“I am hardly inclined to pass on your request if you will not even tell me the reason for it.”
Blade looked up. “Only the Queen may judge whether or not she will grant me an audience, so my reasons for asking do not concern you.”
She raised her chin. “I am her chief advisor.”
“But you are not the Queen. Hence, you have no authority to deny my request. Only the Queen may do that.”
“She will not see you without knowing the reason for it.”
“You speak for her?”
She hesitated. “I know how she will react.”
“Queen Minna-Satu took power only three moons ago; therefore you have not been her chief advisor for longer than that. That being the case, how can you know her mind so well?”
“Why would she grant you an audience without knowing the reason for it?”
“That is for her to decide, is it not?” He had slipped into the noble manner of speech without even thinking about it, he realised.
The chief advisor frowned and addressed the guards. “Lock him up.”
They gripped his arms again and marched him out, leaving her gazing after him in a puzzled manner. He expected to be thrown into the dungeons, but instead, the soldiers took him to a room that appeared to be a chambermaid's lodgings and shoved him inside, locking the door. Blade paced the cramped room, which boasted only a hard narrow bed with a table beside it, a chair, a pitcher of water and a basin on another table in the corner, and barred window with a view of a puffwood tree. The situation disturbed him, and he wondered what was in store next.
After pacing the room for a couple of time-glasses, he settled on the bed and tried to relax. He thought about what he would say to the Queen if he was granted an audience. A manservant in a gravy spotted apron brought him a bowl of stew and a jug of cheap wine, and locked the door again when he left. Evidently strange commoners were not allowed to roam the palace, despite its overabundance of guards. A wise precaution, Blade mused, since some commoners were inclined to be dangerous, especially those dressed in black.
It struck him as odd that no one had realised the significance of his sable garb, which, while not exclusive to assassins, certainly should have raised some suspicions. He had considered purchasing other clothes for this venture, but, since he would have to reveal his trade to the Queen, should he be granted an audience, a disguise would only arouse more misgivings at that stage. Far better to be himself as far as possible, while not volunteering the information. He lay down and stared at the ceiling, wondering what the next day would bring. He had formulated a reasonably good, though somewhat brief explanation of what he intended to offer the Queen by the time he fell asleep.
The rattle of a key in the lock woke him, and he sat up, swinging his legs off the bed. Two guards marched in, gripped his arms and hauled him to his feet. Their newfound roughness surprised him only a little, although he wondered at the cause of it. One man undid Blade's jacket and pulled it open while the other watched with a hand on his sword hilt. The first soldier paused when he spotted the trademark at the base of the assassin's throat.
His scowl grew thunderous. “He's a god damned assassin,” he told his cohort, whose scowl also blackened. “The Queen has agreed to meet a filthy, murdering night crawler.”
The soldier punched Blade in the solar plexus, doubling him over with a grunt. The assassin straightened, amazed to learn that his request had been granted. The soldier hit him in the face, sending him staggering into the bed, and pain flamed from his nose and top lip. As he raised a hand to finger his throbbing nose, the soldier gripped his jacket and hauled him to his feet again, then punched him in the jaw. Blade sprawled across the bed a second time, wondering if the man intended to beat him senseless before dragging him to the Queen and dumping him at her feet. The soldier loomed over him, and he quelled his instinctive urge to lash out in defence. Instead, he allowed the guard to drag him upright once more, and his inaction seemed to incense the man, who punched him in the ribs.
“Stinking killer,” the soldier said. “Take off your jacket.” Blade shucked the garment, but the guard still glowered. “And the shirt.”
The assassin removed his black shirt and dropped it on the bed beside the jacket, then stripped off his leather vest, knowing it would be next on the list. Apparently the Queen had ordered him stripped and searched, a sensible precaution. The soldier stepped closer to remove Blade’s daggers from the wrist sheaths, but tugged to no avail until the assassin pressed the triggers that released them. The man passed them to his comrade and turned to glare at Blade again, then jerked his head at the door.
“Get going.”
