The Queen's Blade

by T C Southwell

  “It may not.”

  “I will double the guard on the Prince, and place a man in his room.”

  Kerrion said, “In view of this, I must ask you to return me to the desert. My life is in danger here. If you do not intend to execute me, send me to safety.”

  “No,” Minna said. “The time is not right. You will be returned a moon phase from now.”

  “Why? What are you waiting for? We have agreed that no treaty can be made between us, so there is no point in my staying here.”

  “I have decided when you will return, and it will be in a moon phase. I shall ensure your safety. Once Mordon is dead, the others will lose heart, for they will be lost without their leader.”

  “How do you know he is their leader?” Blade enquired.

  His question clearly surprised the Queen. “He must be. He is a senior lord. He drew the map.”

  Blade nodded, accepting this, for he knew little of politics. It was not his place to argue with the Queen, and he did not care if Kerrion lived or died, nor whether the war ended. The prospect of an assassination gave him a sense of purpose, and something to occupy him. It would require some planning, since, as a high-ranking aristocrat, Lord Mordon would be heavily guarded.

  “Do you wish it to be quick or slow?”

  She tried to hide a shudder. “Quick.”

  He bowed. “My Queen.”

  She waved a hand. “You may go, My Lord Conash.”

  After the assassin left, Minna enquired, “Is there something else, Prince Kerrion?”

  He avoided her eyes. “This is madness. Why keep me here, when you have no further use for me?”

  “Are you in such a hurry to return to the desert?”

  “If I am to keep my throne, I must do so soon. Lerton will be plotting against me in my absence. Every day I am away strengthens his position. In a moon phase he could declare me a traitor and usurp my crown. My people expect you to execute me, just as yours do. If I stay here too long and return unharmed, they will be angry and suspicious.”

  Minna studied her hands. “And is there nothing here that makes you want to stay?”

  “How could there be? Everyone here hates me. I am the enemy. I am a prisoner, no matter how well I am treated.”

  She looked up at him. “I do not hate you.”

  Kerrion swung away to pace. “Then you are the only one. Do you think that keeping me here will change my mind? We have agreed that there is no hope of finding a way to make peace between us.”

  “Do you hate me?”

  He stopped and faced her. “No. But we are the rulers of two kingdoms at war. No matter what we may think of each other, we cannot be friends. Neither of us can afford to go against the wishes of our people, and start a civil war. You are in a stronger position than me, for your people do not have a horde of siblings with whom to replace you. I, at least, can promise to try to lessen the war effort, stop the atrocities. If my brother takes the throne, it will intensify.”

  “I do not want your brother on the throne. Nor will I be satisfied with anything less than peace.”

  “You are a stubborn woman, true to your race. Yet your wishes can never come true, I am afraid.”

  Minna-Satu rose to her feet, her expression aloof. “I bid you goodnight, Prince Kerrion.”

  Her curt dismissal angered him. “I am no flunky for you to dismiss, Minna-Satu. Grant me the respect owed to my rank, if you wish civility from me.”

  “Your civility is optional. You are my prisoner, and have no right to demand anything from me.”

  “If you wish a lessening of hostilities between our kingdoms, it would be as well to start between the two of us. My tolerance for your games grows thin. This exercise in futility threatens my position amongst my people.”

  She glared at him. “Yet you have no option but to accept it, Prince Kerrion. You have no hope of escape or rescue. The only way you may return to your people alive is through my generosity, and you would do well not to forget that.”

  “I have not forgotten, and you would do well not to forget who I am. For the moment I am your prisoner, this is true, but, once freed, I command the greatest army ever assembled. Do not imagine that all of my warriors are at your border. Half as many again fight trivial battles with invading desert nomads to the east and keep control of the mud people in the west. Should I choose to throw everything at your borders, you will not survive the onslaught. You remember the invasion of Ashtolon? All your border towns were wiped out in that offensive, and my father’s army took land up to the Lelgala River.”

  “And my mother’s army drove him back,” she retorted.

