Lilu reach it first and barred it.
“Now what?” he demanded.
“If only you could know the joy I’m feeling now.”
“I’ll try to imagine it.”
“I was right. You are a good man. It’s all there inside of you, hidden away, buried under ice.” She tapped his chest. “I wish I could reach it.”
“You’re wrong. I did it to put an end to your carping. Now I must go.”
She tried to stroke his cheek, but he evaded her caress. “My children will know who saved them from the gutter. My sons will honour your name. You’re going to be a legend.”
“Leave the predictions to Shamsara, Lilu. You’ve got what you wanted; now get out of my way.”
She stood aside. “Goodbye, Blade. God be with you.”
“I doubt that,” he retorted, brushing past her into the corridor.
On the walk back to the palace, he wondered at his generosity and the momentary weakness that had prompted it. Perhaps she deserved some reward for saving his life. At least now he no longer had to be burdened with the sense of owing her something. He tried to imagine the shock and horror of his undoubtedly well-bred retainers when a broken-nosed whore arrived with five bastards in tow and a letter from their new lord ordering them to care for her. The thought brought a little amusement to brighten his day and compensate for his face’s throbbing.
At the palace, he went to his rooms and ordered a bath, forced to don some of his new finery afterwards. The manservant grimaced at the state of his clothes and took them away to be cleaned, his expression making it clear that he would rather have burnt them. Blade sent the vial of potion to the Queen with a letter that told her how to use it, then settled down to wait, playing a game of peeress with himself.
The Queen arrived in his chamber at the chosen time, and her eyes widened at the sight of his bruised face. “My Lord Conash. What happened?”
He bowed. “My Queen. A minor altercation. Nothing serious.”
Minna-Satu smiled. “Who won?”
“He did.”
Her brows rose. “You surprise me. You, who are so deadly?”
“I am not a taproom brawler, My Queen. In my profession, there is seldom a call to fight; I am no expert at it.”
“Then you should have run away.”
“I tried.”
“I see.” She settled on a pile of cushions. “Did you get what you need?”
He nodded.
“Good, then let us proceed.”
Over the next time-glass, Blade worked his magic on the Queen, transforming her, with the aid of paint and powder, into a sultry handmaiden even he barely recognised. During the times when he was forced to come into close contact with her in order to paint her eyes and don the wig, he avoided her gaze. When he finished she donned the cheap, but alluring gown and perfume, and he stood back to study her, nodding in satisfaction.
As he was putting away the pots of paint and powder, he said, “What of your safety, My Queen? Should Kerrion grow violent for any reason, what protection do you have?”
“Shista will come with me, unobserved, of course.”
He nodded. “Good.”
“Do you really think Prince Kerrion is a violent man?”
“I know him little, but I feel that he is unpredictable. He resents his captivity more than he shows. His politeness towards you is studied. You gave him the potion?”
“As you instructed.”
“That will help.”
Minna brushed at the silken gown. The red wig fell about her shoulders in coiled, gleaming tresses, and, being pinned to her luxuriant mane, seemed amazingly thick. He moved closer to tug at it, ensuring its security, and she gazed at him, turning away when he finished. At the door she paused, her eyes pools of sorrow.
“Thank you.”
He bowed. “My Queen.”
Blade lay awake for some time, staring at the ceiling. The Queen’s sadness seemed strange. He had expected nervousness, and the excitement of a maid going to her first lover, not solemnity and sorrow. Her mood was better suited to a woman facing the gallows than a queen encountering her chosen consort. He tried to puzzle out the meaning of it, but failed, drifting into the dark arms of sleep.
In the morning, a sealed package containing the wig and clothes was delivered, but Blade only saw the Queen again three days later, at a supper party. Several other lords and Kerrion attended, and Minna-Satu appeared distant, her attitude stiff and her expression guarded. She managed a brief smile when Blade arrived. Kerrion seemed morose, and picked at his food with an uncharacteristic lack of appetite. The nobles ignored the assassin, who ate his meal in silence, too far from the Queen to speak to her.
