in strange graceful motions. Talon's heart
quickened. Until now, he had thought the youth lacked all vestige
of grace. The boy lowered his arms and took the first slow steps,
then leapt high, his feet tucked up. He hit the boards tapping, his
steps clumsy, but firm, and leapt again, spinning, his arms rising
in a flowing gesture.

Talon could
almost see the shadowy cat within him, leaping on spring-loaded
legs. Conash spun and jumped again, but stumbled when he landed.
Recovering, he tapped out the next set of steps, his feet slow and
erratic. His next leap carried him higher than the first, but again
he fluffed the landing and staggered sideway to sprawl on the
grass.

The elder
nodded. “Good. Now practice.”

Talon walked
back to the shack, well pleased. The boy had potential as a dancer.
He might even do well, now that he had acquired a yen to succeed at
it.

The next
morning, Talon found the hut empty and went to the clearing,
standing amongst the trees to watch the boy dance. As with every
task that Talon set him, Conash had already improved vastly, and
beat out a precise, if somewhat slow, rendition of the Dance. Less
than halfway through it, however, he stopped, his chest heaving and
his face flushed. Talon strode over to him, collecting his staff
along the way, and Conash glared at him when he mounted the stage.
Talon prowled around his apprentice, then stopped before him and
rapped the staff on the boards.