Master of the Dance (15 page)

"No, it is not merely gratitude, My Lord. Nor is it your usefulness. You might have been crippled or dead. We had no way of knowing when we searched for you."

"But there was also hope that I would still be useful, was there not? Without me, your plans fail."

She sat back, lowering her eyes. "I cannot deny that. I do need you. But even if you had been merely a courtier who had done nothing to earn my favour, I would still have insisted upon your rescue. You think yourself a tool, and therein lies your unhappiness, but it is not so. I consider you a close friend and confidant, and I care about you. I enjoy your company and value your advice, and that is the reason for my concern."

He put down the wine cup and leant forward, his steely eyes boring into hers. "Yet you thought me capable of taking money from Cotti scum to kill you."

"No." She shook her head, refusing to be daunted. "I was upset and shaken by it, that is all. My words were thoughtless. Kerrion said that you had told him you would kill me if someone paid you to do it. Is that not true?"

He lowered his gaze to the floor, frowning. "It is."

"Then it was a lie?"

"Yes."

"But although I call you a friend, I am not yours, am I?"

Blade sat back with a sigh, turning his head to gaze out of the window again. "No, My Queen, you are not my friend. You are my monarch, and therein lies your safety, and your daughter's."

"And my sons."

"Yes, but not your husband."

"You would slay Kerrion?"

He smiled. "I would dearly like to, but I have sworn to obey you, My Queen. If you asked it of me, I would."

"After all that he has done for you?"

He glanced at her with a frown. "What he has done to help me does not compensate me for the ill treatment I suffered at his hands. He is Cotti, and therefore will always be my enemy."

"I see. That is a pity, for he has great respect for you, and would value your friendship."

"Many have courted my friendship, thinking it would earn their safety and buy them power, but none have succeeded."

Minna nodded. "That is also a pity, for I believe you need a friend. Like that young officer who saved your life, Jayon."

"I do not need a friend, My Queen, and Jayon had an ulterior motive for saving me. His father was assassinated, and he thought I would help him to find the culprit."

"Yet he died trying to protect you. That does not sound like a man who only wished to use you, My Lord."

The assassin shrugged. "He was a soldier. He was protecting a lord."

"No." Minna leant forward. "He cared about you. I could have said the same thing when he tried to stop me from taking the Queen's Cup, but I knew that his reasons were far greater than mere loyalty. If you would only accept the friendship and love so many have offered, you would be a great deal happier. Instead, you choose to believe that no one could love you, yet what do you think Chiana feels?"

"Ah, Chiana. I wondered when you would get around to her. Yes, I believe she does care for me in her own way, but that does not mean I must feel anything for her. I am useless to her, so her infatuation is foolish."

Minna sighed and leant back, shaking her head. "I know that under all that ice is a warm heart, My Lord. One that was frozen when your family died, and has been fed with bitterness ever since. You question my motives for saving you as if you crave my affection, yet you have none to give in return. You ask for a reward that comes from my heart, yet you do not reciprocate in kind."

Blade gazed at his hands, frowning. "You are correct, My Queen. I should not expect something I cannot give. It is sufficient that you require my services and are grateful for that which I have already done."

She snorted and rolled her eyes. "Damn it, Conash, that is not the answer I wanted. You can give it, if you would only allow yourself to. There is no need to live this solitary, lonely existence. I have no ulterior motive to seek your friendship, nor has Chiana, or Kerrion, or Kerra. The fact that you are a useful friend does not colour my feelings for you. I could purchase your services."

Blade picked up his wine cup, found it empty, and put it down again, then jumped up and walked over to another window, turning his back on her. Clearly the conversation made him uncomfortable, and she waited for him to speak, wondering what he would say. The silence stretched, becoming pregnant, then he spoke without turning.

"You are wrong. I am incapable of these feelings. They died with my family."

"You loved your sister long after you thought her dead."

He nodded. "And the last vestige of my affection died with her."

