The Queen's Blade Prequel I - Conash: Dead Son (28 page)

His future
stretched before him as a frozen road through a barren wasteland.
No sweet flowers to pluck; no still pools to drink from; no verdant
hills to climb or haystacks to frolic in. It was a good thing his
heart was ice, for now he knew that he had ice in his veins too.
All he had were his skills, and his pride in them. He longed to
tear the room apart with his bare hands and vent his anguish, but
such a display of temper require passion, and he had none. Instead,
he drew a bag of goldens from under the mattress and tucked it into
his pocket. He quit the room and sought the warm, dark haven of the
taproom and the solace that was to be found at the bottom of a wine
cup. If the Guild objected to their Master of the Dance being a
drunkard, let them punish him as they saw fit, he did not care.

***

Blade lay atop
a high wall overlooking the abode of a fat merchant, his next
target. The assignment had been given to him earlier that night by
an angry tradesman who had gone to the trouble of explaining his
reasons for wanting the man dead, something Blade did not
particularly wish to know. The tale had been somewhat entertaining,
however, and had amused him while he had drained five cups of wine.
The merchant, apparently, had ordered a dozen chairs from the
craftsman, then neglected to pay for them. When the crafter had
demanded payment, the merchant had claimed that the chairs had been
stolen, and refused to pay. The crafter was, therefore,
considerably out of pocket, and had no hope of receiving his
payment, since he had forgotten to demand a receipt for the
chairs.

The dispute was
petty, in Blade's estimation, but the crafter wanted the merchant
dead, and had paid six goldens for the Master of the Dance to do
job. It was almost insulting, the assassin mused, for the merchant
was a man of the boar who hired no guardsmen and would therefore be
easily killed. The wine fumes suffused his mind with pleasant
numbness, warding off the chilly nip in the air.

The two-storey
house with whitewashed walls and a grey slate roof was set in a
veritable jungle of a garden, half wild and full of weeds. Blade
seemed to remember his client telling him that the merchant was a
single man who devoted his life to making money, but did not like
to spend it, apparently. Blade yawned, fighting a creeping
lethargy, and swung a leg over the wall. Best to get it over with,
then he could seek his bed. He tried to recall how he had reached
the merchant's house, but it was a blur of splashing through
gutters and bouncing off walls. He was not even sure if this was
the right house.

No matter, one
dead merchant was probably as good as the next. Blade chuckled,
wondering how many assassins had killed the wrong man. He groped
for a foothold on the inside of the wall, and lodged the toe of his
boot into a crack. As he slid off the wall, his foot slipped and
his hands snatched at air. The ground rushed up and hit him in the
face, quite hard. Shaking his ringing head, he spat out dead leaves
and climbed to his feet, only to blunder into a peril bush and yelp
as the thorns stabbed his hands. Recoiling, he tripped over a root
and fell backwards, cracking his head on the wall. Blade rubbed the
lump that popped up on the back of his skull, grimacing. He needed
another drink, or three.

Climbing to his
feet again, he avoided the peril bush and staggered towards the
house on rubbery legs. Something narrow and springy caught him
across his neck, jerking his head back with a soft twang. Blade
sprawled on his back with a thud, cursing, and realised that he had
walked into a washing line. Rubbing his stinging throat, he crawled
to his feet and reeled onwards, wondering if he should return to
the alehouse instead. This was becoming a mission, and his thirst
for another cup of wine was increasing. A Sea moon waned overhead,
and the garden was diabolically dark, not to mention blurred.
Hoping that he would encounter no more washing lines, he lurched
onwards, heading for the corner of the house. He was not sure
exactly where he was going, but it seemed like a good
direction.

Something
caught him across the shins, and he fell over it with a grunt. A
host of cackling chickens flapped from the hen house, making a
terrible racket. Blade levered himself upright and raised a finger
to his lips, making shushing noises. A dog barked in the next
garden, setting off others further down the street. The assassin
cursed and lay back, deciding that he was not in the mood to kill
anyone after all. Nor did he have the energy, and his stomach
churned. A light came on in the house, but Blade was too distracted
by his burgeoning nausea to pay it any heed.

