The Queen's Blade Prequel I - Conash: Dead Son (31 page)

Not only had he
been robbed of his desire for a woman, he even lacked the look of a
man. Blade scrubbed the paint off in the bowl of water and lay down
on the bed. Cold fury seethed within him, seeking outlet, but there
was nothing on which to vent his rage. The thuds, squeaks and yelps
started next door, and he cursed, stuffing his head under the
pillow. His hatred for humanity expanded to include all hirsute
males and busy whores.

Chapter Eighteen

Blade spent the
next day perfecting his disguise and his feminine traits, spending
much of it talking to himself in a female voice. He was, he mused,
quite mad, but he had known that for some time now. The whore
always went to the Trobalon mansion just after dusk, and in the
late afternoon he visited the inn's bathing room and spent a
time-glass soaking in a tub of hot, scented water. It took him two
time-glasses before he was satisfied with his disguise, and he left
the inn to wander in the direction of the rich area.

Two streets
away from the Trobalon mansion, he waited in an alley for the whore
to arrive. He checked and rechecked his weapons, ensuring that they
slid easily from the wrist sheaths. The leather crafter who had
made the sheaths had done a good job, and the weapons were high
quality, purchased from a master armourer for the outrageous price
of a golden each, but they were perfectly balanced. He had strapped
another dagger to the inside of his thigh, just in case. Spotting
the whore sauntering towards the alley, Blade hid at the corner. As
she passed his hiding place, he stepped out behind her and gripped
her neck. She slid senseless to the ground, and he kept the
pressure for a few moments to ensure a prolonged sleep, then
dragged her into the alley and propped her up behind a stack of
empty boxes, out of sight.

The guards at
the mansion's gates leered at him, but one stepped into his
path.

“You're not our
master's usual trollop. Where is she?”

Blade stopped,
his stomach tightening. “Sick. She asked me to take her place.”

“What's wrong
with her?”

He shrugged.
“Women's troubles.”

The guard eyed
Blade. “You're a pretty one, for a whore.”

“It takes all
sorts.” He smiled. “Maybe, if your master likes me, you'll see me
more often.”

“I'd like
that.” The man seemed to give himself a mental shake, while his
cohort just stared. “He'll like you, never fear.”

Blade forced
his lips to curl, fascinated by the effect it had on the guard, who
stepped closer and reached out to stroke the assassin's cheek.

“Perhaps you
could visit me too?”

“If you can
afford five silvers, I'm yours.”

The man's face
fell. “I'm not that rich.”

“Then I'm not
interested. Are you going to let me pass?”

“Of course.”
The guard looked disappointed. “The servant will show you where to
go.”

Blade smiled
again and slipped past, heading for the mansion's huge, polished
coalwood door. A man in dark green and silver livery opened it,
raking the assassin with an appreciative, puzzled glance before
leading him along a gleaming, tapestry-hung corridor to knock on a
broad bloodwood door. The opulence of his surroundings amazed
Blade, who studied the carved furniture and delicate ornaments with
deep appreciation. One day, he promised himself, he would own a
mansion such as this. The servant opened the door when a gruff
voice commanded him to, and Blade strolled into a boudoir decorated
in soft cream and burnt umber, with a vast, silk-draped four-poster
bed at its centre. Apparently Graleth, or his son, wasted no time
on niceties.

A bulky man
turned from a roaring blaze in the hearth in the living area, where
two brown, velvet-upholstered settees faced the fire. Several
animal trophies and paintings decorated the walls, and rich rugs
softened the floor. To Blade's delight, the man was Graleth. He
studied Blade, looking a little surprised, but pleased.

“Where's
Annay?”

“Sick. I'm
Jishi.”

“Very nice.
Come closer.”

Blade swayed
over to him, smiling.

Graleth sipped
a cup of wine, his eyes filled with lust. “Lovely. You'll do very
well. Annay really should have worn a bag over her head, but you, I
could stand to look at.”

The assassin
affected a pout, hoping he got it right. “Annay's my friend, you
know.”

“She's still
ugly. You, on the other hand, are beautiful. Perhaps I will have
you instead of her, in future.”

