The Queen's Blade Prequel I - Conash: Dead Son (27 page)

“I gave you my
word.”

“Yes, but
you've just upped the stakes enormously. I don't think you realise
what it means to be the Master, and I hope discovering it doesn't
prove fatal.”

The boy looked
up and smiled, the sweet innocence of his expression sending a pang
through the older man's heart. Blade was still just a boy, Talon
reflected, and wondered if he still searched his chin for the first
signs of a sprouting beard every morning. For him, that would never
happen, and eventually he would be forced to accept it. Not only
was Blade the only assassin to have won the belt after just a year
in the trade, he was also the youngest.

Blade plucked
his jacket from the post and shrugged it on, then took a last swig
from the wine skin and handed it back to his former mentor. The
elder glanced around at the dispersing assassins, who vanished into
the gloom around the standing stones, some in murmuring groups, but
most alone. When he turned back to Blade, he found himself alone,
and looked down at his wolf with a wry smile.

“He's getting
good, that one.”

Chapter Sixteen

Blade sat in
the shadows at the back of the Hangman's Noose, nursing his third
cup of wine. A tenday had passed since he had won the belt, and
already he had performed two assassinations, both wealthy
merchants. Permal still waited in another corner, trying to attract
clients who could not afford the Master's fees, but he had had
little success. Most who came to Blade's haunt now were looking for
the Master of the Dance, and found him. Four other assassins had
made the inn their haunt, in the hopes of gleaning extra work from
being in the Master's proximity.

Blade glanced
up as a shadow fell on him. A young woman with rich mahogany hair
and green eyes stood beside his table, smiling. She slid onto the
bench opposite, and he noted her gilt-edged, midnight blue velvet
gown and the string of rubies that glowed at her throat. Lacy
gloves clothed her hands, and diamonds sparkled on her fingers and
nestled in her elaborately styled hair, which framed her face in a
gleaming fall of burnished ringlets. A waft of musky perfume
accompanied her, a scent he disliked. She took a sip from the
goblet of wine she had brought with her, studying him in a way that
made his skin crawl. Her eyes lingered on his belt, and her smile
widened.

“So, I heard
that there was a new Master of the Dance. You are young.”

He shrugged.
“So I've been told. You have business with me?”

She looked a
little taken aback, her smile faltering, then she rallied. “Yes, I
do. I will not discuss it here, however. Come to my house in two
time-glasses, and I shall tell you all about it.”

“Why can't you
tell me now?”

She looked coy.
“It is of a... delicate nature. I would prefer privacy. Will you
come?”

Blade glanced
around, her strange manner making him uneasy. “I suppose so.”

“Good. Ask for
Lady Emril.” She gave him an address in the affluent part of the
city, where nobility dwelt, and left him with a smile to re-join a
group of noblemen and women at another table. Blade watched her for
a while, looking away when she cast him coy smiles, then was
distracted when the serving maid came over to ask if he wanted more
wine.

Blade frowned
at the girl, for his cup was still half full, which she could
plainly see at a glance, even in the dimness. She struck an
alluring pose and smiled when he refused, resting her tray on one
hip.

“You drink too
slowly, master assassin.”

His scowl grew
blacker. “I'll drink as slowly as I wish, and I'm not a master
assassin.”

“You're wearing
his belt.” She giggled. “Did you steal it?”

“No. I'm the
Dance Master, that's all.”

The serving
girl sat on the bench opposite, ignoring his glare. “That makes you
the master assassin. Didn't you know that?”

“Yes,” he lied.
“But it's not my title.”

“So what's your
title?”

“Dance Master,
as I just said.”

“Ah.” She
nodded sagely, dimpling. “And would the Dance Master like anything
else, aside from more wine?”

“No.”

She leant
closer. “You haven't even asked what I'm offering.”

“I know what
you're offering, and I'm not interested.”

“Why not?”

“I don't need a
reason, I'm just not.”

Her smile
faded. “You're rude, that's for sure.”

“Then go
away.”

