The Queen's Blade Prequel II - God Touched

by T C Southwell

  Talon glowered at Archer. “You would put the belt back up for contention without knowing if the true Master is dead?”

  “How will we ever know? If he's dead, doubtless his corpse was thrown in a gutter to rot and the belt stolen. We'll have to make another one.”

  “What will you use until then, a piece of string?”

  Blade unbuckled the belt and held it out. “Why don't you use this?”

  Talon swung around, his eyes widening. “Blade!”

  Blade stepped towards Archer. “Here. If you're so keen to believe me dead, then put the belt up for contention. I'll beat anyone who dares to dance for it.”

  Archer looked uncomfortable. “You've been gone for –”

  “Three moons, I know. Here.” Blade thrust the belt at him. “Take it.”

  “If you're able to dance, I doubt anyone will challenge you.”

  “I want them to,” Blade said. “Let them try!”

  “No one could find you –”

  “That was the idea.”

  “But not for three moons.”

  Talon, who studied Blade, asked, “They found you, didn't they? What happened?”

  “None of your damned business. I'm here now, and I invite anyone who thinks they can beat me to try.” He swung away and held up the belt. “Who wants to challenge me? Come on! Now's your chance!”

  Talon leant closer. “If you were injured, that might not be such a good idea.”

  Blade mounted the stage and walked around it, shouting, “Come on! Challenge me! I call for it now, if any of you have the spine. I don't come to meetings much, so don't miss this opportunity!”

  The throng shifted and muttered, and a young, muscular man emerged from their ranks, a confident smirk on his lips. He glared up at Blade. “I'll challenge you.”

  “Excellent.” Blade buckled the belt on, then pulled the metal toe and heel taps from his jacket pocket. “This will be a brief duel.”

  The man looked a little confused when he mounted the platform to find the Dance Master employed in attaching his boot taps.

  “I must perform the Dance of Death first,” he said.

  Blade straightened. “I'll waive my right to see you dance. I'm sure you're able to.”

  The challenger glanced at the elders, who shrugged and nodded. He faced Blade again. “I'm Mace.”

  Blade stripped off his jacket and tossed it over a post, unlacing his shirt. “How nice for you. Let's get started.”

  Mace strapped on his taps and removed his jacket and shirt while Blade leant against a post and tapped his toe. The Guild muttered and settled down to watch, some members sipping wine from flasks or skins. Talon watched Blade so intently that he found it unsettling and shot his former mentor a cold glance. Mace bent and stretched, limbering up, and Blade did the same. The strapping assassin was a year or two older than him, Blade judged, and when Mace turned to face him after what he considered to be a lengthy warm up, Blade gesture expansively to the stage. In a Duel, the challenger danced first.

  Mace walked to the centre of the platform and took up a stance, arms raised, an unnecessary embellishment that Blade instantly disliked. Mace, he sensed, was a show off, and probably a bully, too. From his quick movements and sinuous grace, Blade surmised that he was a man of ferrets or mongooses. Blade folded his arms to show his disdain for the challenger, and Mace frowned. With a flamboyant gesture, he launched into a complex series of foot crossing taps, drifting across the stage on drumming feet. The brief routine was sufficiently skilful and swift to show that Mace had spent a great deal of time practising his dancing, and was good at it. He swept into a series of spinning kicks, his feet hammering on the boards and his legs lashing out, ending with another arm gesture and stamp.

  Blade straightened and walked to the centre of the stage, facing Mace. The tension rose while he paused, eyeing his opponent with a frown and sensing a collective indrawn breath around the platform. Raising his arms in a graceful gesture that was similar to Mace's but lacked its flamboyance, Blade launched into an identical routine, only he performed it at twice Mace's speed, his feet blurring as his taps blended into a simple tune. He leapt into the spinning kicks, hanging in the air with the height of his jumps, the bounce and power of his legs sending a wave of euphoria through him.

