Blade lowered him to the floor, pretending that his grasping hands and trembling lips were the result of passion. The other protested, still struggling with his breeches, and Blade turned to him. Once again the luckless soldier welcomed his deadly embrace, and two hand-spans of cold steel ended his life. Blade wiped the blood off his hand and the dagger with the edge of the second man’s tunic and sheathed the weapon. He checked himself, then pushed open the flap and strolled outside.
Moving on through the camp, he took a direct route towards the King’s tent, not bothering to disguise his destination. He refused two more offers of employment and paused to buy a sweetmeat at an old woman’s barrow. A bonfire blazed outside the King’s tent, lighting the area around it, and a sheep’s carcass was spitted over a smaller fire. Two cooks tended this, and several bubbling pots. Beyond the fire, a burly, hirsute blond man sat on a gilded chair, armed with a tankard of ale. His garb of furs and silk betrayed his rank, confirmed by the gold band that encircled his brow. A slender man, slightly younger than Blade, sat beside the King, staring into the flames and ignoring his father’s loud banter. Several high-ranking officers stood around them, laughing at the King’s jokes and offering their own.
Blade watched them, listened to their talk and hated them with a deep-seated loathing that had burnt within him for years, and now found fresh fuel to fan it to new heights. King Shandor, from his size and hairiness, loud talk and raucous laughter, was a man of the bear, Blade deduced. Perhaps next to snakes, he disliked bears the most; braggarts, liars and bullies all; the women coarse and cruel. King Shandor, however, did not appear to have his familiar with him, for bears were not desert creatures. If he had one at all, it must be kept at the palace.
Blade thought it more likely that the Cotti King was one of the Shunned, and lacked a familiar altogether. He studied the Prince, with his silver circlet, and came to a different conclusion with him. Prince Kerrion’s quiet watchfulness and air of disdain marked him as a man of birds, most likely eagles. Blade had always rather liked eagles, next to cats, of course. They were usually honourable and just, hardworking and a little idealistic.
There was no sign of the Prince’s familiar either, but Blade studied the ones belonging to the officers. Three maned male sand cats, smaller than the Queen’s Shista, lay together to one side, asleep. Four big, vicious-looking war dogs begged at the feet of their men, and two officers carried snakes about their shoulders.
Several whores mingled with the officers, having their bottoms pinched and breasts squeezed, and he had no wish to join them. Yet in order to succeed, he must catch the King’s eye. He pushed back the cloak’s hood and opened the front of it, revealing the bright blue silk gown beneath, and his almost-white wig. All Cotti were blond, and the paler her hair, the more prized a woman was. The wig itched abominably, making his scalp sweat under its clammy confines, and he resisted the urge to scratch, hoping lice had not invaded it.
As yet, the night was young, and the King had not even eaten, so Blade waited on the far side of the fire. Sooner or later the King would notice him, and, given a choice between a beautiful woman and the rather slatternly harlots who vied for his attention, Blade was confident of his selection. A sober soldier approached the assassin, who smiled at him. The man fell under his spell and stayed at his side, talking to him in a friendly manner, most of his conversation complimentary. Blade encouraged him a little, for the man was a junior officer, and protected him from other advances.
The King noticed Blade halfway through his dinner and gawped at him. At first the assassin looked away, sending Shandor several shy, seductive smiles. By the end of the meal, Blade knew he had succeeded. The monarch leered and winked at him in a repulsive manner, dribbling grease onto his beard as he tore at the meat. The Prince noticed the exchange and looked disgusted. The young officer beside Blade observed it as well, and wandered away with a sad grimace. The assassin’s heart beat faster as the King beckoned to him. Now the dangerous part of his subterfuge began. He swayed over to the monarch and sank to his knees, bowing his head. King Shandor placed a greasy hand under his chin and raised his face to study him.
“My, but you are a comely one, are you not?”
Blade smiled, keeping his eyes lowered. “Thank you, Sire.”
“New in the camp?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Hmm, I thought I had not seen you before. I would have remembered you if I had. Why, you are almost lovely enough to grace my court. What is your name?”
“Jishi, Sire.”
