Master of the Dance (41 page)

The stranger was sitting up and trying to tug off the nightgown. Rayan helped him to remove it, and he bowed his head, his hands hovering over the protruding shaft.

"Who did you kill?" she demanded.

He raised his head to pin her with glare. "Does it matter?"

"Yes."

He hesitated. "Endor."

"Prince Endor?"

"I don't know of any other."

Rayan gaped at him. "That's impossible."

A slight, seductive smile curled his lips, and she shivered at its power. His charisma, and an underlying deadliness, shone in his eyes. Blood soaked the sheets under him, oozing through his black leather clothes. Concerned, she sat beside him and unlaced his jacket, the arrow hampering her.

"You need a healer."

"They can't be trusted."

"How do you know I can?"

"You've already passed the test."

She raised her eyes to meet his, noting his increasing pallor and slight trembling. "Then I must remove the arrow."

He looked down at it. "Have you any wine?"

"You won't need it. You'll pass out soon enough. Have you a name?"

He raised his head. "Blade."

"I know a little about doctoring, but I'm not a healer."

"You'll do better than a Cotti dungeon."

"Is Endor really dead?"

Blade nodded, swaying a little. "Yes."

"Then all of Contara owes you a great debt."

He gripped her arm, his eyes boring into hers with chilling intensity. "Trust no one. I'd rather die than be betrayed to the Cotti."

Rayan nodded, opening her mouth to ask another question, but his eyes glazed and closed, and he slumped.

Chapter Twenty Seven

Rayan stared at the stranger, frustrated and concerned, then ran downstairs and boiled a kettle, hunting through her cupboards for her medicines and clean cloth for bandages. Armed with these, she trotted back upstairs, aware that it would soon be light, and her children would wake and want breakfast. It took all her strength to break off the arrow's head, and she pulled the shaft from his back so the fletching did not foul the wound. With the arrow removed, she was able to strip off his heavy jacket and the shirt and thin leather vest he wore under it, discovering the wound in his arm and the daggers strapped to his wrists.

Fresh blood seeped from the hole in his belly, and she washed it, then applied a poultice and plugged it with a boiled rag. She washed and bandaged the puncture wound in his arm, then searched for more injuries, finding wounds in his thigh and calf that only Cotti war dogs could only have inflicted. In order to wash them, she had to remove his leather trousers, and to do that, she had to take off his boots. She found two more daggers sheathed on the outer sides of his boots, and almost cut herself on the blades that protruded from his toes, which shredded the dung-smeared over-boots when she pulled them off.

Rayan unbuckled the razor-sharp boot-blades, noting the dirt that clogged them and the damage done to the keen edges. One had lost its point, and she wondered what kind of fight he had been in, to do such damage to his weaponry. Or perhaps a better question was, what kind of man was he, to wear such strange weapons? When at last he wore nothing but a pair of baggy grey flannel shorts, she was able to determine the full extent of his injuries, and was amazed that he had stayed conscious for as long as he had. The muscles of his right thigh and left calf were mauled and torn, and long gashes were ripped in his skin.

Now she understood why he had taken refuge here, and had been forced to trust her. He had known that he would not last much longer. The agony of such horrendous wounds must have been excruciating, yet he had borne it with hardly a grimace. In the brightening dawn light, the number of scars that marred his pale skin astonished her. He was slender and lithe. Hard muscle padded his chest and ridges ran down his belly, in stark contrast to her fat, hirsute husband.

Rayan washed off the dried blood with a wet rag, and her fingers lingered on his silken skin and traced the sharp contours of muscles as if they had a will of their own. She only noticed the tattoo at the base of his throat when she had almost finished bathing him, for the darkness hid it until the lightening sky brightened the room sufficiently. The sight of it made her recoil with a gasp, and she stared at the assassin's mark. Now the strange name made sense, as did his killing Endor, although many of his ilk had failed to do that. She had heard about assassins' coldness and utter lack of compassion, which, she now realised, she had seen in his eyes.

