The Queen's Blade Prequel I - Conash: Dead Son (25 page)

“You know
nothing of cruelty. Find yourself another husband then, or work as
a taproom wench, I don't care. But you're not staying with me.”

She approached
him, her eyes filled with desperate pleading. “Most men would jump
at my offer.”

“I'm not most
men. You'd better start looking for a new husband. I'm going to
bed.”

Blade headed
for the stairs, his head aching and his ribs smarting. The
following morning, he pondered the problem of his failure to find
work, and the reason for it. He could make himself look older with
a disguise, but that would require its constant renewal each day,
an unwelcome chore, not to mention expense. What he needed, he
mused, was some sort of agent, a man who looked like a fearsome
assassin, to find the work for him. As long as Blade was the one
who performed the assassinations, he saw no reason for the Guild to
object.

With this in
mind, he set off to the marketplace to find a suitable candidate
for the job. The poor quarter's cobbled marketplace bustled with
hurrying housewives, sweaty labourers and vendors who shouted their
wares. Cages of chickens and ducks were piled around merchants'
stalls, and the men slaughtered the hapless beasts as they sold
them. Stray dogs fought over the offal that the butchers threw into
the gutter, and urchins ran between the stalls, pilfering fruit and
sweetmeats. Run-down houses and dilapidated shops surrounded the
marketplace, which reeked of urine and excrement, most of it
animal.

Braziers
provided cooking fires for barrow-hags to roast their spitted
chunks of meat, probably dog, while others stirred pots of bubbling
rat stew, which they spooned into hollowed-out loaves of bread. An
occasional whore strutted her stuff, her skirts hitched up to
reveal pale thighs and her breasts almost popping out of a
too-tight bodice. The childish shrieks of urchins mingled with
braying, barking, clucking and shouting in an unholy din.

Blade soon
spotted a likely looking man; a tall, muscular labourer whose
saturnine face had an ugly scar across it. When the man sat down on
a bag of grain to eat his midday meal, the assassin approached him.
The labourer glanced up at him suspiciously, and Blade smiled.

“How would you
like to make some extra money?”

The man
shrugged. “I wouldn't object. What's the job?”

“You sit in a
taproom and drink wine. When a man approaches you and offers to
hire you as an assassin, you take his money and ask him five
questions.”

“Right, and get
my throat slit by the Assassin's Guild. No thanks.”

Blade shook his
head. “You won't be performing the assassination, just finding the
work.”

The man eyed
him. “For you? You're an assassin?”

“That's
right.”

“You sure don't
look like one. You're just a boy.”

Blade nodded.
“That's the problem.”

“So all I have
to do is drink wine and wait for someone to hire me? And I won't
get into trouble with the Guild?”

“That's
it.”

The labourer
looked thoughtful, and chewed a mouthful of his rather pungent fish
stew. “Are you any good?”

“What does that
matter to you?”

“Because if you
can't do the job, the customer will come after me, not you.”

Blade inclined
his head. “I'm good.”

“You don't look
good, you look like a boy.”

“Like I said
-”

“Yes, I know.
That's the problem.” The man considered again. “Who pays for the
wine?”

“I will, but
you only get one cup, and make it last. You can't get drunk. I'll
cut you in for twenty per cent of the work you bring in.”

“Fair enough.”
The labourer wiped his hand on his trousers and held it out. “It's
a deal.”

Blade
hesitated, glancing at the man's dirty hand, then shook it. “Good.
You'll start tonight. Wear dark clothes, preferably black.”

“Don't I need a
mark?”

“I'll see to
that. Meet me at the Hangman's Noose, at dusk. Have you a
name?”

The man nodded.
“Permal.”

Blade returned
to Sherin's house, purchasing a pot of black ink and a brush on the
way with one of his remaining coppers. He was well pleased with his
new employee, who appeared to be well spoken and intelligent. For
the remainder of the day he rested, in case Permal found him
employment that evening.

At dusk, he
made his way to the Hangman's Noose, where he found Permal seated
at the back of the taproom. Sliding onto the bench opposite, he
glanced around to ensure that none of the patrons were watching
them. The night was young, and the taproom had not started to fill
yet.

