On his way to the mansion after dusk, he waylaid Rothwayer's whore, rendered her senseless with a throat pinch and hid her in an alley. The gate guards let him in without challenge, since Rothwayer used many harlots. A liveried manservant led Blade through magenta halls decorated with drab portraits and family banners to a bedchamber whose decor was just as dull as the corridor's. A fire roared in the grate and lamps lighted the room and the man who sat before the fire, toasting his feet.
Lord Rothwayer looked up when Blade entered, raking him with a measuring glance. “My, you are a pretty one.”
“Thank you, Milord.” Blade hung his head with a shy smile, striving to appear humble and eager to please.
Rothwayer gestured to a plush, velvet-upholstered chair beside his. “Sit. Will you have some wine?”
Blade sank onto the chair, arranging his skirts, and shot Rothwayer a coy look. “Does Milord always pamper us girls like this?”
“Some more than others, especially the pretty ones.” Rothwayer poured a second cup of wine. “Are you in a hurry?”
“Not especially, but the keeper's expecting me back to work 'afore too long.”
“Of course.” Rothwayer studied him. “You could do better than a seedy whorehouse, girl. Have you a name?”
“Shelma.”
“Lovely. Drink up then, so we can... play a little.”
Blade sipped the rich, almost woody dry red wine. It would be more pleasant to pass the time before he killed Rothwayer, he decided. Waiting beside a cooling corpse was not his idea of fun. Rothwayer stared into the fire, apparently lost in contemplation. He seemed like a decent fellow, Blade mused, one who probably did not rape the trollops he hired. Nevertheless, caution was always prudent. Rothwayer glanced at him.
“Feel free to remove your clothes whenever you wish, my dear. You know my preferences, I assume?”
Blade hid his shock behind a smile, averting his eyes. “They told me, yes, although I'm a bit bashful, Milord.”
“Well now, that will not do, dear girl. You are here to entertain me.”
“Yes, Milord. Don't you want to touch me too?”
“All in good time. It helps if you are unclothed.”
“I'd feel better if you helped.”
Rothwayer sighed and cast Blade an irritated glance. “Why did they send a girl who does not know how to disrobe?”
“Oh, I do, Milord, I just think it'll be more fun if you helped me. Then I can undress you too.” Blade put down his wine and rose, approaching Rothwayer.
The lord looked annoyed. “I did not tell you to come to me yet, girl. You are too bold.”
“I am that, I've been told.” Blade knelt beside Rothwayer's chair, shooting a quick glance at the snow-white ghost owl that sat on a perch beside the bed, its wide blue eyes fixed on him. Placing a hand on Rothwayer's knee, he released the dagger from his other wrist sheath and let it slide into his hand. He raised his head and smiled at Rothwayer, who licked his lips and returned it in a rather pathetic manner.
“Gods, girl, you are lovely.” His voice was hoarse, almost a croak.
Blade raised the dagger, which glinted in the firelight.
Rothwayer's eyes widened, and he stiffened in alarm. “What are you doing?”
“I'm not here to entertain you,” Blade said in his own voice. “I'm here to kill you.”
“Who are you? Why do you want to kill me?” Rothwayer did not seem to notice the change in the timbre of Blade's voice.
“You're the only person I can share my little secret with, Rothwayer, because in a few moments you'll be dead. I'm the Master of the Dance, Blade.”
“You... Who sent you?”
“In truth, I don't know. A messenger brought the request for your death, along with a great deal of money. Someone rich would be a safe bet.”
“I shall double it.”
Blade tilted his head. “I am not for sale when my services have already been engaged. How would that look, if victims were able to buy their lives? Not good, I'd say. No, you are going to die. Don't bother shouting for your guards, you'll die the instant you open your mouth.”
“You are her. The woman who killed Graleth.”
“In a manner of speaking, except I am not a woman, so don't imagine that you can overpower me. One foolish move and I snuff you out.”
“What are you waiting for?”