Kerrion was also seated further down the table between two lords. Blade watched the stilted interaction between the Prince and the Queen, gleaning little from it. Their conversation was curtly polite, although this seemed to be Kerrion’s doing more than Minna’s. The Prince’s eyes, however, rested upon her often whenever she glanced elsewhere, and when he was not looking, she gazed at him. Several times, Blade caught Minna looking at him, and wondered at this also.
Queen Minna-Satu’s gaze was often drawn to the Prince, the memory of their encounter still fresh. Since that night, she had hardly seen him, and he had declined her invitations to dine together. When she had visited him, he had been aloof and asked her to leave. The invitation to this party had been formal, so he had been obliged to accept, or appear rude, but his behaviour puzzled her.
Certainly he had not seen through her disguise, yet now he seemed to want nothing to do with her. She longed to admit her guilt and tell him that their encounter had meant so much more to her than merely conceiving a child, but could not. The sorrow of that concealment ate at her, and their cold politeness towards each other brought fresh pain with each occasion, yet she longed to share his company as often as she could. She also watched the assassin, wondering what thoughts hid behind his bland expression and cold eyes.
Trouble was brewing in her court; she could sense it even here at the supper table, although Blade seemed oblivious to it. Kerrion was too sunk in his thoughts to notice or care, but she noticed sly glances between some of her senior lords, which disturbed her, and she watched them warily.
After the dinner, she ordered extra guards to be stationed at the doors and windows of Kerrion’s rooms, intuition warning her of his danger. The next day, she sent four spies to the lords who had aroused her suspicions, and decided to dine with them more often, so she could monitor their collaboration. Usually her lords spent most of their time scheming against each other and vying for her favour, now some of them seemed to be joining forces.
Chapter Eleven
Mendal pushed aside the musty curtain and entered the gloomy room in the bowels of the palace, which had once been used as a royal burial chamber. Eight queens were interred within its dusty confines, using all the available floor space, and a new chamber had been designated for later burials. Since then, this room had been all but forgotten, and made an excellent meeting place far from prying eyes and ears. No one ventured down here anymore, not even the cleaners or historians. The undisturbed dust that filmed the floor and tombs testified to that.
Adding his torch to the four that already burnt in wall sconces, he surveyed his collaborators. The four lords seemed ill at ease in each other’s company, more used to being at odds. Lord Mordon scowled at Lord Bellcamp, his dark eyes burning with hate in his thin, saturnine face. He resembled his kin, the ferret, and his quick movements and darting black eyes made his beast easy to recognise. Lord Bellcamp met his glare with pale eyes of icy blue, his thick red brows drawn together. The coldness of his stare betrayed his affinity with sharks, a rare beast for a powerful man.
Beside Bellcamp’s beefy frame, the massive bulk of Lord Durlan strained at the seams of his clothes, and he mopped his face with a lacy linen handkerchief. He frowned at everyone, angered by the humid confines of the underground room, as any man of th
e boar would be. Lord Javare made up the final member of the quartet, but he ignored them all with equal scorn, a head of noble grey hair redeeming his rather brutish features. His beast was not so easily read, but Mendal found a kindred spirit in this man of snakes. His familiar, a ringed ground snake, had no venom, but could inflict a painful bite.
Mendal drew their attention as he sat on a dusty tomb with no regard for the remains of the ancient queen that rested within it. “So, we are all here,” he observed, shooting each a scathing glance. “And you have managed not to kill each other. Amazing.”
“There is more at stake now,” Lord Javare said.
“Indeed,” Mendal agreed. “All of your futures.”
Lord Bellcamp asked, “How do we know what you claim is true, Mendal? You no longer have the Queen’s confidence.”
“I have spies. Why do you suppose the Prince is still alive? Do you think the Queen requires his entertainment? No, she is negotiating peace with him, and if she succeeds, you will all be ruined.”