  “With huge losses, yes. This war has ever been thus. We take a little of your land beyond the mountains, then you push us back into the desert. Yet you have lost forever certain tracts of land to the east, have you not? Those lands have been settled by the Cotti and used to supply my armies with food. We have a foothold in your kingdom, and, in time, your army will fall. Is that not why you wish so desperately for peace?”

  “No. My people will fight to the bitter end, and you will win nothing but rotting corpses and salted ground. I wish to put an end to this for the sake of the innocents, the widows and orphans, the cripples and dead children whose unmarked graves litter our lands. What is the point of fighting a war neither of us can win?”

  Kerrion shook his head. “That is just the point. I could win it if I chose, whereas you cannot. You have a land rich in bounty for my army to plunder on the way to your city. I have a hundred and seventy leagues of pitiless desert guarding mine.”

  “Then why have none of your forefathers done so?”

  “Because it would be uneconomical. An all-out offensive would severely weaken the desert armies, leaving us vulnerable to the nomads and start another war with your ally to the west, King Jan-Durval. You think the carnage is bad now, but we are only fighting a low-grade war, little more than a border skirmish. You may lose a thousand men in a moon, more or less, but a full Cotti invasion would cost you more than that in a day.

  “Yet neither of us can afford to call a truce, for that would put twenty, thirty thousand jobless men on the streets of our cities. They would become thieves and murderers, or band together as brigands and outlaws. Our foundries would collapse and our mines close, putting more onto the streets. Men who know nothing but how to dig ore, smelt metal or make weapons.”

  “I know all this,” Minna said. “What is your point?”

  “My point is that you cannot afford to rile me. I have been quite patient up until now, and you have been polite. We have had our discussions and reached our conclusions. There is no need for me to stay here longer and risk losing my throne. Send me back now, or kill me and deal with Lerton. If you keep me here longer against my will, I shall be a worse enemy than him when I return.”

  Queen Minna-Satu sank onto her cushions again, bowing her head. Her downcast eyes and obvious dejection disturbed Kerrion, who longed to take her in his arms and promise her peace and happiness forever. His helplessness made his hands clench. Shista watched him with icy green eyes, her tail twitching.

  “Will you leave me now, Prince Kerrion?” the Queen asked.

  Kerrion inclined his head and swung away, closing the door behind him.

  Blade began planning Lord Mordon’s demise the following morning. Walking into the city early, he found the lord’s town mansion in an affluent suburb, the domiciles of rich merchants and bankers surrounding it. The double-storey house stood in a manicured garden, the tall trees that grew beside it shading pale walls and a red-tiled roof. Blade wandered the streets around it, studying it from every angle as he weighed up the best course of action. A high stone wall separated it from the street and its neighbours, but that presented no problem. The quartet of guards who patrolled the grounds did hamper him, but not unduly. A disguise would not help, for Lord Mordon was a married man who kept to his wife. Well pleased, Blade decided on a stealthy kill.

  The assassin spent most of th
e day on top of a wall on the other side of the street, watching the activity within the house. Through the windows, he mapped the various rooms with his spyglass, finding the main bedroom upstairs with a balcony. At lunchtime, Lady Mordon went into town in a smart carriage, a maid beside her and two footmen riding on the back. The assassin studied the familiars that accompanied the coach, deciding that the fat grey mare that trotted unburdened behind it was Lady Mordon’s familiar, and the small dog belonged to one of the footmen. No others were in evidence, but this was not unusual, for most people who worked as servants had small, inconspicuous familiars. Lady Mordon’s mare would pose no problem, since she would sleep in the stables at night.

  Blade left his vigil to find an inn and eat a watery fish broth, then returned to take up his post once more. In the afternoon, a spotty youth came out to play with a large dog in the garden, his garb that of a nobleman’s son. Lord Mordon returned at sunset, arriving in another carriage, a little grander than his wife’s. He greeted his son with a wave, and the two went into the house together. Later, the servants left and the lights in the house winked out one by one, leaving only the patrolling guards. While Blade waited for the lord and his lady to fall asleep, he checked his equipment bag, ensuring he had everything he needed, then made sure his daggers slid from their sheaths with well-oiled ease.

