“Are you the Master of the Dance?”
He inclined his head.
“I wish to hire you.” She pulled out a purse and dumped it on the table with a thud.
Blade raised his brows. “It's traditional to tell me who you want dead and ask for my agreement before you pay me.”
“Why would you refuse? It is your trade. And I shall pay any fee you demand.”
“That's not the point.” He sipped his wine. “Who do you want dead?”
“My husband.”
“And who might he be?”
“A pig.”
He almost smiled, but quelled it. “I asked who he is, not what.”
“Viscount Treblane.”
Blade glanced at Lilu as her voice rose in outrage, followed by another resounding slap. “The trouble is, now that you've marched up to me and dumped coin on the table, everyone in here knows you're trying to hire me. So, when your husband is assassinated, the Watch will have no trouble learning who his true killer is.”
She glanced around, frowning. “These are all cutthroats and criminals. The Watch will not believe them.”
“Actually, many of these men are merchants and labourers, the sons of such men, and a few spies.”
“Whose spies?”
He shrugged. “How should I know? Probably wealthy nobles, wishing to know who's hiring me. They know that if anyone wishes them dead, I'll be the one they hire.”
She had the grace to look a little abashed. “What should I do then? This is the place where you are hired, is it not?”
“Yes, but usually nobles don't do it themselves. They send a trusted servant with a message, or, if they do come themselves, they do so in disguise.”
“I do not think any of these men will know who I am.”
“They have only to describe you.”
She fiddled with the pouch. “So what should I do?”
Blade glanced at Lilu again when she shrieked, his brows knitting. The broken-nosed harlot had attacked the merchant, and rained slaps on his balding head. The man rose with an angry shout, his bench scraping on the floor, and grabbed Lilu's hair. Blade picked up the pouch and tossed it into the young noblewoman's lap.
“Leave.”
Viscountess Treblane gaped up at him as he rose and headed for the back of the taproom. Brushing aside the tatty curtain that partitioned the rooms where the whores lived and plied their trade, he went to Lilu's and flopped down on the bed. The noblewoman's perfectly enunciated speech interested him, and he pondered it. That was how nobles spoke, he surmised, and he recalled Talon trying to teach it to him. He had not been interested in it at the time, but now he realised that being able to speak like a noble might be a useful tool for his trade.
Soon the furore in the common room died down, and moments later Lilu came in, looking flushed and dishevelled, a red mark on her cheek. She sat on the bed and rubbed it, scowling at him.
“You could have helped me.”
“No, I couldn't.”
“Why not?”
He sighed, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Because if those thugs thought I had some attachment to you, they'd try to use you to get to me. You'd probably be killed.”
“Oh. But why would they want to get to you?”
“I'm the Master of the Dance. Many would like to be able to force my hand, either to kill or not to kill, as the case may be.”
“Oh.” She looked down at her hands, biting her lip. “So you'll never help me?”
“Not in public, no.”
“You'd just stand by and watch them beat me to death?”
He smiled. “No.”
“Then what would you do?”
“I'd think of something, but don't try to make me help you. I won't, unless they're trying to kill you. Even then, I'd be tempted not to if you started the fight.”
“I see.” She sighed. “I suppose that's understandable.”
“By not helping you, I'm saving your life.”
“But you spend a lot of time with me – not that I'm complaining, far from it,” she hurried on. “But won't that make them think you like me?”
“You're a whore. At most, they'll wonder why I use such an ugly one.”
“Right.” She tidied her hair. “Who was that woman?”
“None of your business.”
“She was very beautiful.” Lilu turned to him and placed a hand on his chest. “If I looked like that, would you want to lie with me?”
“I expect half the city would.”
“I'm asking you.”
He glanced down at her hand. “No.”
“Why not?”
“You're a whore.”
“If I wasn't a whore.”
He shrugged. “Probably.”
“So you would want to lie with her, if she wished it?”
“I expect so.”
“Will you?”
“I doubt it.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“Because she won't wish it. She's a noblewoman.”
“Noblewomen have lust too.”
“Not for common assassins.”
Lilu giggled. “You're such a virgin. Of course she'll lust for you.”
“I am not a damned virgin.”
“Yes you are.” She leant closer. “Shall I prove it?”
“No. Lay a finger on me and you're likely to lose it.”
“There, you see? That proves it.”
He frowned. “How so?”
“Because you don't want me to touch you, and I didn't even say I was going to, nor did I try. You assumed that I was going to.”
“How else would you prove it?”
She tugged at her bodice's laces, her eyes bright with glee.
Blade's scowl deepened. “Stop that.”
“Why? A man wouldn't object unless he found it embarrassing.”
“Or if he didn't want to see.”
“Why wouldn't he?”
He sat up. “Stop it. All of it. The teasing, the taunting and especially the flaunting. I'm tired of it, and if you persist I'll change my haunt, understand?”
She nodded, looking sad. “It was just a bit of fun.”
“I don't find it funny.”
“I can tell.”
He swung his legs off the bed and tried to stand up, but she grabbed his arm.
“Please don't go. I'm sorry.”
“Let go of me.”
