Dark Empress (59 page)

Asima sneered and sat back, still fingering the knife.

“So you have no real decision to make.”

Ghassan stepped a pace forward, frowning.

“You say Samir prevented you from going home, Asima. You may be half Pelasian by blood but you were born and raised in M’Dahz. You are one of us, whatever you’ve come to believe. Do you truly feel no kinship to your hometown?”

The sneer turned on Ghassan, but its owner said nothing.

“Your father was a good man;” the tall brother continued quietly, “a man of the Empire; and he lies at rest in M’Dahz. I’ve visited his grave. Have you?”

There was no change in Asima’s expression as she raised her head slightly.

“Are you finished boring me?”

Ghassan sighed.

“I believe so. Perhaps Samir was right about you. BelaPraxis has closed one of her eyes.”

A trace of uncertainty passed suddenly across Asima’s face, but disappeared in an instant, to be replaced by yet more disdain and disgust.

“Get out and leave me to eat this filth in peace.”

Samir and Ghassan exchanged a look and then turned to the door.

“Duro! Open up.”

As the key was jangled in the lock, a low and determined voice from behind them said “Bear in mind, both of you, that I have been enslaved, imprisoned, exiled and sentenced to death and I have walked away free and unharmed every time. There is no power in the world that can contain me. It is my destiny to reign. Even the Gods have acknowledged that; and when I do, I will shake the world until it spits the pair of you out at my feet.”

Samir turned as the door opened and sketched a mock bow.

“Then, since I have no wish to anger the Gods, I shall do everything in my power to make sure that you achieve your goals, your magnificence.”

The gravy-spattered knife hit the door and dug deep with a wooden ‘thunk’ just as the lock clicked shut.

In which Asima rails against fate

Harus had joined the crew of the Dark Empress six years ago. Caught stealing food, he’d fled the guard in Calphoris, found himself at the docks and hid aboard the first vessel he could find, since when he’d never looked back. Even those first months after he’d been discovered stowing away, when the crew had been extremely harsh on him and he’d had the worst jobs they could throw his way, he’d been grateful beyond belief. It may have seemed to the rest of them that they were putting him through hell but the plain truth was that the worst they could dream up was heaven compared to life as a homeless beggar in the city. His muscles might ache, but his belly was full.

Six years of slowly clawing his way up from that inauspicious beginning, of forging a career as a sailor, learning the ropes in quite a literal manner, and of gaining the respect of his crewmates. Six long years of struggle, and it had to end like this, staggering against a doorframe, staring down at the blood gushing from his chest.

Harus felt like crying at the unfairness of it all, but the pain and the horror paralysed him. Was he dead? Was that it? He stared down at the tin bowl, its meaty, juicy contents spattered across the wooden floor. He was only delivering food! Could he do anything to prevent what seemed inevitable now? At least he could scream… that would bring help, and perhaps warn the others…

The cry died in his throat as Asima’s dining knife came in for a second attack, slicing neatly across his windpipe and artery. With a wheeze and a sigh, pumping blood like the grand fountains of Calphoris, Harus slid down the doorframe and slumped to the floor.

Asima tutted irritably and brushed at the droplets that spattered the hem of her dress. Reaching down, she wiped the knife on the boy’s tunic, cleaning the viscera from it so that it gleamed silver once again. Edging close to the door, she peered left and right. The corridor was empty and dark, the faint moonlight tempered by scudding clouds and not penetrating this far into the cabin section’s interior.

Clearly Samir’s cabin would be the one at the end. On the assumption this daram was organised the same as Ghassan’s military one had been, the room opposite would be a social room for the more senior crewmen, while the four between here and the captain’s cabin would be those of the first officer and the three other most senior crewmen. The nearest two to her would be less important, which meant that Ursa and Ghassan would be behind the two doors that flanked the captain’s cabin.

Briefly she paused, wondering for the hundredth time since she had settled on this course of action whether it might have been better to steal a lifeboat and try to make for land; but she was no sailor and had no idea how far they were from shore now, so such an act would be reckless.

The old crone had told her not to fight against her fate, but that was assuming that there was such a thing as fate. Asima still struggled with the concept but, logically, if something were fated, then anything she did was already written and therefore she was following the path and not fighting it whatever she tried. That logic, when it had come to her this afternoon, had eased her tensions and helped her justify whatever needed doing.

This was a gamble, of course. The crew had no reason to support her, even though Ursa had been on good terms with her during their last brief stay at Lassos.

But this was the only real path left open now. In the navy it would be dealt with harshly, but among pirates it was said that strength ruled, and strength was something that Asima had in abundance. Realistically it should be Samir first. The way you killed a serpent was to cut off its head. Ursa could be last; he was clearly the least important.

But the more she thought of Ghassan and his self-righteous attitude, the more the thought of him pinned to the bulkhead with his eyes rolled up into his skull appealed to her. Samir could wait. Ghassan might just have to go first… call it a practice run.

Still pausing, Asima held her breath as she listened. The sounds from outside were muted in the night as the ship relied on sails, the oars shipped for the duration. The creak of timber was faint and, if she listened extremely hard, she could hear the distant murmur of low conversation between duty crewmen. There was no sound from the room opposite; presumably any eating, drinking and carousing they had planned, they’d done earlier in the evening.

Taking a quiet gulp of air, she stepped out into the corridor and padded silently deeper into the darkness. The wooden beams creaked gently under her feet, but the sound was lost amid the normal squeaks and groans of the ship’s timbers.

She paused again as she reached the next set of doors. There was heavy snoring from the room on her left, but no sound from the right. Keeping a watchful eye on the silent door, she crept further, passing those rooms and approaching the end of the corridor, where the ornate door of Samir’s cabin taunted her.

Perhaps she should go after the snake’s head first, after all?