  Reaching the end of Mace's challenge steps, Blade floated across the platform, performing a series of steps so complex that the taps formed a rattling melody. He leapt high, his legs lashing out sideways, and touched his toes in mid-air before landing in another twisting series, lifting his feet high to hammer the boards. Blade spun and leapt again, tapping his boots together behind him in mid-air, then took a few steps and launched himself high, his straight legs crossing at the apex of his jump. A flash of sparks shot from his boots as they clashed, then he dropped to the boards, stamped once and turned to face his challenger.

  Blade frowned at the empty stage, glancing down to find his erstwhile opponent pushing his way into the throng. A slight smile tugged at his lips while he scanned the crowd of stunned faces.

  He raised his arms. “Anyone else?”

  A low muttering issued from the assassins, and after a minute Blade plucked his shirt and jacket from the post and went over to sit on the steps and remove his taps.

  Talon approached, wearing a wry smile. “So, I was wrong. And you really thought anyone else would dare to challenge you after that exhibition?”

  Blade shrugged. “I could hope.”

  “No one's that stupid. Mace was utterly humiliated.”

  Blade tucked his taps into his pocket and straightened. “As I intended. And you were right. A dozen or so of Trobalon's thugs tried to kill me. I want the right to seek blood debt.”

  “Do you know their names?”

  “I'll find out.”

  Talon shook his head, frowning. “Why must you court danger? You survived, let it be.”

  “They left me for dead. I want them to pay.”

  “How did you survive?” Talon raised a hand. “I know, it’s none of my business. How badly were you hurt?”

  “A broken arm, leg and ribs, and stab wounds.”

  “How did they –?”

  “I was drunk, all right?”

  Talon nodded. “I see.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Obviously you had the help of a healer to make such a complete recovery.”

  “Obviously. Are you going to ask the elders?”

  “All right,” Talon said, “but if they say no, you must abide by their decision.”

  “Accidents happen in dark alleys all the time.”

  “Just don't get caught, then.”

  Blade waited while his former mentor consulted his peers, aware of many eyes watching him from the crowd, weighing his mettle and perhaps wishing him ill so a new Master would have to be found. Every member of the Guild resented his prowess, he knew. Just as he had coveted the belt when Lash had held it, now many eager young men longed to make it their own. Possibly the only thing that kept them from trying to kill him was that they were prohibited from doing so.

  Talon returned, looking sour. “They will allow it, but they warn you to make sure the deaths look like common murders or accidents. They don't want any repercussions from the Watch. So many deaths amongst Trobalon stalwarts will raise a few questions and a great deal of anger, especially if some of them are relatives.”

  Blade nodded. “No one will suspect.”

  “Good.” Talon hesitated. “Be careful.”

  “I'm not an impatient boy anymore. I have time on my side, and I intend to savour their suffering.” He smiled. “No, I'm not going to kill them, though they may wish I had.”

  Talon stared at him. “I pity any man who earns your wrath now. You're quite mad, you know. You have no conscience and no pity.”

  “What good would they do me?”

  “They'd make you human.”

  “So what am I, then?”

  Talon shook his head. “I don't know anymo
re. You’re like a blizzard; cold, pitiless and deadly.”

  “Or a blade.”

  “A blade requires a wielder. Then again, I suppose you have one. Your hatred. Beware, lest it consume you.”

  “It already has.” Blade flashed him a smile and walked off, shoving aside men who did not step aside fast enough. Some frowned, but none dared to protest.

  Chapter Five

  The butcher swept aside the curtain and left Lilu in the dim back room that was only a little larger than a broom cupboard. She sighed and pulled the sheet over the bulge of her belly. Only a moon-phase remained before the birth, but her situation had become dire. When she had returned to the whorehouse, the owner had taken one look at her ruined face and ordered her out. A time-glass of pleading had persuaded him to allow her to use a back room, where aging and mutilated harlots were allowed to ply their trade, out of sight.

