“Good.” He nodded and held out the coin. “That will do.”
Lilu took it and tucked it between her breasts, since she had no pockets or pouches. He watched her with a frown, shaking his head.
“Go and fetch the bundle on the bed.”
Lilu rose and brought it to him, and he tore it open while she settled on the mat. He pulled out a length of dull blue material with white ribbing and tossed it into her lap. Lilu stared at it, fingering the soft cloth. A new dress. She had never owned a new dress. At home, she had lived in her sisters' hand-me-downs, and in the brothels the keeper had supplied second-hand clothes. Her eyes filled with tears as she held the material to her face and inhaled its clean, fresh scent. When she glanced up at Blade, she found him watching her with a frown.
“Tears, for a dress?”
“A new one. I've never had a new one before.”
He sighed, rubbing his brow. “Put it on.”
Lilu jumped up and stripped off the sheet, and he cursed, looking away while she pulled the garment over her head. Tugging it into place, she twirled. It was a little tight over her stomach, but that would soon disappear. She bounced with joy, giggling, then pounced on him and twined her arms around his neck.
Blade tried to shove her away. “Get off me, Lilu!”
She leant back, her hands locked behind his neck, and gazed into his wintry eyes. “I'm not going to kiss you, don't worry,” she said. “Unless you want me to.”
“I don't.” He averted his face, glaring across the room.
“What is it now? I'm not smelly anymore.”
“I told you not to touch me.”
“But you need to be touched. Everybody does.” She stroked his cheek.
He jerked his head away, and she identified the reaction not as an angry twitch, but a flinch, for he blinked at the same time.
Her breath caught. “Blade... who hit you so hard?”
“None of your damned -”
“Business. Yeah. But someone did. The Cotti, I'd say. Am I right?”
His lips compressed into a grim line. Sealed forever, she guessed, and raised a finger to trace them. This time he did not recoil, so his sensitive area was his cheeks. She filed the information away for the future, fighting the urge to kiss him. Her face throbbed, and her lips, she knew, were puffy and scabbed. She touched them, sadness invading her, and her eyes overflowed.
He watched her, his expression shuttered. “Why do you want to touch me so much?”
“You're so beautiful and... pure.”
He rolled his eyes with a snort.
“No, really,” she said. “You are. Deny it all you want, I know the truth. You have no... taint. No... lust.”
“That must be new for you.”
“Oh no, many men have spurned me as ugly. Some beat me for it too. You've never hurt a woman, I can tell. Not on purpose.”
“Why would I?”
“Some men enjoy beating a weaker person, especially a woman. But you know that, don't you?”
He looked away and sighed. “That's enough. Get off me before I do hurt you.”
“You wouldn't.” She returned to the mat, however.
“I want the rest of the names.”
“And I'll give them to you. One at a time.”
“So I'll look after you until I have all of them? It won't work.”
She gazed into the flames. “You can't kick me out on the street. I might die, or someone might kill me.”
“You and that screaming brat aren't staying here.”
“He's hardly screamed at all, and then he only wants to feed. Once he gets it, he's quiet.”
“I don't care. You're not staying here.”
“Why not?”
“I don't want you here.”
Lilu shot him a hurt look. There was no arguing with such a bald, cruel statement. “I'll have to find lodgings.”
“You can't afford lodgings with what you earn now.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“I'll find you a job, tomorrow,” he said.
“Doing what?”
“I don't know. How about a washerwoman?”
“I'm not strong enough to scrub clothes all day.”
“A seamstress?”
She shook her head. “I can't sew.”
“A charlady?”
“They make less than I did.”
He sighed. “A wet-nurse?”
She pulled a face. “They also get paid a pittance.”
“I know.” He snapped his fingers. “How about a harlot?”
“I'd rather not.”
“Then what else can you do?”
She clasped her knees, rocking. “I'd make a good wife. I bear healthy sons.”
“No one wants to wake up to that face.”
“Don't you want sons?”
He looked away. “No.”