“And you,” Lord Durlan said. “Why do we have to come to this stinking hot place?”
“Because there are no spies here,” Mendal retorted, his eyes raking the lord’s portly form.
“So what is the plan?” Lord Mordon asked. “Let us get on with this; I long to quit this company.”
Mendal nodded. “We now know the Queen does not plan to execute Kerrion as we hoped. She keeps him alive for a reason, and I start to suspect that she will send him back to the desert. We cannot allow this. The war must continue, or we all face ruin.”
“But how do we know she talks of peace with him, and, if she does, that he will agree?” Lord Bellcamp enquired. “Perhaps we need do nothing, for nothing will come of it. If he agrees to peace, his people will cast him out and place his brother Lerton on the throne.”
“Not if Lerton’s life is threatened,” Mendal stated. “If the Queen sent Blade with Prince Kerrion, the threat to Lerton’s life would prevent him from overthrowing Kerrion.”
“Why Blade?” Javare asked. “Surely Kerrion has assassins?”
“They are not as good, and besides, what assassin do you know who would kill his own prince? A Cotti assassin would not do the deed, but Blade would delight in killing Lerton. Knowing this, and Blade’s reputation, the mere threat to his life would be sufficient to silence Lerton, who, we hear, is fond of staying alive.”
“So what is our course?” Lord Durlan queried. “Let us not waste time arguing petty details.”
“Kill Kerrion,” Mendal said. “With him out of the way, the Queen cannot strike a truce, and that will put Lerton on the throne.”
“The Queen can still threaten him with Blade,” Mordon pointed out.
“Without Kerrion’s help, Blade would find it difficult to assassinate Lerton, who is not one for coming to the front as Shandor did. I doubt that threat would work, and if Blade was sent to kill only him, another brother would be waiting to take his place, and more after him. Even if Blade succeeded in wiping out the entire royal family, he would be unable to stop the war. The assassinations would enrage the Cotti. No, the Queen needs Kerrion to make peace, and once he is gone, so will any hope of it be.”
“That is it then,” Lord Bellcamp declared. “We are agreed. Kerrion must die.”
“And many will applaud that action,” Mordon noted.
“Indeed,” Mendal agreed. “All we need do now is hire an assassin.”
“Pity Blade is not available,” Mordon grumbled.
“Lord Conash,” Mendal said, “is firmly in the Queen’s employ. Only a fool would approach him.”
“That is what I said.” Lord Mordon rose, jerked his torch from the sconce and headed for the door. “I shall make the arrangements.”
Three nights after the dinner with Queen Minna-Satu, the sound of running feet in the corridor outside his room roused Blade. He grabbed the dagger wedged between the top of the mattress and the headboard and turned as his door burst open. Two guards entered, carrying torches. His manservant, looking rumpled and puffy-eyed, ran in and lighted the lamps.
The soldiers bowed, and one said, “Lord Conash, the Queen requires you at once.”
Blade slid from the bed and pulled on his trousers and a shirt, not bothering to tuck it in. “What is the trouble?”
“An attempted assassination of Prince Kerrion.”
“Attempted?”
“The assassin failed. He is dead.”
Blade frowned. “So what must I do about it?”
“The Queen requires you.”
“Yes, I am coming.”
Blade followed the guards into Kerrion’s brightly lighted bedroom, which was filled with soldiers. The Prince paced about, his eyes glinting, and a black-clad man lay in a pool of blood. Blade turned away, covering his mouth as his stomach heaved. Several cruel spear thrusts had eviscerated the strange assassin. Kerrion glared at the Queen’s assassin.
“Squeamish, Blade? One of your own kind, eh?”
Blade glowered at the Prince. “What happened?”
“He tried to kill me.”
“Obviously. Why are you not dead?”
“He tripped on the rug.” Kerrion gestured. “The sound woke me up, and I hit him before he could cut me. Then I shouted for the guards, and they killed him.”