Shandor grinned at his son. “What do you think? A nice big girl, is she not?”
Prince Kerrion cast Blade a scornful look. “I do not lie with whores, Father.”
“Picky, picky. She would make you a fine wife and bear strong sons. Not often you see such a strong female, most are such tiny things. Why, I have almost squashed a few to death in my time.”
The King guffawed, and his officers joined in, but Kerrion snorted and looked away. Shandor released Blade’s chin and wiped his eyes, giggling. He reeked of beer and sweat, and his nails were black with grime.
“I will wager she is almost as tall as you, Kerry.” He chortled, stroking Blade’s wig. Prince Kerrion ignored the jibe, and the King thrust a piece of chewed meat into Blade’s hands.
“Here, have something to eat. You will need your strength for later.”
Blade took the meat with a smile and bit into it, wary of the grease that might remove the dye from his chin if he wiped it, as well as the berry juice on his lips. The King drained his ale, patting the assassin’s head. Blade was forced to sit at Shandor’s feet and chew the cold meat, enduring the monarch’s lecherous pawing. To speed things up, he cast many seductive looks at Shandor, until the King could bear it no longer and stood up, stretched, and belched.
When King Shandor pulled Blade to his feet, the assassin bent his knees a little, lest he appear too tall. Shandor placed an arm about Blade’s waist and leered at his officers, who laughed and called encouragement. The assassin allowed the King to lead him to the tent, and only once had to avoid the big man’s hands when he reached for his wrist where a dagger was strapped.
Inside the tent, the King fumbled with his tunic and nodded at the cot. “Get on the bed and take off your clothes.” He giggled. “Or take them off first, whichever you prefer, my sweet.”
Blade smiled. “Sire, there is no hurry. Let me help you.”
Shandor tottered as he struggled with his tunic’s thongs. “An excellent idea; you help me, and I shall help you.”
Blade released the dagger in his right wrist sheath, and the cold hilt slid into his hand. The deed had to be done swiftly and without sound, but he was determined to deliver a message with the killing stroke. He undid the King’s tunic and slipped his hands under it as Shandor groped for his water-bag bosom. With the dagger poised between the fourth and fifth ribs under the King’s armpit, Blade leant close and whispered in his ear.
“This is a gift from Queen Minna-Satu.”
Shandor tensed, his eyes widening. As he opened his mouth to bellow, Blade rammed the dagger in, and the shout of outrage and alarm died to a whimper in the King’s throat. For a few seconds Shandor stood swaying, staring at Blade with bulging eyes, his lips trembling as he fought to draw breath. His heart had stopped the moment it had been pierced, however.
The assassin’s smile faded as Shandor’s knees buckled and his eyes glazed, his limbs twitching in the grotesque manner of dying men. Blade lowered the corpse onto the bed, lifted its legs onto it and arranged it so anyone who looked in would think the King asleep. Blade needed to buy time, for the Prince still sat by the fire. Once he arranged the body and pulled the sheet up to its chin, he settled on the bed to wait. If anyone looked in, the scene was a cosy one, and completely innocent.
The waiting ate at his nerves, and Blade disliked lying beside the cooling corpse. He would have preferred to leave through the back of the tent, but this was the safest place to hide
until the Prince retired. He listened to the men talking around the fire, willing them to go to bed. When the conversation ebbed, he crept to the tent flap to peer out.
Most of the officers had left, but the Prince still stared into the flames. Blade cursed and returned to the cot, settling down to wait once more. The wig itched terribly, and he allowed himself the luxury of scratching it, but that only made it worse. As the time dragged on, he checked his attire again and ensured no blood soiled his hands. If there was one thing that he had learnt from his life as an assassin, it was to master the art of limitless patience.
Chapter Four
By the time the Prince retired, the King’s body was cold. Blade scanned the area within the dying fire’s light. Two soldiers sat back to back, apparently asleep, and a guard leant on his spear, yawning. Blade pulled up the cloak’s hood and crept out while the sentry’s back was turned, crossed the sand to the Prince’s tent and pushed aside the flap. Kerrion looked up from unlacing his tunic and frowned.
