The Queen's Blade

  The church used the power of its silken dream disturbers to frighten the unfaithful into unwilling respectfulness, claiming the ability to madden those who did not worship Tinsharon. The long streamers of gushing, many-coloured silk rustled into peoples’ dreams even on the stillest nights, when the hanging coils could fill a man with dread and rouse him screaming from his rest. She wondered if Blade had ever experienced the chilling touch of silken dreams, and what kind of horrors the slithering silk had brought him.

  Minna was so lost in her thoughts that she did not hear the doors open, or his soft tread. Shista’s deep purr alerted her to his presence, and she turned.

  Blade fell to one knee and bowed his head. “My Queen.”

  “Arise.”

  The assassin stood up, his cold eyes meeting hers in a brief glance before he lowered them to the hem of her azure satin skirts. Shista rubbed against his leather-clad legs. His black garb hugged him, a high collar, strengthened with thin metal strips, covering his throat and the tattoo at the base of it. On another man, the outfit might have looked like the product of vanity, to show off a splendid physique, but she knew this was impossible in his case. The clothes were functional, designed to give an opponent no hold during a fight, when loose attire would prove a great liability.

  The high collar shielded his throat from knives and garrottes, and the leather provided some protection for the rest of him, reinforced around his torso with a layer of fine chainmail. The tunic hung below his hips, slit at the sides and trimmed with silver thread. The colour allowed him to blend into the shadows, and gave him an air of subdued menace that his quiet, watchful manner heightened. Two daggers rode in his belt, and she glimpsed the gleam of a hilt up one of his sleeves. The weapons neither surprised nor alarmed her, for she sensed no animosity from him, only a cold disinterest that irritated her somewhat. Minna sank down on the cushions, and he sat in front of her.

  “I have considered your offer, and have decided to accept it,” she said. “You will go to King Shandor’s camp and kill him; you will bring me his son.”

  Blade inclined his head.

  “Do you wish men to aid you?”

  “No. I work alone. Two horses, supplies and a little money are all I require.”

  “Tell me how you will do it.”

  “No.”

  She stared at him, shocked. A faint smile curled his lips, and hot words died on her tongue. “You are as insolent as ever, Blade. I shall have to teach you some manners when you return.”

  “If it pleases you.”

  “You do not need them though, do you? All you have to do is smile.”

  He sighed and stroked the sand cat. “Sometimes.”

  “When will you leave?”

  “As soon as you allow me to.”

  She frowned, piqued by his terse replies. “How can one man walk into a mighty army such as Shandor’s and live to tell the tale?”

  His smile became wry, touched with bitterness. “I have been there before.”

  “Of course.” She gazed at the garden. The sight of him brought the unfamiliar gush of interest that she strived to quell. “You have an excellent reason for wanting his death; no one can deny you that. This accursed war has caused too much suffering already, and I shall end it forever.”

  “Not by holding the Prince to ransom. He has fifteen brothers.”

  “I know. That is not my intention, but I want him unharmed. Do you understand?”

  He nodded. “My trade does not make me a compulsive killer, only an efficient one. Do you wish the King to suffer?”

  The Queen shivered at the impassive tone with which he made the offer. Death was a mere commodity to him, a service rendered to any who could afford it, without a trace of remorse on his part. “That is not necessary. Do you offer this to all your clients?”

  “Yes. It can be fast or slow, their choice.”

  “Do many choose a slow death for their enemies?”

  He shrugged, expressionless. “Sometimes.”

  “Do you enjoy killing?”

  “No.”

  “I am glad,” Minna said. “I would not wish to bestow the reward of lands and nobility upon a man who enjoyed killing, for nobles are able to abuse their position.”

  “Rest assured, I am employed in this trade only to earn a living, and once I no longer need to, I shall retire.”

  “Why did you choose this occupation?”

  He clearly did not like to be questioned, but her rank drew answers from him that he would have denied a lesser person, terse though they were. “It was thrust upon me. It is the only trade I am good at.”

  “And how many men have you killed?”

  His glance rebuked her. “I do not keep count.”