Blade glared at her, thoroughly annoyed with her antics, which constantly reminded him of the lack he tried so hard to forget. He sometimes wondered why he did not tell her. That would certainly put an end to any ambitions she might have to seduce him, but he could not bring himself to reveal his secret. It was too painful, and too humiliating. Yet her constant flirting was also humiliating, he found, since he could do nothing to end it save reprimand her, and that did not work. He often wondered why she persisted when, as a two-copper whore, she did not lack men in her bed.
Probably because she found his reaction amusing, and knew he would never want her no matter how much she flirted with him. He wondered what she would do if he pretended to take her up on her offer, but, knowing Lilu, she would be delighted, since she claimed to love him so much. He jerked free of her and headed back to the common room for another cup of wine.
Chapter Nine
Blade gazed up at the sweeping marble arches and ornate gabled roof of the Peacock's Nest, one of Jondar's most affluent inns. The missive he had received earlier told him to meet his potential new client here, and gave the room number, but he was not about to walk in and knock on her door. Many exotic trees grew around the inn, and he chose a scarlet-leafed fire tree that gave access to a balcony on the second floor. With no guards to hamper him and an easy tree to climb, he arrived on the balcony in silence and without much effort. Picking the locked doors that led inside, he entered a plush corridor with a polished wooden floor and drab still-life paintings on the cream walls. Busts stood on pedestals between the many doors that led off it,
and he found the one marked with the right number, picked the lock and slipped inside.
Viscountess Treblane sat in an upholstered gilt chair in front of a fireplace whose cosy blaze warmed the room. Rich brown velvet curtains framed the windows, and dull paintings graced the walls. A carved four-poster bed stood against the wall on his left, and finely woven rugs softened the floor. Blade walked towards her, his boots silent on the rugs, and she looked up with a gasp when he stepped into her view. Her hand clasped her chest, then she relaxed and smiled.
“You surprised me, sir.”
He wandered over to the fireplace. “Sneaking about is my trade, madam. I'm good at it.”
“So it would seem. Thank you for coming.”
“So, you want your husband dead. Tell me about him.”
“Right to the point. How professional of you, sir. Please, sit. Would you care for some wine?”
Blade sat on the settee beside her chair and accepted a cup of rich, musky red wine.
“My husband is a pig,” she said. “I cannot abide him. It was an arranged marriage, you see. My father –”
“I didn't mean the story of your misfortune. I meant his looks, his habits and his familiar.”
“Oh, I see. He is a man of the boar, of course, and ugly. Fat and hirsute, as all such men are. He turns my stomach. His touch...” She coughed. “Well, he has brown hair and eyes, and he spends most of his day with his noble friends, carousing, hunting, gaming and the like.”
“When does he come and go from his dwelling.”
“That depends on what time he wakes up, and what he chooses to do. Some days he does not go out, but stays at home and inflicts his unwanted attentions...” She hesitated. “He is always at home in the evenings, after he returns from his debauchery.”
Blade sighed, sipping his wine. He hated unpredictable targets, they usually cost him a lot of time stalking them. “What about guards?”
“Only two men in the garden at night.”
“What sort of men?”
“Guards.”
He smiled, shaking his head. “What familiars do they have?”
“Oh. Well, that depends on which ones they are. There are four of them, to alternate between shifts and days. I am not certain of their beasts, although one, I am certain, is a man of crows.”
Blade studied her, wondering what kind of woman she was. The mystery was solved when an emerald snake slithered from her hair to twine around her neck. Its jewel-like golden eyes and triangular head told him it was a tree adder, able to inflict a painful bite and give a man a bad headache. He had never liked snake kin, however. Her information was inadequate, and meant that he would have to spend more time watching the house.
The viscountess leant closer, her gaze intent. “When will you do it?”
Her assumption annoyed him further, as did her eagerness, and he shook his head. “I have not yet agreed to do it, Viscountess.”
“Marilda, please. But you will, surely? I will pay whatever you demand.”
“Your husband's money, I assume?”
“No, my father's.”
“Ah, who arranged this marriage. Clearly he finds no fault with your husband.”
“He does not have to rut with him!” Her voice grew shrill, and she restrained herself with an obvious effort. “I cannot stand it. You must help me. How much will it cost?”
Blade frowned at his wine, pondering the many reasons he had been given, over the years, for his clients' wish to slay their victims. Even though he never asked them, they always seemed driven to tell him, as if it somehow vindicated them. Hers was no better than most, and poorer than many, but that did not matter.
He glanced at her. “Fifty goldens.”
The sum was outlandish, but she had annoyed him, so she must pay.
Marilda did not as much as blink. “How do I pay you?”
“Half now, half when the job's done. And I have a few more questions.”
“Ask.”
“Your address, for one thing. When would be the best time to do it, and do you want it to be quick or slow?”
Her eyes gleamed. “You could do it slowly?”
“Yes, but that will double the price.”
Her eagerness faded. “I see. I suppose it does not need to be slow.”
Blade drained his cup and rose to his feet. “You have the money?”
“Yes.” She drew a pouch from a hidden pocket in her skirt and counted out twenty-five goldens onto the table, which left the bag still heavy with more. Blade swept the money into his pouch and tied it to his belt while she gave him an address in the poshest part of the wealthy district.
