The Queen's Blade Prequel II - God Touched

by T C Southwell

Blade drew a silver from his money pouch and banged it on the table. “Go and buy us something for dinner. The hag with the barrow across the road is selling hot pies.”

  She looked at him, her eyes alight, then her face fell. “Won't you buy it for us, please?”

  He raised his brows. “Now you expect me to not only pay for it, but fetch it, too?”

  “Please.” Her eyes darted, and a hunted look invaded them.

  He leant closer. “What are you scared of?”

  “Him.”

  “Oh, him.” He sat back, considering her. “Your erstwhile client.”

  “Yes. He promised to kill me.”

  “And you think he's standing outside the door, waiting for you?”

  “Maybe.”

  He snorted. “You're being idiotic.”

  “He knows where I live. The last two nights he's been banging on my door, promising to kill me if I come out.”

  “Has he now?” Blade frowned at the door, wondering if she was lying.

  “Yes. I thought it was him when you knocked. I don't know why he hasn't come tonight.”

  “I take it he didn't get his money back when he beat you.”

  “No. I hid it.”

  “At the whorehouse?”

  She nodded, sipping her wine.

  “Foolish. You should have given it back. How much was it?”

  “Five goldens.”

  “No wonder he's angry,” he said. “What do you need so much money for? You pay, what, a silver a moon for this shithole, and three coppers a day for food? Are you saving up for a mansion?”

  “No, I...” She hesitated, shooting him an uncertain look. “I have children.”

  Blade cursed and jumped up. “Gods! You stupid trollop! How many?”

  “Two...” She gulped, watching him with wide eyes. “A boy and a girl, five and three years old. And...”

  “What?”

  “Another... on the way.”

  Blade stared at her, wanting to quit the smelly shack and her hopeless, fawning desperation. He preferred the woman who had hit him with a broom, but the fire had gone out of her. The assassin sank down on the chair again, bracing himself when it wobbled.

  “Presumably you have no idea who the father is?”

  “Not this time, no.”

  “Don't you... take herbs, or something?”

  “They don't always work.”

  Blade glanced away, finding it hard to look at her battered face. “So you were just going to hide in here and starve, and let your children starve, too.”

  “No, I was hoping he'd give up and go away.”

  He snorted. “Fat chance. Five goldens will keep him coming back, unless he's rich.”

  “He's a drover.”

  “And you think he's outside, right now?”

  “He might be.”

  Blade stood up and loomed over her. She cowered and raised her hands, her eyes wide. His brows knotted. “What, you think I'm going to hit you now? I should. So help me, Lilu, if you don't wipe that look off your face and stand up straight, I'll leave right now and you'll never see me again. Get up!”

  Lilu rose, trying to school her features, although her chin wobbled and her eyes shimmered. Blade scooped up the silver, gripped her arm and dragged her to the door, pulling it open. The hag stood at her barrow across the street, and a few urchins played tosspot in the gutter. He glanced around, pressed the coin into Lilu's hand and gave her a shove that sent her staggering into the road.

  “Go and buy us some bloody food, now!”

  The whore cringed, her eyes darting, but scuttled across the street to the barrow and haggled with the crone, limping back with two pies clutched to her bosom. Blade stood aside, scanning the road again before banging the door closed and turning to Lilu, who ripped open the paper packet and tried to stuff an entire pie into her mouth. Blade grabbed her arm and yanked it out, bits of pastry protruding from her bruised lips.

  “Don't act like a starved dog.” He took the food and found two plates in the cupboard, banging one down in front of her. “Eat it slowly, or I'll throw it away.”

  Lilu controlled herself with an obvious effort, and took reasonable bites while Blade nibbled his. It was a cheap repast, and the meat inside, he mused, was probably rat or cat, but it was hot and nourishing. When she finished hers, he pushed his plate across to her.

  “I'm not hungry anymore,” he said. “The sight of your face makes me ill.”

  “Thank you,” she mumbled, blinking.

  Blade sipped his wine. “Where are your children?”

