The Queen's Blade Page 6

  Blade led Kerrion to the clump of stunted bloodwood trees where he had hidden the horses. His haste did not diminish, even now, and he tied the packs to the animals and boosted the Prince into the saddle of one before mounting the other. Turning away from the mountains, he urged his horse into a canter, leading the Prince’s mount.

  Within a few time-glasses, he was certain, the Cotti would mount a fierce attack on the pass, and he wanted to be far away by then. To his credit, the Prince was stoical about the stiff pace Blade set all day, for, although he slowed the horses to a walk several times, he kept on until sunset. The beasts were war steeds, tall and strong, bred for their stamina and spirit. He had been surprised to be given such highly trained animals, having expected dull-eyed work horses. Their ease of handling pleased him. The assassin was no horseman, and had little liking for the animals.

  By the time Blade stopped, Kerrion was pale and drawn, the pain of his wound and bonds clearly debilitating him. Blade tethered the horses in a wood beside a stream, letting them cool before he watered them. He pulled the Prince down and dumped him on the ground, then went to the stream to wash off the dye and paint. Kerrion eyed him when he returned, patently startled by the transformation. Blade took a length of chain from a pack and tied it around the Prince’s waist, leaving the ends free. He unbound Kerrion’s hands and started to fasten the chains to his wrists.

  The Prince’s lunge surprised the assassin and sent him sprawling onto his back. Kerrion straddled him, forced him back when he struggled to rise and blocked the blows Blade aimed at his head. Before the assassin could change tactics, the Prince seized Blade’s wrists and flung his weight against them, pinning them to the ground. Blade’s whipcord strength was no match for the Prince’s husky build and weight, since he was half a head taller and proportionally larger. Blade relaxed and scowled up at his former captive.

  “Well, that was easy,” Kerrion sneered. “Not much of a fighter, are you?”

  “I am not a brutish warrior, no.”

  “You are not even a real man! No man has cheeks as smooth as a girl’s. You were better suited to your previous costume.”

  Blade reined his temper. “You obviously have not noticed that you have created a situation from which you now have no way out, a particularly foolish move, I would say.”

  The Prince’s expression became pensive. As long as he held the assassin’s wrists, Blade was helpless, but Kerrion could do nothing further without releasing him. For a brief period of stalemate they glared at each other, then Kerrion did the only thing he could, and released one of Blade’s wrists to punch him. Blade’s vision darkened, and he went limp, closing his eyes. The Prince released his other wrist, and Blade sensed him straighten.

  The assassin sat up and whipped his arms up, the edges of his stiff hands striking the Prince on either side of his neck. Kerrion’s eyes rolled up as he keeled over. Blade pushed him away and raked leaves from his hair. He fettered Kerrion’s wrists and allowed himself the satisfaction of kicking the Prince in the gut, then set about lighting a fire and setting up camp.

  By the time Kerrion woke, Blade had watered the horses and unsaddled them, boiled water for tea and set a pot of stew on the fire to cook. The Prince groaned and clutched his gut, then tried to rub his neck. Finding his hands bound, he sat up and scowled at his captor.

  Blade eyed him across the fire. “Try anything like that again, and you will have more than a sore gut and neck to worry about. The Queen wants you alive, but she did not specify in what condition.”

  Kerrion coughed and bent to rub his throat. “Could I have some water?”

  “Certainly.” Blade tossed him a water skin.

  “You fight unfairly.”

  “Life is unfair, and that is the school that taught me. I do what is necessary to survive.”

  “What does your queen want with me?”

  “She does not confide in me. I am not her advisor.”

  Kerrion looked bitter. “I expect she wants to execute me publicly, thereby raising the morale of her soldiers and people, strengthening them in the war. The death of my father will also aid her cause, for it puts my younger brother, who is inexperienced in the art of war, on the throne.”

  “If she executes you, it will not be for that reason. The Queen wishes to end the war.”

  Kerrion snorted. “She will never win it.”

  “She does not want to win; only to find peace.”