Blade shrugged. “For enough time to pass so my leaving won't be suspicious. How long do you usually spend with a whore? A time-glass, by my observations.”
“Something like that... Could I hire you, Blade, before you kill me?”
“That's never been done before.”
“Probably because most assassins do not talk to their victims first.”
“Possibly.” Blade considered. “I don't see why not. There's no rule against it, and you don't know who hired me.”
“Why are you talking to me?”
“It's better than waiting beside your corpse, and you forced me to make my move when you ordered me to undress.”
“Of course. So, will you assassinate Fremen Demar?”
“For fifty goldens, yes. I shall expect it all in advance, obviously.”
“Yes, of course. It is in my desk. He is a wealthy merchant from the Cloth District, and he wants to wed my daughter for her status, but she hates him, and he is a commoner. If I die, she will be at his mercy. My wife will not be able to prevent him. I suspect that he is the man who hired you.”
Blade frowned. “I don't require a reason for the kill. If he is my client, I may have trouble with the Guild, though. How much money do you have in that desk?”
“A hundred goldens.”
“I will do it for that, no less.”
Rothwayer shrugged. “Help yourself; you could once I am dead, in any case.”
“I am not a thief.” Blade tilted his head, his curiosity getting the better of him. “Why can your daughter not refuse to wed him?”
“Oh, she did, but with me gone, I think Fremen will ravish her, get her with child and claim her by right of offspring. He is a vile man. If he did that now, I would, of course, report him to the Watch, but my wife... is not a strong woman. He will threaten her, and my sons are too young. I love my wife. She almost died birthing our youngest, which is why we cannot risk her falling pregnant again. That is why I must use whores.”
“You could go without. Do not seek to soften my heart with pitiful tales of your misfortune, it will not work.”
“I see that.” Rothwayer sighed. “You have suffered misfortunes too, I suspect. That is why you can disguise yourself so well as a woman, is it not? Who did it to you?”
“None of your damned business.”
“You are right. I apologise.”
“Give me the address of this Fremen, and what he looks like.”
“He dwells at Eighteen Brightman Way, and he is middle-aged and bald, with a hooked nose and sunken eyes. He is vulture kin, but he is Shunned.”
Blade stood up. “Fetch the money, it is almost time.”
Rothwayer rose, his face pale, and went over to the carved coalwood desk that stood in a corner. He drew out a heavy purse and handed it to the assassin, who hefted it before stuffing it into his bodice.
Rothwayer faced him. “Will it hurt?”
“Not much, I think, although I have not had the chance to ask any of my victims. It is swift.”
“May I lie on the bed first?”
Blade shrugged and gestured with the dagger, letting the second weapon slip into his hand in case Rothwayer made a last minute attempt to escape or fight. The lord walked over to the bed and lay down, arranging himself comfortably, his eyes fixed on Blade. The assassin admired Rothwayer's calm acceptance of the inevitable and noble bearing. He seemed to realise that begging for his life would do no good. It was almost a pity to slay such an honourable man, Blade mused, but it was his trade.
“How will you do it?” Rothwayer enquired.
Blade considered him. “I shall m
ake you sleep first, I think. Then I shall push a dagger into your heart. How does that sound?”
“As good a way as any, I suppose.”
“You accept it very calmly.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No.” Blade inclined his head. “You are a wise man.”
“I wish I could say goodbye to my wife and children.”
“I hardly think that is an option.”
Rothwayer nodded. “No, I did not think so. It is merely a wish. I love them very much. They will mourn me.”
“Again you try to soften my heart. It is not working, I assure you. No one is safe from me if their death has been purchased.”
“I do not want to die. Please, I will pay you anything you demand, to spare me. I have thousands of goldens, please -”
Blade leant down and pressed his fingers to Rothwayer's throat, the daggers hampering him somewhat. The nobleman sighed and went limp, his eyes closing. The assassin glanced at the owl, which had raised its crest in alarm. One shriek from the bird and he would be discovered. Although Rothwayer was middle-aged, owls were long-lived, and it may outlive its friend to raise the alarm. Blade approached it, and it bobbed its head, measuring the distance between them. He disliked killing familiars, but sometimes it was necessary.