“Why not? Every man wants sons.”
“I don't.”
She glanced at the baby. “Look at him. He's so big and strong. Imagine if he was your son.”
He rubbed his face. “I'm trying not to.”
“Why wouldn't a man want a son?”
“I don't like brats, now leave it alone.”
“I can't work yet,” she said.
“I'll arrange something.”
“Thank you.”
“I'm not doing it for you.”
“I know.”
Blade crouched on the edge of a rooftop and watched the man walk past below, certain that he was the right one when he passed under a street lamp that illuminated his features. A marsh hawk perched on his shoulder, its head bobbing. Jobal had led the assassin on a merry chase with his penchant for visiting multiple taprooms in a night, more often than not accompanied by several other big men. They were probably part of the same group that had tried to kill Blade, but he wanted them alone when he confronted them. At last, Jobal was, and the opportunity was good. Blade slid off the roof, his boot blades scraping on the tiles, and dropped.
Jobal halted when the assassin landed in front of him with a clack of steel-soled boots, his brow furrowing.
“Who in Damnation are you?”
Blade straightened. “What, you don't recognise me without the blood and bruises?”
Jobal stepped back. “You. What do you want?”
“I'd have thought that was obvious. You and your pals tried to kill me.”
“I was paid. It's not my fault.”
“Who paid you?”
“The Trobalons.”
Blade cocked his head. “I know that. Which one?”
“I don't know. All of them. They sent a servant with the money and instructions.”
“If I have no better target, you'll have to do, won't you?”
“I don't know any more, I swear.”
The assassin smiled. “I don't care.”
“You can't kill me without a client.”
“How do you know I don't have one?”
Jobal shook his head. “No one wants me dead.”
“I wouldn't be so sure of that. I do.”
“Like I said –”
“Assassins have a few rules, but we have traditions too. You see,” Blade explained chattily, “we don't like it when people try to kill us. And if that was allowed free rein, we wouldn't be safe. People don't like us, after all. So we have something called 'blood debt'. Any man who tries to kill an assassin and fails is fair game for that assassin. If he succeeds, he's fair game for other assassins, provided they can identify him reliably.
“That's why not many people are stupid enough to try to kill one of us. Chances are, they would be signing their own death warrant. That doesn't include, of course, assassins who're killed while they're trying to do their job, that's just considered bad luck or ineptitude. We don't do much for each other, but this is in all of our best interests, because it puts people off trying to kill us, except, of course, idiots like you. The Trobalons didn't tell you that, did they? Deliberately, I suspect. So, wi
ll you run, or will you fight?”
Jobal drew a knife from his belt and brandished it. His familiar took wing, landing on a nearby gutter. The delicate, pink-breasted marsh hawk, with its narrow, cream and brown banded wings was almost blind in the dark, despite its large eyes. Blade smiled and stretched out his arms, releasing the daggers from his wrist sheaths. They slid into his hands, and he raised them. Jobal gulped, his eyes white-ringed. It seemed that, without his friends to back him up, Jobal was a coward.
Blade raised a hand, holding the dagger by the blade, and flicked it into Jobal's shoulder with a meaty thud. The man cursed, stepping back, and tugged the weapon out with a grimace and grunt. He waved it, a little smugness creeping into his expression.
“You missed,” he jeered.
“No, I didn't.”
“I'm not dead.”
“If I wanted you dead, you would be.”
“You're not going to kill me?”
Blade shrugged. “Not yet, and certainly not quickly. That would be too easy for you. I endured a great deal of pain, thanks to you, now I intend to return the favour.”
Jobal growled and lunged, slashing with Blade's dagger. The assassin swayed back, allowing the weapon to whip past his chin, then opened a gash in Jobal's shoulder with a flick of his dagger. The thug recoiled, clutching his arm, and Blade drew another weapon from his belt. Jobal turned and bolted. Blade cursed and gave chase, the boot blades hampering him, causing him to skid on the cobbles. Jobal proved to be fleet, and sprinted out of the alley and headed up the street, arms pumping. Blade raced after him, cursing afresh at the racket that the boot blades made. Perhaps wearing them had not been such a good idea. Then again, perhaps chasing Jobal was not such a good idea either. The assassin slowed, cursing again. Not only was he denied his revenge, he had lost a dagger into the bargain.
