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 sconces on the walls, he glanced around at 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 the 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 distracted their attention from each other and drew it to himself as he sat down 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 growled, "How do we know that 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 demanded. "Let us get on with this, I long to quit this company."
Mendal nodded. "We now know that the Queen does not plan to execute Kerrion as we had 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 that she talks of peace with him, and if she does, that he will agree? Perhaps we need do nothing, for nothing will come of it," Lord Bellcamp said. "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 became intent. "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 enquired. "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 and jerked his torch from the sconce, then 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 like an angry lion, his tawny 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 stopped pacing and 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, glowering at Blade. "For a moment, I thought it was you."
"Then you would have been lying in a pool of blood, though 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 bag. "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 headed for the door, and Kerrion strode after him.
"I must see the Queen."
"What about?" The assassin stopped and turned 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 as Kerrion had done, clad in a flowing blue satin robe, her hair loose about her shoulders. She turned 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 into Minna's cheeks, and she glanced away, taking a moment to recover her composure. "Let him in."
The Prince entered and inclined his head to her. "Minna-Satu."
She nodded at him 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 stared at it, becoming paler. "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 wandered 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."
"But he must be stopped," Kerrion said. "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 punished," 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."
"It may not."
"I will double the guard on the Prince, and place a man in his room."
Prince Kerrion stepped forward, frowning. "In view of this, I must ask you to return me to the desert. My life is in danger here, and if you do not intend to execute me, then send me to safety."
Minna turned to him. "No. The time is not right. You will be returned a moon phase from now, not before."
"Why? What are you waiting for? We have agreed that no treaty can be made between us, so there is no point in my staying here."
"I have decided when you will return," she declared, "and it will be in a moon phase, no sooner. I shall ensure your safety. Once Mordon is dead, the others will lose heart, for they will be lost without their leader."
"How do you know that he is their leader?" Blade enquired.
His question clearly surprised the Queen, who stared at him. "He must be. He is a senior lord, he drew the map."
Blade nodded, accepting this, for he knew little of politics. It was not his place to argue with the Queen, and he did not care if Kerrion lived or died, nor whether the war ended. The prospect of an assassination gave him a sense of purpose, and something to occupy him. It would require some planning, Lord Mordon was heavily guarded.
"Do you wish it to be quick or slow?"
She tried to hide a shudder. "Quick."
He bowed. "My Queen."
She waved a hand. "You may go, My Lord Conash."
After the assassin left, Minna turned to Kerrion. "Is there something else, Prince Kerrion?"
He looked away, unable to meet her eyes. "This is madness. Why keep me here, when you have no further use for me?"
"Are you in such a hurry to return to the desert?"
"If I am to keep my throne, I must do so soon. Lerton will be plotting against me in my absence. Every day I am away strengthens his position. In a moon phase he could declare me a traitor and usurp my crown. My people expect you to execute me, just as yours do. If I stay here too long and return unharmed, they will be angry and suspicious."
Minna studied her hands. "And is there nothing here that makes you want to stay?"
"How could there be? Everyone here hates me. I am the enemy. I am a prisoner, no matter how well I am treated."
She looked up at him. "I do not hate you."
Kerrion swung away to pace. "Then you are the only one. Do you think that keeping me here will change my mind? We have agreed that there is no hope of finding a way to make peace between us."
"Do you hate me?"
He stopped and turned to her. "No. But we are the rulers of two kingdoms at war. No matter what we may think of each other, we cannot be friends. Neither of us can afford to go against the wishes of our people, and start a civil war. You are in a stronger position than I, for your people do not have a horde of siblings with whom to replace you. I, at least, can promise to try to lessen the war effort, stop the atrocities. If my brother takes the throne, it will intensify."
"I do not wish your brother on the Cotti throne. Nor will I be satisfied with anything less than peace."
"You are a stubborn woman, true to your race. Yet your wishes can never come true, I am afraid."
Minna-Satu rose to her feet, her expression cold. "I bid you goodnight, Prince Kerrion."
He stared at her, stunned by her dismissal, then his eyes filled with anger. "I am no flunky for you to dismiss, Minna-Satu. Grant me the respect owed to my rank, if you wish civility from me."
"Your civility is optional. You are my prisoner, and have no right to demand anything from me."
"If you wish a lessening of hostilities between our kingdoms, it would be as well to start between the two of us. My tolerance for your games grows thin. This exercise in futility threatens my position amongst my people."
She glared at him. "Yet you have no option but to accept it, Prince Kerrion. You have no hope of escape or rescue. The only way you may return to your people alive is through my generosity, and you would do well not to forget that."