  “By killing my father and kidnapping me? That will make my people hate her even more.”

  Blade shrugged, disinterested. “I do not know her plans, but she is no fool.”

  “She is a woman.”

  “She is the Jashimari Queen, and if you show her any disrespect, I shall make you suffer for it.”

  “I will never crawl on my belly and lick her feet like you do, half man.”

  “I will see to it that you do.”

  They scowled at each other, then Blade returned to stirring the stew.

  Kerrion’s eyes drifted to the pot, and he swallowed. Blade dished up two bowls and handed one to the Prince, who ate awkwardly with his chained hands. After the meal, the assassin relaxed against an ironbark tree and sipped his tea, studying his captive. Kerrion’s only resemblances to his father were his bronze skin and blond hair. Shandor’s eyes had been murky brown, his skin coarse and brows thick and wiry. Kerrion’s fine dark brows knotted above clear eyes of a peculiar tawny gold, the colour of the desert sand. Although his features were strong, he lacked his father’s brutish looks, and owned a countenance considerably handsomer than the average man.

  Kerrion fidgeted, rubbing his wrists where the chains chafed them. He drank more water and asked, “Did my father suffer?”

  “No. Unfortunately, I was not asked to make his death a slow one. I would have enjoyed it more if he had.”

  “Those bungling fools your queen sent before you died slowly. They squealed like stuck pigs and bled in fountains. I have never seen so much blood, or men take so long to die.”

  “Be quiet.”

  “I know my father died courageously.”

  “He did not have time to be afraid. Doubtless, had I taken the time to torture him, he would have squealed as loudly as the finest pig.”

  “He would have killed you with one blow,” Kerrion retorted.

  “I killed him with far less effort.”

  “You tricked him, dressing up as a damned whore! I expect you have been one often enough, to be so convincing.”

  “Be quiet.”

  “Did you lie with him before you killed him, half man?”

  “Did your father enjoy buggering men?”

  The Prince jerked at the chains. “Release me, and I will push those words down your throat until you choke on them.”

  Blade drew a dagger and lunged across the fire, gripped one of Kerrion’s ears and held the weapon to it. “Keep goading me, and I will cut pieces off you until you stop.”

  The Prince met his gaze, and Blade sat back and studied his captive again. The aquiline cast to his features gave him a fierce look, yet the uncertainty of inexperience tempered it. Although Kerrion was only a few years younger, Blade pondered the vast difference between them. The Cotti Prince had been raised on milk and honey and given all that he desired. He had undoubtedly never known pain or grief, hunger or thirst. His outlook was naive and his nature untested.

  This experience would probably shape the Prince’s character more than any of the soft years he had lived until now. Blade compared this with his own life and shuddered. He did not like to dwell on his past. There was nothing good in it at all. He had lived a harsh existence from an early age, suffered all of life’s trials and been strengthened by them. If Kerrion was clay waiting to be moulded, Blade was the tempered steel of the name he had earned.

  Blade closed his eyes, the weariness of two days and a night without sleep, combined with the nervous tension he had been under during that time, taking its toll. Aware that his prisoner was unsecured,
he forced himself awake and tied the Prince’s leash to a tree, then spread a blanket on a pile of leaves and stretched out on it.

  Chapter Five

  Blade jerked awake, the events of the previous day returning with a rush of anxiety. A glance at the Prince assured him that his captive was still bound and asleep in a huddle at the base of the tree. The assassin washed in the stream, then kicked the Prince awake, saddled the horses and packed up the camp. Kerrion’s bloodshot eyes betrayed his sleepless night, and his chafed wrists testified to his struggles. Blade allowed him a drink of water and a call of nature, then thrust him towards his horse, making him stumble on stiff legs. Before Kerrion mounted, Blade produced a sack to put over the Prince’s head, and he jerked away.

  “Is there no end to your sadistic inclinations? Did your queen order you to humiliate me as much and as often as possible?”