Rolling onto
his side, he spewed the liquid contents of his stomach onto the
grass, sweat popping out on his brow. Perhaps he had overdone the
wine tonight. He retched again, bringing up the last of the sour,
burning wine, then flopped back and closed his eyes. A light fell
on him, and he opened them again to squint at a portly man in a
floral nightshirt who stood over him, holding a lamp.

“What in
Damnation are you doing in my garden?” the man demanded in a
petulant tone, scowling.

Blade glanced
at the mess beside him. “Vomiting, apparently.”

“You've broken
my henhouse! You'll pay for that. I'll call the Watch if you don't
leave now!”

The assassin
waved a languid hand. “Call them, I don't care.”

The man stepped
closer, his demeanour threatening. “Get off my property, you
drunken lout!”

Blade frowned
and raised himself on one elbow, studying the man's plump features,
small eyes and pouting lips. “Are you...?” He could not recall the
name of the merchant he was supposed to kill.

“Am I what?”
the man demanded. “Angry? Damned right I am! I don't enjoy being
woken in the dead of night by drunkards stumbling around in my
garden!”

Blade shook his
head. “No. Your name, what is it?”

“I'm not
telling you! Why would you wish to know, in any case?”

“How else will
I pay for the damage?” The assassin congratulated himself on his
quick thinking.

“Oh, I see.”
The man looked a little taken aback. “It's Ardenal.”

Blade snapped
his fingers. “That's it. Ardenal. I'm at the right house,
then.”

“What do you
mean?”

The assassin
groped for a dagger and tugged one from his belt, almost dropping
it. Ardenal's eyes widened at the sight of it, then flicked over
Blade and acquired a fearful glint. Evidently he had just noticed
that the drunken intruder was clad entirely in black, and wore a
silver-studded belt with two daggers sheathed in it.

“You're... What
do you want?”

Blade fumbled
with the weapon, shifting his grip to the blade, wondering if he
would be able to throw it at all, never mind hit anything. The
merchant's features stretched with horror, and he backed away,
raising his free hand.

“No,
please!”

The assassin
squinted at him, trying to focus, and raised the dagger as the
merchant turned to flee. His first throw struck the man in the
shoulder, making him stagger. Blade levered himself upright,
cursing. Tugging another weapon from his belt, he hurled it, this
time hitting the fleeing merchant next to his spine. A pig's squeal
came from the house, where Ardenal's familiar must be locked. Still
the man stumbled on, giving little whinnies of terror. Blade
muttered a string of oaths and pulled out his last dagger, taking
more time to aim before he flung it. It impaled the merchant
between his shoulder-blades, and he shambled on for a few more
steps, then fell to his knees, dropping the lantern.

Blade clambered
to his feet and staggered after his victim, scowling at his
inaccuracy. As he reached the plump man, Ardenal screamed for help.
The assassin yanked a dagger out of the merchant's back and rammed
it into the base of the man's skull. He collapsed, dead before he
hit the ground. Blade retrieved his weapons and wiped them on
Ardenal's garish nightshirt before tucking them away in his belt
sheaths. The neighbours' dogs all down the street barked furiously,
setting up a terrific racket underscored by the cackling of loose
chickens.

The assassin
lurched back to the wall, narrowly avoiding a second encounter with
the washing line and circumventing the prickly peril bush. Arriving
at the wall, he eyed it, wondering how he had managed to climb it
last time. No trees offered easy access, and its top was far out of
reach. He tried to jump up and grab it, but his fingers slipped off
and he fell back with a curse. Wandering along it, he searched for
a means to scale it, wondering how long it would take for the
neighbours to summon the Watch. He followed the wall all the way
around to the front of the property, where he came across a
gate.

With a shrug,
he opened it and wandered onto the street, closing it behind him.
It was not the best way to leave a victim's dwelling, since someone
may see him, but it was certainly the easiest. The wine fumes had
lost much of their potency, and he turned into the first dark alley
that he came across, heading back towards the slums.