The girl jumped
up and flounced off, shooting him a dirty look. Blade returned is
attention to the group of gently-born fops, where the young woman
watched him with a smile. They were out of place in a lowly slum
tavern, but he supposed that if the woman wished to hire the Master
of the Dance, she had no choice but to come here to seek him.
Usually a member of the nobility would send an agent, though. Her
friends had probably come along to keep her company, and assure her
safety. The noblemen carried rapiers, and looked confident. He
wondered who she could possibly wish dead. Certainly not an enemy,
but possibly a father or brother. He shrugged it off as
inconsequential; all that mattered was his fee.

After a
time-glass, the nobles left, and Blade waited another half a
time-glass before he set off for the affluent suburb. He had not
ventured into it before. The two rich merchants he had assassinated
had lived in the middle-class part of the city. This area was
reserved exclusively for nobility, within sight of the royal
palace, where Queen Tashi-Mansa dwelt with her daughter, Princess
Minna-Satu. Tall houses loomed over a wide cobbled road, its
pavements swept clean and its lamps all lighted. Lush gardens
fronted most of the mansions, which boasted balconies with
lead-paned doors on the upper floors. Many of them also had
gimlet-eyed sentries patrolling their gardens, often with canine
familiars. If his target lived in this area, it might prove to be a
challenge.

Arriving at the
address the young noblewoman had given him, Blade lifted the brass
knocker and tapped. The situation made him uneasy, standing so
exposed outside a house, under a street light. He probably should
not have agreed to come here, he mused. Only the prospect of a
lucrative assignment had lured him. Within a few moments, a
liveried manservant opened the door and ushered him inside,
gesturing to a sweeping staircase against one wall of the marble
entrance hall.

“Lady Emril
awaits you in the second room on the right.”

Blade's
uneasiness grew as he mounted the stairs, but he ignored it. In the
passage at the top, he pushed open the second door on the right and
entered a plush bedchamber decorated in burgundy and cream, its
furniture gilt-edged and ornaments rich. Lady Emril lounged on a
pile of embroidered satin cushions, sipping a cup of tea, a book in
her lap. She smiled and put aside the book, gesturing to a cushion
in front of her. Blade sat a little awkwardly, unused to sitting on
cushions, which was the province of the nobility. Lady Emril picked
up a teapot from the low table beside her.

“Tea?”

Blade shook his
head. “No.”

Emril put the
teapot down with a clink, her smile unwavering. She wore a loose,
diaphanous gown that barely hid her nakedness, and he averted his
eyes. Emril giggled and picked up her tea cup again.

“You are
bashful, assassin. Have you a name?”

“Blade.”

“A fearsome
trade name. Do you have another one?”

“Not that I'll
tell you. Who do you want dead, Lady Emril?”

Emril sipped
her tea. “Well, straight to the point. An admirable trait, brevity.
I do have an assignment for you, but perhaps not one that you have
had before, judging by your youth and shy demeanour.”

“I'm
experienced enough.”

“Are you?” She
giggled again. “Somehow, I doubt that. If you were, you would not
be blushing with embarrassment.”

“I don't
usually receive assignments in a lady's bedchamber.”

“As I said,
this assignment is different, and I suspect you have little or no
experience at it. You are even younger than I thought. How old are
you?”

He shot her a
frown. “Nineteen.”

“Hardly more
than a boy, and very young to be the Master of the Dance. You must
be a fine assassin indeed.”

“Good
enough.”

“Clearly.” Her
eyes sparkled, and she put down her tea cup. “I am pleased to be
the first to offer you this assignment. It is a feather in my cap,
and I hope you live to accept many more from me, and other
ladies.”

“I don't plan
on dying soon.”

“Excellent.
Now, as to the assignment...” Lady Emril leant forward and placed a
hand on his knee. “I think you will find it most pleasant. Not a
task at all, in fact.”

Blade scowled
at her hand, wanting to move away. “I take no pleasure in
killing.”

“Oh, I do not
want anyone killed. How uncouth.”

“Then what do
you want with me?”

She giggled,
sliding her hand up his thigh. “Why, to dally, of course.” She
moved closer, pouting. “You are a beautiful man, Blade. Did you
know that? Far too fine to waste your life as a hired killer.”

