The Queen's Blade Prequel I - Conash: Dead Son (23 page)

“Do you?”

“No! I'm a good
wife, obedient, hardworking; compliant.”

“So why does he
beat you?”

“He enjoys it!”
She rubbed her eyes and wiped her cheeks. “He drinks, then comes
home and beats me. Will you do it?”

Blade sighed.
“It's not really enough -”

“You're just a
youngster. Can you afford to be choosy?”

“I was going to
say I'll do it anyway.”

“Oh, thank
you!” She made a grab for his hand, but he jerked it away.

“Three silvers
now, the rest when he's dead. I need to know his name, address and
what kind of familiar he has.”

She smiled,
looking relieved. “His name's Rendar. We live in the poor quarter,
Frey Flower Street, number four, and his familiar is a fork-tailed
rathawk. When will you do it?”

“That depends.
If you help me, I can do it sooner.”

“What must I
do?”

“Let me into
the house when he's asleep.”

She nodded. “I
can do that. Tonight?”

Blade was
tempted to say yes, but remembered Talon's advice and shook his
head. “The day after tomorrow.”

“All right.”
She dug in her bodice and drew out three silvers, placing them on
the table. “Will he suffer?”

“Do you want
him to?”

She hesitated,
then shook her head. “No. Just kill him.”

Blade nodded.
In her situation, he was surprised that she had not resorted to
poison, but evidently she had enough sense to know that if she did,
suspicion would fall on her. The woman rose and vanished into the
crowd. Blade finished his wine and walked back to the shack. Two
tendays had passed since his initiation, and this was his first
job. The fee was miserly, but better than nothing. Talon had
advised him to accept whatever was offered until he gained a
reputation. The elder was also of the opinion that it would be hard
for Blade to find work, due to his extreme youth, and that seemed
to be true.

The following
morning, Blade found Rendar's house and chose a vantage point on a
wall opposite it, not really caring if his intended victim noticed
his presence. Rendar had no way of knowing that he was the target.
Blade lounged on the wall, watching the pedestrians pass below. A
tall, muscular man emerged from the appointed residence and
sauntered up the street, whistling. A fork-tailed rathawk perched
on his shoulder, and he carried himself with a bully's confident
swagger, which reminded Blade of a Cotti.

Rendar was, he
sensed, the kind of cowardly bully who liked to humiliate those
weaker than him. His eyes narrowed as he studied his intended
victim, noting the knife sheathed in the big man's belt, and he
wondered if Rendar knew how to use it. Even if he did not, it added
to the danger of his mission, since Rendar might keep it within
reach when he slept. The man vanished around a corner, and Blade
glanced back at the house, where the woman peeped out of the door
at him and smiled. He wondered if she expected him to smile and
wave, and looked away.

Rendar returned
at dusk, apparently to eat his dinner. Blade left his perch to
visit an alehouse down the road for a meal. Soon after he returned,
Rendar left the house again without his familiar, which would
doubtless be asleep on its perch. Blade surmised that he was going
to visit his favourite taproom, and settled more comfortably atop
the wall to await his return. A few minutes later, the abode’s door
creaked open and the woman emerged, carrying a plate of food. Blade
watched in astonishment as she crossed the road and stopped below
to smile up at him.

“I brought you
something to eat,” she stated, as if that was not already
abundantly clear.

“Go away,” he
muttered.

“Why? You must
be hungry.”

“Do you want
everyone to know you hired an assassin?” Blade glanced up and down
the busy street.

“How would
they...?” She bit her lip. “Oh. Sorry.”

Blade frowned
as she trotted back into the house, amazed by the depths of her
stupidity. Then again, perhaps he should not have allowed his
presence to be quite so visible. Settling back on the wall, he
shifted his posterior to ease it, cursing the time-glasses that he
would need to wait still. A group of officers of the Watch
sauntered past, casting him dark looks that made him further revise
the practicality of his plan. Perhaps Talon was right, and he was a
bit overconfident.

Rendar returned
when the waxing Tree moon sailed high above the city, with two
companions who sang a ribald ditty with him. Blade, safe in the
darkness, watched them bid Rendar goodnight and stroll away down
the road. Within minutes of Rendar entering the house, screams and
crashes came from within. Evidently the neighbours were used to the
ruckus, for no one emerged to see what was happening.