Blade ordered
two cups of wine from the serving maid and studied Permal's dark
brown jacket and black trousers. In the gloom, the jacket appeared
almost black. Taking out the pot and brush, he sat beside Permal
and painted a dagger at the base of his throat, which was good
enough, in his opinion, to fool an ordinary man, though not another
assassin. When the ink had dried, he instructed the labourer to
button his collar to hide it, then returned to his seat
opposite.

“When someone
approaches and offers to hire you, they'll ask to see your mark. If
they ask for your name, it's Blade. You ask them for the name of
the target, what he looks like, his address, whether they want his
death to be quick or slow, and what kind of familiar he has,
understand?”

Permal nodded.
“That's all?”

“Yes. You ask
for four goldens. If they say it's too much, negotiate. If they
want a slow death, don't negotiate. Can you do that?”

“Of course.
What's the least I can charge?”

“Five
silvers.”

“That's
cheap.”

Blade inclined
his head, and glanced around as the serving wench placed two cups
of wine on the table. When she left, he turned to Permal again.

“It's
enough.”

Permal sipped
the wine. “So you reckon I look like an assassin?”

“Yes.”

“More than you
do, at any rate.”

Blade hid his
irritation with a grim smile and left Permal to his lonely vigil,
choosing an even darker corner in which to secret himself. It was a
little unusual for two assassins to occupy a taproom, but not
unheard-of. There were a few alehouses where several assassins
could be found, but, while such places drew more customers, the
competition made finding work there just as hard.

For two nights,
no potential customers approached Permal, and Blade's remaining
funds dwindled. On the third night, a beefy merchant sat down at
the labourer's table and engaged him in a furtive discussion,
glancing around often with the guilty air that all those who hired
assassins used when doing the deed. Blade was out of earshot, but
the merchant nodded and dropped a golden into Permal's palm. The
labourer smiled and thrust out a hand, which the merchant eyed for
a moment before leaving without shaking it.

When the
labourer joined Blade, the assassin frowned and leant forward to
mutter, “You never offer to shake their bloody hand.”

“So it would
seem. He looked like I had offered him a rotten fish.”

“He'd have been
more willing to shake that.” Blade took the golden Permal placed on
the table and tucked it away.

“When do I get
my share?”

“You want
twenty per cent of one golden, or two?”

“Two.”

“Then you'll
get it when the job's done.”

Permal nodded.
“You're supposed to kill a man named Darjan, who lives in the east
quarter, Fifteen Coalwood Street. He's a merchant, a portly man
with brown hair and grey eyes, and his familiar is a toad.”

“Good. It
should take me about three days to do it, by which time I hope
you'll have found more work.” Blade dropped his last three coppers
on the table. “For wine.”

Chapter Fifteen

Blade paused at
the edge of the ring of stones, beyond the torchlight, to study the
gathered assassins. It appeared to be a well-attended meeting, as
autumn meetings usually were, due to the apprentices who came for
their initiations before the winter snows made gatherings
unpleasant for the elders, whose bones ached in the cold. That
suited Blade, since he wanted a good-sized audience to witness his
triumph. Tonight, he would challenge the current Dance Master for
his title.

A year had
passed since he had received his tattoo, and his arrangement with
Permal had proven reasonably profitable. Blade had earned enough to
rent a room in a shabby inn used mostly by whores. Sherin had
persisted in her refusal to become a harlot until her landlord had
thrown her out into the street. Blade had taken it upon himself to
escort her to a brothel and leave her there, unmoved by her pleas.
At the last, she had shouted curses at him, and he had walked away
with no regrets.

Blade practised
on Talon's platform every day, most of the time with chains on his
ankles and rocks in his hands. Once a day, he set aside the weights
and danced unfettered, revelling in the speed with which he was
able to move now. He had made some good additions to the Dance,
which he hoped would win him the belt. Many time-glasses of
practice had gone into perfecting the new moves and honing his old
skills. All his time was spent either practising his dancing or his
dagger craft, and four assassinations had lent him some experience.
Occasionally, he would encounter Talon's new apprentice at the
platform, and then he would wait, concealed in the forest, for the
boy to leave.