"I have not forgotten, and you would do well not to forget who I am. For the moment I am your prisoner, this is true, but once freed, I command the greatest army ever assembled. Do not imagine that all of my warriors are at your border. Half as many again fight trivial battles with invading desert nomads to the east and keep control of the mud people in the west. Should I choose to throw everything at your borders, you will not survive the onslaught. You remember the invasion of Ashtolon? All your border towns were wiped out in that offensive, and my father's army took land up to the Lelgala River."
"And my mother's army drove him back," she retorted.
"With huge losses, yes. This war has ever been thus. We take a little of your land beyond the mountains, then you push us back into the desert. Yet you have lost forever certain tracts of land to the east, have you not? Those lands have been settled by the Cotti and used to supply my armies with food. We have a foothold in your kingdom, and, in time, your army will fall. Is that not why you wish so desperately for peace?"
"No. My people will fight to the bitter end, and you will win nothing but rotting corpses and salted ground. I wish to put an end to this for the sake of the innocents, the widows and orphans, the cripples and dead children whose unmarked graves litter our lands. What is the point of fighting a war that neither of us can win?"
Kerrion shook his head. "That is just the point. I could win it if I chose, whereas you cannot. You have a land rich in bounty for my army to plunder on the way to your city. I have a hundred and seventy leagues of pitiless desert guarding mine."
"Then why have none of your forefathers done so?"
"Because it would be uneconomical. An all-out offensive would severely weaken the desert armies, leaving us vulnerable to the nomads and start another war with your ally to the west, King Jan-Durval. You think the carnage is bad now, but we are only fighting a low-grade war, little more than a border skirmish. You may lose a thousand men in a moon, more or less, but a full Cotti invasion would cost you more than that in a day.
"Yet neither of us can afford to call a truce, for that would put twenty, thirty thousand jobless men on the streets of our cities. They would become thieves and murderers, or band together as brigands and outlaws. Our foundries would collapse and our mines close, putting more onto the streets. Men who know nothing but how to dig ore, smelt metal or make weapons."
"I know all this," Minna said. "What is your point?"
"My point is that you cannot afford to rile me. I have been quite patient up until now, and you have been polite. We have had our discussions and reached our conclusions, there is no need for me to stay here longer and risk losing my throne. Send me back now, or kill me and deal with Lerton. If you keep me here longer against my will, I shall be a worse enemy than he when I return."
Queen Minna-Satu sank down on her cushions, bowing her head. The shadowy pools of her downcast eyes and obvious dejection filled Kerrion with anguish. He longed to take her in his arms and promise her peace and happiness forever. His helplessness made his hands clench, and he glanced at Shista, who watched him with icy green eyes, her tail twitching.
"Will you leave me now, Prince Kerrion?" the Queen said without raising her head.
Kerrion inclined his head and swung away, closing the door behind him.
Minna went over to Shista and hugged her, ran her hands through her tawny fur and caressed the sleek muscles that lay beneath it. Touching the cat soothed her, and Shista's deep purr helped to win the battle against the hot tears that welled in her eyes.
"Soon, My Prince," she murmured. "Soon you may return to your land of sand and sun. When I am sure."
Blade began planning Lord Mordon's demise the following morning. Walking into the city early, he found the lord's town mansion in an affluent suburb, the domiciles of rich merchants and bankers surrounding it. The double-storey house stood in a manicured garden, the tall trees that grew beside it throwing shade onto pale walls and a red-tiled roof. Blade wandered the streets around it, studying it from every angle as he weighed up the best course of action. A high stone wall separated it from the street and its neighbours, but that presented no problem. The quartet of guards who patrolled the grounds did hamper him, but not unduly. This was not a time to use a disguise, for Lord Mordon was a married man who kept to his wife. Well pleased, Blade decided upon a stealthy kill, rather than a blatant one.
The assassin spent most of the day on top of a wall on the other side of the street, watching the activity within the house. Through the windows, he mapped the various rooms with his spyglass, finding the main bedroom upstairs with a balcony outside it. At lunchtime, Lady Mordon went into town in a smart carriage, a maid beside her and two footmen riding on the back. The assassin studied the various familiars that accompanied the coach, deciding that the fat grey mare who trotted unburdened behind it was Lady Mordon's familiar, and the small dog belonged to one of the footmen. No others were in evidence, but this was not unusual, for most people who worked as servants had small, inconspicuous familiars. Lady Mordon's mare would pose no problem, since she would sleep in the stables at night.