No. She’d made her decision. Second-guessing and indecision suggested failure in either the planning or the execution of any scheme. Now… which door?

Leaning to the left, she listened at the wood. The very faint sounds of someone sleeping within. Could be Ghassan… could be Ursa. Who knew? Crossing the corridor, she leaned toward that door. Again, the faint sounds of deep, relaxed breathing. It was a guess, then. One door held Ghassan and one Ursa. They would both have to die anyway if she were going to stand a chance of usurping command of the ship. She was sure enough of her own talents and persuasiveness that she didn’t doubt for a moment she would sway the crew to her side, but not while any of these three lived to defy her.

Shrugging, she silently ran through a childhood rhyme to make her decision, the gleaming point of her sharp knife wavering back and forth with each line, pointing at one door and then the other.

The closing stanza of the rhyme escaped her lips and Asima looked down at the knife, then up to the door on her left and shrugged nonchalantly. Now for the first real test of her abilities. Leaning in close, she carefully grasped the handle and began, very slowly, to turn. There was the faintest squeak and she lowered the speed of turn more, moving the handle through a fraction of a degree at a time, all the while listening for any change in the sleep pattern within. It came as something of a relief when the door finally gave, just an inch. She’d half expected them to be locked and, while she was more than capable of overcoming that kind of difficulty after so many years’ practice in the harem of Akkad, it represented an added degree of danger.

Slowly, the door cracked open. Once more there was a faint creak to it. Had she opened it at normal speed, the noise would have been loud enough to startle most sleepers awake, but Asima was nothing if not careful.

The door finally wide enough to allow access, she slipped inside. Briefly she considered closing it, but then, if she were caught out and there was a noise, a closed door would hardly protect her. Better to leave the exit clear for her to move on speedily.

Silently, she padded into the dark room, a drape hanging over the window and obscuring all but the faintest glow. As her eyes adjusted to the stygian gloom, she picked out various furnishings and, finally, the bed. For a moment she was a little disappointed to realise from the bulk of the figure in the bed that this was Ursa’s room and not Ghassan’s. Still, she told herself once more, they all had to go and this could be considered just an extra training run.

Slowly, she inched across to the bed. The great, bald man lay there, barely covered by a single sheet and naked barring a set of under-britches. He slept on his back, eyes tight and mouth purring gently in a manner so quiet and calm and even ladylike that it brought a smile to Asima’s face; that great tattooed head uttering such a tiny, peaceful noise. Very easy positioning, of course. He would be a lot more peaceful in a minute.

Taking a deep breath, she raised herself up over the slumbering figure. Silent: that was the thing. Silence first. With a smile, she placed her hand ready over his mouth, not touching, but ready, should he get the chance to struggle.

The knife went in easily and slid across the neck to the ear opposite. She shook her head in disbelief at how easy it really was. Surely, they should have had more foresight than to give her a sharp knife to eat with. If she’d been their captor, they’d have been lucky to get a spoon.

Ursa awoke in understandable distress, his eyes wide as the life sprayed from his neck. He tried to shout something but it merely came out from his throat as bloody bubbles as he thrashed. Damn it. He was going to make too much noise with all this waving around.

Sighing, Asima drew the knife back, her hand going to his chest to try and hold him down. As he panicked, dying, she carefully drove her knife into his temple, delivering a paralysing, killing blow. The big body, a pile of sweating blubber, slick with sweat and crimson gore, shuddered and shook for a moment and then fell still, the man’s glassy eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling.

Asima nodded to herself. One down and two to go. And she’d learned a valuable lesson: silence from the mouth was only part of the job. She had to make sure the thrashing around was kept to a minimum. Ghassan would be a better job. Once more, she carefully cleaned the blade on the drape over the window. It wasn’t a fussy thing, for the sake of cleanliness, so much as the need to make sure she kept a solid grip on the weapon with no slippery blood beneath her fingers.

Straightening and squaring her shoulders, she crossed the room once more and peered through the door. Still no sign of movement or noise outside. Quietly, she pulled the door to behind her, closing it with the faintest of clicks. A step or two and she was across to the other door.

Once again she repeated her procedure, turning the handle so slowly that the inevitable creaks and squeaks were almost dulled to inaudible levels; the door refused to budge. Shaking her head irritably, Asima retrieved a pin from her luscious, dark hair and set it into the lock. Her tongue protruding as she worked, she eased the pin left and right, finding the teeth of the mechanism and manoeuvring them into position. The harem had been a great teacher, for sure.

There was a slight click, and Asima stood back, holding her breath. The sound of breathing within continued without a change in pitch. Good.

The handle began to twist under her grasp and slowly, ever so slowly, she turned it and pushed. The wooden portal gave way quietly, inching open and revealing the dark cabin beyond. Drapes covered this window too, casting a deep darkness over most of the room. As her vision adjusted, she realised that the contents of this cabin almost exactly mirrored those of Ursa’s opposite. The faintest gleam of silvery starlight shone from the window, where the drapes had caught on the frame and left a narrow triangle of clear glass. The beam fell across the bed and its occupant and Asima heaved a sigh of relief. Despite everything, she had half expected Ghassan to be standing behind the door, prepared for her, or Samir sitting in the chair, waiting. But no... that beam of light illuminated the tall figure beneath the sheet and those curly, ebony locks were unmistakably Ghassan’s.

Silently, she crept across the room, approaching the bed. Different method needed here. Ghassan was asleep on his side, his back to her. Given how dangerous he could be, she would have to make sure he was out of commission as soon as possible. A killing blow first, and then, as he woke, his life already ebbing, she would then have to make sure he stayed silent. She couldn’t get to his throat without turning him over anyway, and that mass of curly hair made any blow to the temple uncertain. She might miss and merely crack his skull. Then he’d have the best of her.