The Queen's Blade V - Master of the Dance

by T C Southwell

  Jadar nodded. "Yes, Sire. Why was his presence not known to me?"

  "You do not need to know everything."

  "But a visiting dignitary..."

  "I saw to his comforts myself, and my wife entertained him. I would have informed you, had the need arisen, like now. Go, and send one of my generals in here."

  "Yes, Sire." Jadar bowed.

  When the general arrived, Kerrion ordered him to send squads of men into the city to search for Blade, describing him in detail. As soon as the man left, Kerrion returned to Kerra's rooms, where Minna sat vigil beside her daughter's bed. He gazed down at Kerra's peaceful face.

  "I have dispatched spies and troops."

  Minna glanced up at him and nodded. "Good."

  "I will find him. I am going to join the search myself. I will bring him back."

  Minna forced a brittle smile, her eyes filled with anguish. Kerrion swung away, furious that his brother had caused her more distress. The chances of finding Blade alive were slim, but he would do all he could, and his presence would spur his men to greater efforts.

  Jadaya was a huge, sprawling city, its outskirts a mass of alleys, slums and shanty towns. Kerrion sent his troops in every direction, with orders to search houses, inns and stables, and offer a bag of gold to anyone who had seen a Jashimari man. By lunch time, two Jashimari traders had been presented for his inspection, protesting their arrest. He sent them on their way with an angry gesture, hiding his disappointment behind a fierce frown. His presence in the city attracted crowds of well-wishers and petitioners, forcing him to keep on the move, ducking down alleys to avoid them.

  In the afternoon, he returned to the palace to see how Kerra was, finding her awake and dressed, apparently none the worse for her experience, but as distressed as Minna by Blade's abduction. He wondered afresh how it was that such a surly, cold-hearted man could win the hearts of every woman he met, and so completely.

  Kerrion had also experienced Blade's fatal charm, but although he knew its power, it certainly did not have the same effect on him. Nevertheless, he was concerned for the assassin, which was ironic, considering that Blade had killed his father and treated him with disdain when he had been the assassin's prisoner. Yet without Blade, all his plans would fail, and that, he told himself, was the real reason for his concern. At the same time, he wondered if he was fooling himself.

  Voices from below woke Blade, and he stifled a groan as pain flared all over him. He was so weak he could hardly move, which was just as well, for any attempt to brought fresh waves of agony. His wounds had stiffened, and dried blood gummed his eyelids together. When he tried to shift his position, he found that he was stuck to the hay. A raging thirst glued his tongue to the roof of his mouth, and his throat burnt. He listened to the activity below, the clatter of buckets as the horses were fed and the laughter and chatter of the grooms as they brushed and saddled their charges, then mucked out the stalls.

  The sound of water pouring into the horses' troughs was torture, for his desiccated body cried out for moisture. The blood and sweat he had lost during the duel had caused severe dehydration, and he sensed that he was growing weaker by the time-glass. He was in a worse predicament than he had ever been before, badly wounded in a hostile city, where no one would help him. In Jashimari, few would help an assassin, but in Cotti they would probably kill him. He dozed, fading in and out of consciousness, chilled by shock and blood loss. Shivers racked him from time to time, and even when the day warmed, he remained cold.

  As darkness fell, the chill woke Blade again. His shivers sent shafts of agony through him and made his wounds bleed. Cramps knotted the muscles of his thighs and arms, made his belly rigid and tore at his wounds. He bit his lip to stifle the groans that grated in his dry throat, but only a hiss came from it. Thirst drove him to seek water, no longer caring if he was found, for a quick death was better than this lingering agony.

  Rolling onto his belly, he crawled out of the hay, the boot-blades scraping along the floor. At the top of the ladder he paused, wondering how he would climb down it when his hands had no strength in them. Turning around, he placed his feet on the rungs and began to ease himself down, but his hands slipped and he plunged to the ground with a thud. Fresh agony tore through him, and this time he groaned aloud. His predicament reminded him of the night when he had lain in a gutter in Jondar, left for dead by the thugs who had broken his arm and beaten him almost to death. Then a broken-nosed harlot had taken him in and nursed him back to health, now no such hope existed.