Jobal glanced back and halted, turning to grin and jeer, “What, can't you run fast enough, assassin? Too much effort for you, you lazy bastard? Or are you a coward?”
Blade scowled, hefting his weapons. Due to the lateness of the hour, the streets were deserted, since tomorrow was a working day. Jobal and his cronies, however, went drinking every night, since their services were for hire but they had no permanent employment. The assassin walked towards his quarry, annoyed when Jobal continued to hop about and shout snide remarks. The man seemed to have found a font of courage, and Blade wondered at its source. The goading riled him, however, and he broke into a run again. Jobal took off up the street, Blade gaining on him.
The thug ducked into an alley, and Blade skidded around the corner after him, halting. A group of ten men sat or stood around a brazier, quaffing ale and wine. Jobal ran into their midst, shouting, and the band of cutthroats turned to look at Blade. He had no doubt that this was the same group that had attacked him, and hung about together, even after the taprooms closed. From their ugly expressions and muttering, Jobal had told them who pursued him and why. Blade backed away, glancing around for the nearest escape route. The men charged with a roar, and he sprinted for the closest convenient wall with a drainpipe attached.
Reaching it, he found his hands full of daggers and pushed them into their sheaths before gripping the drainpipe. As he hauled himself up, he realised that the boot blades would make climbing extremely difficult, if not impossible. With a spurt of dread, he released the pipe and turned to run. A man skidded to a halt in front of him, and another blocked the way behind. Blade's senses expanded to encompass his enemies, and he yanked the daggers from his belt. Jobal still regaled his cronies with Blade's plans to exact revenge, displaying the cut on his arm and stab wound in his shoulder.
The cutthroats did not waste time on words. The man behind Blade rushed in, and the assassin spun, leapt, and kicked. His boot blade slashed the thug's cheek, making him recoil with a yell. As Blade landed, he whipped around to face a man who attacked from the other side. Ducking under the sweep of the thug's knife, Blade lunged, thrusting a dagger into the man's belly. Now that he was defending himself, Blade was fully entitled to kill them, although he would have preferred not to take on all eleven at the same time. Another man charged from the side, and Blade's arm swept out, the dagger slashing across his assailant's throat. Before Blade could recover, a fist hit him on the shoulder, and he staggered sideways.
Blade kicked another cutthroat in the thigh as the man tried to grab his arm, spun away and leapt high to drive his foot into a fourth man's neck. The thug staggered away with a roar, clasping his neck, from which little red fountains spouted. Blade swung around, his arms outstretched, and stabbed another man who attempted to slash him with a long knife. The cutthroat collapsed, clutching his chest, and a cord whipped around Blade's throat from behind as he turned. He jerked up his daggers and sliced through the twine, lopping off a few fingers as well, judging by the man's howl of pain. A fist hit him in the flank, sending him sprawling with a grunt, and his foes closed in, kicking him. Blade rolled away, slashed at their legs and inflicted gashes that made the thugs leap back with foul curses.
As the assassin regained his feet, a blow on the back of his neck sent him hurtling into the man in front, who he stabbed in the gut. Someone grabbed his arm, and he kicked, impaling the man in the crotch. A fist cracked into his jaw, sending him spinning to the cobbles again, and he rolled as boots thudded into his ribs. One clipped his chin, and he tasted blood. A knife gored his side, making him grunt, and he kicked upwards with a steel-tipped boot, impaling a man in the chest. The crook recoiled with a curse, falling to his knees, but the rest closed in again. Another knife sliced across Blade's neck, narrowly missing his jugular. He lashed out, and a harsh grunt rewarded him, then a boot hit the back of his head and stars flashed in his eyes.
