The Queen's Blade Prequel I - Conash: Dead Son (22 page)

Conash drained
his wine and refilled the cup. “What was wrong with my plan?”

“Everything!
Broman was with his wife, and her familiar. You had no chance of
killing him without waking them up.”

“What would you
have done?”

Talon shrugged.
“I'm not a dagger man, but if I was, I'd have made sure he was
alone, for one thing. It doesn't matter now, though. You succeed,
that's the main thing. So long as you haven't led the Watch to my
door, you're all right. Let's get you cleaned up.”

Rising, the
elder dipped a cloth in the basin and mopped the blood off the
youth's face, then inspected his nose, finding that it was not
broken. He examined the lumps on Conash's head, the wounds in his
swollen ankle and his sprained arm. When he returned to his chair,
he sighed.

“You won't be
able to dance for a while, with that ankle. It's a good thing the
next meeting is four days away. It may be healed enough by
then.”

Conash yawned
and knuckled his eyes. “I'll be able to dance.”

“How do you
feel?”

“Tired.”

“No, I meant
about killing the drover.”

The apprentice
shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Not even a
sense of achievement?”

“A little, I
suppose. Mostly I'm glad it's over.” He scowled. “Why didn't you
tell me about the drover before?”

“I was going
to, when you made your final report.”

“Right.” Conash
rubbed his face.

Talon looked
pensive. “Now you have to choose a trade name. How about
'Claw'?”

“No. I've
chosen one already.”

“What?”

“Blade.”

Talon snorted
and chuckled. “That's awful. Blade! Why not just call yourself
'Dagger', or 'Weapon'? 'Claw' is better.”

“I like
it.”

“Why?”

Conash
shrugged. “It's deadly, cold and unfeeling. Like me.”

“It's also a
tool.”

“So is a
claw.”

“A blade isn't
even a weapon; it's part of a weapon, incomplete with the
hilt.”

The apprentice
sipped his wine. “I like it, and my mind's made up.”

Talon gazed at
him, shaking his head. “Very well. It's a good thing you didn't
break your nose. Otherwise, if you ever wanted to use the female
disguise, you wouldn't be able to.”

“I won't.”

Chapter Thirteen

Conash followed
his mentor towards the ring of standing stones amongst which the
Guild was gathered, entering the torchlight. Talon approached a
group of elders, leaving his apprentice to find a seat amid the
band of youngsters awaiting initiation. Eight of them on this
night, a large bunch. Conash hoped the stage wouldn't be too
crowded. He had barely sat down when he noticed Talon arguing with
his cohorts, and wondered what it was about. Straining his ears, he
made out snatches over the muttering of the youths around him.

“...Only two
years... He'll fail, and you'll be... No one could be...”

“He's made his
first kill already.”

Conash smiled
at Talon's statement, which was guaranteed to silence the other
elders. From what his mentor had told him, this was Talon's
decision alone, and once an apprentice had made his first kill he
was obliged to take the test. If he failed, he would have to keep
practicing the Dance until he got it right, but he did not have to
make another kill. In fact, he was not allowed to do so until he
got his mark. According to Talon, some apprentices failed the Dance
until they gave up, and never became assassins. This was rare,
however.

The knot of
elders broke up, and the evening's business began. Two names were
added to the Roll of the Dead, then the elders split the group of
apprentices into two bands for the Dance, to Conash's relief. He
was amongst the second bunch, and watched the first four dance,
unimpressed by their performances. Only one qualified, and the rest
quit the stage in disgrace, to be cuffed and scolded by their
mentors. Conash strapped the metal tips and heels that Talon had
lent him to his boots, then rose and stamped his feet before he
followed the other apprentices onto the platform.

An elder
directed him to a position at the edge of the group, and he
measured the platform with his eyes, wishing Talon's had been this
large, and that he did not have to share this one with three other
youths. One day, he promised himself, he would have this stage all
to himself. His heart pounded with nervous excitement, and his legs
shook a little. He disliked being stared at by so many hard,
glinting eyes, which measured his worth disparagingly. The drummer
beat out the slow rhythm that started the Dance of Death, and the
apprentices took up their stances.

