The Queen's Blade Prequel I - Conash: Dead Son (29 page)

Blade
considered, frowning at his wine. The Artemann clan was as powerful
as the Trobalon family, and some said more ruthless. The two
dynasties had ever been at loggerheads, and a blood feud existed
between them whose origins had been lost in time. Rather like the
Endless War, it continued on its own momentum, spurred by
occasional confrontations and bloody street brawls. The assignment
would be a difficult one, and the prospect excited him, but it
would also have to be lucrative, for that much danger.

“Fifty
goldens.”

Borass gave a
low whistle. “You're not cheap, that's certain.”

“The Master
never is. It's not negotiable, either.”

“How do I know
another assassin wouldn't do just as good a job as you for half the
price?”

Blade smiled
and raised his eyes to meet Borass', noting the way his gaze made
the man flinch. “Hire one then, if you want the job bungled and
your throat slit by Graleth's family.”

Borass shook
his head, looking ill at ease. “No, I'll hire you. At least this
way, if it does go awry, no one will blame me for hiring an
inferior assassin. If the Master of the Dance fails, the blame will
fall on your Guild.”

The assassin
scowled, disliking Borass' inference. “I don't fail, Borass, that's
why I'm the Dance Master.”

The merchant
drew a pouch from his jacket and dropped it on the table with a
clink. “There's five and twenty goldens. When will the job be
done?”

“Within the
tenday.”

“See that it
is, or you'll deal with the Artemann Clan, and you won't enjoy the
experience.”

Blade's frowned
deepened. “And you'd be well advised not to threaten me.”

“A friendly
warning, Dance Master. One you would do well to heed.”

The assassin
glared at Borass' back as the merchant marched off, then picked up
his cup of wine and sipped it, glancing at the pouch. The fee was
the largest he had ever demanded, and the fact that Borass had been
carrying that much on him rankled. It made him feel cheap. Draining
his wine cup, he tucked the pouch away and left the inn.

***

Blade lounged
on a rooftop two houses away from Graleth's mansion and studied it
through his newly acquired spyglass. The Bortalon family employed
not only guards, but spies and lookouts as well, making a closer
vantage perilous. Over the past two days, he had mapped the mansion
through its windows, and logged Graleth's habits, but he had yet to
find a weak point in the defences. Four pairs of dogmen patrolled
around the house, ensuring that there were always two on every
side. They were all retired soldiers with canine familiars, and
carried not only swords and daggers, but loaded crossbows as well.
The ill-bred black bull that was Graleth's familiar grazed in the
garden, with two cows for company.

The mansion
also housed Graleth's two sons and four daughters, a
daughter-in-law and a grandchild, as well as several others who may
be nephews and nieces. This added two horses and a donkey to the
herd of familiars in the garden, and several birds winged in and
out of dwelling, carrying messages, he guessed, to far-flung family
members. The mansion was a hive of activity from dawn to long after
dusk, with a constant traffic of associates and servants. The
patriarch was a widower, and a whore also arrived after dark each
night, either for his pleasure or that of his unwed son's. His
daughters remained unmarried by virtue of their extreme homeliness,
and in spite of their father's wealth.

Graleth was a
tall, portly man in his fifties, grey-bearded and ill-tempered, by
the look of him, and the frequent shouted arguments that flared
within the house. He had recently inherited his patriarchal status
from his father, who had passed away just two moons ago, according
to gossip. Blade made it his business to visit the fish market
regularly to listen to the wives' banter, which was an excellent
source of news. Better than the town criers, at any rate, who
tended to spread only news from the palace. Perhaps the source of
the renewed animosity between the Bortalon and Artemann houses was
due to the new Bortalon patriarch, who was said to be a stubborn,
miserly man with a penchant for humiliating lesser men. It may also
have something to do with Graleth's son's apparent attempt to
seduce an Artemann daughter, which had ended in violence.