  Blade shook his head. “You are a Cotti. If people see you, I doubt that I will be able to keep them from lynching you, or worse. You will wear the hood if you want to live, and keep your mouth shut.”

  The assassin chuckled as he boosted his prisoner onto his horse, and Kerrion snarled a few choice insults in reply. The day passed peacefully with the Prince silenced, and Blade set a steady pace that ate up the miles.

  That night, he again selected a grove in which to make camp, pulled the Prince from his horse and yanked the hood off with unnecessary force. Kerrion emerged angry and dishevelled, glancing around before unleashing his pent-up vitriol.

  “If I am returned to my people, assassin, I shall see to it that you are hunted down and executed in the worst possible way.”

  “I sincerely doubt that,” Blade muttered.

  “I have plenty of spies amongst your people, men loyal to my crown, who would gladly avenge my ill treatment at your hands.”

  “I meant that I doubt you will ever be returned to your people.”

  Kerrion watched the assassin set up camp. “The Cotti will not want my younger brother on the throne, and, even if he does not wish it, those loyal to me will do everything in their power to see that I am released.”

  Blade broke a handful of twigs onto the tiny flames, then studied the Prince, his mouth set in a grim line. “You think my treatment of you is bad, yet you have no idea of your men’s cruelty.”

  “If your queen fell into my soldiers’ hands, I am sure she would be treated with every courtesy.”

  “And I am sure she would not.”

  “What would you know of my men, anyway? At least I do not neuter them.”

  Blade let the twigs fall into the fire and stood up. Drawing a dagger, he dragged the Prince to his feet and pushed his face close to the royal visage. Kerrion met his gaze unflinching, although his tension revealed his inner qualms at the intense hatred the assassin knew blazed in his eyes. Blade pressed the weapon to the Prince’s throat, drawing a drop of blood.

  “If you do not learn to hold your flapping tongue, I will cut it out.”

  They glowered at each other, then Blade gave the Prince a push that sent him sprawling and turned away to continue making camp.

  Queen Minna-Satu looked up from a report when Chiana entered. The chief advisor rose from her prostration and said, “The man I sent to find out about the assassin has returned, My Queen.”

  Minna put aside the paper. “Bring him in.”

  Chiana opened the doors to admit Mendal, who stalked closer before prostrating himself. When the Queen allowed him to rise, he shot Chiana a hard look.

  “I must protest, My Queen, at my treatment. I am no spy to be sent amongst the scum of your city in search of rumours concerning the unsavoury characters who dwell there.”

  Minna-Satu smiled, delighted to find her old enemy so misused. Mendal had always annoyed her with his snide remarks and overt contempt for almost everybody. “And yet, if no use is to be found for you, Mendal, what will become of you? I find you eminently qualified for the task, since you frequent those establishments.”

  “I protest! You have been told lies, My Queen. I do not mingle with the trash who dwell in the gutter.”

  “Come now, not everyone who knows you lies about you, do they? And you surely did not have to stoop quite so low?”

  “Almost! And this flagrant insult to my character is intolerable. I would know who has slandered me so vilely behind my back.”

  “Very well, I shall have my chief advisor make up a list for your perusal.”

  Chiana giggled behind her hand, and Mendal looked at her suspiciously.

  Minna controlled her expression and folded her hands. “Give your report.”

  “A list?” Mendal frowned, realising that his protests were no longer finding a friendly ear, and, in truth, never had. Under the Queen’s glacial eyes, he groped amongst his snakeskin robes and pulled out a crumpled paper, tucking the green adder away when it emerged, hissing angrily at the intrusion. He cleared his throat and smoothed the paper.

  “The assassin known as Blade also goes by Conash of the Cats. He was born in the frontier town of Goat’s Rest, and began his life as a goatherd.” Mendal smirked. “His family was wiped out in the Rout of Ashtolon, and he vanished for five years. He has a maternal aunt who lives in Jonaway, and several cousins there.” The advisor coughed, glancing at the Queen. Normally she would not have listened to such detail, but she was rapt.

