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.
That night, Blade was surprised when Borass himself came to deliver the balance of his fee, settling onto the bench opposite with a furtive glance around the room. Borass pushed a bag of coins across the table, and Blade hefted it before tucking it into his jacket. Borass ordered a mug of ale and stared at Blade with disconcerting intensity. The assassin leant back and sipped his wine.
Borass leant forward. “Did you kill him?”
Blade frowned. “Why would you ask that?”
“Because according to the criers, no one could have, yet someone did.”
“A testament to my skill.”
“If indeed it was you.”
“If you doubted it, why did you pay the balance of my fee?”
Borass shrugged. “Someone did.”
“Yet you doubt me.”
“How could you...?” Borass shook his head. “No, you won't tell me, I know. I'm impressed, though. They're calling his killer the Invisible Assassin.”
Blade inclined his head. “That's one of my titles.”
Borass drained his ale in a few gulps. “Then you'd best change your haunt. The Trobalons are out for revenge.”
“No one ever seeks vengeance on the assassin, only his employer.”
“You don't know the Trobalons, obviously.”
Borass rose, and left Blade gazing after him with a faint frown. This, apparently, was one of the drawbacks of being the Dance Master. The Trobalons would expect whoever had paid for Grelath's death to have hired the best assassin in the city, which laid the blame on Blade's doorstep. While most would not try to kill the Dance Master, perhaps the Trobalons were angry enough to do it. Without proof, however, they might think twice. Nonetheless, he decided to lie low for a while, and take Borass' advice. He had enough goldens to keep him in wine and lodgings for some time.
Half a time-glass later, Blade looked up when a shadow fell on his table. Talon stood over him, his expression grimly proud. He sat opposite and signalled to the serving wench. Blade eyed him without enthusiasm and inclined his head.
“Elder Talon.”
“Dance Master. You've done well for yourself. Grelath's death must have been expensive.”
“I'll wager you wish I still shared my fees with you.”
“Indeed, assassins don't bring in much in their first two years.” Talon leant closer, his eyes scanning Blade's face. “You did it, didn't you? You used the disguise.”
“That's none of your business.”
Talon smiled. “I knew it. The whore, Jishi, that was you.”
Blade glared across the room, wishing he could tell Talon to leave, rudely, but his code constrained him. Elders were respected, especially by fully-fledged assassins. The serving wench brought Talon a cup of wine, and the elder sipped it.
“You need to be careful,” he said. “The Trobalons are a dangerous bunch, and once they've sorted out their internal wrangles over inheritance, they'll seek revenge. You're their prime suspect, and while they'll think twice about killing you, they may try to beat your employer's name out of you.”
“Everyone knows assassins won't reveal it.”
“Yes, but they may still try, and take a great deal of satisfaction from your injury.”
“They have no proof.”
Talon shook his head. “They don't need it. No one's going to punish them for torturing an assassin. The Watch will turn a blind eye, even if they did it at a guardhouse. You've got to be careful, and -”
“I know. Change my haunt, lay low.”
“Yes. I'm glad you've realised that.”
Blade sighed. “I'm not a fool, Talon.”
“Just an overconfident youngster. Look at you. You still look nineteen.”
“But I'm not.”
Talon sipped his wine. “Good. I wouldn't want you to meet a sticky end. Your reputation is growing formidable. You've earned your new title.”
“And you're basking in my glory.”
“I am. I now have three apprentices who all want to be like you.” Talon snorted. “They never will be, though, they're all too busy wenching, drinking and playing tosspot.”
“I would have been too, if I'd had that option.”
“Yes. But instead you've become the best Jondar assassin ever, perhaps the best in all Jashimari. You should be proud. I am.”
Blade glared at his former mentor. “I'm in no mood for company.”
Talon sighed. “In other words, 'bugger off'.”
“Something like that.”
“I've missed you. And I take little credit for what you've become. You did most of it. All I did was teach you the basics and give you the tools.” He gazed at Blade's averted face. “And you're as cold as your name implies. I was wrong. It suits you perfectly.”
Talon drained his cup, rose and headed for the door, leaving Blade glaring at his back. Tiring of all the unwanted attention, the assassin finished his wine and went upstairs to his room to pack. One advantage to changing his haunt was that Talon would not be able to find him for a while. He did not know why, but he disliked the elder assassin's company. Then again, he disliked everyone's company.
***
Blade wandered along a dirty alley, heading home after a night of nursing wine bottles in the dingy alehouse down the road. His new abode was the top floor of a run-down double-storey house in the poor quarter, a step up from the slums, but still dismal and cheap. His stash of goldens was largely untouched, even though he had not worked in the two moons since he had assassinated Grelath. He had built a new platform to practice his dancing skills on, at the edge of the forest just outside the city. It was larger than Talon's, and better built, because Blade had paid skilled carpenters to erect it. Many platforms were secreted around the city, one of the few signs assassins left of their industry. Apart from ordering wine from serving wenches in the various taprooms he frequented, he had not spoken to anyone since his conversation with Talon.
Today had been much like any other. He had slept until noon, then risen and strolled to his platform to practice for three time-glasses. Having worked up a thirst and a paltry appetite, he had chosen a taproom to reside in for the remainder of the day, and consumed three bottles of potent red wine on top of a plate of beef stew. His head swam and his steps meandered down the alley, stumbling in the refuse. So it was every day, on his return from an alehouse. This was his life. Empty and pointless, but the wine made it bearable. Barely. He had so many things he wanted to drown, the freshest being his encounter with Grelath and the nauseating memory of the man's tongue in his mouth. It still made his stomach squirm.
Blade turned into a narrower, dimmer and filthier alley, a shortcut to his dwelling, and reeled along it. The hair on the back of his scalp rose, and he glanced around. There was a sharp thud, and darkness slammed down.
Boots kicked him, and he writhed, groaning. Pain flared from his arm and one leg, and his ribs were on fire. He forced open one eye, which something sticky tried to glue closed. The stench of blood filled his nose, and his stomach heaved. Clearly his assailants had beaten him for quite some time while he had been unconscious. Sharp pain shot from his belly and back. Another boot thudded into his back, and something bashed his head, making sparkles dance in his eyes. Deep voices muttered curses and insults, and a cold, wet gobbet hit his cheek and ran down it. He tried to grope for the dagger in his left wrist sheath, but his right arm would not obey him, so he tried the left. A boot slammed into his shoulder, sending him rolling, then something hit the side of his head, and darkness fell once more.
****
Read the conclusion of The Queen’s Blade prequels in the second book, God Touched.