Blade left his vigil to find an inn and eat a watery fish broth, then returned to take up his post once more. In the afternoon, a spotty youth appeared and played with a large dog in the garden, his garb that of a nobleman's son. Lord Mordon did not return until sunset, arriving in another carriage, a little grander than his wife's. He greeted his son with a wave, and the two went into the house together. With the patience of a cat stalking its kill, Blade waited until the servants left and the lights winked out one by one in the house, leaving only the patrolling guards. While he waited for the lord and his lady to fall asleep, he checked his equipment bag, ensuring that he had everything he needed, then made sure his daggers slid from their sheaths with well-oiled ease.
Finally, he pulled on the black leather mask that covered his face, leaving only his eyes visible and hole through which to breathe. He rose and stretched out the kinks of the long wait, springing down from the wall as lightly as a cat. His dark clothes blended in with the shadows as he trotted across the street to the wall around the mansion, stopping there to listen.
The guards walked in pairs, chatting. Blade waited until their voices moved away before jumping up to grab the top of the high wall and pull himself onto it. Flattening himself, he watched the guards from his vantage point, marking their positions. They patrolled around the house in a clockwise fashion, each pair on opposite sides at one time. This meant that while one pair walked away, the second pair approached. Blade frowned, scanning the garden for dogs that might raise the alarm, but found none.
Turning his attention to his route, he studied the tree that overhung the bedroom balcony. The smoke tree was named for its peculiar grey foliage made up of tiny leaves, which gave the appearance of its branches being wreathed in tendrils of smoke. In spring these trees were covered in tiny pink blossoms that gave off a sweet smell, but whose pollen could give a nasty rash and severe itching. Fortunately it was late summer, and the tree bore only hard green fruit, some starting to turn yellow. It looked easy enough to climb, but its branches became rather thin before they reached the balcony. There were thicker boughs higher up, but that would mean a long drop down.
Again he bided his time, watching the guards and alert for any other danger. None offered itself, but still he waited as the moon rose, glancing at it irritably, for it was almost full. Had he been superstitious, the moon's face might have reassured him, for it was a Death Moon, its cratered surface resembling a skull. He pondered the moon's various faces and their significance, to pass the time.
Of its five aspects, the Death moon was the most feared, but as it turned, it presented a face called the Maiden, though Blade had never seen the resemblance. During this phase it was supposed to be a good time for maids to marry and lose their virginity, but he had no idea why. The next face to appear was the Warrior, bringing with it good omens for battles, when the pitted grey surface resembled a grotesque man with an upraised fist.
A cat fight started down an alley nearby, the wailing banshee dirge of battling toms soon rousing a householder to shout and throw something that clattered on the street, silencing the combatants. The assassin, his nerves jangling from the disturbance, relaxed again. A dog barked, answered by another, then fell silent. Blade shifted his position as it grew uncomfortable, settled into a less awkward one and scratched the itch that had started under the leather hood.
Returning to his contemplation of the moon, he considered the next phase, called the Sea Moon, when a smooth area of the satellite appeared, dotted with small craters like waves. This was supposed to be a lucky phase for sailors and fishermen, who often waited for a Sea Moon before setting out on hazardous voyages. It never seemed to make any difference, as far as he could tell, but many swore by it.
As the moon turned, it showed its last face, called the Tree, several large craters atop a dark valley that had a vague similarity to a deformed puffwood tree. Farmers eagerly awaited this phase, for it was supposed to be a good moon for planting or reaping. When it appeared at spring or harvest time, great celebrations occurred in farming communities. The fact that the Tree came just before the Death Moon also held grim significance for farmers whose crops stood in the fields after the Tree Moon.
A flitting shadow made him turn his head in alarm, relaxing as a cat loped down the street. Blade pondered the moon that hung above him, feared for its evil portents of death and pestilence. Indeed, there did seem to be some strange coincidences with the Death Moon. The Rout of Ashtolon had occurred under its baleful influence, and the Plague of Bennerald had wiped out the populations of two large towns during a Death Moon. Perhaps, for an assassin, a Death Moon could be seen as a good sign, but Blade had never set any store in such folklore. Clouds scudded across the moon as a slight wind rose, blotting out the grinning grey skull with its dark eyes, then the moment he had been waiting for arrived.
One pair of guards paused, striking flint to light a pipe, their backs turned to the wind, and to him. The other pair walked away. Blade slid off the wall, landed on the grass with a soft thud and sprinted for the smoke tree. Its lower branches offered many handholds, and he climbed swiftly into it as the second pair of guards passed below him.
The burst of movement made his heart pound, and his breath came quicker as he glanced up at the balcony. Now that he was committed, his nerves twanged and tension heightened his senses. This was the excitement that gave his life purpose, the only pleasure in his otherwise dull existence. Not the kill itself, but stalking his victim, becoming a shadow that could enter a man's house undetected, take his life and slip away again without raising the alarm. That was the challenge, a little different from his triumph in King Shandor's camp, but far more familiar.