“You may, of
course,” Blade purred, sickness coiling in his stomach. He longed
to kill the man and wipe the ugly, lustful smile off his face.
Graleth cupped Blade's cheek and turned his face to admire it, his
eyes alight. Blade smiled and tilted his head, hoping his
expression was coy, as he strived to make it. Grelath's hand slid
around the back of the assassin's neck and drew him closer, and
Blade marvelled at how unguarded the big man was with what he
thought was a woman. All the better. This would be easy. Grelath
stepped closer, almost toe to toe with the assassin, and Blade
wondered if the best time to stab him was now. This situation was
so unusual that he was tense and unsure. He became aware that
Grelath was groping the swathes of cloth over his posterior with a
start.

“You wear a lot
of clothes, for a whore,” Grelath muttered, his breath quickening.
“Come, let's get them off.”

Gripping
Blade's wrist, he yanked him towards the bed, taking the assassin
by surprise. Before he could gather his wits, Grelath sent him
sprawling onto the bed with a rough push and flung himself on top,
starting to pull up Blade's skirt. A frisson of panic went through
the assassin, then horror and revulsion overwhelmed him as
Grelath's thick, wet lips fastened onto his mouth and a sour,
sticky tongue thrust between his teeth.

Blade's bile
rose, and he tried to push the patriarch away, but Grelath's arms
were like iron and his weight pressed the assassin into the soft
bed. Blade bit Grelath's tongue, and salty blood filled his mouth.
Grelath gave a stifled roar and tried to recoil, but was held fast.
Blade wanted to let go more than anything, but if he did the
patriarch would shout for help, and then he was dead and his
mission a failure. He pressed the catch that released a dagger,
but, because he was prone, it did not slide into his hand. Grelath
gurgled, fumbled for Blade's throat and gripped it. Thoroughly
panicked, he shook his arm, trying to get the dagger to slide from
its sheath.

Realising that
this was a futile endeavour, and he only had moments before the
situation became a disaster and Grelath crushed his windpipe, his
hands flashed up to grip the patriarch's neck. His fingers found
the correct places and pressed. Grelath went limp, his face
thrusting into Blade's. The assassin pushed him off, spitting out
blood and saliva, his face twisted with disgust. This may have been
the only way to slay the rich merchant, but it was certainly not a
pleasant one. Then again, he now knew not to allow things to go
this far if he ever employed this disguise again, and he hoped he
would never need to.

Sliding off the
bed, he rinsed his mouth in the water basin beside it, spitting and
hacking to rid himself of the man's vile taste and the blood that
had run down his throat. His aversion to the sight and smell of
blood overtook him anyway, and he vomited in the corner. At least
that washed away the last of the rancid, lonion-flavoured spit and
salty blood. Wiping his mouth on a towel, he turned to glare at his
victim, cold fury rising within him. The dagger he had released
earlier slid from its sheath and hit the floor with a clatter.
Blade scooped it up and strode to the bed, pulled Grelath's arm
away from his side and thrust the weapon in. The man gasped and
went limp.

The memory of
his groping hands and wet, sucking mouth remained, and Blade longed
to blot it out. He paused, glaring at the corpse, then gave in to
his fury and rammed the dagger into Grelath's eye, yanked it out
and impaled the other. Still not satisfied, he gripped the dead
patriarch's lips and sliced them off, flinging them away. His bile
rose again at the sight of Grelath's mutilated face, and he
retched. Disfiguring his victim's corpse brought no satisfaction,
only more nausea, and he turned away with a shudder.

Returning to
the basin, he washed the dagger and his hands, his stomach clenched
with revulsion. Sheathing the weapon, he considered his next move.
He wanted to leave, but that would be suspicious. He had to wait
for at least a time-glass, he suspected. Maybe a little less.
Remembering how important his appearance was, he went to a wall
mirror to inspect his reflection. The berry juice on his lips was
gone, his cheeks were streaked with blood, and the powder he had
used to darken his eyes was smudged. Cursing, he dampened the towel
and used it to scrub his face clean, then glanced around for
something with which to fix the damage to his eyes. It should not
have happened. He had bungled when he had allowed the patriarch to
take hold of him, but he had not known that Grelath was a
rapist.