Minna rose and walked over to him, stopping beside him to gaze up at his profile. "I do not think so, My Lord. Perhaps it will take some disaster to make you realise that you do care for someone, and I hope it does not come too late. Many people have only realised how much they had once they have lost it. Think on that."

He glanced at her. "I have already lost everything. There is no more."

"Once again you are wrong. You have much more than most people dare to dream of, yet you scorn it. How can you enjoy what you have earned when you will allow no one to share it with you?"

Blade rubbed the healing wound on his forearm and grimaced, gazing out of the window again. "Minna, you are capable of talking donkey kin into hard work, but I will not discuss this further with you."

After staring at him in surprise for a moment, she smiled. "Very well. Tell me of your fight with the Cotti assassin then. I long to hear the details."

Chapter Ten

Bolt studied the Cotti camp, searching for his quarry. The Regent's description of the Prince had been detailed, and a royal figure would stand out amongst the soldiers anyway. He had caught up with the fleeing Prince only three days from the Contara border, for Endor had set a gruelling pace. Apparently the Prince expected retaliation, and with good reason, if the stories Bolt had heard about the Regent's treatment had any truth to them.

The moon-phase of hard travel had disagreed with the assassin, whose dislike for horses and dirt was almost as strong as his former mentor's. Winter's approach cooled the days and made the nights chilly, so camping in the forest, as he had been forced to do on a number of occasions, was most unpleasant.

From his position behind a mossy boulder, Bolt could survey the entire camp, apart from a few areas that trees hid from view. He had crawled within range, but it would be a long shot. The Cotti broke camp in the early morning mist. Some washed in a nearby stream; others gathered equipment and loaded the packhorses or pulled down tents. His crossbow was warm in his hands, loaded with a barbed steel quarrel and set on its tightest notch for the distance.

A tall blond man clad in a pale yellow tunic emerged from a tent in the middle of the camp, stretching and yawning. Bolt recognised the Prince's aquiline features and his heart beat faster. A familiar bloodlust rushed through him, as it always did when he spied his target. The power to snuff out a man's life was heady, and coursed through his veins like a euphoric drug.

As an assassin's son, Bolt had been raised on the tales of his father's exploits. The graphic details of killing and danger had allowed him to share the excitement of it and acquire a taste for blood-letting. His mother had tried to temper it with love and teach him compassion, but his father's influence had triumphed in the end. He had started killing at a young age, first rats, then birds and cats, until his father had given him his first crossbow, and he had graduated to dogs and deer. Now only a man's death could satisfy him.

When he had been apprenticed to Blade, he had been honoured, but Blade's blatant scorn and chilly aloofness had soon disillusioned him. Nor could he understand how a man who did not enjoy killing could become such a great assassin. He had paid scant attention to many of Blade's lessons, convinced that they would do him no good. The elder assassin was a dagger man, after all, and Bolt did not see the need for such stealth and caution when he killed from afar. He had practised with his crossbow at every opportunity, killing animals, until Blade had put an end to it with a few good slaps and confined him to inanimate targets.

Bolt had disliked the silly dance and shown little interest in strategy or planning, lacking the patience to spy out his target's surroundings. His respect for his mentor had not waned, for he could not fail to revere such a talented and deadly man, even though they had never agreed. His familiar, a black barred widow-maker spider, was hidden in his hair, its usual resting place.

Bolt inched into position, resting the crossbow on top of the boulder to steady it while he sighted along it. The Prince splashed his face in a bowl that a soldier held, a perfect target. Bolt smiled as he eased his finger around the trigger and took up the slack, aiming at Endor's heart.

The power of the steel crossbow was so great that the quarrel would punch right through his target, making a wound that no man could hope to survive. The bow could not be drawn by hand, but had to be cranked with a handle. Bolt concentrated on his target, licking his lips as he imagined the result of the quarrel striking the Prince. As his finger tightened on the trigger, he sensed a presence behind him. Something struck the back of his head, and darkness swallowed him.

