A tenday later, the message that Minna-Satu awaited arrived from the front. The soldiers had failed yet again, and King Shandor still lived. Captain Redgard brought the news himself, delivering it with a tinge of reproof in his tone. Minna kicked a cushion across the room, causing Shista to raise her head and look around.
"Shall I select the next group of volunteers, My Queen?" the captain enquired without enthusiasm.
"No. I shall send no more soldiers to perform this task."
Redgard slumped. "As you wish."
"It is not a mission suited to soldiers, Redgard. Do you not agree?"
"As we have seen -"
"Yes, yes. It is a task better suited to an assassin, is it not?"
"Well…" The captain hesitated. "Perhaps, My Queen, but I doubt that an assassin would succeed either. The job is simply impossible."
"No, not impossible. There is little that is truly impossible." Minna paced the floor. "For a man to flap his arms and fly, that is impossible. For a man to live beneath the sea, that is impossible. But to kill King Shandor… is possible, for an assassin."
"Certainly they would be no great loss, and, being men of greed, they will flock to claim the reward…" He trailed off under Minna's glare, and she gestured.
"You may go."
The captain prostrated himself and retreated. Minna went to the window to gaze out at the sun-drenched gardens. Over the last tenday, she had glimpsed Blade twice in it, wandering amongst the flowers and shrubs, his black leather garb soaking up the light. His solitude told of sorrow and pain, and she sensed that death walked in his shadow, a hated ally at his side.
She turned as Chiana entered. "Send for the assassin."
The chief advisor retreated almost as quickly as the captain had done. Minna stared out of the window while she waited, her eyes following the winding silken banners that flew above the temple. The dream silk snapped and slithered in the breeze, its soft hiss underscoring the cheerful birdsong. Minna had never liked the dream silk. The invasion of her dreams by its sliding coils of bright cloth sometimes woke her in shivering distress, but she could rarely remember the unpleasant dreams it evoked.
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 the soft tread of his feet. 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, his cold eyes meeting hers in a brief glance before he lowered them to the hem of her azure satin skirts. Shista rubbed herself against his leather-clad legs. His black garb hugged him, a high collar, strengthened with thin strips of metal, 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 that 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 chain mail. 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 before 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 is all I require."
"Tell me how you will do it."
"No."
She stared at him, shocked by his refusal. 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 at him, 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."
Minna smiled at his assertion. "I am glad. 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 glanced rebuked her. "I do not keep count."
To vindicate her rather morbid curiosity, Minna said, "I simply wish to appraise how good you are. I would not want to send an over eager fool to his death."
Blade's smile returned, genuine amusement tinged with sadness. "I am no over eager 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, looking uncertain when she approached him. She stopped before him, and, after a moment of confusion, he realised what he had to do and sank down on one knee, bowing his head.
"I give you my blessing and wish you good luck, Blade."
"Thank you."
"You may go."
"My Queen." He rose and left without a backward glance.
The doors were thrust open again, and Chiana entered. She looked cross, 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 thoughts 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 bowed and withdrew, returning after a few minutes to report that it was done.
"Good." Minna sighed and sank back onto her cushions. "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 that 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, and a deep sorrow invaded 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 to who would do it, I can only think of one people capable 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, though 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 so 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 within 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.
It was along this border that all the battles of the Endless War had been fought, 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, however, like the one in which he had been born. The change in terrain from one side of the mountains to the other was drastic. Here, sand lapped at the foothills, on the other side, 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 tunics of rich yellow 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 men staked out in the sand, their bodies 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, and 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 sank down 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 in his veins. 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 somewhat 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. Killing King Shandor 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.
Shaking himself from his thoughts, 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 cheap women's clothing tumbled out, worn and faded, followed by a slither of vivid blue silk and a knot of pretty necklaces, earrings, bangles and rings. Last of all, a leather pouch. Blade contemplated the pile with bitter eyes.
They 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 that 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 cheap 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, anything that might give him away. The face that looked out at him 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 and a man's hidden strength. 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 a dialect different from Jashimari in accent and inflection, some words being alien. 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 moved 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 slipped 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.
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. Outside the King's tent, a bonfire blazed, lighting the area around it. A spit held a sheep's carcass 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 wardogs 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 that lice had not invaded it.
As yet, the night was young, and the King had not even eaten. Blade made no overtures, but 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 in the extreme. Blade encouraged him a little, for the man was a junior officer, and protected him from the advances of others.
The King noticed Blade halfway through his dinner and stared at him. At first the assassin looked away, sending Shandor several shy, seductive smiles. By the end of the meal, Blade knew that 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 him over. 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 and glanced at his son. "What do you think, Kerry? 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 grinned and 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 for a woman. 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 staggered as he struggled with the thongs that bound his tunic. "An excellent idea, you help me, and I shall help you."
Blade stepped closer and released a dagger. The weapon slid into his hand, cold and deadly. 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 ties that bound the King's tunic and slid 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 stiffened, and his eyes bulged as he opened his mouth to bellow. Blade rammed the dagger in. Blood oozed from the wound, and the bellow 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, and no sound issued from the King's mouth.
The assassin's smile became chilling as Shandor's knees buckled and his eyes glazed, his limbs twitching in the grotesque manner of all dying men. Blade supported him as he sagged, lowering him onto the bed. He lifted the corpse's legs onto it and arranged it so anyone who looked in would think the King asleep. Right now, he needed to buy time, for the Prince still sat by the fire. Once he had 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 that 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.