Chapter Seventeen

Blade glanced
up as a well-dressed merchant slid onto the bench opposite him,
banging down a tankard of ale. The assassin leant back and sipped
his wine, casting a quick glance around the dimly lighted taproom.
Permal sat in another dark corner, nursing a jug of ale, and three
other assassins lurked in the shadows. The muscular man opposite
Blade leant forward, his eyes on the glittering belt that clasped
the assassin's slim waist.

“You're the
Master of the Dance?”

Blade inclined
his head. “I am.”

“You look like
a damned boy.”

The assassin
shrugged and looked away, tired of such comments from prospective
clients. They all found him too young looking, even now that he was
all of twenty-two years of age. In the three years that had passed
since he had won the belt, he had lost count of the number of
assassinations he had performed, but it was a lot. Experience had
tempered him, and taught him a great deal about the art of killing.
That was what it was to him now, but the killing itself was not the
thrill. It was his ability to enter a sleeping man's house and slay
him in his bed, then escape undetected, that filled him with pride.
His prowess, and his inordinately long stint as the Master of the
Dance, had led to whispers about him amongst his peers, and a
rumour circulated that the common folk called him the Silent
Slayer. Blade was not particularly fond of the title, but it
proclaimed his skill, so he did not refute it.

“I have a job
for you,” the merchant stated, drawing Blade's attention to him
again.

“What is
it?”

“I want the
head of the Trobalon family dead. His name is Graleth, and he's a
man of the bull. He dwells in the rich quarter, at the end of
Bloodwood Street. It's a mansion; you can't miss it.”

Blade frowned,
considering. The Trobalon family was a well-known dynasty of
wealthy merchants that comprised a vast network of dealers,
carters, tradesmen and shop-owners, thereby excluding outsiders and
ensuring that all the profits went into the family's coffers. Some
rumours even claimed that distant relatives owned the farms and
mines that produced the raw materials. Most people knew where
Graleth lived. He was the patriarch of the clan, and kept a small
army of bodyguards, many of whom were veterans of the Endless War.
His mansion resembled a fortress, with high walls and patrolling
dogmen. Blade eyed the man who awaited his reply, noting his
gold-trimmed velvet coat and satin shirt.

“And who might
you be?”

“What does that
matter? I can afford to pay you whatever you demand, but the job
must be well done. I want to hire no bunglers or foolish,
inexperienced boys.”

Blade leant
forward and banged his cup on the table, nettled. “Then bugger off
and find someone who looks the part, if I don't. I am the Master of
the Dance, don't doubt it. If that's not good enough, try the
likely looking man in yonder corner. He looks the part, I'll
wager.” He indicated Permal with a stab of his finger.

The merchant
raised his hands in an appeasing gesture. “No need to get riled. I
can't be too careful, you understand. If anything should go wrong,
suspicion will fall upon my family, and the reprisals will be
dire.”

“Even if
everything goes right, suspicion will fall on you if you're
Graleth's enemy.”

The merchant
nodded, fiddling with the gold chains around his neck. “But I too
come from a powerful family, and the Trobalon clan will be
reluctant to accuse us if Graleth is killed cleanly. Without proof,
they would cause an uproar and summon the Watch, but nothing more.
But if you're captured, they'll torture you until you tell them who
hired you. Even if I don't tell you my name, my description will be
enough.”

“Then you
should have worn a hood if you think I would betray a client. It's
part of my code.”

“I know, but to
look at you...” The man shook his head. “You don't look capable of
withstanding torture, and they will do horrible things to you if
they catch you.”

“Firstly, they
won't catch me, and secondly, looks are deceiving. I've already
endured more suffering than you could ever imagine.”

The merchant
inclined his head. “I've heard that the current Master of the Dance
is called the Silent Slayer. You're not what I was expecting,
though.”

“I'm losing
interest, merchantman. Either hire me or leave. I have no interest
in your opinion of me.”

The man quaffed
his ale, wiped the foam from his upper lip and nodded. “All right.
I'm Borass, from the Artemann Clan. My father is Perinius,
matriarch of our family. Graleth has given offense, and my father
wants revenge. What will your fee be?”