The beating
went on and on, and Blade wondered if his client would survive it.
If not, he would be robbed of the second half of his fee. Was he
supposed to carry out the assassination anyway? He hesitated,
undecided, then jumped down and stretched to ease the stiffness
that his long wait had engendered. He walked across the road and
tested the door handle, finding it unlocked. Pushing it open, he
stepped inside, wondering if this was a wise course of action. The
man would be distracted, so perhaps it was an opportune moment.

Creeping along
a short corridor with two dull paintings hanging on its patchy,
grey-painted walls, he approached the doorway whence the shrieks
came. Several wall-mounted lamps lighted a cramped kitchen with
soot-stained walls and a scrubbed table and two chairs at its
centre, a greasy stove with several dirty pots on it in one corner.
Three brooms leant against the wall in another corner, and a
washing basin stood beside a tall water urn.

The woman knelt
before her husband, weeping. He bent over her, snarling insults and
accusations, then his fist cracked into the side of her head,
sending her sprawling. She tried to crawl away, but he gripped her
hair and dragged her towards the stove. Blade froze, unsure of what
to do. Rendar flung his sobbing wife down and unbuckled his belt,
slid the sheathed knife off it and banged it down on the table. The
crack of the leather belt brought fresh shrieks from the
unfortunate woman, who cowered and raised her arms to ward off the
blows.

Blade's mind
flew back to the dim confines of a tent in the desert, where a
burly Cotti warrior had flogged him with a belt, each blow sending
a shaft of stinging pain through him. Drawing a dagger, he stepped
into the doorway.

“Rendar.”

The man looked
up, frowned, and straightened. “Who in Damnation are you?”

“Death.”

Blade flung the
dagger, which struck Rendar in the chest, and he looked down at it
in surprise. The young assassin wondered why Rendar did not fall
dead like he was supposed to. He was certain he had hit the man's
heart, but clearly the wound was not fatal. The woman gaped at
Blade, then at her husband, crawling away from him. A bird's scream
came from upstairs as Rendar's hawk sensed his pain, and Blade
hoped that the darkness blinded it too much for it to fly. Although
a hawk was not particularly dangerous, one flapping around while he
was fighting with its friend would be a great hindrance. Rendar
recovered from his shock and roared, grabbed his knife and drew it
as he charged.

Alarmed, the
assassin stepped back, fighting the urge to flee. If he did, not
only would he fail, but Rendar would find out who had hired him,
and probably kill her. Remembering that he had two more daggers, he
yanked another one out and hurled it. Rendar ducked, and the weapon
glanced off his temple, opening a gash. The hawk screamed again,
and the big man bore down on Blade, who jerked the last weapon from
his belt. Rendar lunged at him, forcing the assassin to duck, and
he rammed his weapon into Rendar's flank.

The man
bellowed and chopped at Blade with wild strokes, slicing the
assassin's arm. Blade hissed and stabbed the man in the flank, but
too low to hit his heart. The dagger that protruded from Rendar's
chest was within reach, and Blade yanked it out, intending to use
it again. Rendar staggered back, his face stretched in a horrified
gape, then his knees buckled and he crashed onto his back. The
dying man twitched, a bloodstain spreading over his chest like a
blossoming crimson flower. Blade's bile rose, and he ran to the
back door to retch in the alley outside.

A touch on his
elbow made him spin around with a dagger ready, half expecting to
find Rendar behind him. The woman shrank back, her eyes fearful,
and he lowered the weapon before turning to vomit again, emptying
his supper into the gutter. When he stopped heaving, he wiped his
mouth with a shaking hand and went back into the kitchen, averting
his eyes from the corpse. The woman hovered, wringing her hands,
while he splashed his face in the basin, washing the blood off his
hands and weapons. Taking a swig from the water jug beside it, he
rinsed the acid taste from his mouth and spat into the basin.

When he turned,
his daggers sheathed once more, Rendar's wife sat at the kitchen
table, watching him with wide, dark blue eyes. Fresh bruises
reddened her cheek and temple, and blood oozed from one nostril.
There was no sign of her familiar, which had probably sought refuge
away from her when the beating started. Blade retrieved the weapon
that had bounced off her husband's head and shoved it into a belt
sheath, then approached her.