  Finally, he pulled on a black leather mask, rose and stretched out the kinks of the long wait, springing down from the wall. His dark clothes blended in with the shadows as he trotted across the street to the wall around the mansion, stopping there to listen.

  The guards walked in pairs, chatting. Blade waited until their voices moved away before jumping up to grab the top of the high wall and pull himself onto it. Flattening himself, he watched the guards, marking their positions. They patrolled around the house in a clockwise fashion, each pair on opposite sides, so while one pair walked away, the second pair approached. Blade scanned the garden for dogs, but found none.

  Turning his attention to his route, he studied the tree that overhung the bedroom balcony. The smoke tree was named for its tiny grey leaves, which gave the appearance of its branches being wreathed in tendrils of smoke. In spring these trees were covered with minute, fragrant pink blossoms whose pollen caused a nasty rash and severe itching. Fortunately, it was late summer, and the tree bore only hard green fruit, some starting to turn yellow. It looked easy enough to climb, but its branches became rather thin before they reached the balcony. There were thicker boughs higher up, but that would mean a long drop down.

  Again he bided his time, watching the guards and alert for any other danger. None offered itself, but still he waited as the moon rose, glancing at it irritably, for it was almost full. Had he been superstitious, the moon’s face might have reassured him, for it was a Death Moon, its cratered surface resembling a skull. He pondered the moon’s various faces and their significance, to pass the time.

  Of its five aspects, the Death Moon was the most feared, but, as it turned, it presented a face called the Maiden, although Blade had never seen the resemblance. During this phase it was supposed to be a good time for maids to marry and lose their virginity, but he had no idea why. The next face to appear was the Warrior, bringing with it good omens for battles, when the pitted grey surface resembled a grotesque man with an upraised fist.

  A cat fight started down an alley nearby, the wailing banshee dirge of battling toms soon rousing a householder to shout and throw something that clattered on the street, silencing the combatants. The assassin, his nerves jangling from the disturbance, relaxed again. A dog barked, answered by another, and then fell silent. Blade shifted his position as it grew uncomfortable, settled into a less awkward one and scratched the itch that had started under the leather mask.

  Returning to his contemplation of the moon, he considered the next phase, the Sea Moon, when a smooth area of the satellite appeared, dotted with small craters. This was supposed to be a lucky phase for sailors and fishermen, who often waited for a Sea Moon before setting out on hazardous voyages. It never seemed to make any difference, as far as he could tell, but many swore by it.

  As the moon turned, it showed its last face, called the Tree, several large craters atop a dark valley that had a vague similarity to a deformed puffwood tree. Farmers eagerly awaited this phase, for it was supposed to be a good moon for planting or reaping. When it appeared at spring or harvest time, great celebrations occurred in farming communities. The fact that the Death Moon followed also held grim significance for farmers whose crops stood in the fields after the Tree Moon.

  A flitting shadow made him turn his head in alarm, relaxing as a cat loped down the street. Blade pondered the moon that hung above him, feared for its evil portents of death and pestilence. Indeed, there did seem to be some strange coincidences with the Death Moon. The Rout of Ashtolon had occurred under its baleful influence, and the Plague of Bennerald had wiped out the populations of two large towns during a Death Moon. Perhaps, for an assassin, a Death Moon could be seen as a good sign, but Blade had never set any store in such folklore. Clouds scudded across the moon as a slight wind rose, blotting out the grinning grey skull with its dark eyes, then the moment he had been waiting for arrived.

  One pair of guards paused, striking flint to light a pipe, their backs turned to the wind, and to him. The other pair walked away. Blade slid off the wall, landed on the grass with a soft thud and sprinted for the smoke tree. Its lower branches offered many handholds, and he climbed swiftly into it as the second pair of guards passed below him.

  The burst of exertion made his heart pound, and his breath came quicker as he glanced up at the balcony. Now that he was committed, his nerves twanged and tension heightened his senses. This was the excitement that gave his life purpose, the only pleasure in his otherwise dull existence. Not the kill itself, but stalking his victim, becoming a shadow that could enter a man’s house undetected, take his life and slip away again without raising the alarm. That was the challenge, a little different from his triumph in King Shandor’s camp, but far more familiar.