“What, has my father failed to satisfy you, whore?”
Blade smiled, strolling closer with a seductive gait. “The King snores. May I not stay with you?”
“No. Get out.” Kerrion turned away.
The assassin was a mere two paces from his quarry, and inched closer so he would barely notice the gap between them diminishing. Blade lifted slender, be-ringed hands in a graceful female gesture. “May I help you to disrobe, mighty prince?”
Kerrion swung towards him, and Blade released a dagger into his hand and slid it under the thongs that laced Kerrion’s tunic, parting them. The blade’s tip came to rest against the Prince’s throat.
Blade murmured, “One sound, and you die.”
Kerrion froze as the weapon drew a drop of blood, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
Blade scanned the tent. A big golden bird slept on a perch in the corner; a desert eagle, female, judging by the black stripes on her tail feathers. “If your familiar attacks, you will both die.”
“She is asleep,” Kerrion croaked.
“Be silent! You live or die at my whim, remember that.”
Blade searched the Prince for weapons and, finding none, allowed himself a grim smile. “Put your right arm around my shoulders.”
The Prince obeyed, moving stiffly as the dagger pricked him.
“That’s it,” Blade said. “If you make a sound, or disobey me, you will die instantly. Understand?”
Kerrion nodded.
Blade slid his left arm around the Kerrion’s waist and transferred the dagger to it in a brief embrace that brought his face inches from his prisoner’s. Once again, he found the place between the fourth and fifth ribs under the Prince’s armpit and pressed the dagger’s point to it until he flinched.
Blade murmured, “If I push this blade in, you will die so quickly you will have no time to shout or struggle. You will drop dead in your tracks, and no one will save you. I am an assassin, and skilled at my trade. Obey me, and you will live. Try to escape or call your men, and you will die. Is that clear?”
Kerrion nodded again, frowning. “You will not get away with this.” His shock was wearing off, which was bad, and Blade hoped he did not find his courage too soon.
“Be silent!” Blade jabbed the dagger deeper, making the Prince wince again. “You speak when I tell you to, not before. Now, we are going to walk out of this camp, and it is up to you to make sure we are not stopped. Your life is in your hands. If a guard becomes suspicious, you will die before I do. So the choice is yours. My Queen wants you alive, but if she cannot have you, you must die.”
Kerrion nodded once more, impotent anger in his eyes. The assassin turned his captive towards the tent flap, using the dagger as a goad. Its painful jabs forced the Prince to walk with him, clasped together like lovers strolling in the moonlight. To add to the illusion, the assassin kept the pace unhurried as they wandered through the sleeping camp. By the time they reached the outskirts, Blade’s wrist was stiff from holding the dagger poised, and the Prince sagged from the pain.
Here sentries patrolled, scanning the desert for any sign of the enemy. One stepped out from behind a tent ahead, and Blade leant closer to Kerrion to whisper, “Your life is in your hands.”
The soldier started in surprise at the sight of the Prince strolling in a whore’s arms, and peered at them as if to make sure his eyes did not deceive him. “Your Highness?”
“Yes?” Kerrion raised his chin and glared at the man.
The soldier saluted. “Is everything all right, My Lord?”
“Quite all right, soldier.”
They walked past, but the sentry followed. “You should stay in the camp, Highness, it’s not safe -”
“I shall do as I please,” Kerrion asserted.
“But My Prince….”
Blade stopped the Prince and smiled at the soldier. “Would you spoil our fun, sir?”
The sentry shot him a confused glance, then addressed the Prince. “You must take a guard, My Lord.”
Blade laid a hand on Kerrion’s chest, making him shudder. “I have persuaded His Highness to experience the joys of making love in the sand, under the silvery moon. We would enjoy it more, I think, without any prying eyes.”
The soldier scowled, his concern for his Prince clearly warring with the seductive innocence of Blade’s smile. “The safety of the Prince is more important -”
“Soldier,” Kerrion interrupted, “I wish to be left alone. The desert is empty for miles, and I shall be no more than a few hundred paces away. You are not to follow us. Understand?”