Blade headed for the doorway, and the guard who stood in it stepped aside while the other one picked up Blade's jacket. As the assassin exited the room, the guard gave him a shove that sent him staggering into the wall. The soldier moved past to lead the way down the passage, his cohort falling in behind Blade. He got the impression that they would have liked to beat him further, and refrained only because he was about to meet the Queen. Doubtless they would blame him for the abuse they had meted out, although it was worth a few bruises to speak to the Queen.
The corridors became more opulent as they made their way through the palace, going from dressed stone to grey-streaked white marble. They passed rooms furnished with gilt chairs and carved tables, the walls hung with vast paintings of battles, forests and queens. Servants hurried past on errands, and groups of gossiping men in rich robes gathered in a glass-roofed atrium filled with warm light and greenery.
As they drew closer to the Queen's chambers, they passed noblemen clad in velvet and satin and powdered ladies adorned with gold and jewels. Many of the nobles turned to stare at Blade with deep disapproval, some even wrinkling their noses in disgust, while the ladies whispered to their friends behind fans, and some giggled. Blade recognised two or three noblewomen who had propositioned him, and now turned away as he was escorted past. Except for the lack of chains, he might have been a prisoner.
The soldiers took Blade to a pair of tall, cream doors inlaid and trimmed with gold, where two white-plumed guards in golden armour stood, staring ahead with stern expressions. The chief advisor waited beside them, looking impatient, and turned with a frown when the assassin approached. Blade folded his arms, disliking his shirtless state. She raked him with a startled glance, clearly displeased about something.
“The Queen has agreed to meet you,” she said. “That does not mean she will grant you an audience. First she wishes to see you, and then she will decide. You will enter behind me, and when I step aside you will make your prostration. You will not arise until she orders you to. You will not speak unless she addresses you, and you may not sit unless she invites you to do so. You will show her the utmost respect at all times, which means you will not raise your eyes to her face. Is that understood?”
“So I must address her feet?”
“Yes.”
“I see. And am I to meet her without the benefit of clothing?”
The girl raised her chin. “The Queen ordered that you be stripped to the waist, to ensure that you carry no weapons.” She glanced at his guards. “Did he have any?”
“Only these, Chief Advisor.” The belligerent guard retrieved Blade's daggers from his cohort and held them out, hilt first.
The girl took them as if they were dipped in dung, her nose wrinkling.
“Careful,” Blade murmured. “Those are sharp.”
“I am not a buffoon.”
He smiled. “I am so glad you cleared that up for me.”
The girl glared at him, then snorted and swung away. As the gold-armoured guards pushed open the doors, Blade discovered that his mind had gone blank, and he had no idea what he was going to say. Then again, he mused, the chances were good that he would not be allowed to say anything, and the Queen merely wished to satisfy her curiosity about the impertinent commoner who had demanded an audience. Warm light flooded out of a room whose white marble f
loors gleamed and golden furnishings glinted. The chief advisor entered, and Blade followed.
***
About the author
T. C. Southwell was born in Sri Lanka and her family moved to the Seychelles when she was a baby. She spent her formative years exploring the islands – mostly alone. Naturally, her imagination flourished and she developed a keen love of other worlds. The family travelled through Europe and Africa and, after the death of her father, settled in South Africa. T. C. Southwell has written over forty novels and five screenplays. Her hobbies include motorcycling, horse riding and art, and she earns a living in the IT industry.
Cover design by the author.
Visit the Demon Lord blogspot: http://www.demon-lord-book.blogspot.com
Contact the author at [email protected]
Acknowledgements
Mike Baum and Janet Longman, former employers, for their support, encouragement, and help. My mother, without whose financial support I could not have dedicated myself to writing for ten years. Isabel Cooke, former agent, whose encouragement and enthusiasm led to many more books being written, including this one. Suzanne Stephan, former agent, who has helped me so much over the past six years, and Vanessa Finaughty, good friend and business partner, for her support, encouragement and editing skills.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
The Queen's Blade Prequel II - God Touched Page 22