  As the pain receded, he rolled onto his belly and crawled towards an empty stall, where a water trough beckoned. By the time he reached it, his limbs shook and his gasps had dried his raw throat further. He gripped its edge and pulled himself up until he could lean over and place his lips on the cool water within. Not caring about the hay that floated in it or the horse spit that was undoubtedly mixed with it, he sucked it down.

  The cold water chilled his stomach and started him shivering again. He huddled next to the trough, fighting the shudders that shook him. Fresh blood seeped from his wounds and smeared the straw, and his hands had left bloody prints on the water trough. When his thirst returned, he drank again, but this time the water made him nauseous, and he vomited. Slumped against the wall, he closed his eyes and longed for death to claim him and end the pain.

  Kerrion sat on his horse and glared around, cursing his men's failure. When darkness had fallen, one of his captains had suggested that they should call off the search, and Kerrion had almost punched the man. Now his soldiers searched with torches, squads vanishing down alleys to pry open doors and inspect houses. Irate citizens protested their invasion, but the King's presence on their doorstep silenced their objections. No one had seen a Jashimari man, although the bag of gold Kerrion waved at them clearly made them wish they had.

  A squad had just returned from a nearby alley, and he listened to them talking about a room they had found. It had not contained a Jashimari man, but it seemed to have been used as a slaughterhouse. Curious, Kerrion urged his horse over to them, and they snapped to attention as he approached.

  "Where is this room?" he asked.

  The squad leader pointed. "Down there, Sire. Looks like someone killed a couple of oxen in it."

  "Show me."

  The man trotted into the darkness, his torch-bearing squad following. They led the King to a run-down house that appeared to be empty, and pushed open the door. Kerrion dismounted and followed them down a short flight of steps, into a room that stank of blood. It covered the floor and splattered the walls, but it did not look like an animal had died there, unless it had put up a damned good fight. Kerrion found bloody footprints on the floor, as if someone had been dancing in the pool of blood. He went over to the burnt-out torches in the wall sconces and sniffed them, finding them fresh.

  Examining the walls, he found that the blood was patterned in lots of little sprays, not a large splatter from a beast's jugular. As he walked around the edge of the room, he spotted a glitter of metal in the corner, and picked up a dagger. It was not one of Blade's, but he could not dismiss the nagging sense that this gory room had something to do with the assassin's disappearance. From the amount of blood in it, however, it appeared that Blade must be dead, if it was his.

  He turned to the squad leader who hovered at his side, holding a torch. "Have you searched around here yet?"

  "We are still looking, Sire."

  "Send for more men, and search this area thoroughly."

  "Yes, Sire."

  While the captain gave his men the orders, Kerrion pondered, tapping the dagger against his palm. Whoever had shed this blood must be gravely wounded, and had either been removed by his murderers, or had walked out, in which case he could not be far away. He studied the floor again, following several sets of footprints that led towards the door before they faded out.

  One set was particularly distinct, as if their maker had not only walked through the blood, but was bleeding. Spots of
blood confirmed this theory, and Kerrion followed the footprints up the steps and into the street. They turned up it, disappearing after a few paces. Continuing up the street, he sent his men into the houses on either side, and more squads arrived to join in, searching further ahead.

  Voices and footsteps woke Blade again, and after a short period of disorientation, he realised that he was no longer in the hay loft, but slumped beside the water trough in an empty stall. Panic gripped him, and he crawled to the door to peer out, gritting his teeth as the pain of his wounds flared. Several soldiers had just entered the stable, holding up torches and peering into the stalls. He did not have the strength to flee, and resignation suffused him. Crawling back into the stall, he sat with his back to the far wall and resolved to sell his life dearly, if these were Dravis' men, as he suspected.

