Lord Protector (30 page)

The Cotti smiled and thrust his face closer. "Are you feeling a bit bruised, maybe? What a shame." The man's eyes focussed on something behind the assassin, then returned to Blade's. "I think you got off lightly. How many Cotti princes have you killed now? Ten? Eleven? I'll wager you've lost count. Well, you won't be killing any more. Where you're going, you'll be lucky if you survive till winter. The longer you live though, the better, because from this day on you're going to wish you were dead."

The man straightened, glancing past Blade again, then went on, "Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Faradin, eldest son of King Shandor."

Blade squinted at him, the pounding in his skull making it hard to focus.

Faradin leant closer again. "Ah, now you're confused. You thought Kerrion was the eldest, huh? Not so. He's just the oldest legitimate son. The only reason I'm not the Cotti King is because my mother was a concubine. I'm three years older than Kerrion. Ironic, is it not? We put so little store in women, yet it's the status of our mothers that decides whether we are kings or paupers. Do you truly imagine that Shandor only sired legitimate issue?

"He was a king, and a virile man. He sired twenty-two illegitimate sons, and God only knows how many daughters. Those are just the ones he knew about, of course, but every time he visited one of his lords, he lay with their daughters. Doubtless dozens more sprang from his loins."

Blade lowered his gaze to the floor, disgusted at the idea that so many more of Shandor's sons were loose in the world to spread their evil. His pounding head would not allow him to think, and he grimaced, running his tongue over furry teeth. Turning his head, he spat, trying to rid himself of the foul taste. Faradin, it seemed, enjoyed the sound of his own voice, and appeared ready to ramble on forever about his father's virility.

Faradin glanced past Blade again, his expression wary.

The assassin raised his head. "I'll wager your father screwed goats and asses, too, Faradin. Most likely you have siblings out there who bleat and bray."

Faradin recoiled from Blade's soft words, and the rathawk spread its wings to keep its balance. The Cotti's hand swung up, then he glanced past the assassin yet again and lowered it. Blade was growing curious about who stood behind him. Faradin forced a stiff smile.

"So, when you choose to speak, you have a barbed tongue. Beware, assassin, lest I cut it out for you. You would do well to realise that you're at our mercy now, and insults will buy you pain, but not death. That's something you've always courted, I hear, and I'm not in the habit of granting wishes."

Blade sighed. "So, you plan to imprison me. Doubtless another of Kerrion's brothers is behind this. There seems no end to them. Every time I kill one, three more come crawling out of the woodwork. Illegitimate ones now, so at least I'm getting to the bottom of the barrel."

Faradin paled, and his eyes darted past Blade. "You will rue your insults, assassin."

"I'm sure whatever I say will make my fate no worse, since whoever's behind this wants me to suffer as much as possible anyway."

The Cotti nodded. "Certainly your fate is unenviable, but it can be made worse, I assure you."

"Beware that you don't bore me to death with your inane threats, since you want me alive."

"Allow me to make it more interesting then, and tell you what lies ahead for you." Faradin's eyes glittered. "You're going to a place called Andrango, in the northern foothills. It is a Contara prison where the worst criminals are sent, those who are not executed, that is. The Contara see fit to incarcerate some of their murderers for life instead. The belief is, I suppose, that there are worse fates than death, and one of them is to spend the rest of your life at Andrango." He bent to peer into Blade's face. "The food there, I hear, is full of maggots, and prisoners are not allowed to bathe. They sleep on stone floors, and it's a bitter place, very cold. An icy wasteland, by all accounts. No one has ever escaped from Andrango, assassin. You will be buried there, when you eventually die. How does that sound?"

"Boring."

Faradin straightened with a frown. "You try to goad me, but it will not work. Only a fool would not fear such a fate. No one will search for you, and in time you will be forgotten. That is a fitting end for a bastard killer like you."

Blade glanced up, a slight smile tugging at his lips. "My parents were married, Faradin, so the only bastard here is you."