The bird raised its wings as he neared it, preparing to take off. Blade flicked a dagger, which thudded into the owl's breast, impaling its heart. It hit the floor with another soft thud. The assassin retrieved his weapon and returned to the bed to gaze down at the comatose man. Using the dagger with the bird's blood on it, he ended the portly lord's life and straightened to wipe the weapon on the bed hangings. It had been a most civilised killing, he reflected, with no struggle and hardly any blood. An excellent night's work.
After sheathing his daggers and checking himself in the wall mirror, Blade let himself out and retraced his steps through the mansion to the front door, where the liveried flunky who had let him in waited to open it. The gate guards barely glanced at him, and he strolled into the city without a backward glance, filled with pride and a little euphoria. Talon was right, his female disguise turned impossible assassinations into easy ones.
The city criers spread the news of the slain lord the next day, and the slums were abuzz with consternation and speculation. Suspicion naturally fell upon Blade, but once more the killing was deemed to be impossible and the city Watch hunted a harlot.
On his way to his seat at the back of the Black Swan, a red-haired whore stepped into Blade's path with a coy smile, fluttering her eyelashes. He recognised her as a three-copper whore who worked in the back rooms, and scowled at her. She looked disconcerted, clearly not expecting his reaction, but rallied with a snaggle-toothed smile, trying to place a hand on his arm. Blade evaded her and attempted to move past, but she stepped into his path again.
“Get out of my way, girl,” he said.
“Come to my room and 'ave some fun. I can please ye better'n that ugly Lilu.”
“How would you know that?”
“'Cause she's bloody ugly.”
“And you're not?” Blade's brows rose.
Her smile faltered again. “Not as bad as 'er!”
“That's a matter of opinion, isn't it? I think you're uglier.”
“She's a two-copper whore. I'm worth three!”
“I wouldn't pay one copper for you.”
“I'll not charge ye.” She became coy again.
“Why the sudden wish to bed me?”
“I always did, but now yer 'ere an' I'm 'ere, an' it seems like an apt time.” She twirled a lock of ruddy hair around one finger.
“Well it's not. I wouldn't rut with you if you wore three bags over your head. Let me pass.”
Her expression became venomous. “Everyone knows she's yer mare, an' soon someone'll snatch 'er and slit 'er throat just fer laughs, 'cause she's yer slut right enough. What's she got that's so special? The lads say she's not even a good poke. No but average, they reckon.”
“None of your damned business.”
She stepped closer. “Soon enough ye'll run, when she pops out that new brat she's got brewin' in 'er belly. Sure's night's dark it's yer baby, since yer spend so much time pokin' 'er.”
Blade's frown deepened. “If you don't get out of my way, girl, I'll make you so ugly even a boar kin's pet won't want to poke you, understand?”
The whore pouted and brushed past him as if she was the one who had rejected him, tossing her flaming hair. Blade entered the taproom and sought his usual seat in the shadows, noting that only one of his fellow assassins was in residence. The man he had hired to kill the murderer was absent. Lilu sat beside a jolly-looking merchant, prodding and pinching him amid gales of giggles. Although she was too ugly for most, her clever wit and sense of humour were popular with many patrons. Blade scowled at her until she sensed his glare and looked around, her grin fading. She left the merchant and approached him, her expression wary as she sat opposite.
“Blade? What's wrong?”
“Apparently I'm soon to become a father.”
She looked startled. “You... Oh. Who told you that?”
“One of your ugly friends.”
“Which one?”
“Is it true?”
She looked away. “It's none of your concern.”
“No, you're right, it's not. And I don't give a tinker's fart.”
“Then why are you so angry?”
“Oh, I don't know. Maybe because it's one thing for people to think you're my mare, and another to be blamed for siring your brats.”