  “In the care of a fishwife down the street. Her name's Nelta. If anything happens to me, would you –?”

  “No.”

  She bowed her head and concentrated on her food, washing it down with wine.

  The assassin sighed. “This drover won't risk murdering you. He might beat you again, though.”

  “Who's to stop him killing me? The Watch won't care about a whore.”

  “True. But if he didn't kill you the first time, why would he do it now?”

  “Because he didn't get his money back. The bounder boys pulled him off before he could murder me.”

  “I see.” Blade sipped his wine and gazed across the room, thinking about how miserable it must be, to be trapped in this filthy hovel, hungry and alone, afraid to go outside while her children also went hungry. Her life was pathetic and futile, not worth his interest, slight though it was. She had saved his life, yet she had not asked for his help, and he wondered why. If ever there was a good time to claim his debt, it was now.

  “Perhaps you should give him his money back then.”

  “Perhaps. If I could get to the whorehouse, I would.”

  “That’s why he’s been banging on your door to terrify you. He could easily have kicked it in, it's rotten. If he murders you, he won't get his money back.”

  “Do you really think that if I give it back, he won't kill me anyway?”

  Blade sighed. “No, he probably will.”

  “Then there's no hope for me, is there?”

  He eyed her. “Why aren't you asking for my help?”

  “I couldn't put you in that kind of danger. He might hurt you, and I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you. Then he'd still come after me, anyway.”

  “Your concern is touching. You seem to have forgotten that I'm a killer.”

  “You're an assassin, and I don't have any money to pay you. Besides, everyone knows you can't hire the Master of the Dance for a few coppers, or even a few silvers. What is your fee?”

  “It depends on how difficult the target is to kill.”

  “For an easy kill.”

  He shrugged. “For a really easy kill, four goldens.”

  “I suppose I have five.”

  “I'm not for hire right now.”

  “Why not?”

  “I'm not fit enough.”

  She wiped the pastry crumbs off her swollen lips. “I wouldn't risk your life. He's a big man, and a good fighter, I've heard. He regularly beats up men.”

  “He did a good job on you.”

  “What should I do?”

  Blade drained his cup, refilling it. “You could hire an assassin.”

  “I suppose so, but how will I find one? Would you –?”

  “No.”

  She refilled her cup. “I'll manage, somehow.”

  “You'll have to.” Blade slugged back the rest of his wine and rose to his feet.

  Lilu jumped up. “You're leaving?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, wait, please. Stay a little longer.” She glanced at the bottles. “You haven't finished your wine.”

  “Keep it.”

  “Blade...”

  The assassin slipped out of the door and banged it closed, stepping into the shadows. Lilu opened it again a moment later and peered up and down the street, calling his name in a despairing voice. He wondered if she really expected him to reappear just because she called him, but then, she did not kno
w him as well as she seemed to think she did. After a minute, she glanced around with obvious trepidation and retreated into the dubious shelter of her tatty room. Blade leant against the wall behind him and breathed the fresh air that was a relief after the musty confines of her shack and its depressing atmosphere of hopelessness. He strived to blot out her pleading eyes and battered visage while he walked home, avoiding turds and puddles of urine.

  Chapter Four

  At noon the next day, Blade sauntered down to the whorehouse where Lilu worked, a tawdry place where women lounged about on old furniture clad in little or nothing. His hackles rose the instant he entered it, and the pathetic smiles of the two whores on duty soured his stomach. At the bar counter, he ordered a glass of wine and waited for one to approach him. Within a few minutes, a buxom redhead with sultry brown eyes sat beside him, her breasts almost spilling from her too-tight bodice. A woman of bats, he surmised, from her twitchiness and large ears. She pulled her skirt up to display her thighs and smiled, revealing missing teeth.

  Blade fought the urge to jump up and leave, or chase her away, and returned her smile. “I hear you had some fun here a few nights ago.”

  “We always have fun,” she said in a throaty voice full of false allure.

  “There was a fight, wasn't there?”