  To vindicate her rather morbid curiosity, Minna said, “I simply wish to assess how good you are. I would not want to send an overeager fool to his death.”

  Blade’s smile returned, genuine amusement tinged with sadness. “I am no overeager fool. I do have a certain reputation that has not reached your ears, and I am the Master of the Dance. Ask about me, if you will.”

  “I shall.” Minna rose to her feet, and the assassin stood up, looking uncertain when she approached him. She stopped in front of him, and, after a moment of confusion, he realised what he had to do and sank down on one knee, bowing his head.

  She said, “I give you my blessing and wish you good luck, Blade.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You may go.”

  “My Queen.” He rose and left.

  Moments later, the doors were thrust open again to admit Chiana, who wore a scowl and patted her hair self-consciously as she rose from her prostration. Minna stared out of the windows until the chief advisor coughed to get her attention, whereupon the Queen shook herself from her reverie and turned.

  “See to it that the assassin has all the supplies he needs for his journey. Provide whatever he requests, and give him two of the finest horses in the stables.”

  Chiana withdrew, returning after a few minutes to report that it was done.

  “Good.” Minna sat down. “Let us hope and pray that he succeeds. He is our last hope.”

  “He is a very strange man,”

  “I know.” The Queen cocked her head. “What do you see strange about him?”

  Chiana shrugged. “Well, as a part of the comforts you ordered for him, I sent a woman to his room the first night.”

  “You did?” Minna laughed, confusing her advisor. Sobering, she asked, “What happened?”

  “He sent her away. Thinking he was tired, I sent her again the next night. He sent her away again, and this time with instructions not to return.” Minna chuckled, and Chiana looked perplexed. “You know the reason for this?”

  “Yes, I do.” The Queen smiled. “Are you so unobservant, Chiana?”

  “Evidently I am, My Queen, for I do not understand his behaviour, or the reason for your mirth.”

  “He must have been most amused by your thoughtfulness, and perhaps flattered that you did not see what he is. Perhaps many do not recognise him, for he is not typical of his kind.”

  “What kind is that?”

  Minna sighed, her regret for Blade’s misfortune colouring her tone with sadness. “He is a eunuch.”

  The chief advisor recoiled as if slapped, deep sorrow invading her expression. “Are you certain? How do you know?”

  “He has no beard, and his voice is a little high, do you not agree?”

  “Well, now that you mention it….” Chiana frowned. “But I thought -”

  “That they are always fat and lazy? Usually they are, but Blade has a vigorous occupation, and one that interests him, I would venture to say.”

  Chiana looked aggrieved. “Who would do such a thing, and how? He does not seem the kind of man easily overcome by his enemies.”

  “Oh, no, this happened a long time ago, when he was little more than a child, I would hazard to guess. As for who would do it, I can only think of one people capabl
e of such things.”

  “The Cotti.”

  “Indeed,” the Queen agreed, “and his current quest will go a long way to fulfilling his lust for vengeance.”

  “What a waste, for such a handsome man to be….”

  Minna chuckled. “So, you find him attractive.”

  “Who would not, My Queen?”

  “Indeed, you are quite right. Who would not? But alas, no woman will ever find comfort in his arms, or passion in his eyes, although it is not impossible that he should love. A woman willing to sacrifice the hope of children might find great happiness with him, if she was prepared to be his friend.”

  “But would he wish it?”

  Minna shrugged. “It all depends, I suppose, on whether his affections can be won. He may be too proud, too used to being alone, too bitter perhaps. But everyone grows lonely, and there can be none as alone as a man such as him; an outcast, a misfit through no fault of his own. It must be hard.”

  Chiana nodded, and, after a short silence, they turned to the business of the day.

  Blade crouched behind a ridge and pulled the spyglass from his belt, setting it to his eye. Through it, he scanned the massive camp below him. Thousands of men milled amid a sea of dull brown tents pitched in the desert, and the hot wind whipped away the smoke from their fires. It carried the scent of cooking meat and sweat, the tang of rusting armour and the stale stench of urine. The mountains at his back guarded the Jashimari lands beyond, craggy grey peaks that rose in a long line like a god-made wall dividing the warring kingdoms.