  Two soldiers filled the door, and the light from their torches flooded it, making Blade squint. They stared at him in puzzlement, and he realised that he was covered in hay, which was glued to him with dried blood. Hopefully, they would think him a dirty vagrant and leave him alone. They entered the stall to peer at him, and he gripped the hilt of the dagger in his belt, preparing to fight with what little strength he had left. The soldiers glanced at each other, coming closer still. Blade could not remember what colour Dravis' uniforms were, but to his fevered mind these were the Prince's men, come to finish him off. One man bent to peer into Blade's face, handing his torch to the other so he did not set fire to the straw.

  Blade waited until he was within range, then lashed out with a steel-tipped boot, stabbing the soldier in the stomach. The man staggered back with a yell, clutching the wound, and his comrade gaped at him in astonishment. The second soldier shouted for help, then stuck the torches in a sconce and drew his sword, approaching the assassin. As his legs came within range, Blade kicked him in the calf, making him howl and hop away, clutching his bleeding leg. The assassin tried to sit up a bit more, for he was sliding down the wall, but waves of dizziness washed over him and his vision dimmed.

  Four more soldiers ran in, sparking his alertness and bringing his eyes into focus. The first two warned the others to keep their distance, and Blade would have smiled at their caution, if the dried blood on his face had not kept it stiff. Their words came faintly through the roaring in his ears, distorted and garbled by his mind's increasingly fevered dullness. They took on the appearance of the enemy, and he no longer cared who they were. He was too badly wounded to think about it, but he intended to protect himself to the last. He pulled the dagger from his belt, his hand barely strong enough to hold it, and tried to focus on his enemies, but his vision blurred again.

  Excited shouts drew Kerrion to a run-down stable, where a squad of men crowded the aisle between the rows of stalls. He shoved the first ones aside, and the others moved out of his way. Coming to an empty stall, he found six men in it, one clutching his gut and another holding a bleeding leg. The other four stood around a man propped up against the far wall, their swords drawn. The man's head nodded as if he was falling asleep, and he held a dagger in his lap. Dried blood crusted him, and hay stuck to it, almost obscuring his features. Kerrion knew at once that he was a survivor from the fight in the bloody room, and pushed the soldiers aside to move closer.

  One of them held him back, saying, "Careful, Sire, he is dangerous."

  Kerrion studied the prone figure, his eyes coming to rest on the blades strapped to the narrow boots. He pushed the soldier aside, relief washing through him as he stepped forward, mixed with amazement and horror at the assassin's condition. "I know, soldier."

  The assassin's hand twitched, and Kerrion caught a flash of grey eyes, then the dagger flew at him, glancing off his shoulder. The soldiers tried to impose themselves between him and Blade, but Kerrion held them back.

  "Get out, all of you!" he snarled.

  "But Sire -"

  "Out!" The King's bellow forced them to obey.

  Kerrion stared down at the assassin incredulously. It was hard to believe that he was still alive, much less able to defend himself, unless much of the blood that covered him was not his. Cautiously Kerrion approached, avoiding the steel-tipped boots.

  "Blade, it is me, Kerrion."

  The assassin tried to lift his head, but his eyes drooped, and he nodded, then jerked his head up again. The King realised that Blade was not acknowledging his words, but fighting to stay conscious.

  "Blade, it is all right, you are safe. Do not fight me."

  The assassin's eyes opened, and Kerrion jumped back as a blade-tipped boot lashed out, narrowly missing his leg. He cursed, then moved closer again.

  "Blade, let me help you. I am going to take you back to the palace, Minna is worried about you."

  Blade's head jerked up, and he groped for another dagger, but his belt sheaths were empty. Blood dripped from his arm, and more oozed from his thigh.

  "Blade, if I do not get you to a healer, you will die."

  Kerrion watched the assassin struggle to stay conscious, a battle that he seemed destined to lose. Clearly he was delusional, and did not recognise the King. Kerrion wondered if he would, or whether he should try to overpower the injured assassin. He turned to the men who stood in the doorway.

  "Two of you go and fetch a litter, or make one. You, come closer. I am going to distract him, and when I do, you grab his legs."