“Pity.”
“A friend of yours, was he?”
“No, but he could have been followed to his employer if he was not dead. Then we might have found out who hired him. A dead assassin is of no use at all.”
“Better than a live one,” the Prince retorted. “At least I am not the one lying in a pool of blood.” He hesitated. “For a moment, I thought it was you.”
“Then you would have been lying in a pool of blood, although not such a large one. I do not trip over rugs.”
“How did he get in here?”
The assassin glanced around. “There is probably a secret passage somewhere in this room.” He turned to a soldier. “Have you searched him?”
“No, My Lord.”
“Then do it.”
The search produced a pouch of gold and a blood-stained map with instructions written on it in a flowing hand. Blade studied it.
“The entrance seems to be behind those curtains.” He pointed to the far side of the room, and two soldiers went over to pull the gold-trimmed burgundy velvet aside, revealing polished wood panelling. One panel was open, and a dark passage yawned beyond. The men entered it with their torches, but Blade shook his head.
“They will not find anyone down there. The assassin was given a map from the outside. He did not need any help getting here.”
Kerrion eyed the bag of gold the soldier held. “They did not pay him very much, did they?”
Blade glanced at the pouch. “That is just the down payment. Assassins do not get paid until the deed is done.”
“My Lord,” one of the soldiers said, “the Queen wishes a report as soon as you are ready.”
Blade nodded. “Very well, I have seen enough here.” Two guards followed as he went to the door.
Kerrion strode after him. “I must see the Queen.”
“What about?” The assassin paused in the doorway.
“This.” Kerrion gestured to the slain assassin.
“I can tell her what happened.”
“I have to speak to her.”
Blade’s eyes narrowed at the Prince’s tone, then he shrugged. “Very well. If she consents.”
The assassin led the way, and the guards fell in behind Kerrion.
Queen Minna-Satu paced around her gold-pillared lounge, clad in a flowing blue satin robe, her hair loose. She halted as Blade entered alone, leaving the Prince outside with the soldiers.
He bowed. “My Queen.”
“Blade, what happened?”
“Someone sent an assassin to kill Kerrion.”
“Who?”
“I do not know. Kerrion wishes to see you. He waits outside.”
A flush stole i
nto Minna’s cheeks, and she looked away. “Let him in.”
The Prince entered and inclined his head to her. “Minna-Satu.”
She nodded before turning to Blade again. “What can you tell me?”
He shrugged. “The assassin’s name was Slash. He specialised in slitting throats. He was one of the better assassins, more experienced. He entered through the secret passage that leads to Kerrion’s room. Someone gave him a map.”
“You have it?”
He nodded.
“Let me see.” Blade handed her the map, and she frowned at it. “Lord Mordon.”
“Is it his writing?”
“I would know it anywhere. I have seen it often enough on petitions and letters. How dare he?” She flung the map aside. “He will pay!”
“Why would he do it?”
She gestured, turning away. “He owns a large armouring business. An end to the war would ruin him. Obviously he suspects that I try to talk peace with Prince Kerrion. By killing him, he would end any hope of it.”
“Do you think he acted alone?”
She shook her head. “I doubt it.”
“Then you should arrest him, and find out who his collaborators are.”
“No.” Minna went over to a pile of gold-embroidered crimson cushions and sank onto them. Shista watched from her place by the windows, her eyes wide at the tension. “If I arrest him, he must go before the courts, and it will become public that I am protecting Prince Kerrion. The people still expect his execution any day. They will not be happy to see one of their lords punished for trying to kill an enemy prince. There will be riots.”
Kerrion said, “But he must be stopped, or he will try again.”
“Killing one wolf will not stop the pack,” Blade remarked. “We must find out who the others are.”
“He will be stopped,” Minna stated. “And sometimes killing the leader does stop the pack, if they are clever. Blade, you will see to it.”
“You want him dead?”
“Yes. I do not care who his collaborators are. His death will dissuade them.”