To have one injured in her bed was not something for which she would have ever wished. The tales of their deadliness claimed that they were as likely to slit the throats of those who helped them as they were to give thanks. This one, however, she reminded herself, had slain Endor and freed Contara from decades of tyranny, or at least, so he claimed. Putting aside her concerns for the moment, she busied herself with washing his back, glad that he was slightly built, and not hard to turn over. When that was done, she found a needle and thread to stitch the gashes in his legs before bandaging them.

By the time she finished, her children were awake and asking for their breakfast, and she had not even dressed yet. She threw on some clothes, washed and went downstairs to go about her usual routine. When the children had gone out to play, she returned to inspect her patient, alarmed by his pallor. Never had she seen anyone so pale, and she feared that he may be bleeding inside. If he was, only a healer could save him, but his warning to trust no one echoed in her mind. Her concern drove her to sit beside him and lay a hand on his brow to see if he had a fever. To her surprise, his eyes opened and flicked to her face. She quelled the strong urge to leap away, and met his gaze.

"How do you feel?"

He tried to sit up, but grunted and flopped back. "Damned awful."

"You're lucky to be alive, assassin."

He sighed, his breath catching with pain. "So, you know the mark."

"Most people do. Should I send a message to your guild?"

"No. They wouldn't help me, even if I was Contara, which I'm not. As it is, they'd probably kill me."

"You're Jashimari?" Her brows rose in surprise.

He nodded. "I must return there."

"You won't be able to for quite a while."

"I must." He struggled to sit up again, grimacing, and levered himself up on one elbow.

"If you do, you'll die."

His head drooped, then he raised it to gaze at her again. "What's your name?"

"Rayan."

Blade lifted the sheet and inspected the bandages around his waist. "Where are my clothes?"

"I didn't go to all the trouble of stitching you up just so you can go and tear them all out."

He looked at her. "Why do women always get so protective and possessive when they tend an injured man?"

"It's our nature."

"Even when he's an assassin?"

"Even then."

He sighed and lay back, sweat dewing his brow. "I hate this. And you may regret wanting me to stay. I make a terrible patient."

"I already regret it, but my decision's made. How do I know you've truly killed the Prince?"

"Go and listen to the town criers," he recommended. "It must be public knowledge by now."

"I will, when I go to market. I must buy some stronger medicine for your wounds."

"There's a money pouch amongst my possessions. Use as much as you need."

Rayan went over to the pile of blood-soaked clothes and found the pouch tied to his belt, emptying a handful of gold from it. Her eyes widened at the sight of so much wealth, more than she had ever seen before. She turned to find him watching her.

"Take some for yourself, too," he murmured.

"Payment for tending you?"

"If you like, or saving my life. I hate owing debts."

Rayan studied him with renewed interest, the seed of an idea sprouting in her mind. "I'd rather you owed me a favour."

He grimaced. "I was afraid of that."

"My husband returns the day after tomorrow, so you can't stay here. I'll find somewhere to hide you until you've recovered."

"I won't be staying that long, only until I have regained enough strength to ride."

"Your wound is bad. You must rest until it heals."

He shook his head. "I can't."

Rayan put most of the gold back into the pouch, pocketing only one coin. "Rest now."

Blade closed his eyes as the Contara woman left, grinding his teeth at the dull agony that infested his wounds and lanced through him with every breath. He had endured such pain before, but liked it no better now than he had then. Remaining civil to the woman was an effort. Hot words and curses kept bubbling onto his tongue, only to be swallowed before they could be vented upon his hapless helper.

Blade pondered his disastrous retreat from the castle, which had been far more challenging than he had anticipated, complicated by the presence of so many dog soldiers. He had known they would be a danger, but had not counted on there being so many in the outer courtyard when he left. There had been no way of assuring his escape. No amount of planning would have changed the outcome. It was a risk he had known he had to take, but it had been worse than he had thought.

Now his injuries trapped him, and he was unable to return to Jondar to stop the Contara assassins Endor had hired. If Chiana was killed, the regency would be returned to him, a prospect he disliked intensely. The Contara assassins would need a few days to plan their attack, however, maybe even a tenday, since they were in a strange city and the palace was well guarded. Even so, they would probably succeed if they were any good.