  The soldier nodded and approached, sheathing his sword. "Is this the man you're looking for, Sire?"

  "Yes. I do not want him injured any more than he already is, so be careful. He is bound to be weak."

  "You're bleeding, Sire."

  Kerrion glanced at the red spot on his tunic where Blade's dagger had struck him. Had the assassin not been so weak and addled, he did not doubt that he would have been dead.

  "It is nothing. Now do as I say."

  Kerrion moved towards the wall beside Blade, and the assassin's head jerked up again. He tried to turn, drew back one leg and reached inside his sleeve for another dagger. The King moved closer, almost within range, and Blade's head nodded as he fought to stay awake.

  "Now!" Kerrion cried, jumping forward to grab Blade's arms and hold them. The soldier pounced on the assassin's legs before he could lash out, pinning them down. Blade snapped awake and tried to struggle, then slumped as the exertion drained the last of his strength. Kerrion found the hilts of the daggers in the assassin's sleeves and removed them while the soldier unstrapped the blades from his boots. As soon as the unconscious assassin was disarmed, two men came in with a makeshift litter, and Kerrion supervised as he was placed upon it.

  The King walked beside it when they left the stable, then mounted his horse and accompanied the squad to the palace. Under Kerrion's direction, they carried Blade to his rooms and transferred him to the bed. A soldier ran to summon the palace healer, and Kerrion sent the rest of the men away. He sat beside the assassin, pulling at the hay that was glued to him with gore. Within minutes, Minna and Kerra hastened in with a bevy of maidens in tow.

  Minna exclaimed in horror. "My god. What happened to him?"

  Kerrion shrugged. "I do not know."

  Minna bent over the assassin, her hands fluttering above his bloody clothes, as if she longed to remove them but could not bear to see what lay beneath. Instead, she straightened and gave orders at her maidens, who tugged off the assassin's jacket, struggling to free it from the gore. As they peeled it away, the full extent of Blade's injuries was revealed to the horrified audience. Long gashes scored his chest, laying it open to the bone in places. Deep wounds in his arms oozed fresh blood when the maidens pulled off the strips of leather that bound them, more seeped from his hair to stain the pillow.

  The maidens removed his boots and tugged off his trousers, exposing more stab wounds in his thighs and shins. They picked off the hay, then used warm water and clean cloths to wash away the blood. The healer arrived while they were cleaning Blade's chest, and approached the King, his eyes on the red stain on Kerrion's tunic. He bowed, then
put down his bag and started to examine the cut in the King's shoulder. Kerrion pushed him away.

  "Not me, you idiot, him."

  The healer's eyes widened at the sight of his patient, and he went over to the bed to frown down at him, recoiling from the black dagger tattoo at the base of Blade's throat. He cast an uncertain glance in Kerrion's direction, then turned back to examine the assassin after meeting the King's hard eyes.

  Minna swung around at a gasp behind her, and found Kerra watching the maidens wash away the blood with a hand clamped over her mouth, her eyes shimmering with tears.

  "If you want to sob and wail, go and do it in your room," Minna said. "Queens do not weep in public."

  The girl struggled to control herself, then fled. Minna turned to watch the healer examine Blade, clicking his tongue when the maidens' washing revealed more and more wounds. She glanced at Kerrion.

  "You must know something about what happened."

  "He was in a fight, but one like I have never seen before. The amount of blood in that room was incredible. When I found him, he was wearing these." He held up the boot-blades.

  "Those are only used in the Dance of Death."

  "He used them on my men when I invaded Jondar."

  She nodded. "That is right. Assassins used to wear them in duels, but they do not anymore. Now they are just ceremonial, usually."

  "I would say that he really used them last night."

  Minna gazed at the assassin. "It looks like he lost."

  "I think if he had lost, he would be dead."

  "Then his opponent must be."

  "That is a safe wager." Kerrion turned to the healer as the man straightened.

  "Sire, this man cannot be saved. He is dying."

  The King's brows knotted. "I did not summon you here for your opinion, Ossar. Do what you can for him."