  She shrugged, stroking her thighs. “Of a sort. If you call a whore being beaten a fight, then I suppose so.”

  “Why was she beaten?”

  “She stole.”

  “And who beat her?”

  Her hand made the journey from her thighs to one of his, gripping it. “My, but you're solid muscle, aren't you?” She giggled, fluttering her eyelashes.

  “Who beat her?”

  She pouted. “Some drover.”

  “Does he have a name?”

  “I expect so.”

  “But you don't know what it is?”

  She leant closer. “My name's Lerril.”

  “Good for you. What's his name?”

  “Why, do you want to bugger him?”

  “You could say that, I suppose.”

  She withdrew her hand and frowned, raking him with a hard glance. “More likely he'll bugger you.”

  “I doubt that. Do you know his name?”

  She shrugged. “My memory's not so good with names.”

  Blade slapped a silver on the counter, and she licked her lips.

  “Tromar. His name's Tromar.”

  She reached for the coin, but he placed his hand over it and asked, “What does he look like?”

  “Big man, all brawn, with a black beard and a shaven head.”

  “There are hundreds of big brawny men with black beards and shaven heads in this city. Give me something specific.”

  “He has a scar, here.” She touched her left cheekbone. “A horse kicked him, I heard.”

  “What kin is he?”

  “Bear.”

  Blade pushed the coin towards her and drained his wine before heading for the door. She frowned and called after him, “Don't you want to come to my room?”

  He paused in the doorway. “No.”

  “Pity. You, I'd do for free.”

  “I wouldn't do you at all, even if you wore three bags over your head.”

  Blade closed the door on the stream of vitriol that followed him, smiling as he strolled down the street. Reasoning that the drover most likely paid his daily visit to Lilu's door at dusk, since that was when he would finish his work and Blade had been absent on previous evenings while he was practicing, he returned to his room to rest for the afternoon.

  As the sun sank, he rose and strapped on his daggers, checking that the ones in his boot sheaths slid free easily, then wandered down to the slums. He located a suitable side alley and scaled the wall to settle against the sloping roof of a house that gave him a good view of Lilu's door. His visit to the whorehouse had not really been necessary, he reflected, but he had to be sure that whoever came banging on Lilu's door was not some other unhappy client or drunken beggar. He had also wanted to confirm her story.

  The late afternoon sun warmed him, and his eyes drooped. From the street below came the sounds of shouting fishwives, shrieking urchins, barking dogs, braying donkeys, cackling chickens and muttering men, all blended together into a formless hubbub. Few carts visited the slums, so the rumble of wheels and clop of hooves were absent. For amusement, he tuned his hearing to a shouted argument two doors down, between a fishwife and her husband over the state of his finances. Losing interest, Blade switched to two washerwomen haggling with a barrow-hag for a pie. The sounds faded as he slipped into a doze.

  A thunderous banging jerked Blade awake, and he sat up with a frown. A vast man stood outside Lilu's door, his fist hammering on the cracked wood.

  “I'm going to kill you, bitch!” he roared.

  A big brown bear sat behind its friend, pawing at its ears and shaking its head. A formidable familiar indeed, but ponderous enough to evade.

  “Go away!” Lilu's shout came faintly.

  “I want the money you stole!” the drover bellowed.

  “Bugger off! I have a knife!”

  Blade wondered if Lilu used the same words every time, and marvelled at her lack of diversity.

  “You can't hide in there forever! I'll get you!” Tromar yelled. “And if you don't come out, I'll come in!”

  “I'll call the Watch!”

  “Bring my money!”

  “Piss off!”

  Blade's brows rose. Lilu certainly sounded defiant; much more like herself.

  The hammering went on and on, interspersed with the drover's threats and Lilu's caustic replies. Blade lay back again with a sigh, wondering why none of the people who lived nearby saw fit to complain. He would have, had he lived within earshot of that racket. The sun sank behind the rooftops and gloom engulfed the street below, since the slums had no street lamps. The din stopped, and the assassin sat up to watch the big man stride away down the street, heading for the poor quarter. Rising, he walked to the edge of the roof and jumped down, giving a barrow-hag a fright. She cursed him, and he slipped into the shadows, following the drover.

