The Queen's Blade Prequel I - Conash: Dead Son (21 page)

Conash waited
until the light in the master bedroom was snuffed out, then
pondered his plan. Climbing in through the window allowed him swift
access to his target, and was the easiest way in. He licked a
finger and tested the wind, which was negligible, then glanced up
at the Sea moon. Perhaps not as auspicious for his first kill as a
Death moon would be, he mused, but this was the beginning of his
journey as an assassin.

Conash
considered returning to the shack to report to Talon, as he was
supposed to do, but there seemed little point. His plan was good,
and the fact that he now knew that the wife's familiar was indeed a
dog made little difference. He wondered why Talon had been so
insistent on his finding out. He would assassinate the man tonight,
he decided, and prove himself to Talon.

Climbing down,
he slipped across the road to the front of Broman's house and set
his fingers into the nooks and crannies in the wall, ascending it
with ease. Reaching the window, he tugged at the shutters, finding
them locked. He cursed, groping for the tools in his belt. The
fingers of his left hand held him to the wall, hooked into the
crack between the stone and the window frame. His boots' toes
gripped the narrow lip of a supporting beam.

Drawing out a
slim tool, he slid it into the crack between the shutters and
lifted the latch. The shutters parted with a creak, and he almost
dropped the tool when a light came on inside. He flattened himself
to the wall. Mumbling came from within, then someone yanked the
shutters closed and latched them again. Conash's heart raced and
his palms sweated, weakening his grip. Cursing, he climbed back
down and walked across the road, wiping his hands on his trousers.
The sudden tension made his stomach knot, and he sat down in a
shadow to recover.

Conash waited
until the moon set, chafing with impatience. Boredom plagued him,
and he shifted and fidgeted. Deciding that the drover and his wife
must be asleep, he rose and returned to the house, ascending the
wall again. The shutters creaked open when he lifted the latch, and
he was forced to duck under the nearest one. Raising himself on
quivering fingers, he peered over the ledge into a dark, hushed
room. Two mounds filled the bed, and the dog slept at the end of
it. The larger mound was furthest from the window, adding to his
problem.

Pulling himself
onto the ledge, he swung a leg inside. His boot struck something
beneath the window with a thud, and he froze, glancing down to
discover a table there. Fortunately, his foot had missed the
pottery ornament atop it. The occupants of the bed shifted, mumbled
and farted. Conash wrinkled his nose and climbed over the table,
his boots silent on the worn rug. The dog was unlikely to smell an
alien presence amidst the drover's spicy pungency. He paused to get
his bearings, glancing at the stained, cracked walls and rotten
curtains that framed the window.

Conash crept
towards the bed, his heart hammering and his breath coming in jerky
gasps. The tension within him mounted as he neared his target, and
the steel spring inside him coiled tighter. A tug at his boot made
him glance down in alarm, to find his toe hooked under a moth-eaten
rug. Freeing it, he continued towards the bed. Broman's wife tossed
and muttered, throwing out an arm that slapped her husband on the
ear. He grunted and grumbled, and Conash froze while the drover
thrust her arm off his head. Broman rolled onto his back and
started a rasping snore, the volume of which astonished Conash.

It also,
apparently, astonished his wife, who sat up and prodded her
husband. Conash dropped to the floor, glancing at the open window.
The drover rolled onto his side and fell silent, and his wife lay
down again with a sigh, turning towards the window. She muttered a
curse and climbed out of bed, going over to close the shutters once
more. So she was the shutter-closing culprit. Conash whispered a
curse. His exit had just become a little more complicated. The
woman climbed back into bed and yanked the covers over herself,
dragging them off her burly husband in the process.

The drover
groped for the blankets and pulled them back, entering into a
tug-of-war with his wife, which he won. Conash wondered if they
were ever going to settle down and sleep. The woman, finding
herself exposed again, dragged the blankets back, hauling herself
closer to her husband, since he hung on. The dog, disturbed by all
the grunting, farting, tossing and squirming, sat up and shook
itself, turning in circles as it settled down again. It paused,
sniffing the air, then, to Conash's horror, barked.