“Have you got
the rest of my money?”

She nodded and
drew two silvers from her bodice, holding them out. Blade tucked
them away and headed for the back door.

“Wait!” she
cried.

He turned,
frowning. “What?”

“What do I do
with the body?”

He shrugged.
“Not my problem. Call the Watch and tell them your husband's been
assassinated.”

“Won't they...
suspect me?”

“Why would
they?”

She shot a
glance at the corpse. “I don't know, but they might.”

“Not my
problem, either.” He headed for the door again.

“Wait!
Please!”

Blade turned in
the doorway. “My job is done.”

“I - I can pay
you more, to dispose of the body.”

“I'm not a
damned undertaker.”

“Please!” She
rose and approached him, her hands outstretched. “I beg you, help
me. I'll pay you another five silvers to get rid of it, and... I
can offer more. Now that he's dead, I... Do you need a place to
stay, perhaps? Good food, a comfortable bed? I can offer you that
in payment.”

“You've paid
me. Our deal is done.”

“But not
enough, I know. I want to help you, like you helped me. I think he
might have killed me tonight if you hadn't stopped him.”

Blade's scowl
deepened. “I took advantage of the situation to perform the
assassination, nothing more. I have no wish to lug corpses around
in the dead of night.”

“I'll pay you a
golden.”

“You said you
didn't have any money.”

“That was when
he was alive. He has plenty, look.” She went over to Rendar's
corpse and dug a money pouch from his pocket, emptying it on the
table. Four goldens and a dozen silvers rattled onto the wood, and
she held out a gold coin.

“Please?”

Blade
considered the money, and how much he needed it, as well as a place
to live. Talon's shack had lost all its dubious allure, and now
seemed shabby and uncomfortable. Inclining his head, he took the
coin and tucked it away with the silvers, glancing at the
cadaver.

“Wrap him in a
cloth. I don't want to get covered in blood.”

“Of course.”
She headed for the door, then paused to glance back. “I'm
Sherin.”

“Good for
you.”

Within a few
minutes, she had wrapped her husband's body in a sheet, and Blade
bent to pick it up, grunting at its weight. Rendar was solid
muscle, apparently.

Sherin touched
his elbow. “Please come back. You can stay here for as long as you
wish. I have a spare bed, and I'm a good cook.”

“I'll think
about it.”

Blade pondered
her proposal while he walked along the deserted street, weighing
its merits. Why she would wish to room and board her husband's
killer was a mystery, but perhaps she hated him so much that it
would not bother her. Rendar's corpse was heavy, and he decided to
drop it in the gutter between the house and whatever taproom the
dead man had visited earlier. While Blade did not know which
taproom it was, he knew that Rendar had used this street to reach
it.

The Watch
would, hopefully, think Rendar had fallen foul of cutthroats and
been murdered for his purse. The only flaw in Blade's plan was the
two companions who had walked home with Rendar, but if the Watch
did question them, they still may think that Rendar had been
returning to the taproom. Rendar did not appear to have been
assassinated, Blade thought ruefully, since he had been stabbed
three times. Choosing a suitable spot in an alley, Blade dumped the
corpse and dragged off the sheet, rolled it up and headed back to
the woman's house. Her offer had some appeal, and he decided to
accept it.

Blade found the
back door open and slipped inside, closing it. Sherin waited at the
kitchen table, a wine bottle and two cups upon it. The blood pool
had been cleaned up, and no sign of the struggle remained. She
smiled and gestured to a chair, her eyes bright as she poured two
cups of wine.

“You're hurt.
Let me tend your wound.”

Blade glanced
at his arm, fingering the slash in his jacket with a grimace.
Sherin took a box from the cupboard and placed it on the table,
removing a bottle of salve and a roll of bandage. Blade shrugged
off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, pulling it off. Beneath
it, he wore an assassin's traditional black leather vest, and her
eyes roamed over him in a way that made him uncomfortable,
lingering on his tattoo. She dabbed salve on the cut and bandaged
it, and he put his shirt back on as she resumed her seat
opposite.