Conash kept an
eye on the youth beside him, striving to match his pace, which was
far slower than he usually used. For the initiation, the
apprentices had to dance in unison, and if he broke the formation
he would fail. He kept pace with the dancer on his left, but
concentrated on his grace and technique, ensuring that his steps
were precise and his movements flowing. For the initiation, his
performance only needed to be adequate, and he made no effort to
stand out.

Conash's
sprained ankle twinged when he stamped, and once almost buckled
when he landed on it, despite the bandage that strapped it. His
nose was still swollen, and his eyes were blackened. Another
bruise, in the shape of Broman's foot, mottled his belly, and the
exertion made his head ache.

Halfway through
the Dance, sweat sheened his brow and his breaths came in rapid
gasps, but his legs retained their vigour and his energy seemed
boundless. He could, and had, completed the Dance many times with
ease, since he practiced it in its entirety three times a day,
twice while wearing chains and carrying rocks. His metal-shod feet
clattered on the boards as he tapped and leapt, kicked up his feet
or flicked one leg sideways at the knee. One of the youths
stumbled, and quit the stage with a bowed head.

The remaining
three reached the end of the Dance and fell to one knee in unison,
then rose, panting. Conash's leg muscles tingled and his ankle
throbbed. Three elders mounted the stage, and one shook his head at
a gasping youth on the far side, who turned and stumbled off the
platform to receive a ringing slap from his mentor. The second
elder nodded at the young man on Conash's right, who grinned and
shook the older man's hand before dashing off to receive
congratulations from his peers and mentor. The last elder stopped
before Conash and nodded.

“You've passed,
boy. Well done.” He held out a hand.

Conash
hesitated, then shook it. “Thank you, Elder.”

“Don't thank
me. No one could have failed you. Your technique is perfect and
your execution flawless. If you improve your speed and add some
extra moves, you'll do well.”

“I can do it
faster, but I had to keep to the same pace as the others.”

The elder
inclined his head. “Of course. Then I look forward to your
challenge for the belt in a year's time.”

“A year? I
could challenge him tonight.”

“No, you can't.
You're not allowed to challenge for your first year. It wouldn't do
for an inexperienced assassin to hold the belt. He gets the most
work, you see.”

Conash frowned.
“I see.”

“You're Talon's
apprentice, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

“You're
overconfident, and brash. You need to work on your attitude.
Clearly Talon didn't beat you often enough.”

Conash nodded
and swung away, leaving the stage. Talon came over to thump him on
the back, then he had to wait while the servile, cowering tattooist
marked the other apprentice who had passed.

When Conash's
turn came, Talon loomed over the tattooist and muttered, “Make sure
you do a good job.”

The hunched man
nodded, his eyes darting. He found the company intimidating, Conash
gathered. The tattooist painted a black dagger at the base of the
youth's throat with great care, and Conash winced when the man set
an instrument full of needles against it and tapped. Sweat trickled
under his clothes and dripped from his chin, and his breath steamed
in the chill autumn air. Talon hovered, watched the tattooist work
and made the cringing man more nervous. Conash wished that he would
go away. The tattooing seemed to take an age, and the other two
boys and their mentors celebrated with cups of wine, toasting their
success.

When at last
the ordeal was over, Conash's chest smarted, adding its discomfort
to his other aches and pains. The tattooist rubbed stinging black
ink into the bloody holes he had poked in Conash's skin, then
rubbed off the excess and inspected his work in the light of a
torch that an apprentice held. Nodding, he packed away his tools,
and Talon dropped a silver into his palm before stepping closer to
peer at the mark.

“Not bad. Well
done, Blade.”

Conash smiled,
enjoying the sound of his new trade name. “Thank you, Elder.”

“Ah, now he
decides to be civil. About time, too. My true name is Kai, but use
it at your peril. It's considered an insult. Once we become
assassins, we leave our pasts behind, including our names. You're
no longer Conash of the cats; you're Blade, an assassin of the
Jondar Guild. All that remains is to add your name to the roll, and
make the announcement.”