As soon as the guards turned the corner he climbed higher, wary of snapping twigs or scraping bark that might give him away. He passed the balcony, the branches there too thin for him to reach it. Choosing a stout branch that overhung it several feet higher up, he crawled up it, gripping it between his legs and pulling himself up. Arriving above the balcony, he looked down, gauging the distance and danger of the drop. The trick was to land silently. For this, his slender frame and whipcord strength were well suited, and he dropped, only making a slight thud.
Blade froze, awaiting a reaction, if any, then approached the glazed doors that led to the bedroom. Although the night was warm, the doors were locked, and he studied the catch before groping in his bag for the appropriate tool. Inserting a flat steel instrument, he lifted the latch inside, then turned the handle and pushed the door open. There was a slight click, then it started to creak. He yanked it open and slipped into the dark interior.
Crouching beside the door, he mapped the room, noting the placement of the bed and its occupants. Lord Mordon slept on his back, snoring, while his plump wife lay with her back to him. What gave Blade a moment of alarm were the two ferrets curled at the lord's feet, sleeping as soundly as he, but far easier to awake. Frowning, he revised his plan, making a crucial change. Although the ferrets were harmless, they could raise the alarm, and if that happened his escape would be jeopardised.
The lord must then die soundlessly, so as not even to arouse his familiar. Only one ferret would be a familiar, the other was its mate. There had been times when Blade had been forced to deal with a familiar, but he disliked killing blameless animals and avoided it whenever possible. So long as Lord Mordon's ferret slept, he could let it live, but since it was an animal that normally had a short life span, it would perish shortly after its human friend.
Blade crawled towards the bed, his nerves jangling. The slight breeze blew his scent away from the ferrets, and his progress was silent. When he was halfway to his quarry, Lord Mordon grunted, sighed and shifted, and the assassin froze until he grew still once more. Reaching the side of the bed, Blade knelt and released a dagger, allowing it to slide into his hand. The man's arm lay at his side, protecting the spot under his armpit. Blade, however, had much experience in his profession, and that did not daunt him. Lord Mordon was used to sleeping with his wife, and his subconscious was trained to ignore the movements of his partner.
With a feather-light caress, Blade ran his fingers up the man's arm and slipped his hand between arm and ribs. Lord Mordon sighed and shifted, then rolled onto his side, trapping Blade's fingers. He extricated them, frowning. Sweat trickled down his chest and prickled his scalp, making it itch. One slip now, and he could be dead, but that was all part of the excitement, the danger that quickened his heart. Mordon's movement disturbed the ferrets, which squirmed and snuggled closer to each other. Blade waited for all to settle before moving closer again. Gently he grasped Mordon's wrist and pulled his arm forward, exposing the site on his flank. The lord grunted and pushed his hand under the pillow, exposing the target even more.
Blade raised the dagger, its tip poised just above his victim's flank, and thrust it in with a quick stab. Lord Mordon stiffened as his heart burst, the speed with which he died allowing him only the time to open his eyes and mouth, but no sound issued from his trembling lips. He never saw the masked assassin kneeling beside him. His eyes glazed and rolled up, and he went limp. None of the other occupants of the bed had awakened. Blade turned away, moving like a shadow back to the door. There he paused to close it behind him, using the steel tool to pull down the catch inside. Back on the balcony, he breathed more easily as the night air cooled him.
A pair of strolling guards passed beneath him, the scent of pipe smoke wafting up to him. As soon as they had their backs to him, Blade slid over the balcony and dropped to the ground, flattening himself in case they heard the thud of his landing and turned. They sauntered on, engrossed in their conversation. Blade sprinted to the wall and leapt up to haul himself over.
Out on the street, he leant against the wall and breathed deeply, allowing the tension leak out of him. He pulled off the clammy mask and rubbed his hair, glad to rid himself of the persistent itch the sweat had caused. He had done it again, slipped in and out of a man's house unseen and killed him in his bed without even waking his wife. Blade chuckled, drunk on his success and the immense relief that came with a job well done. When he had killed King Shandor he had been denied this wave of euphoria, for he had then been burdened with Prince Kerrion, whose presence had dampened his pleasure. He straightened, tossing back his hair as he revelled in the cool night air.
"You're good," he whispered. "The Invisible Assassin." He chuckled again.
Blade ambled through the deserted streets back to the palace, surprising the sleepy gate guards. By the time he reached his room, the first pink streaks of dawn brightened the sky. He stripped off his clothes and bathed in the tub of cold water he had ordered the day before, then climbed into bed.