  As the guards turned the corner, he climbed higher, wary of snapping twigs or scraping bark that might give him away. He passed the balcony, the branches there too thin for him to reach it. Choosing a stout branch that overhung it several feet higher up, he crawled up it, gripping it between his legs and pulling himself up. Arriving above the balcony, he looked down, gauging the distance and danger of the drop. The trick was to land silently. For this, his slender frame and whipcord strength were well suited, and he dropped, only making a slight thud.

  Blade froze, awaiting a reaction, if any, then approached the glazed doors that led to the bedroom. Although the night was warm, the doors were locked, and he studied the catch before groping in his bag for the appropriate tool. Inserting a flat steel instrument, he lifted the latch inside, then turned the handle and pushed the door open. There was a click, and then it started to creak. He yanked it open and stepped into the dark interior.

  Crouching beside the door, he mapped the room, noting the placement of the bed and its occupants. Lord Mordon slept on his back, snoring, while his plump wife lay with her back to him. What gave Blade a moment of alarm were the two ferrets curled at the lord’s feet, sleeping as soundly as him, but far easier to awake. He revised his plan, making a crucial change. Although the ferrets were harmless, they could raise the alarm, and if that happened his escape would be jeopardised.

  The lord must then die soundlessly, so as not even to rouse his familiar. Only one ferret would be a familiar, the other was its mate. There had been times when Blade had been forced to deal with a familiar, but he disliked killing blameless animals and avoided it whenever possible. As long as Lord Mordon’s ferret slept, he could let it live, but, since ferrets normally had a short life span, it would perish soon after its human friend.

  Blade crawled towards the bed, his nerves tight. The slight breeze blew his scent away from the ferrets, and his progress was silent. When he was ha
lfway to his quarry, Lord Mordon grunted, sighed and shifted, and the assassin froze until he grew still once more. Reaching the side of the bed, Blade knelt and released a dagger, which slid into his hand. The man’s arm lay at his side, protecting the spot under his armpit. Blade, however, knew that Lord Mordon was used to sleeping with his wife, and his subconscious was therefore trained to ignore the movements of his partner.

  With a feather-light caress, Blade ran his fingers up the nobleman’s arm and slipped his hand between arm and ribs. Mordon sighed and shifted, then rolled onto his side, trapping Blade’s fingers. He extricated them, frowning. Sweat trickled down his chest and prickled his scalp, making it itch. One slip now, and he could be dead, but that was all part of the excitement, the danger that quickened his heart. Mordon’s movement disturbed the ferrets, which squirmed and snuggled closer to each other. Blade waited for all to settle before moving closer again. Gently he grasped Mordon’s wrist and pulled his arm forward, exposing the site on his flank. The lord grunted and pushed his hand under the pillow, exposing the target even more.

  Blade raised the dagger, its tip poised just above his victim’s flank, and thrust it in with a quick stab. Lord Mordon stiffened as his heart burst, the speed with which he died allowing him only time to open his eyes and mouth, but no sound issued from his trembling lips. His eyes glazed and he went limp. Blade moved back to balcony, closed the doors behind him and used the steel tool to pull down the catch inside. He breathed more easily as the night air cooled him.

  A pair of strolling guards passed beneath him, the scent of pipe smoke wafting up to him. As soon as they were out of earshot, Blade slid over the railing and dropped, flattening himself in case they heard the thud and turned. They sauntered on, engrossed in their conversation. Blade sprinted to the wall and leapt up to haul himself over.

  Out on the street, he leant against the wall and breathed deeply, allowing the tension ebb. He pulled off the clammy mask and rubbed his hair, glad to rid himself of the persistent itch the sweat had caused. He had done it again, slipped in and out of a man’s house unseen and killed him in his bed without even waking his wife. Blade chuckled, drunk on his success and the immense relief that came with a job well done. When he had killed Shandor, he had been denied this wave of euphoria, for he had then been burdened with Kerrion, whose presence had dampened his pleasure. He straightened, tossing back his hair as he revelled in the cool night air.