Blade spotted a
bottle of wine on the table in the lounge and went over to gulp
half of it down. His flesh crawled and bile still stung the back of
his throat, robbing him of his usual sense of satisfaction. Grelath
was in his fifties, so his familiar would have perished moments
after he had, and, since his death had been swift, it had not been
able to raise the alarm. The bull might have bellowed and galloped
around when it sensed Grelath’s earlier pain, but he doubted anyone
had paid it any attention, especially since it was so late and not
many would be around to witness its antics, in any case. He had
time. He glanced at the corpse with a shudder, realising, as he did
so, that if anyone came to check on Grelath after he had left, his
death would be instantly obvious. Cursing afresh, he returned to
the bed and pondered the problem. Tugging the bedspread from under
Grelath's corpse, Blade rolled it onto its side and pulled the
cover over it.

The cadaver
farted, and Blade wondered why he always got the flatulent ones.
The corpse was now facing away from the door, but the assassin
draped the towel over its bloody face anyway. He needed as much
time to make good his escape as he could get. At least, with the
body's face covered, it was not quite so onerous to linger. While
mutilating the corpse in a fit of fury had not been a good idea, it
did have the effect of making it look less like an assassination.
He glanced at the fireplace, and an idea came to him. Collecting
some soot on his finger, he returned to the mirror to touch up his
eyes, quite pleased with the result. A whore would have looked
dishevelled after fornicating with Grelath, in any case, he mused,
so his somewhat bedraggled appearance should not seem
suspicious.

Blade checked
himself thoroughly, ensuring that no blood soiled him, straightened
his clothes and glanced at the water clock. Almost a time-glass had
passed. At the door, he glanced back, then opened it a crack and
peered into the empty corridor. Slipping out, he closed it and
crept along the corridor, his shoes silent on the polished wooden
floor. The hour was not that late, but the mansion seemed deserted.
The front door opened with a soft creak, and he breathed the chill
night air with a huge sense of relief. As he hastened towards the
gate, he wished he had worn a hooded cloak.

The gate guards
watched him approach, and he bowed his head, walking quickly
without appearing in too much of a hurry. The friendly one stepped
into his path, forcing him to halt.

“Are you all
right?” the sentry asked.

Blade shot him
a surprised glance. “Yes.”

“He didn't hurt
you?”

“No, why, does
he hurt Annay?”

The man
grimaced. “Usually, yes.”

“Then why ask,
if you know the answer?”

“I... I'm just
concerned, is all.”

“May I
pass?”

The man glanced
at his companion. “Will you be all right, walking home alone?”

“What does it
matter to you?”

The guard
shifted, frowning. “I could escort you. I'm off duty in half a
time-glass.”

Blade realised
that the guard was either a genuinely pleasant man with good
intentions, or a potential rapist seeking a victim. He had no wish
for a burly benefactor, however, and shook his head.

“I'll be all
right.”

The guard
nodded and stepped aside, looking disappointed.

Blade brushed
past him and hurried down the street, the cold making him shiver.
His stomach still squirmed whenever he recalled what had happened
in the patriarch's bed chamber, and he strived to put it from his
mind. By the time he reached the inn, his nose was numb and his
head ached. In his room, he stripped off the hated frock and washed
all over in the basin of water, scrubbing his face. He was not
satisfied until he was convinced that he had washed off every
vestige of Grelath's touch. Sitting on the bed, he allowed himself
to ponder the night's events, his mind still shying away from it.
The squeaks and thuds started next door, and he groaned, flopping
back on the bed. For some reason, the whore had a lot more
customers than usual.

The following
day, the furore that Grelath's death caused started as criers
spread the news and troublemakers picked fights. Junior members of
the Trobalon clan attacked youths from the Artemann and Emsallon
families, running wild now that their patriarch was gone. According
to the criers, Grelath's murder was a mystery, and the Watch sought
a woman named Jishi. Blade relaxed in his room with a good book and
several bottles of wine. Even though the supposed whore had been
the last to see Grelath alive, no one blamed her, because women
were considered too weak and squeamish to stab a man to death, it
seemed.