Rayan found the bazaar abuzz with rumours of Prince Endor's death. The vendors were almost too distracted to serve her, and she had never seen people so happy. One vendor told her how much he would like to shake the hand of the man who had slain Endor while he filled her bag with patotals, and she had to bite her tongue to stop herself from blurting out that she had the man in her house. She had not thought to do anything more exciting in her life than raise her children and tend to her husband. Now she was a part of something wonderful, thanks to an injured assassin, and she longed to tell everyone about it.

The city thronged with the Cotti soldiers who had been in the castle guarding Endor, and were now out searching for his killer. They ransacked houses and beat hapless Contara to try to glean information. Their demands supplied the populace with the assassin's name, which reached Rayan's ears from the herb seller where she bought a powerful wound salve. His name was the Queen's Blade, which only confirmed the story of the man in her bed. Rayan ran home, worried that the soldiers would return to search her house again and find him, but her suburb was quiet.

After she had fed her children and sent them out to play again, she boiled more cloths and cooked a nourishing broth for her patient. He opened his eyes when she entered the room, and she could not prevent her smile at the sight of him. Blade frowned and looked away, apparently annoyed by her presence. She put the bowl of broth and pot of salve on the bedside table, laying out the steaming bandages on the pillow.

"I have a good salve for your wounds, Blade. Can you sit up?"

"Leave it," he snapped.

"I must change the dressings."

"I would rather you left me alone."

She studied him. "If your wounds get infected, you'll die."

"Why should you care?"

"You came to me for help. You wouldn't have done that if you didn't want to live."

He sighed, staring at the rafters. "Wanting to live and not wanting you poking my wounds are two entirely different things. And as it happens, I don't have much of a yen for life."

"Be that as it may, the one requires the other. I didn't think you would be afraid of a little pain."

He closed his eyes. "Leave me alone."

"No."

Rayan pulled back the sheet, revealing the bloody bandage around his waist, and he growled, reaching down to pull it back up, then grimaced and paled. From this, she deduced that his wounds had stiffened, and every movement now caused him agony.

Ignoring his obvious wish to prevent her from tending his wounds, she reached for the bandage around his waist. He grabbed her wrists and forced her to meet his arctic eyes.

"I don't suppose you thought to get anything for the pain?"

"No."

"What about wine? Spirits?"

"No."

Blade released her and sagged back, his brow sheened with fresh sweat. She pitied him, and wondered if he had ever pitied his victims. He grimaced when she removed the bandages, and did not endure it in silence. She was forced to lean over him to unwind the cloth, pushing it under his back, her arms around him. He groaned when she tugged the cloth free of the dried blood, and twice his hands flashed up as if to push her away or hit her, but stopped short and sank back to grip the sheet instead. His pallor increased while she worked, and she hoped that he would pass out again. She smeared the salve on, and he groaned again when she rolled him onto his side to rub the medicine on the wound in his back. By the time she had re-bandaged the wound, she sweated too, and her hands shook from the stress of inflicting such agony on another.

"When you arrived, you bore the pain in silence, yet now you make such a fuss," she reproached him.

"When I arrived, it was necessary. I have no use for bravado, and no wish to impress anyone with my bravery."

Rayan smiled as she unwound the bandage on his arm. "Yet you must be brave to have slain Prince Endor."

"Bravery had nothing to do with it. He was a man who badly needed killing, and no one else seemed to be up to the job. I certainly didn't plan to be injured."

"Yet you must have known it would be dangerous."

"I have no fear of death, but pain really irritates me."

Rayan tugged the bandage from the dried blood, and he hissed, shot her a murderous glare and bit his lip. He let his head flop back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. She got the impression that he quelled far stronger reactions to her ministrations, and found it strange that he did not have the bravado usually associated with males, and freely admitted it, even scorned it. She had also noticed that he had grown no beard in the time he had been there, and he certainly had not been able to shave. Although his face possessed an ageless quality, he was definitely old enough, and only one other reason could explain his lack.