Blade had
visited Talon after each assignment, to give him his share of the
profit, and the elder seemed pleased with his progress. Now Blade
possessed his own set of steel toe and heel caps, and practised in
them daily.

Stepping out of
the darkness, Blade joined the back of the throng, unnoticed by
most. The elders added two names to the Death Roll, one of them
Rage, one of the youngsters who had received his tattoo on the same
night as Blade. The other was Frost, an older assassin who had been
due to retire. Seven apprentices awaited their initiation, and
Blade watched their clumsy rendition of the Dance of Death with a
superior smile. Only two youths received their tattoos, and, once
the celebrations were underway, Blade stood up and walked to the
platform. As he mounted the steps, all eyes turned to him, and a
nervous quiver went through him.

Blade stepped
onto the platform and turned to face the elders, catching Talon's
frowning gaze upon him. Stripping off his jacket, he tossed it over
a post, revealing the tight leather vest he wore beneath it. A hush
fell as he spread his arms and raised his voice to address the
throng.

“I challenge
for the title of Master of the Dance!” he cried.

A slim man with
short, dark brown hair and angry black eyes strolled closer to the
platform, a silver-patterned belt glinting at his waist. “And who
might you be?”

“Blade.”

“Well, Blade,
I'm Slash, the Master of the Dance, and I don't accept your
challenge.”

Blade frowned.
“Why not?”

Slash, who had
been in the process of turning away, faced him again. “Unless I'm
sadly mistaken, you only got your tattoo at this time last
year.”

“What of
it?”

“You're too
young. You're still wet behind the ears, and not worthy of the
title, even if you could win it, which you can't.”

“Why not?”

Slash smiled
and shook his head. “You're not good enough.”

“You don't know
that.”

“But I do. No
assassin has won the belt after only a year in the trade. You may
be allowed to challenge, but I don't have to accept.”

Blade glanced
at the group of elders. “Isn't that for the elders to decide?”

“No, it's my
choice.”

“That makes it
easy for you to keep the belt then, doesn't it? All you have to do
is refuse all challengers, and you can be the Dance Master until
you retire.”

Slash frowned,
shooting a glance at the elders. “I'll accept a challenge from a
seasoned assassin who stands a chance of winning, not from a pup
like you. You would waste my time.”

“I'll beat
you.”

“Brave words,
boy. You have no idea how good you would have to be to beat me, do
you? Have you ever seen a master dance?”

Blade shook his
head. “However good you may be, I'm better.”

“You're an
arrogant little bastard, aren't you?”

“Accept my
challenge, and find out if I speak from arrogance or
confidence.”

“Do you want to
be humiliated, boy?”

Blade shrugged.
“Let's see if you can.”

Slash gave a
harsh bark of laughter and looked around. “Who trained this
buffoon?”

Talon stepped
forward. “I did.”

Slash faced
him. “Elder Talon, you should advise your former pupil that
overconfidence will get him killed, or, in this case, lead to his
humiliation at my hands.”

Talon glanced
at Blade and shook his head. “You should take him seriously, Master
Slash. He's the best I've ever trained.”

“You think he
could beat me?”

“I do.”

Slash snorted.
“He's a boy! Are you sure he has his mark?”

A wave of
sniggering went through the throng, and Blade scowled.

Talon said,
“Let him dance, then we'll see if he's worthy to challenge you,
Master Slash. If he is, you must accept his challenge to a
Duel.”

Slash looked
impatient. “There's no way a boy like him can be good enough to
challenge for the belt. But if you're so eager to see him
embarrassed, so be it.” He turned to Blade again. “Dance then,
boy.”

“You accept the
challenge?”

“It won't come
to that, I assure you.”

“But you
accept?”

“I said dance,
didn't I?”

Blade nodded
and drew his boot-caps from his pocket, crouching down to strap
them on. His stomach clenched with nervous tension, making him a
little nauseous. Slash chuckled and walked off to find a seat
amongst his peers, and Talon watched his former pupil, his
expression unreadable. Blade straightened and stamped his feet to
settle the boot-caps, then pressed his forehead to his knees and
shook his legs to limber up. After an experimental leap and a bit
more stretching to warm up his muscles, he walked to the centre of
the platform and took up his stance, nodding to the drummer.