  All the battles of the Endless War had been fought along this border, on one side or the other. Here, the bones of countless warriors enriched the soil, and the remnants of broken armour and weapons rusted in the sand. Once there had been many towns on the far side of the mountains, peaceful villages that farmers and shepherds tenanted. Most of these had been wiped out now, like the one in which he had been born. The change in terrain from one side of the mountains to the other was drastic. On this side, sand lapped at the foothills; on the other, grassland stretched away to distant forests.

  The Cotti warriors loomed large in Blade’s spyglass, their shaven heads gleaming in the sun, their skins a deep golden-brown. Most had shucked their boiled leather armour and wore only rich yellow tunics emblazoned with a silver sun, symbol of the Cotti kings. He wondered how tired they must be of fighting, and of eating the salted meat sent to them from the distant oasis where their city was built. He spotted a group of camp followers, harridans and toothless whores who earned their keep on their backs each night.

  Their presence comforted him, and he moved the glass on, searching for the King’s tent. Blade recoiled as a dead face filled the glass, pausing long enough to take in the details of the four corpses staked out in the sand, mutilated beyond belief, their eyes plucked out by crows. Snatching the glass from his eye, he turned and retched, emptying the meagre contents of his stomach. If he failed, his fate would be similar to theirs, perhaps worse.

  Wiping sweat from his brow, he lay back on the hot rock and struggled for composure. His bold words to the Queen mocked him now that he faced the enemy, and the horror that could befall him. After a few minutes, he lifted the glass again, avoiding the grim sight as he continued his search. King Shandor’s tent was little different from his warriors’, but for the pennant that flew above it. It stood almost at the centre of the camp, so any who tried to reach it would be forced to walk a long way through the King’s army. Lowering the glass, he noted its location, then gathered his possessions and moved back to the cave he had selected for his preparations.

  There, he sat on the sandy floor and contemplated the task before him. This was no simple feat. One slip, one mistake, and he would die horribly. He had much in his favour, though, compared to the men who had gone before him. The Queen had sent strong warriors, doubtless wise and wily, but no amount of courage or cunning could save them within King Shandor’s camp.

  Blade pondered Queen Minna-Satu, enjoying the memory; a regal lady, certainly, and a perceptive one. He had spent many moons nursing tankards of ale in shoddy inns, finding the courage to go to her. When Lilu had told him of the reward her client had bragged of soon receiving, he had been only slightly interested. When she had revealed the intended victim, however, his blood had coursed faster. Lilu, like Chiana, was unobservant, and had never understood his lack of interest, seeking every opportunity to speak to him, hoping, he supposed, to lure him with her doubtful charms. After the first piece of information, he had encouraged her a little, and learnt of the failure of the others sent to kill the King. After the third failure, he had mustered his courage and gone to the palace.

  Queen Minna-Satu’s beauty had surprised him. Her people knew little about her. Few had ever seen her, and then only briefly at a distance. He wondered what she planned to do with the Prince. King Shandor’s death would be a great blow to his people, but he had plenty of sons to replace him. Kidnapping the heir would only put a younger prince on the throne, a pointless exercise. Yet the Queen did not strike him as a fool.

  Blade pulled one of his packs closer and undid the thong that bound it. After spreading a cloth on the floor, he emptied out the bag’s contents. A pile of women’s clothing tumbled out, worn and faded, followed by a slither of vivid blue silk and a knot of necklaces, earrings, bangles and rings. Last of all, a leather pouch. Blade contemplated the pile with bitter eyes.

  The items were the sometimes tools of his trade, used for special assassinations, such as this one. With a sigh, he poured water onto a cloth and washed his face, then stripped to the waist and bathed his torso, wiping the sweat from his armpits. He opened a pot of oily dye he had purchased along the way and rubbed it onto his arms and face, covering his neck and some of his chest. The colour was right, a pale golden-brown. Selecting a bottle of cheap perfume, he anointed himself.