Endor finished drying his face and tossed the towel to a manservant, then turned as two soldiers dragged a limp black-clad man into the camp. He strode over to them, his joy turning to disappointment when they dropped the assassin and flipped him onto his back, revealing the face of a stranger. One soldier held up a crossbow, and Endor grunted, frowning.

"This is not the Queen's Blade. How dare she send some inept dimwit after me? I want Blade's head on a pike, not this fool's. Kill him."

Endor marched back to his tent and picked up the cage that held the grey dove, beckoning to the man whose job it was to torture the bird.

"Make her suffer."

"My Prince, the creature is already weak..."

"I do not care. I want her punished for her stupidity and insolence."

The man took the cage and bowed. "As you wish, Highness."

Endor pondered what painful death he would order for the upstart assassin. Disembowelment was one of his favourites, but was sometimes too quick. He wanted the idiot to suffer for his temerity. Perhaps impalement would be better, preceded by a round of flaying to soften him up. There was always pleasure to be had from a man's screams, especially if copious amounts of begging accompanied them. More entertaining than watching the torturer stick pins in the stupid dove. The prospect pleased him, and he smiled.

Chiana was reading petitions in her study when a shaft of pain stabbed her chest, making her cry out and collapse. Her scribe and two maidens rushed to her aid, carrying her to the cushions in the seating area while a maid ran to summon Verdan.

Chiana gasped and clutched her chest, where the stabbing agony tore at her flesh. When Verdan hurried in, puffing from his run, he could only feed her a pain potion that made her sleep. Her maidens moved her to her rooms and tucked her into bed. Verdan stayed to watch over her and give her more potion if necessary.

When she woke the pain had gone, but she rested for the remainder of the day. The following morning, Insash visited her in her study, his expression concerned.

"This attack must mean that the assassin has failed, Regent," he stated.

"Yes." She gazed past him. "He is probably dead, and Endor is angry."

"Or perhaps he only failed to free the bird?"

"No, I believe Endor is still alive. Only he would be cruel enough to torture her. I just pray that Lance will find him soon, and be successful where Bolt was not."

"He seemed competent."

"So did Bolt, although I agree that Lance was more impressive."

Chiana recalled the slight, silent man who had answered her summons two tendays ago. From the moment she had laid eyes upon him, she knew he was Blade's best apprentice, with all of his mentor's skills. Like Blade, he was a man of cats who moved with their supple grace, and his hard, pale blue eyes held a wild glint. He possessed a gaunt, slightly feral look that made her shiver, and, although he never met her gaze, she sensed that his eyes would be impassive.

His familiar had followed him like a pale shadow, a spotted snow cat from the mountains, shy and fierce. From the number of daggers secreted about his person, of which she could see four, she knew he followed in his master's footsteps, and his silent demeanour contrasted with Bolt's bragging. Lance had listened to her request, and then bowed to accept it, leaving her presence at her signal without uttering a single word.

Insash's voice dragged Chiana from her reverie, and she asked him to repeat what he had said.

He smiled. "Even if Lance also fails, your husband will not."

"Lord Conash is retired, and although he has put that aside temporarily, according to Kerrion, I would not ask him to undertake such a dangerous mission."

"Then why not send a message to our border guards and order Endor's arrest?"

"Endor has a company of soldiers with him, and would fight. He would also kill my familiar if he is attacked, which is why she still lives. Even if I had him arrested, the charges against him would only earn him a term in prison, and the Cotti courts would object. It would lead to an unpleasant political wrangle. Also, I promised his death to Blade as payment for protecting Kerra."

Insash nodded. "Then we can only hope that Lance will free your familiar."

"I pray for it every day."

Blade watched the funeral procession from the window of an empty suite of rooms above his old ones. It proceeded down the main thoroughfare towards the graveyard on the outskirts of the city, where a mighty tomb waited to receive the bodies of Trelath and Chaymin. Sombre crowds lined the way, whose members wailed and prostrated themselves as the coffins passed, some throwing flowers onto the caskets. The outpouring of grief could not be genuine, since commoners never knew the princes except as distant, domineering figures, but it was expected of them.