The Cotti scowled and beckoned to someone behind Blade, who glanced up as two soldiers appeared beside him. They untied him and dragged him to his feet, twisting his arms behind his back. When they turned him towards the door there was no one there, but he was certain Faradin had not been looking at the soldiers. It had to be a Cotti prince, but which one? He cast Faradin a last look as the soldiers pushed him out of the door. It all made sense now. Faradin's familiar had spied on Blade while he had been in the village, and possibly before that. That was how Dravis had found him, and discovered Rivan's existence, although the Prince had been careful not to mention Faradin's involvement. This elder brother was important, somehow, and Blade wanted to remember his face.

The imposing walls of Andrango Prison loomed, grey and cold, over the wagon that the prison used for transport, and in which Blade had spent the last tenday. Andrango had once been a border outpost, built by King Juno-Pulan, who had spent his reign in mortal dread of invasion from the mountains to the north of Contara. His fear had made no sense to his generals at the time, or historians since then, and had been proven wrong. The keep had been abandoned after King Juno's death, then converted into a prison many years later. It stood, a solitary sentinel, on the cold tundra that stretched from the mountains to the more moderate climes in the south.

The reason no one ever escaped from it was its isolation, for any escapee would need to traverse many leagues of barren, inhospitable land to reach civilisation, or even somewhere that hunting was available, and would starve long before they reached it. Blade languished in a cage at the back of the wagon, separate from the five other prisoners who shared his fate. Clearly Faradin was taking no chances on the assassin escaping, for Blade's wrists and ankles were also shackled. He surmised that another reason for his special treatment was to set him apart from his fellow inmates, thereby making them wary of him and increasing his ill treatment. At least, he was certain that that was Faradin's intention, but whether it would work or not remained to be seen. So far, it seemed to be.

The five other prisoners consisted of two disreputable looking characters whom Blade had decided were horse thieves, from their tough leather clothes and callused hands. One appeared to be a common murderer, with cold eyes and a nervous tick. The fourth was a short, thin man with darting eyes and a sheepish air, who fidgeted a lot, and Blade had him pegged as a common thief or pickpocket. The last inmate was a bear of a man who dwarfed his companions, with calm blue eyes, oiled, plaited hair and a brutish face. He did not strike Blade as a criminal at all, but rather a fighting man, perhaps a warrior or gladiator, which made his presence puzzling.

The assassin sighed and gazed through the bars again as the cart approached the tall walls and passed through an iron gate. Rivan followed him, somewhere far out in the tundra, where he survived on small prey. Men shouted, and the wagon rumbled over cobblestones as it entered the prison and halted before an imposing, ugly square building built, like the rest of the keep, from black-streaked grey rock. The iron grill door at the back of the wagon swung open, and three guards waited for the prisoners to disembark. The men climbed out and gazed around, stretching.

The two Cotti soldiers who had accompanied Blade on the journey entered the wagon to unlock the barred door and drag the assassin out. The leg irons hampered him, and, as he jumped down, one guard stood on the chain. Blade sprawled on the icy cobbles with a grunt, bruised his hands and goaded shafts of pain from his half-healed ribs and ankle. Faradin's men had delighted in hurting and humiliating him as much as possible on the journey, so much so that even the prison guards had looked sickened. Several times, they had thrown away Blade's water and food.

The soldiers had taunted and insulted the assassin at every opportunity, and, as a consequence, his fellow inmates new his profession even though his mark was hidden. That was a double-edged sword, he knew, for while most were reluctant to go up against an assassin, many found it a challenge to pick a fight with one, and pretty much everyone hated them. By revealing his trade, Faradin's men had probably signed his death warrant.

Blade rose to his feet, rubbing his smarting hands, and the soldier who had jumped down behind him gave him a push that sent him staggering forward, almost tripping as the leg irons snapped taut. One of the prison guards banged on a weathered, iron-bound door set in the inner wall, while another unhitched the draught horses and the third kept watch on the prisoners. Blade gazed up at the tall walls, measuring their height and pondering the ease with which he could climb them. Doing so would do him no good, however. The icy wind moaned in the battlements, and robber ravens sailed above, their harsh cries adding to Andrango's bleak, end-of-the-road atmosphere. The vast field of unmarked graves they had passed through left no doubt as to the fate of all who came here. The chill wind made him shiver, and he strived to hide it. Any sign of weakness here was ill advised.

The door creaked open, and a heavy-browed, peevish face peered out, scowling at the guard.