  No one wanted to see them in the front room, where the pretty girls tempted clients. Along with her relegation to the back room had come a drastic drop in pay, for such as she serviced the poorest clients, and were only allowed to charge three coppers a go. The brothel owner took one copper out of every three, and what was left was barely enough to buy food for herself and her babies. Her customers were sent to her room when they asked for a cheap whore, and she had no choice but to lie with whoever came through the curtains.

  Some of her clientele, being poor labourers and the like, stank of sweat, piss and shit. The butcher had smelt of offal and blood. Lilu closed her eyes and thought about the young man who had spent so much time in her bed, and with whom she had fallen in love. His image came to her easily, burnt into her memory forever, along with the warmth that always filled her heart when she thought of him. When Tromar had stopped beating on her door, she had known Blade had had a hand in it.

  Since then, she had glimpsed the drover in the front room when she had peeked through the curtains once, and marvelled at his flattened nose and missing teeth. How a slight man like Blade had bested the brawny drover and his huge bear was a mystery, but she suspected that his cleverness had helped. She longed to see him again, and every knock on the door of her room had had her leaping up to open it with a smile, only to find another beggar or the slattern from down the street who sometimes visited to drink Lilu's cheap wine.

  Rolling onto her side, she yawned and watched the scuttle-bugs crawl around the floor. Her room was dark to hide her face, and she was lucky, she supposed, that she was not expected to wear a bag over her head. One of the other back room whores, whose face had been burnt by an angry client armed with lamp oil and a tinderbox, had to do so. The men who visited Lilu now also had no gold for her to steal, and she had been forced to give up her room on Tarbriar Way. Now she slept here, snatching naps whenever she had the chance. Evenings were a busy time, however, and the brothel was full tonight, it being the end of the tenday, and tomorrow a rest day.

  A flare of light made her glance up as the curtain was thrust aside and a vast, hirsute man entered. She rolled onto her back and pulled off the sheet when he stepped towards her and tossed three coppers onto the floor. While he was busy, she thought about how fortunate she was to have been allowed to stay at the whorehouse, where clients had to pay or face the bounder boys, who ensured that they did or took it out of their hides. Had she become a street whore, she would have been at the mercy of unscrupulous men and rapists. Street whores seldom lived long.

  Her customer, whom she assumed was a labourer from his callused hands and stench of sweat and mud, finished and left. Lilu scraped the coppers into her purse and lay back to await her next client. Back room harlots were inevitably busy, due to the cheapness of their services. Once she gave birth, however, life would become even harder, with a baby to feed and clients to satisfy. The curtain was swept aside again, and a fat man entered.

  Blade leant against the bar counter and watched the whores with a frown, disliking the place's air of debauchery and desperation. He had discovered Lilu's absence from her room when he had watched her door for a time-glass and a fat woman had entered with two children, soon followed by a man. Clearly they now dwelt there, and he had come to the whorehouse to see if Lilu still worked here. So far, he had not seen her, and wondered if something had befallen her.

  The urchin had not brought him any news, but then, the boy might not be as reliable as Blade had hoped. A harlot approached him, the fifth to do so since he had arrived half a time-glass ago, even though there were plenty of men drinking and carousing with the girls. She was young, perhaps thirteen, and her family had probably her sold into the business. Auburn hair framed a thin face with large, rather protuberant eyes and a pouty mouth stained red with berry juice. Blade guessed that she was rat or mouse kin.

  The girl sat on the stool beside him, looking shy yet determined, and placed an empty wine cup on the counter.

  “Will you buy a girl a drink, good sir?”

  Blade almost told her to bugger off, as he had the last four, then paused, considering. He signalled to the barkeep, who sloshed cheap white wine into the girl's cup, and she slugged it back with a smile. Replacing the empty cup on the counter, she drew aside the silk blouse that hung open to her waist, revealing her wares, such as they were, and the bruises on them.

  Blade looked away. “I'm looking for a woman named Lilu.”

  The girl wrinkled her snub nose. “She's a back room whore. You don't want her, there's a queue outside her curtain every night, and she's all swollen with child.”