Blade shifted
to ease the growing ache in his right buttock, and lowered the
spyglass with a sigh. The mansion appeared to be impregnable, and
he considered other options. Graleth spent his days in his office,
closer to the heart of the city, but striking at him in broad
daylight, and while he was surrounded by family members and dogmen,
was even more dangerous. The patriarch did not appear to frequent
drinking establishments or whorehouses, nor did he seem to have any
friends. Only one stranger was allowed into the house on a regular
basis, and that was the whore who came each night. It seemed more
likely that she was there for the son's use, but it would still
gain him entry.

The assassin
paused to review that thought, frowning. Talon's suggestion three
years ago, that he should employ a female disguise, still rankled.
He remembered the disconcerting sight of his powdered reflection
with its red lips and shadowed eyes. The thought of dressing as a
woman still angered him, especially the notion that he could look
so girlish, which he knew to be true from his time amongst the
Cotti. The humiliation of that experience had not dimmed with time,
and he was not certain that he would be able to don a female
disguise and endure men's lecherous looks without fury overcoming
him.

If the whore
visited the son, and he tried to force his attentions on Blade, he
was convinced that the luckless man would die with two hand spans
of steel through his heart. That would make Blade a murderer, and
bring down the wrath of the Guild upon his head. The assassin
picked up the wine skin beside him and drank some, pondering his
dilemma. Unless Graleth did something out of the ordinary and
exposed himself, coming within striking distance of him would be
near impossible. Considering how many enemies the Bortalon
patriarch had, it seemed unlikely that he would take any risks.

Rising to his
feet, Blade tucked away the spyglass and slung the wine skin over
his shoulder, walked to the edge of the roof and jumped down to the
street. A passing peddler recoiled in surprise when the assassin
landed in front of him, and hurried off, muttering. Blade sauntered
along the road, still pondering his problem. Disguised as a whore,
he should be able to walk into the mansion, find Graleth and kill
him, then walk out again without raising a hue and cry, provided
his disguise was fool proof. Talon had assured him that it was, and
his recollection of his reflection on that night seemed to confirm
this. Nevertheless, the prospect disgusted him.

When he arrived
at the room he rented next door to a whore, she was entertaining,
and he lay on the bed and listened to the thuds, grunts, squeals
and creaking that came through the wall. The racket would not allow
him to think, and he stared at the mildewed ceiling, silently
urging them to finish. Fortunately, his neighbour was not a busy
woman, and irritating noises were few and far between. When at last
silence fell, he pondered his dilemma afresh, but still the idea of
dressing as a woman rankled, and he rejected it.

***

Blade stopped
outside the dress shop and studied the wares in the window with a
frown. Over the last three days, his vigil on the rooftop had been
rewarded only by an increasing awareness that his target was too
well guarded for his liking, and a bruise on his posterior. Graleth
kept to his routine with unflagging diligence, and the number of
guards around him never waned. Blade had considered secreting
himself somewhere close to the mansion and lying in wait for that
rare opportunity to sprint to the house and shinny up a wall, but
that required nights of patience and had a high risk of
discovery.

The idea of
dressing as a whore grew more appealing with each frustrating day
of spying, yet it still disgusted him. He forced the memory of the
Cotti soldiers' mockery from his mind. The disguise was just that,
a disguise, and a useful tool of his trade. No one would mock him.
They would not know what he was, and he had no intention of ever
revealing his secret, if he did it. Perhaps Talon was right. With
such a disguise, he would be able to saunter into the Trobalon
mansion with hardly any risk of discovery. It would turn a daunting
task into a simple one. Common sense and logic dictated that he
should do it, stubborn pride and aversion railed against it.

With a sigh, he
pushed open the shop door, glancing up in irritation at the bell
that jingled, announcing his entry. A plump, fresh-faced man with a
jolly smile and shy eyes appeared through a curtain at the back of
the shop. His smile faltered a little when he spied Blade, then he
rallied and advanced.

“A dress for
your sweetheart, assassin?” His eyes dropped to Blade's belt. “I
beg your pardon, Dance Master.”

“Yes. A
dress... and some face paint.”

“Ah, is it for
a party perhaps?”

“Something like
that.”

The shopkeeper
sidled over to a rack and whipped two frocks from it, displaying
them with a flourish. “My finest. Knotted lace from Aerlon, printed
silk from Dra'shen, in Contara.”