“And drink some
wine.”

Talon nodded.
“That too. Come.”

Conash followed
his mentor over to the knot of elders, who clustered around a heavy
tome that rested on an apprentice's back. One of them bent over it,
inscribing the trade name of the young man who had qualified with
Conash. When his turn came, the elder glanced at him, quill
poised.

“Blade,” Conash
stated.

The elder wrote
the name on a blank page, and Conash wondered what the rest of the
page would be used for. Closing the book, the elder handed it and
the quill to another apprentice and mounted the platform, where he
raised his hands to silence the murmuring throng.

“Hear me!
Tonight we add three names to the Roll of Assassins. They are
Slash, Rage, and Blade. Let it be known, they are now active
assassins, entitled to all the privileges of the Guild, and subject
to its rules.”

Conash glanced
at Talon. “What privileges?”

His mentor
chuckled. “Good question. Supposedly, that we're not considered to
be murderers.”

Conash rubbed
his new mark. “That's it?”

“You were
expecting more?”

“I suppose
so.”

“Like
what?”

The young
assassin shrugged. “I don't know. Some sort of support, perhaps,
for injured assassins, or crippled ones?”

“No. If you're
injured or crippled, you're on your own. The only one who may help
you, if you've endeared yourself to him during your training, is
your former mentor.”

“Well then,
I'll have to ensure that I'm not injured or crippled.”

Talon chuckled
again. “Yes, you should.” He drew a wine skin from under his coat
and offered it to Conash. “Time to celebrate.”

The young
assassin glanced around at the dispersing throng, most of which the
darkness had swallowed up, took the skin and sipped from it. “What
happens now?”

“You can stay
in the shack until you've earned enough to rent a room somewhere,
and then you're on your own. You can continue to use the platform
to practice on for the next two years. You'll see me when you visit
to share your profits with me, and at meetings.”

“How do I find
work?”

“Find a
suitable taproom, and wait. The Grumpy Granny is a good spot, and
so is the Herder's Son.”

Conash nodded
and took another swig from the skin, handing it to Talon, who
drank, then tucked it away.

“Come on, let's
go home, Blade.”

***

Blade glanced
up as a shadow fell on him, and found a woman gazing down at him
with dark eyes. Tendrils of brown hair escaped from the coil at her
nape, and her shabby blue dress hung on a thin frame. The corner of
the Grumpy Granny was in deep shadow, and he could not make out
many details. The taproom was much like any other in the slums, a
run-down building full of shabby furniture, drunken whores, and
smelly men, with dirty rushes on the floor. Rows of ale barrels
were stacked behind the bar counter, and mugs lined the sagging
shelves. A few battered copper pots hung over the fireplace, and
bunches of dry, dusty herbs dangled from the beams.

The woman slid
onto the bench opposite, casting a hunted glance over her shoulder.
The light from the nearest lamp fell on her face, and he noted the
bruise on her cheekbone. A spotted brown gecko clung to her blouse
like a dull broach. She faced him, her hands twisting with
nervousness, and leant closer.

“Are you an
assassin?”

He inclined his
head. “Yes.”

“You have a
mark?”

Blade tugged
open his collar to reveal his tattoo, and she peered at it, then
nodded.

“And a
name?”

“Blade.”

“I have work
for you.” She chewed her lip, and he waited. “It's my husband,” she
blurted. “I want him dead. How much is your fee?”

He shrugged.
“That depends. What can you afford?”

“Not much.” She
glanced around again, as if expecting her husband to pop out of the
woodwork. “Five silvers?”

“That's not
much.”

“It's all I
have.” Her face twisted with despair.

“I didn't
refuse. Why do you want him dead?”

She looked down
at her hands. “He beats me.”

“Many men do
that.”

“He rapes
me.”

“Also not
uncommon, and, since you're his wife, it's not considered
rape.”

Tears ran down
her cheeks. “He's going to kill me one day, I know it. He beats our
children, too. They're just babies, they don't deserve it.”