The woman
muttered a curse, but the dog continued to yap in Conash's
direction. She sat up and prodded her husband, who tried to slap
her hand away, then growled and rolled onto his back.

“What in
Damnation is it now?” he grumbled.

“Something's
worrying Erril,” she said.

“Probably gas.
You fed him sweets tonight, didn't you?”

“Only one. He
thinks there's someone in the room.”

“He doesn't
have enough brains to think. Tell him to be quiet and go to
sleep.”

She shook her
head, staring into the darkness with wide eyes. “Light a lamp,
Broman.”

“For God's
sake, woman!” The drover sat up.

Conash glanced
at the window, calculating the distance to it and his chances of
reaching it and climbing through it before the drover caught him.
The fact that the shutters were now closed made his prospects slim.
Either he had to flee, or attack. The drover was unarmed, and would
be taken by surprise. He could still do this. Conash started to
stand up, then remembered to draw his daggers. Their cold hilts
filled his sweaty palms, but his heart was pounding so hard that it
made him dizzy. The tightly coiled spring inside him released with
a snap, and he launched himself from the shadows, hurdling the end
of the bed.

The bedstead
caught his foot, and he sprawled on top of the drover, his weapons
impaling the mattress and pillow with lethal force. The drover's
wife screamed and the dog yapped and snapped at Conash's ankles. He
stabbed Broman in the arm, and the man roared. His huge fist
slammed into the side of the youth's head, sending him sprawling
across the woman, who shrieked and slapped him.

Ducking her
flailing hands, he twisted to face the drover again, stabbing the
man in the belly. Broman bellowed and grabbed Conash's hair,
yanking it so hard that the youth's eyes watered. He flailed at the
big man, his daggers slashing the pillow and releasing a cloud of
feathers. The dog's teeth sank into his ankle, and he yelped and
kicked it off the bed. The drover hauled him closer by his hair and
the woman grabbed his arm, hampering him. He jerked free of her as
the drover punched him again, ripped out a hank of hair and sent
him rolling off the bed to land on the floor with a thud and
grunt.

Conash tried to
leap up, but the blankets tangled his legs. Broman slid off the bed
and kicked him across the floor, forcing a coughing grunt from him.
The big man followed, while his wife fumbled with a tinderbox.
Conash sensed the situation slipping from his control, if indeed,
it had ever been in his control. He struggled to draw air into his
aching lungs, his head spinning as he squinted at the muscular man
with work-callused hands who stood over him. Broman bent and
gripped the apprentice's collar, hauled him to his feet and punched
him in the face again. Conash reeled into a dresser with a terrific
crash of shattering glass. The dog yapped and bounced on the bed,
adding to the ruckus.

Conash shook
his head as stars flashed in his eyes, the back of his skull
throbbing from its crack against the dresser. Broman stepped
closer, blood seeping through his nightshirt. Conash raised his
daggers, but Broman grabbed Conash's arm and twisted it behind him
with enough force to make his tendons pop. The youth hissed, and
the dagger fell with a tinkle. Releasing Conash's right arm, the
drover grabbed the youth's left arm when he raised it and slammed
him back into the wall, cracking his head on it. More stars flashed
in the apprentice's eyes, and Broman caught Conash's right wrist,
releasing his left. He gripped Conash's throat and pinned him to
the wall, throttling him.

Conash yanked
another dagger from his belt sheath with his left hand, glad that
he had brought all four. He rammed it into the man's flank, cutting
through meat and lung tissue, then it was almost ripped from his
grasp as the drover recoiled. Conash jerked it out, realising that
he had stabbed Broman in the right flank, and missed his heart. The
apprentice's injured arm twinged as the drover released his neck
and grabbed his wrist, slamming it against the wall. With both arms
pinned, Conash stared into the big man's furious, bloodshot eyes, a
sinking feeling in his gut.

The steel
spring inside him coiled tighter, and raw instinct took over as a
red tide of fury washed through him. His boot thudded into Broman's
crotch, and the drover folded over with a groan, his grip on the
youth's wrists weakening. Conash jerked one arm free and drove the
dagger into Broman's chest, this time sensing the blade penetrate
the man's heart. The drover sank to his knees, his eyes bulging and
his mouth open, lips quivering. The dog yapped and the woman
shrieked. She had lighted a lamp, and Conash squinted in its
illumination, wrenching his wrist from the dying man's grasp.