The sentry saluted and stepped back. Blade silently congratulated Prince Kerrion, and twisted the dagger a little to remind him of who was in charge. The Prince nodded to the guard, and they sauntered on, leaving the man gazing after them.
Blade walked parallel to the mountains, leading the Prince into the gentle swells of the dunes, a moon-silvered sea of sharp-edged, undulating shadows. The sentry stood at the edge of the camp and watched them with a deep frown of uncertainty and concern. Blade wondered if he would have the initiative to call an officer, and glanced back several times to ensure the soldier was not following, but he stayed where he was, gazing after them. When a dune hid them from the watchful sentry, Blade turned towards the mountains.
“You will not get away with this,” the Prince snarled.
“Be quiet.”
“The men know I do not lie with whores.”
Blade jabbed the dagger a little deeper into the wound, making Kerrion grunt.
The Prince said, “Within a time-glass, they will come to search for me.”
“They will not find you.” Blade stopped and released his captive, turning to face him. He pulled two leather thongs from his bodice and used one to tie Kerrion’s hands behind his back, the other as a leash around the Prince’s neck. Tugging him forward, Blade set off at a trot, holding the skirt up to free his legs. Kerrion cursed vilely as he was towed along, the thong digging into his neck. The deep sand dragged at Blade’s feet, invaded the flimsy sandals and made the straps cut into his ankles. The Prince stumbled after him, his bound arms and the leash’s constant tugging throwing him off balance.
Much as he enjoyed Kerrion’s discomfort, Blade was glad to reach the stony ground at the foothills of the looming grey Endine Mountains. After a pause to find his bearings, he led the Prince up the sloping rocks to the cave. Inside, he pushed Kerrion ahead, sending him reeling into the darkness, where he flopped down. The Prince was right that Cotti soldiers would soon give chase, and, since there was no way to hide their tracks, Blade knew he must take the Prince over the mountains with all haste. The Cotti would lose the trail in the stony foothills, so it was unlikely they would find the cave unless they had dogs. Nevertheless, the assassin wanted to be far away before they reached the mountains. Blade groped for the packs and struck flint to light a torch, then removed the sandals and stripped off the woman’s clothes and baubles. His disguise, which had taken time-glasses to don,
was almost gone in a few moments.
Kerrion stared at him with incredulous eyes. “You are a man!”
“Surely you jest?” Blade asked. “Did you really still think me a woman?”
“You certainly….” The Prince shook his head. “My father will hunt you down, no matter where you go.”
“Your father is dead.”
Kerrion gaped at him. “You killed him.”
“With a great deal of pleasure. As for being hunted down, will your men find you in the Queen’s palace, do you think?”
“My brother will send men to rescue me.”
“Your brother will be happy to let you rot in the Queen’s prison. Now be quiet.”
Blade dressed in his own clothes and stuffed the whore’s disguise into a pack, which he tied on the Prince’s back, ignoring his obvious fury at the ignominy. Shouldering the other pack, Blade picked up the leash and towed his captive from the cave, laden like a packhorse with the bulk of the baggage. Dismissing the guarded pass to the west as too dangerous, Blade set off along a narrow goat trail that led over the mountains to the east, a route he had known about since childhood.
As the first hint of dawn coloured the sky with pale pink and yellow, Blade led his prize down into the foothills on the far side of the mountains. In the distance, Queen Minna-Satu’s army slumbered against the backdrop of the grasslands, a sprawling cluster of dull green tents flying the blue and gold banners of the Jashimari. One carried the Queen’s crest, a rampant golden cat on a blue field; the others bore the insignias of the various lords whose troops fought for her.
Herds of sheep, goats, cattle and horses grazed around the camp, dozing in the dawn glow. Blade wondered why the soldiers still used tents after so many centuries of war, but the ruins that dotted the fields gave him his answer. Every so often, the Cotti broke through the fortified pass and came boiling onto these lush meadows, at which time, all structures were demolished and burnt. Some permanent buildings were in evidence, but little more than sheds. One sprouted the long poles that held dream silk in the wind, and Blade scowled at it. He hated the hissing silk more than most, and it seemed to be everywhere. The clergy took their power even to the Queen’s army.