"You lot 'er late."

"We got delayed. A special prisoner."

The warder glared at the men, his eyes coming to rest on Blade. "'Im?"

"Yeah."

"He don't look like anyfink special, 'part from them chains."

The guard shrugged. "Ain't up to us."

"S'right. So wotcher waitin' fer?" The warder swung the door wide and vanished into the gloom within.

The guard beckoned to the prisoners, who filed inside, Blade bringing up the rear with the Cotti soldiers behind him. Halfway along the dimly lighted passage, one of them shoved the assassin, sending him staggering into the man in front. The big warrior swung around with a growl, and Blade raised his hands in an appeasing gesture. The man glanced past him at the sniggering Cotti soldiers, then turned away. Clearly the soldiers were trying to make as much trouble for the assassin as they could, and he could only hope his fellow inmates would realise this.

Ahead, the warder pushed open a vast, creaking door and stood aside, allowing the prisoners to enter a broad, bleak yard of trampled mud that a horde of dirty, hollow-eyed men populated. Blade glanced around in appraisal, his heart sinking. Dozens of dogmen patrolled the battlements, and watchtowers held vast platters of wood that would be burnt at night, lighting the walls and yard. One glance told him why no one had ever escaped from this place. The Cotti guard behind Blade stepped on his leg chains again, bringing the assassin down in the mud with a grunt. The Cotti sniggered, and one stepped closer to kick Blade, sending him rolling. He curled up, his ribs on fire. A huge hand gripped his arm and hauled him to his feet. The man with braided hair thrust his face close.

"If you lie in the dirt, they'll kick you again," he rumbled.

Blade nodded. "If I stand up, they'll trip me again."

The big man glanced past Blade. "They leave."

The assassin turned to find his tormentors heading back into the passage, one tossing a key to one of the jailers. At least their abuse was over, but he did not hold out much hope that the jailers were any better. Nor did he think he would last long in this place. A Jashimari assassin in a Contara prison, or any prison, for that matter, was marked for death. The big man wandered off, and Blade glanced around again, wondering where the first threat would come from. Already inmates gathered to stare at him, muttering. Even though his mark was hidden, his garb would arouse suspicion, which they would confirm soon enough.

Moving into the lee of the wall to escape the freezing wind, he chafed his hands and blew on them. His leather jacket and woollen shirt did not offer much warmth, and he would probably die of cold, he mused, before the other inmates killed him. Certainly it seemed likely that he would die in this blighted place. Scaling the wall would be easy enough, but dealing with the dogmen atop it, while unarmed, would be another matter altogether. Then there were the leagues of desolate, wind-swept tundra between here and the closest Contara town, eight days' ride away. He squatted down beside the wall and leant his head against it, watching the men in the yard.

Chapter Twenty

Chiana glanced up from the document she was reading as a handmaiden entered her study and bowed. She recognised the girl as one of the Queen's maids, a shy, plain girl, the daughter of a lord.

"What is it, Nirris?"

"It is the Queen, Regent. You should come."

Chiana sighed and set aside the request for supplies from a border lordling who could not afford to feed his army, rubbing her brow. In the three years since Blade's death, Kerra had become wild. During the moon-phases of waiting for news of him, and clinging to the hope that he still lived, she had been a great comfort to Chiana. Then the head had been delivered to the palace, ending their hope of ever finding him alive. Chiana remembered that horrible day vividly, although she wished she could forget it, or better still, that it had never happened. It had, however. The Contaran messenger who had brought it had not been able to tell her who had sent it. All he knew was that a hooded man had paid him a fifty goldens to bring a wooden box to the Jashimari Queen's palace and place it in the Regent's hands.

Of course, he had not been allowed to do that, for it might have contained something dangerous. Captain Redgard had opened the box and discovered the decaying head, and had brought it to her after he read the letter that accompanied it. It had stated that the Queen's Blade was dead, and this was his head. Chiana remembered its grey, sagging skin and tangled black hair tied loosely with a thong. Its eyes had been half-rotted, and their colour impossible to discern, but its teeth had been white and even. She had studied it far more closely than she would have liked, searching for something that would either refute or confirm the letter's claim, but it had been too rotten.