Blood flowed
down the drover's nightshirt, and the dagger grated against bone
when Conash pulled it out. His stomach clenched at the scent of
blood, and he sprinted for the window. He thought the shutters
would give way when he hit them, but instead he rebounded with a
crash and staggered back. Tripping over the rug, he fell against
the bed, cracking his head on it. He struggled to his feet and
staggered to the window, lifted the latch and shoved the shutters
open. Broman's wife wailed, crouched beside her husband, patting
his cheeks.

Conash climbed
over the table, knocking off the ornament he had missed earlier,
and slid over the ledge. As he lowered himself, he realised that he
still clutched his daggers. Cursing, he dropped them to the street
below, then descended the wall with shaking arms and sweaty hands.
Halfway down, he lost his grip and fell, twisting his ankle.
Picking up his weapons, he sheathed them and ran down the street.
He wanted to put as much distance between himself and the screaming
woman and her yapping dog as he possibly could, as quickly as
possible.

Conash did not
slow down until he reached a dirty alley four streets away. Leaning
against a wall, he gasped and cursed. His fall from the window made
him realise why the assassin's dance was so important. Without its
training, his landing would have been far worse. His head pounded
and his nose throbbed, his twisted arm and ankle twinged, and his
gut ached. All in all, he thought, it had been fairly disastrous,
even though he had succeeded.

Pushing himself
away from the wall, he limped down the alley towards the shack. The
faint light coming from under the door and through the coarse
curtains told him that Talon still waited for him, and he cursed
the elder's diligence. Shoving the door open, he stepped inside and
closed it behind him. Talon looked up and raked him with a hard,
disbelieving glance.

“You bloody
idiot!” he said.

Conash glanced
at his hands and found them smeared with dried blood, so he went to
the basin to wash them. Talon rose and stepped closer, studying
him.

“What
happened?” he demanded.

“I killed the
bastard.”

“And it looks
like he almost killed you. I take it his wife's screams roused the
entire neighbourhood, and the Watch is searching for you even as we
speak?”

Conash
shrugged, scrubbing his hands. “They won't find me.”

“You'd better
hope they don't. How could you be so stupid?”

“I
succeeded!”

“Just barely.
Sit down. Let me have a look at your nose. Where else are you
hurt?”

The youth dried
his hands and limped to the table to sink onto a chair and pour a
cup of wine. “I'm all right.”

“You're
limping. What did you do, trip on the rug and fall out of the
window too?”

Conash snorted,
then smiled. “Yes.”

Talon settled
opposite. “Let me guess, the dog bit you, the woman clobbered you
and the man almost throttled you.”

“Were you
spying on me?”

“I didn't have
to. My God, you're a fool. I told you to return here and report,
not go ahead with it! Your plan was so full of flaws; I'm surprised
you're still in one piece.”

“My plan
worked!”

Talon leant
closer, his brows knotted. “Shall I tell you why it worked? Because
you're an excellent assassin already, and therefore you were able
to overcome all the obstacles that your ridiculous plan put in your
way. Not without injury, though. How bad is your ankle, and what's
wrong with your arm?”

Conash sighed
and took a gulp of wine, then told the entire story. At the end of
it, Talon smiled and shook his head.

“Amazing.
Anyone else would be dead, or in the hands of the Watch now. The
drover was a dangerous man. He was assassinated because he murdered
the son of a merchant in a taproom brawl. The Watch couldn't arrest
him, because he had a lot of friends with him at the time, and they
all vouched for the fact that, not only did the merchant's son
start the conflict, but his death was an accident.

“The merchant
found a witness who said otherwise, but one person's account was
insufficient for the courts to convict Broman. That's why you were
hired to kill him. It was a vengeance assassination. Those are the
best, if they're justified, but they're also usually dangerous, and
unsuitable for an apprentice. That's why I wanted to be cautious.
Had there been a choice, I'd have picked another target, but
Darnish only offered that one. I found out more about Broman,
though.”