The Queen's Blade Prequel I - Conash: Dead Son (30 page)

After three
cups of wine, he returned to his room to practise the swaying
female walk and graceful gestures. The alcohol helped to make it
vaguely amusing, but did not improve his balance. The whore next
door had another client, and their groaning and thudding distracted
him. He longed to bang on the wall and demand silence, but he knew
they would ignore him. When the noise abated, he attempted to
emulate a feminine tone, and discovered that he only had to raise
his voice an octave to sound like a woman. He paced around the
room, mimicking a female flounce and toss of the head, then placed
a hand on his hip and struck a pose, as he had seen girls do many
times when they flirted with him.

When he was
satisfied that he had mastered the feminine mannerisms, he pulled
the hated frock on over his clothes, finding that it was far too
tight across the shoulders. He struggled to remove it, and an
ominous ripping came from the back of it. Stripping it off, he
discovered a tear in the back, where a seam had given way. Cursing,
he flung the dress on the bed and glared at it. Now he would need
to find a seamstress to repair it. He had no wish to return to the
shop and its suspicious keeper.

After some
consideration, he drew a dagger and slit the back of the gown,
deciding to buy a shawl to hide the damage. Whores wore ragged
clothes, in any case. Removing his jacket, he donned the dress
again, which now fitted fairly well, except it was too loose around
the hips and the sleeves were far too tight. He used his dagger
again to slit the underside of the sleeves, where it would not be
visible. His narrow hips presented another problem, which he solved
by wrapping a sheet around them, giving himself a buxom figure.

The empty
bodice remained an issue, and he stuffed a pillow case into it to
pad it out. The result was less than satisfactory, being lumpy and
hard, and he contemplated using two small water bags. That would
not only fill out the bodice, but would also feel and appear more
like breasts. Donning the slippers, he flounced around the room,
swished the skirts and swung his hips. He thought the effect was
good, but it needed to be tested. First, he would need to buy the
water bags and shawl. In the middle of a twirl, he realised that in
this disguise, he had nowhere to hide his weapons.

Blade sat on
the bed and considered this. The dress offered no places to secret
a dagger, except perhaps under the skirt, but that would make it
awkward to draw. The only place that might work, and offered easy
access, was his sleeves, but now that he had slit them, they would
not provide sufficient concealment. With an angry growl, he
stripped off the frock, flung it in a corner, and went to bed.

The following
day, Blade purchased a shawl, a length of blue cloth, two small
water skins and a needle and thread, then visited a leather crafter
and ordered a pair of wrist sheaths. Back in his room, he sewed the
new cloth into the slits in the gown's sleeves, widening them
sufficiently to allow his arms free movement and accommodate his
daggers, using the remainder to patch up the rent in the back. The
end result worked well, and he practised his feminine mannerisms
for several time-glasses before deciding to test his disguise. It
took him a time-glass to apply the face paint, which he wanted to
wash off again immediately.

Quelling the
urge, he inserted the earrings into the still-raw holes in his
earlobes and donned the rest of the baubles and slippers. Finally,
he anointed himself with the flowery perfume and considered the
result in the mirror. His hair fell to his shoulders, and, when he
released it from its leather thong and brushed it into a silken
fall, looked sufficiently womanly. As he hooked it behind his ears
to reveal the earrings, his eyes fell upon the dagger tattoo at the
base of his throat. Blade almost laughed as he flung the mirror
down and sat on the bed. All his efforts were wasted, it
seemed.

An assassin was
forbidden to hide the tattoo, but with it, he had no hope of
passing for a trollop. His inability to use the disguise was a
relief, until he considered the dearth of other ways to assassinate
Graleth. He had promised to achieve it within a tenday, and only
two days remained. Sighing, he picked up the mirror again and
considered the tattoo. The Guild would never know he had hidden it,
and surely others had done so when they had donned a disguise.
Talon had told him that other assassins had used a female disguise,
and they must have hidden the tattoo. He would need to buy a
cosmetic to cover it, and until then, he tied a spare length of
blue cloth around his neck to conceal it.