  A small mirror afforded him a view of his face as he outlined his eyes with kohl and rubbed blue powder onto the lids. Berry juice reddened his lips, and he pinned a blond wig over his hair, then surveyed the results with some satisfaction. He removed his trousers and boots and wrapped a length of cloth around his hips before donning the ankle-length blue gown. Two water bags filled the bodice, granting him a generous bosom.

  Aware that the tiniest detail could betray him, he checked his hands to ensure they bore no calluses. His fingers were as fine as a woman’s, the nails clean and short, and the skin dye hid the faint scars of dagger practice in his youth. He strapped the leather dagger sheaths to his forearms and pulled the loose sleeves over them. The earrings had to be forced through the holes in his earlobes, long since closed from disuse. The baubles added the final touch, the necklaces hiding his tattoo, and he strapped on a pair of sandals, wondering if he looked a little too fine to pass as a camp whore. He rubbed some dirt into the faded overdress, just to be safe.

  Picking up the mirror, he searched for imperfections that might give him away. The reflected face could easily have been that of a remarkably handsome woman. A little strong-featured perhaps, but his cheeks were as smooth as any girl’s, impossible for a normal man, no matter how well shaven. He used this disguise rarely, and hated it. The memories it evoked were painful and ugly. It enabled him to be the perfect assassin, however, with the appearance of a weak woman. Putting away the mirror, he brushed the wig and donned a gossamer veil over it, then checked himself one last time. Pulling up the hood of the pale fawn cloak, he left the cave and moved down towards the camp.

  By the time he reached the outskirts, the sun sank in a medley of glorious colours, and the gathering gloom added to the perfection of his disguise. Emerging from the desert, he would appear to be a camp woman returning from the latrine pits. He passed two guards unnoticed, and slipped between the tents. Walking with a graceful, swaying gait, he strolled towards the King’s distant abode. For some time he passed unchallenged, then a hag looked up from the pot she stirred and called out to him.

  The Queen’s warriors
had doubtless donned excellent disguises to enter the enemy camp, and perhaps had succeeded in going unnoticed for a while, but the Cotti spoke with a strong accent, and their dialect contained a few alien words. The moment a Jashimari opened his mouth, he gave himself away, but Blade spoke the tongue perfectly, a legacy of four years spent amongst them.

  “Hey! You new around here?” the old woman asked.

  Blade strolled closer and modulated his voice to a female tone. “Yes. What of it?”

  “Why would a pretty girl like you come to a damned camp?”

  He shrugged, placing a hand on his hip. “The money’s good.”

  She spat. “Money! Don’t you know what these animals will do to you?”

  “No worse than the animals in the city.”

  “You won’t keep your teeth long.”

  He turned away with a toss of his head. “I can look after myself.”

  “You’re a fool, girl! Catch the next supply wagon home, while you’ve still got your looks!”

  Blade shot her a disdainful look and sauntered away, leaving the crone shaking her head. He walked more slowly now, the men becoming abundant as he drew closer to the camp’s centre. Several whistled and leered, a few called obscene compliments and one offered him money. He brushed this aside, skipping away from the drunken soldier’s grasping hands. Others laughed at the man’s failure, and a minor brawl started in Blade’s wake.

  Further on, two soldiers blocked his path and insisted upon his going with them to their tent. Blade tried to evade them, stated his unwillingness and scorned their money, but the soldiers would not be refused. He had no choice but to allow them to lead him to their tent, one man gripping his arm. He affected a woman’s weakness in his struggles, and the men laughed at his frailty while admiring his size. They pushed him into the tent, and one soldier started to undo his breeches.

  Blade released the catch of a dagger and allowed the weapon to slide into his hand. Hiding it in his skirts, he moved towards the nearer man, smiling. The soldier stared at him and licked his lips, shivering as Blade slid his hands up the man’s flanks. Finding the exact spot between the fourth and fifth ribs under the armpit, Blade slid the dagger into the soldier’s heart. A little blood oozed from the wound as the man gasped and slumped, his mouth open in a soundless cry.