Blade could not tell how many of his assailants remained. His vision was blurred and red-tinged and his breath came in rasping gasps. The wild run through the city had tired him, and the extreme exertion of fighting so many opponents sapped his strength further. Blood slimed him under his jacket, mixed with sweat. A garrotte whipped around his neck, and his hand flashed up to block it. The wire sliced into the back of his wrist and one side of his neck when his foe pulled it tight. Blade stabbed backwards with his free hand, hitting something solid with a meaty thud. The wire loosened, then tightened again, cutting off his air. He tried to turn, but someone gripped his arm, and knees and boots bore him to the ground.
If they succeeded in pinning him down and disarming him, he had no doubt that they would kill him. Killing a sober assassin, however, was not an easy thing to do, and perilous, as they were discovering. A man grabbed Blade's free hand and wrenched the weapon from it. Blade jerked up a leg to yank another weapon from its boot-sheath. The men growled curses while they kicked and punched him, and a slash of his dagger opened a man's throat in a fountain of blood. The man who held the garrotte jerked on it, striving to throttle Blade, but his wrist held it at bay, although it was sliced to the bone.
Blade fought on pure instinct, all else washed from his mind save his danger and the weapons that tried to kill him. His foot jerked up as a thug tried to drive a dagger into his gut, slicing open the side of the man's face. Blade twisted, seeking to get free of the garrotte, which hampered him severely and threatened to rob him of his senses. He jerked up his legs, using supreme suppleness that even few assassins possessed. His feet flashed past his head to clunk into the man who held the wire. The garrotte fell away, and Blade rolled free, coughing and wheezing.
A fist hit his gut and a dagger gashed his arm, sliding off it to stab him in the ribs. The deflection made its entry shallow, however, and Blade jerked up his feet again, two thuds and grunts telling of their success. Darkness nibbled at his vision as he rolled again, his boot blades scraping on the cobbles. Pushing himself up on his arms, he staggered to his feet, slipped in the blood that slimed the road and almost fell. He wheezed, aware that blood ran down his chest inside his jacket, and turned as he sensed an attack from behind. His foe stopped with a gasp when
Blade's weapon impaled his chest, and collapsed to writhe in the dirt.
Eight men lay on the ground, either groaning or motionless, several familiars sharing their fate. Two rats, a scorpion and a small snake, that Blade could see. Three thugs hesitated, beyond Blade's reach but wary all the same. The assassin jerked up his injured right hand, and a dagger thudded into one man's chest, sending him reeling to fall with a groan. The remaining two turned and fled.
Blade swayed, lights sparkling in his eyes. Staggering forward, he retrieved the dagger he had thrown and sliced the man's throat, then did the same for the five others who still twitched and groaned. The last crawled away, raised his hands in a pleading gesture and cried out for mercy. Blade kicked him in the throat, ending his pleas, and found another of his weapons on the cobblestones beside the fallen man. His mind was like ice and his feet dragged as he reeled away from the knot of bodies.
Sheathing his bloody weapons, he hobbled up the street, not thinking about where he was going. His neck wound bled profusely, and his strength leaked out with it. Aware that he was somewhere in the slums, he chose a road and followed it. He was not cognisant of where he was going until he stood before a peeling brown door and recognised it as the one on Lilu's new lodgings. Blade had found the shack for her a tenday ago, when he had kicked her out of his rooms. It was little more than a converted storeroom, which the owner of the larger shack attached to it rented out for a copper a tenday. Blade stared at it.
Lilu would surely spurn him. He had treated her abominably. There seemed no point to knocking on the door. She was more likely to finish off what the thugs had started, and he had no strength left to seek his rooms or a doctor's dwelling, neither of which would do him any good. He was in no condition to care for himself, and a healer would turn him away. He was also aware that two shadows had followed him from the fight. As he stepped towards the door, the darkness that had been threatening to engulf him closed in on a cold wave.
Chapter Eight
The Queen's Blade Prequel II - God Touched Page 10