Blade stared at
her, surprised and apprehensive, but curious. Part of him longed to
experience the pleasures of the flesh, another part found the idea
vaguely repulsive, while deep down he knew it would never happen to
him. More than anything, he wanted to prove that deep-seated
knowledge wrong, and even now he occasionally checked his chin for
sprouting hair. It remained as smooth as a girl's, and he somehow
doubted that, at his age, it was due to immaturity.

Lady Emril
allowed her gossamer raiment to slide off one shoulder, revealing
feminine curves of the sort he knew he should find alluring. He
studied her, his cheeks warm, torn between a longing to touch her
and an equally powerful wish to flee. She squirmed closer and
loosened the ties of his jacket to pull open his collar. Her
fingers traced the dagger tattoo at the base of his throat, and her
eyes darkened with desire. That was what excited her, he realised.
She longed to lie with a killer. He sat frozen, partly because he
did not know what to do, and partly because he did not wish to do
anything. She took hold of his hand and studied it, her fingers
tracing the pale scars left by his dagger.

“You have
beautiful hands,” she murmured. “I long to feel them on my
skin.”

Lady Emril
placed his hand on her breast, then closed her eyes and moaned as
if his touch aroused her. He watched, fascinated, as she leant
closer still, holding his hand in place while she tilted her face
and pouted her lips. Her other hand slipped under his jacket and
caressed his chest, yet he had no wish to kiss her, as she clearly
wanted him to do. After several moments she opened her eyes,
looking a little disappointed, and smiled.

“My, but you
are a timorous boy. Do you not find me desirable?”

Deep in the
frozen pit within him, something broke, and a tide of despair
flooded out. He did not find her desirable, and he should. Her
attempt to seduce him was failing, and only he knew why. The
suspicion he had so long dreaded and denied, that he would never
find pleasure in a woman's arms, became a certainty, and with it, a
cold rage engulfed him. Since the fiasco with the serving wench, he
had shied away from intimate encounters for fear of having his
suspicions confirmed. Emril had forced him to face the reality of
what he was, and he could no longer deny it. He had no lust for a
woman.

His hands
flashed up to grip her wrists and thrust her away, removing her
unwanted touch. Pushing her down on her back, he pinned her there.
She gave a throaty chuckle and licked her lips, her eyes filled
with lust.

“That is
better. You just needed a little encouragement, did you not? I will
wager you are a tiger between the sheets.”

Emril gasped as
the cold edge of a dagger pressed against her throat, her eyes
widening. Blade did not remember drawing the weapon, yet there it
was, a simple slice away from ending her life. He had no real wish
to kill her; his fury wielded the dagger, nothing else. His longing
to strike back at the cruelties and injustices that had been
perpetrated upon him almost overwhelmed him, and his hand quivered.
His mind chilled, and reason rushed back, dousing the fire of his
wrath. If he killed without a client, the Guild would execute
him.

Blade leant
closer and glared into her terrified eyes. “No, my lady, I am no
tiger between the sheets. All you will find in my arms is death, so
do not seek my embrace, it is perilous. I am above the base urges
you enjoy. I am as cold and passionless as frozen stone. Beware,
and warn your sluttish friends not to seek to play their dirty
little games with me, for they may not survive my anger.”

Emril gulped,
her eyes shimmering with tears. Blade lifted the dagger and sat
back on his haunches, staring at her sprawled nakedness with
something akin to loathing. A thin red line ran across her throat
where the keen edge of his dagger had cut her, and he knew that she
had come within a hair's breadth of death. Pulling his jacket
closed, he sheathed the weapon and rose to his feet to frown down
at her for a moment longer, then went to the door and let himself
out.

By the time he
reached his shabby room in the inn, next door to a whore, the cold
fury had grown into a towering rage. It was as well, he reflected,
that the streets had been all but deserted. He sat on the hard bed
and stared at the peeling wall, his mind clogged with impotent fury
mingled with dark despair. The suspicion of his lack had been hard
to live with, but the certainty was devastating. All hope that he
may one day know the sweet pangs of lust were gone, after his
encounter with the beautiful seductress. His body was as cold and
dead as his heart, a useless tabernacle in which he was doomed to
dwell, devoid of any hope of pleasure.