The water skins
fitted snuggly into the bodice, endowed him with a generous bosom,
and jiggled realistically when he moved. The gown's plunging
neckline was not deep enough to expose them, and the corset
supported them.

Once again, he
considered the result in the mirror. A young woman with milky skin,
shadowy grey eyes and a sensuous mouth stared back at him from a
strong, chiselled face framed by glossy black hair. He longed to
smash the mirror with its loathsome reflection and strip off the
hated disguise. The urge almost overwhelmed him, but he quashed it
and put down the looking glass, rising to stroll about the room
with a graceful, swaying gait. He dreaded going down to the taproom
to test his disguise, and it took him a time-glass to pluck up the
courage. It was a tool of his trade, he told himself for the
umpteenth time, although that brought him little solace.

Blade forced
himself to walk to the door and open it, then saunter to the top of
the stairs. There he paused, unable to bring himself to descend
them. Raucous laughter wafted up from below, mingled with the clink
of goblets and the low rumble of male voices. A haze of pipe smoke
hung in the air, mixed with the sour tang of rancid ale and the
musky stink of stale sweat. As an assassin, he was avoided and
reviled. As a trollop, he would attract unwelcome attention. In
addition, he was unarmed. After watching the interaction between
the male patrons and the serving wenches, however, he was
reasonably confident that he would not require his weapons.

All he needed
to do was find out if the disguise worked, he assured himself. It
would take only a few minutes. If it did not work, the humiliation
would be dire, but better humiliation than failure to assassinate
his target. He must achieve that goal at any price; his pride
dictated it. Bolstered by his resolve, he descended the stairs and
entered the common room, trying to be unobtrusive. Slipping into a
dark corner, he sat and scanned the room. Permal sat at his usual
place, looking bored, and the two assassins were not in evidence.
Blade looked up when the serving wench came over, her eyes raking
him with a hostile glance.

“You buying a
drink, missy, or just waiting for a customer?”

Blade cleared
his throat. “I'll have a cup of wine.” His voice emerged a little
too high pitched, due to his nervousness, and he coughed.

The maid
snorted and flounced off, her nose in the air. Blade glanced around
to see if anyone had noticed him, and found, to his horror, that
several men were eyeing him. One leered, and the assassin looked
away with a frown. He toyed with his hair, as women often did,
twisting a lock around his finger. A shadow fell on him, and he
looked up at the burly drover who stood beside his table.

“Mind if I
sit?” the man enquired.

Blade shook his
head, averting his eyes.

The drover
settled on the bench opposite and set his ale tankard on the table.
Blade glanced at the table where the drover had been sitting, where
his companions grinned and nudged each other. Evidently the drover
was here on a dare. The man looked ill at ease, but determined.

“Can I buy you
a drink, miss?”

Blade inclined
his head and indicated the serving wench, who was on her way back
with his cup of wine. The drover paid for it when it arrived, and
the girl shot Blade a scathing look before marching off with a toss
of her head. The assassin wondered why she was so annoyed. She was
not a whore, as far as he knew, so why did she care if one came to
the taproom?

The drover
quaffed his ale, and Blade sipped his wine.

“I'm Dramon,”
the drover said.

Blade hunted
for a common name. “I'm Jishi.” This time his imitation of a
woman's tone was more convincing.

Dramon leant
closer, studying the assassin. “You have lovely eyes, Jishi.”

“Why, thank
you, sir.”

“And beautiful
hands.”

Blade glanced
at his scarred hands, wanting to hide them. “Thank you,” he
murmured in a whispery tone.

“Whereabouts do
you stay?” The man hesitated. “I mean, have you lived in Jondar
long? I haven't seen you here before.”

“Not too long.”
Blade wondered why the man was hedging. “I stay up the street a
little way.”

“All
alone?”

This time Blade
hesitated, as he realised the drift of the drover's questions. If
he said he had a husband, the man would probably leave. If he
claimed to be single, Dramon would no doubt press home his advance.
Blade opted for middle ground; he wanted to test the disguise a
little more.

“No, I stay
with my mother.”