  Mendal continued, “He became an assassin at the age of eighteen, unusually young, so I am told. He earned the title of Master of the Dance only a year later, and has held it ever since. He is also known as the Silent Slayer and the Invisible Assassin. The tally of his trade varies greatly, some say two hundred men, others tell me more than four hundred. Apparently he is credited with the assassination of Lord Rothwayer, paid for by his rival Lord Mordon, but no one knows for certain, other than that Lord Rothwayer was killed in the distinctive fashion of the Invisible Assassin.”

  “What fashion is that?” Minna asked.

  Mendal raised his left arm and gestured to his flank. “A dagger in the heart, under the arm.”

  “Is he a good assassin, then?”

  “Good?” Mendal sniggered. “Few can claim more than a hundred kills, My Queen, and even fewer live to see thirty. The Invisible Assassin is said to be nine and twenty years of age.”

  “I see. What else?”

  Mendal waved the paper. “Details; nothing more.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Uh… he came from a large family, two brothers and three sisters, all dead now. His father’s name was Jarren, his mother Misha, and his aunt is called Perin. His village was utterly wiped out in the raid that killed them... um....” Mendal peered at his untidy scrawl.

  “Why is he called the Invisible Assassin?”

  He looked up. “Well, because no one ever sees him, My Queen.”

  “But all assassins sneak about. It is how they do their job.”

  “But in his case, it is more than that.” Mendal gestured with the paper. “Take the case of Lord Rothwayer, who was killed in his bedroom with a guard at every door and window. The lord, as usual, came home with a whore, and the girl left a time-glass or so later. No one entered the room after that, all the guards swore to it, yet Lord Rothwayer was found dead in his bed the next morning.”

  “Very strange. Anything else?”

  Mendal looked surprised. “Just gossip.”

  “Indulge me. I am bored this morning.”

  “Well, there is a story of one escapade in which he was hired by one large and powerful merchant family to kill the patriarch of another. He performed the task, but the seven brothers of the man he killed, knowing who their enemies were, took vengeance on the family that had hired him. They lay in wait for the assassin, and, when he came to collect his payment, they beat him to within an inch of his life. In truth, he should have died; they left him for dead on the street. Instead, he vanished, and reappeared several moons later, healthy again.”

  “And no one knows who saved him, or why?”

&nbs
p; “No, My Queen.”

  “What of his character? What sort of man is he?”

  Mendal chuckled. “Why, he is a killer; cold-blooded, unfeeling and merciless.”

  “This is your opinion?”

  “Of course, it stands to reason. Anyway, no one knows him well enough to speak of his personality, but his deeds say it for him, do they not?”

  “Yet he must have at least one friend, who saved him from death and nursed him back to health.”

  Mendal inclined his head. “It would seem so, My Queen. Then again, perhaps whoever did it was seeking a reward, for assassins are often quite rich.”

  “Perhaps. You have done well, Mendal. I am pleased. You may go.”

  The advisor prostrated himself and left; Chiana awaited orders. The Queen rose and went to stare out of the window at the sunny garden.

  “It seems I have indeed chosen the right man for this task.”

  “Yes, My Queen.”

  “Almost a moon phase has passed, and we have heard nothing. Why does he not send a message?”

  “Perhaps he cannot.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. If he fails, I shall….” Minna sighed. “So much depends on his success. All my plans.”

  “I am sure he will succeed, My Queen. If his reputation is as fearsome as Mendal describes, he must.”

  “Yes, yes, I agree, provided the tales Mendal passed on to me were not exaggerations.”

  “Even if they are, they must be based on some amazing facts.”

  Kerrion watched the assassin cut dried meat into a pot to prepare a stew. The last three days had passed relatively peacefully, since he had stopped goading the grey-eyed man, and, although his situation was still intolerable, it had improved slightly since then. The assassin had barely spoken two words, going about his business as if the Prince did not exist.

  “Have you a name?” Kerrion asked, tired of the silence.

  “Everyone has.”