  Two streets from Lilu's room, Blade broke into a lope, overtook the drover and ducked into an alley beside the angry man's route. He scouted around for something suitable, and found a heavy, half rotted length of plank. Hefting it, he went to the corner and peeped around it. Tromar walked towards him, wearing a thunderous scowl. From the look of him, Blade suspected that the drover would have no qualms about killing a whore who had stolen from him. Blade had never liked bear kin. The bear rooted in the rubbish quite far behind its friend, but bears could move fast when they wished.

  Blade raised his makeshift weapon when Tromar's footsteps drew near. As the drover stepped past the corner, Blade swung the plank at Tromar's head. It hit his face with a resounding thwack, sending him sprawling on his back, his nose a flattened ruin that seeped blood in a dark river. He appeared dazed for a moment, not surprisingly, Blade thought, then struggled to sit up. The assassin hit him again, pulverised his face further and crushed his lips. His head cracked onto the cobbles as the blow hammered him back, and he stared at the sky with wide, glazed eyes. Blade glanced at the bear, which had abandoned its snack and lumbered towards him.

  The assassin kicked the drover in the side of the head three times, then in the belly, making Tromar groan and curl up. For good measure, Blade kicked him in the face with a crunch of breaking teeth, then leant down.

  “Bother the whore again, and you die.”

  Tromar gaped at him. “Who in Damnation are you?”

  “Someone you don't want to meet in a dark alley again, if anything happens to that whore.”

  Tromar spat out a broken tooth, drooling blood. “She stole from me!”

  “I don't care. Leave her alone. I'll be watching, so don't darken her doorway again.”

  Tromar tried to struggle to his feet, murder in his eyes, but Blade hit him with the plank again. The drover slum
ped, his eyes closed, and Blade glanced at the bear that galloped towards him, its shaggy coat rippling over mighty muscles. The assassin dropped the plank and ran to a nearby wall, grabbed the gutter and swung himself onto the roof. From its safety, he smiled down at the furious bear, which clawed at the wall and growled. The beast soon deduced that its prey was out of reach and went over to lick its friend's face, huffing at the scent of blood. Blade ambled away over the rooftops, heading for home.

  The following day, he returned to Lilu's room at dusk and took up his vigil until after dark, assuring himself that the drover had heeded his warning. Before he left, he collared an urchin he always saw in the street and drew the boy aside to promise him a silver if he brought news if Lilu had a problem again. Satisfied that his duty was done, he went home.

  Blade stood in the darkness beyond the ring of ancient standing stones where the Guild always met and studied the throng of black-clad men and boys. Torchlight bathed the platform with leaping brilliance. This was another autumn meeting, and all the apprentices were present. He glanced down at the glittering belt that clasped his hips, fingering it. Another moon had passed since he had beaten the drover, and his dance was sufficiently restored, he judged, to face his peers without the risk of losing his belt. He strolled towards the gathering, his gut tightening with his dislike for such meetings, but he had to show himself or they would replace him.

  As he arrived unnoticed at the back of the crowd, he noted a huddle of elders beside the platform and tuned his ears to their conversation.

  Talon sounded angry. “He's been gone three moons, what of it? I told him to hide out for a while. He isn't dead.”

  “Three moons is a long time,” an elder Blade recognised as Archer said. “The Trobalon fracas blew over two moons ago. He should have returned to his haunt by now. We can't go without a Dance Master forever, you know. It seems likely that the Trobalons got their revenge after all. We've heard rumours of an assassin killed in the slums.”

  “I still say you're wrong,” Talon averred.

  “Perhaps, but in the mean time we must have a Dance Master.”

  Blade slipped through the crowd towards the arguing elders, who were too engrossed in their discussion to notice him. Talon's wolf looked up when Blade stopped beside his former mentor, and several assassins behind him muttered when they noticed him.