“Ah, of course.
You're just a young thing, aren't you? What, eighteen, nineteen?
And your mother lets you drink in a taproom?”

Blade shrugged,
uncomfortably aware of the water bags' cold, jiggle presence. “I do
as I please.”

“So, you're
worldly-wise lass, eh? A little bit wild, I can tell.”

“Perhaps a
little,” Blade hedged.

“And do you
enjoy a good time?”

“That depends
on what sort of good time.”

“You know.”
Dramon gestured. “Flirting with the lads.”

“Sometimes.”

The drover
nodded, his confidence growing. “Of course you do, else you
wouldn't be here.”

“I came for a
cup of wine.”

“And a good
time, eh?”

Blade jumped
when a hand clasped his knee under the table, jerked his leg away
and frowned at Dramon.

The drover
chuckled. “Don't be coy, Jishi.”

The assassin
wanted to punch him in the nose. He imagined his fist lashing out
and the blood spurting from Dramon's nostrils as his head snapped
back from the force of the blow. He controlled the urge with an
effort and forced a smile to curve his lips, hating himself even
more. The drover stared at him, looking bemused, and Blade realised
that in his female disguise his smile was even more potent. Dramon
looked at him in the same why the Cotti soldiers had done, only
they had known he was a boy. If anything, the lust in Dramon's eyes
was worse, because he really did think that Blade was female, and
fully intended to go through with his disgusting desires if allowed
to. Blade longed to tell the drover that he was a man. Instead, he
widened his smile.

“Why don't you
go and stick your head in the cesspit?”

Dramon looked a
little taken aback, but rallied. “Now, now, there's no need to get
angry. You're such a lovely girl. I only want to make you happy.
You do enjoy pleasure, don't you? I can give you lots, if you'll
let me. And if needs be, I'll pay for it.”

Blade slapped
the drover's cheek hard enough to jerk his head to the side. The
man grunted and blinked in surprise. His friends at the other table
chuckled. Dramon rubbed his cheek with a rueful smile.

“I guess I
deserved that. Of course a beautiful girl like you isn't a whore.
I'm sorry.” He leant closer. “Will you forgive me?”

Blade stared at
him in astonishment. Had he slapped the drover as a male, he did
not doubt that Dramon and his friends would have tried to beat him
to within an inch of his life. He had expected an angry departure,
not continued persistence, or an apology. Remembering the
importance of maintaining his disguise, he also leant across the
table, and Dramon's eyes brightened.

“Go away,”
Blade muttered.

“Come now, what
I said wasn't that bad.”

The man's
tenacity astounded the assassin, and he sat back, picking up his
glass of wine. He had not realised how difficult it was, being a
woman, especially an attractive one. Since he had never made an
advance to a woman, he had no idea how much doggedness was
involved. How humiliating it must be, he mused, to be a man who was
driven by his lusts. He leant forward again.

“I'm not
interested, so bugger off.”

Dramon's
expression became mulish, and he reached across the table to grip
Blade's hand. “Now, now, there's no call for rudeness. I want to
get to know you better, is all. I'm unwed, and...”

Dramon broke
off when Blade placed his hand on the drover's in a light touch,
and his eyes brightened with hope. The assassin gripped Dramon's
middle finger and bent it back with a swift yank. The man yelped
and jumped, snatching his hand back to rub it, scowling.

“You're a
strong girl, aren't you?”

“You have no
idea,” Blade murmured.

“There's no
call to be nasty.”

Blade wondered
how the man would react if he revealed what he really was, but had
a nasty suspicion that it would hardly put the big man off. Unlike
the Cotti, some Jashimari enjoyed lying with boys, he had heard.
Disgusted, he slid off the bench and headed for the stairs, barely
remembering to swing his hips.

In his room, he
stripped off the dress and flung it across the room, ripped off the
baubles and kicked off the shoes. He hated everything about this
disguise and the subterfuge it entailed, but Talon was correct. It
was perfect. That rankled even more. He realised now that he had
hoped it would not work, that men would know he was male even in
the dress and paint. Somehow, that would have confirmed that he was
a man, instead, it made it even clearer that he did not look like
one.