“Why would you care?”
“I don't!”
“You're angry because I didn't tell you.”
He snorted. “I don't give a damn what you do or don't do.”
“I was going to, I swear. I just... I knew you'd be angry.”
“I'm not!”
She raised her brows, and Blade leant across the table. “She waylaid me to tell me this, and invited me to share her bed. That's what angered me. Apparently she thinks you're a target for those who wish me ill. Have you been spreading rumours?”
“No. I haven't. You spend a lot of time in my room, so it's a natural assumption, and I thought you didn't mind.” She tilted her head and smiled. “Are you worried about me?”
“I don't care what happens to you. Why would I worry?”
“Perhaps because you do care.”
“Don't delude yourself.”
Lilu leant forward. “I know you do, no matter how much you deny it. I understand why you don't want anyone to know, and I don't mind if you pretend not to.”
He sat back, scowling at her. “Live in a dream if it suits you then, but if others start to think like you, your life will be in danger. Consider that before you brag about how much I care about you. Any friend of the Master of the Dance has a target on their backs, and will one day find a knife in it.”
“I've never told anyone about our friendship, and being your mare doesn't mean you care about me, either.”
“But carrying my child does. You had best put an end to that rumour, and fast.”
She nodded. “I will.”
A man approaching behind Lilu drew Blade's attention, and he said, “Go away.”
The whore rose and moved off, and Blade eyed the man who stopped beside his table. The Watch commander sat down on the bench opposite and signalled to the serving wench to bring him a mug of ale before turning to Blade, his expression grim.
“Foolish of you to send another to do your work, Dance Master,” he said.
“How so?”
“Because my men found the body of an assassin in the slums this morning, in the area where the murderer slays his victims. They said he looked like he'd been in a fight, and clearly he lost.”
Blade sipped his wine, scowling. “Regrettable.”
“Indeed. How much did his death cost you?”
“Not very much.”
“That's the thing with second-rate assassins; they'
re cheap, but not that good. That's why I hired you, at vast expense. I'm offended.”
Blade shrugged. “I was busy at the time.”
“And now you're not?”
“I'll see to it.”
The serving wench brought the commander his ale, and he sipped it. “I trust my men won't find your body tomorrow morning.”
“I'm no second-rate assassin, Commander.”
“I should hope not, with the amount you charge.”
Blade leant back and gazed across the room, and the commander rose and moved to another table to finish his ale. Clearly the rogue assassin was a dangerous man, Blade mused. Although that was to be expected, the fact that he had killed Slayer, who had been hunting him, meant he was more skilled than most. Unless, of course, the rogue assassin had ambushed or hunted Slayer instead, but it seemed unlikely that he would, given that Slayer was his own kind. More likely, Slayer had attacked the rogue and paid the price.
Chapter Eleven
Two nights later, Blade made his way to the Twine District along the assassin's highway. From the rooftops, he had the advantage of invisibility and a better view, able to watch what went on below with impunity. The Twine District's shanties clustered along filthy roads in lines of foetid squalor, and some of the roofs were in a poor state of repair, making them unstable and oftentimes dangerous to walk on. Therefore he moved carefully, keeping to edges or apexes, where beams strengthened them. He passed arguing fishwives and playing children, moving deep into the slums in search of his quarry. The two previous nights had been uneventful, and he grew tired of waiting.
Finding a fairly comfortable roost in the centre of the Twine District, he settled down to wait as the waning Tree Moon rose to bathe the ramshackle huts in silvery light. Most residents were safely locked inside by this time and the streets all but deserted, apart from a few drunkards reeling home and an occasional beggar. Blade listened to the various sounds, near and far, that broke the hush. A dog yapped and a tomcat yowled, chickens clucked and a barrow-hag rattled past, muttering. The scent of wood smoke and roasting meat crept past on the breeze, mingled with stew and urine.
The Queen's Blade Prequel II - God Touched Page 14