She looked eager again. “I could make it very easy for you. If I leave the postern gate and kitchen door unlocked, you have only to slip past the guards, who, I am sure, will be asleep after midnight anyway. I will light a lamp in the window when my husband is asleep, so you will know when to come. Will you do it tomorrow night?”
He eyed her. That certainly made it easy, and well worth the fifty goldens. “I could, in that case, yes.”
“Excellent.” She all but clapped her hands. “And I want to watch.”
“Do you now?”
“Yes, most assuredly.”
“Have you ever seen a man killed, Viscountess? It's not a pretty thing.”
“As a matter of fact, I have. I want to see him die. I will pay more for the privilege if you demand it.”
Blade wondered why she was so keen to pay him more, although she had baulked at doubling the fee for a slow death. Her unhealthy interest disgusted him, so at odds with her fragile beauty. He took no pleasure from killing, yet, judging by the way her eyes sparkled and she licked her lips, she would.
“If you are present and awake at the time, I cannot prevent you from watching. Presumably you will be sharing the bed with him, so you will have a particularly good view, I will wager.” Blade realised that he had picked up her manner of speech without even trying.
She patted her hands together. “Wonderful. I shall ensure that I am awake, then.”
The assassin swung away. “I shall be there tomorrow night. Be sure the gate and door are unlocked.”
“I shall. But please, do not hurry off. Have some more wine.”
He paused by the door. “I think not, Viscountess.”
“Marilda, please.”
Blade let himself out and walked to the balcony to shinny down the tree, trying to blot out her eager, lovely face. He compared her to Lilu, disliking what he found. For all the whore's ugliness, she had a good heart, while Marilda's beauty belied her cold viciousness. She did not require the services of the Dance Master, either. Any second-rate assassin could perform such an easy kill, and he almost found it insulting. She had turned him into little more than an executioner, but death was his trade, and the fee was good. Her friendliness was disconcerting too, he found. Why would she wish to spend time and share wine with a lowly assassin, especially one she had hired to kill her husband? By the time he reached his rooms, he was no less disgusted, but somewhat resigned to it.
Blade paused at the postern gate of the address the viscountess had given him, glancing up at the almost full Tree Moon. Too bright for his liking, but that could not be helped. He unlatched the gate and opened it a crack, peering in. For several minutes, he could find no sign of the two sentries, and waited a bit longer before slipping into the garden and closing the gate. He trotted into a patch of shadow under a tree and paused there to scan the garden again. The sentries were propped up against the garden wall, chins on chests. Whatever Viscount Treblane was paying his guards, it was too much.
Leaving the shadow, he walked up the paved path to the mansion's kitchen door and pushed it open, strolling within. A scent of warm bread pervaded the air, mingled with soot and lonions. In the hall, he found a sweeping marble staircase that led to the upper floor and mounted it on silent feet. A corridor stretched away, at the end of which a line of light shone under a door. Blade paused with his hand on
the latch and listened, detecting a rasping snore and wheezing grunts. Opening the door just enough, he scanned the room within. The lamp in the window cast a sullen light over a plush bed chamber crowded with too much dull furniture, its walls populated with stiff-faced portraits.
Viscount Treblane formed a vast mound in a massive four-poster bed hung with dark blue velvet. A hairy, tusked black boar slept at the foot of it, the source of the wheezing grunts. Blade paused to wonder how old the viscount was, and whether his familiar would perish soon after him or survive to try to avenge its friend's death. He did not want to have to deal with the enraged animal, and cursed his lack of forethought in not asking his client where the boar slept. That was something he would normally have discovered by spying on his victim.
The viscountess lay beside her husband, her cheek propped in her hand, her eyes drooping. The stench of pig made the still air rank, and he wrinkled his nose as he approached the bed. The size of his intended victim gave him pause, and he reconsidered his strategy. Like all boar kin, Viscount Treblane owned a big-boned frame buried under layers of fat. So much so that Blade doubted his dagger would be long enough to reach the nobleman's heart from his flank. A chest strike had more chance of success, but the viscount lay on his side, facing his wife and exposing the back of his neck. This was not a method that Blade had employed very often, but he knew it.
Reaching the side of the bed, he drew two daggers with a soft slither of steel and considered his target. Moving closer with infinite caution, he raised a weapon and held it poised, ensuring that his aim was true. The viscountess opened her eyes, which widened and brightened with morbid anticipation and delight. Blade swallowed bile and turned his attention back to his target. The tip of the dagger almost brushed the viscount's skin at the base of his skull. Blade thrust it in with a powerful jab, and it scraped past bone to penetrate brain tissue. The man stiffened, his eyelids fluttering, and went limp.
Blade pulled the weapon out and placed his fingers on the nobleman's neck, detecting a faint, fading flutter. Hardly a drop of blood oozed from the wound, and the assassin straightened, glancing at the boar when the beast squealed and thrashed. It tried to rise to its feet and failed, its limbs stiffening as it died. The viscountess stared at her husband, then at Blade, licking her lips as she sat up.
The Queen's Blade Prequel II - God Touched Page 12