Blade frowned
at the gowns. “Too fancy. Something simple, and a lot cheaper. The
sort of thing a whore would wear.”

The plump man
hesitated, then hung up the frocks and pulled out another, this one
a gaudy concoction of orange linen and pink bows. “Like this, Dance
Master?”

The assassin
recoiled from the gown's ugliness. “No. Something with a little
more taste.”

The shopkeeper
drew out a pale blue frock with dark blue piping, puffed sleeves
and a white lace collar. Blade stepped closer to inspect it, then
nodded.

“That will
do.”

“What
size?”

“My size.”

The shopkeeper
raised his brows, then stepped closer and held the dress up.
“Perhaps you'd like to try it on?”

Blade frowned.
“It's not for me, you dolt. My sweetheart is the same size, more or
less.”

“Of course, my
mistake. I thought... never mind. This one should fit you, but I
can't be sure unless your sweetheart tries it on. You can bring it
back for adjustments, if necessary.”

“Fine, I'll
take it.”

The man folded
the frock and placed it on the counter. “Excellent. Presumably this
is a masquerade ball?”

“What
else?”

“Indeed.” The
man reached under the counter and took out several pots, placing
them on the top. “I have powder to prettify the eyes, another for
the skin and a berry juice extract to make the lips redder. Also of
the sort a harlot would wear.”

“Good. And some
baubles.”

“Of course.”
The shopkeeper gestured to a set of shelves, and Blade went over to
inspect the wares. He chose a pair of hoop earrings, a bead
necklace and several slim bangles. The merchant added them to the
pile.

“What about
perfume, and shoes?”

“Yes, those
too.”

The man set out
a selection of bottles, and the assassin chose a flowery scent,
then inspected the array of slippers on another shelf. Finding a
blue pair that was the same size as his boots, he placed them on
the counter. The shopkeeper watched him with deep fascination,
although his bland smile did not waver.

Blade paid for
the goods and departed, certain that he was flushed with
embarrassment. With the parcel wedged under one arm, he made his
way to a jeweller and had his ears pierced, then bought a mirror
and returned to his room. Spreading his collection of purchases on
the bed, he set about mimicking Talon's transformation in the
little mirror. His first attempt was fairly disastrous, and he
thought that the end result looked like a tart in a pantomime. He
washed it off and tried again.

Over the course
of the next several time-glasses, he discovered that it required
the application of only a small amount of powder and paint to make
him look like a woman. When he studied the result, the intensity of
his revulsion made his stomach churn and his head pound. He rubbed
his face, smearing the powder and paint into dark streaks down his
cheeks and a red smudge on his chin. Bowing his head, he clasped it
and contemplated the depths to which he had sunk, and the
self-loathing that accompanied it.

Was it not bad
enough that he would never be a proper man? Now he must add to that
humiliation by dressing as a woman? He had nothing against women,
but he was not one, and he had no wish to be one. Worst of all,
what he saw in the mirror looked more like a woman than he would
ever look like a man. A beardless, neutered thing. A sexless
abomination. Neither man nor woman. A nothing. A no one. He sensed
the coiling darkness of his insanity grow, and fought it. What did
it matter? He was already dead. Since he had stopped sharing his
profit with Talon, he had hardly spoken to anyone other than his
clients.

The innkeeper
visited him once a tenday to collect his rent, which Blade handed
over without a word. His conversation with the shopkeeper earlier
had been the longest he had undertaken since he had spoken to
Borass. No one cared if he dressed as a woman, a clown or a
popinjay, so why should he? He rubbed his cheek, hating his lack
with every iota of his being. All that remained to him was his
pride in his skills and his enjoyment of good wine.

Rising, he
washed his face and went down to the taproom to indulge in a little
of that enjoyment. Or a lot. He watched the serving girls as they
wended their way amongst the evening throng, taking note of the way
they walked and gestured. If he was going to do this, he would do
it right, for he had no wish to be discovered. He must become
entirely feminine, not a man in women's clothes. His pride demanded
perfection, as it had with his dancing and dagger skills. He must
excel in all he did, so he could find some pride in it, instead of
humiliation.