  Blade raised his brows. “Why is she so popular?”

  “Anyone would be for three coppers a go. With her face, she's not allowed out front anymore. She takes what she gets, and makes do.”

  “And you scorn her. Beware, lest you one day share her fate.”

  “I would rather die,” she said. “She can't, because of her children, though. I pity her.”

  “You should. Tell me where she is.”

  The harlot pouted and moved closer, raising a hand towards his face, her eyes full of invitation. “For three silvers, you can have me, and I'm beautiful.”

  His hand flashed up to grip her wrist. “Don't touch me, girl. Where's Lilu?”

  She gasped when his fingers tightened, biting her lip. “In the back. Down the corridor, last curtain on the left.”

  Blade released her and rose, slapping a silver on the counter before pushing his way through the crowded room and the curtain at the back of it, into a dingy corridor. Four curtained doors led off it, and grunts and gasps came from all of them. Two men hung around in the passage, evidently waiting for the next available harlot. Blade went to the last curtain on the left and leant against the wall outside it, trying not to listen to the sounds coming from within. The two men eyed him, but looked away when he glanced at them. Moments later, the noises stopped and a fat, greasy man emerged, tugging at his clothes.

  Blade hesitated, then thrust aside the curtain and stepped into the darkness, glancing around. The naked woman who lay on the straw pallet gasped and dragged a dirty sheet over herself.

  “Blade!”

  He turned to scan the room, his anger rising like a black tide. Spotting a bundle of ragged frocks in the corner, he grabbed one and threw it at her.

  “Get dressed.” He averted his gaze. “You stupid bloody trollop.”

  “Why? Where are you taking me?”

  “What do you care? Do you want to stay here?”

  “No, but...” Her voice became muffled as she pulled the dress over her head.

  He glanced at her, relieved to find her covered. “I'm going to take you to a dark alley and slit your throat, how about that?”

  She snorted. “A likely story.”

  “I would consider it a mercy killing.”

  She looked a little uncertain, then shook her head. “I still don't believe you. You're a liar.”

  “Get up.” He stepped closer, his brow furrowed.

  Lilu struggled to lever herself to her feet, and he gave an impatient growl
and gripped her arm, yanking her upright. She tottered, stumbling after him when he dragged her into the corridor.

  “Hey, slow down,” she protested.

  Blade glanced at her and slowed, thrust aside one of the waiting men and sent him stumbling into the wall. As he approached the curtain that led into the front room, she hung back.

  “I'm not allowed in there.”

  “I don't care.”

  “I'll get into trouble, maybe even be thrown out, and –”

  “Be quiet.”

  Blade hauled her to the front door, shoving drunken men from his path, and was relieved to be out in the crisp night air after the whorehouse's cloying, perfumed atmosphere. Releasing Lilu's arm, he wiped his hand on his jacket and set off down the street without glancing back. Her footsteps followed, stumbling a little, and fell behind until he was forced to stop and wait for her. She panted up to him, her face flushed in the light of a street lamp.

  “Where are we going?”

  He gazed past her. “To my rooms.”

  Her breath caught in a little gasp, and her eyes glistened with joy. “Truly?”

  “Temporarily. Don't imagine I want a stinking trollop in my room, or her bawling brats.”

  “Then... what do you want?”

  “Never you mind. Walk faster, I'm tired.”

  Blade set off again more slowly, fuming with impatience. Lilu tried to cling to his arm, but he shook her off with a curse.

  “Don't touch me,” he snarled. “You stink, and I don't want dognits.”

  “I don't have dognits.”

  “Then it must be one of the few disgusting infestations you don't have, and I don't want any of them.” Lilu stopped, and, after he had walked a few more paces, he turned to scowl at her. “That's not walking faster, Lilu, that's not walking at all.”

  “Then stop insulting me, or I won't go with you.”

  “You'd rather go back to your straw pallet and endless supply of smelly men, I suppose?”