Traitor Blade: (Books 1-3)

by Richard Crawford

  He hated to lose at anything. It was shaming, but in some strange way he loved the colt more for his stubbornness, for making every victory so hard. He had named him Bluesteel, and one day there would be no finer horse in Valderon. When the colt settled, he worked so beautifully, felt so smooth and powerful that it was like riding the wind, but he had a stubborn streak and a temper. Angelo said they were well matched.

  Like all horses, Bluesteel chose his moments to misbehave. Edouard could not remember one occasion when his father had been watching that he had not ended on his ass in the sand. Angelo said it provided the best entertainment for leagues.

  He threw his boot down. Soon they would not be laughing. Not when they faced him and the colt in the lists and ended up tasting sand at the end of his lance. He grinned, cheered by the thought.

  His valet brought jugs of hot water to fill the tub, trying to hide a sympathetic wince for a new set of bruises. "What clothes shall I put out for this evening, my lord?"

  It was a good question. Though it was weeks since his birthday, along with Angelo and a crowd of young Chamfort knights, he was going down to the town tonight for a belated birthday celebration. Angelo had made the plans and had been careful to keep them secret. Edouard was half excited by the idea, despite the obvious potential for disaster; Angelo knew how to have fun. And he needed some fun.

  He needed to escape the chateau for a while. Things had been different since the fight in the woods. Sometimes he caught his father watching him with a very strange look. The older knights, his father's close friends, also watched him. Sieur Gerald would not let him spar with Angelo because they 'could not be trusted' and set a bad example. Edouard shook his head; the old men were driving him mad, but it was not just the old men. His elder brother and sister were being strange too.

  Charles had taken to calling him 'mad dog', but never when their father was within earshot. If Eloise heard, she would scold Charles, which made it worse. Elle was so sweet-tempered she never got cross with anyone. But his younger brothers, the twins Henri and Louis, treated him like a hero and wanted to hear the story again and again in every gory detail. He had learned to make sure his father was not within earshot when he told the tale.

  It was confusing. Edouard dunked his head beneath the water. It was as if everyone knew a secret; a secret that was being kept from him. Charles was a pompous prick, always telling him what to do, how to behave. He'd come of age, but still they all treated him like a boy. He eased down into the tub, closing his eyes and relaxing as the hot water soothed his muscles and washed away the clinging sand. Tonight he would forget it all.

  ####

  The wind was rising, sending clouds scudding across the sky. The full moon peeked between veils of clouds, spilling silver light over the town.

  Edouard had lost his jacket and could not remember where. The wind was chill as it tugged at his shirt, but he did not care. He stood outside the inn's door, with the fleshy warmth of one of the serving girls pressed into his arms. He was quite drunk and very happy. The girl was pretty with full, soft curves. The feel of her distracted him from the first patter of rain. Someone shouted his name. He ignored them.

  The girl had a sweet smile, not too innocent. He couldn't remember her name, but her lips were sweet and welcoming. It was easy to slide his hand beneath her blouse. She gasped at his touch and he leaned closer to kiss her. He wondered if there was somewhere private they could go and if she would let him…

  "Edouard!"

  It was Angelo's voice and very close now. Edouard concentrated on the girl, determined to ignore him. Then a hand fell on his shoulder.

  "Come on," said Angelo. He was glittering but hardly drunk, and had a look on his face that usually promised trouble. He smiled at the girl. "Thanks, my sweet, but we must leave."

  The girl smiled. Edouard smiled back. He pushed Angelo away with a rough shove. "I'm busy."

  Angelo would not leave. He slipped a coin into the girl's hand. "He'll come another night." With a push, he sent her on her way.

  "Why did you do that? I liked her."

  "Because," Angelo smiled like a cat. "Tonight I will make sure you manage something more than your usual fumbling."

  Edouard shook his head. There was no point arguing, or trying to defend his reputation. "I'm not going to Madame Rouge with you. If my father, or Charles, found out…."

  "Stop bleating." Angelo grabbed his arm. "We are not going to Madame's."

  "Where, then?"

  "Somewhere special. Trust me."

  "Hmmm, do you think I'm an idiot? Tell me where we're going."

  "You're too stupid to live." Angelo grinned. "Come on!"

  He went with Angelo. Even though the other Chamfort knights did not join them, even though they headed west, past the old castle, past the knights' chapel in its little square, and down to the oldest part of town where a maze of narrow alleys twisted down to the river.

  It was darker here, only the moonlight to show the way. They came at last to an arch and passed beneath it into a long courtyard bordered by cloisters. Despite its age Edouard could not place the building. A fountain stood at the center of the court. In the moonlight, he saw the silver trickle of water. In the silence, he could hear the beat of strange music.

  "Where are we?" he whispered.

  Angelo laughed and there was a familiar wildness to it. He was excited. "Welcome to heaven," he said.

  They reached another archway; beyond, the building rose in balconied tiers. Angelo started up the stone steps. As they climbed, the music grew louder. The stairs ended on a wide landing before a set of thick double doors. The music was coming from behind them. Edouard could feel the beat in his bones. Drum, pipe and horn music like nothing he had ever heard.

  The doors opened to Angelo's knock. Edouard blinked, assaulted by a wave of hot, scented air. The room was long with a low ceiling. There were a few torches, but the light came mainly from the braziers set around the room. They cast the red glow of an inferno. The heat hit him like a blow. Half blind in the darkness, he followed Angelo. The air was thick and heavy with the sweet smell of incense. In moments, his head was reeling.

  The musicians were at the far end of the room. He could make out a dozen men sitting cross-legged, bent over drums and pipes. As the doors closed the music was louder than ever. The drums thundered to a crescendo and then the pipes took over, low and haunting. It was hard to think; the music seemed to enfold him, trying to drag his heart into its rhythm.

  As his eyes adjusted, he saw that round the walls of the room there were men, seated and lying on cushions. Many wore loose robes of an unfamiliar design. He did not look at their faces. He caught Angelo's arm. "What is this place?"

  "Heaven!"

  "Stop saying that and tell me why we are here." The strangeness of the music and the air made his head spin.

  "To see them." Already sweating, Angelo shucked his jacket off. His blond hair glinted in the firelight. He looked like an angel in hell. He raised a hand and pointed to the far end of the room.

  Edouard peered through the red haze of the braziers. His breath caught in his throat. He took a step backwards, but Angelo caught his arm, pulling him down onto a pile of cushions.

  Head spinning, Edouard settled, hardly daring to look up. A flask was passed into his hand, and he drank without thinking. Still, he kept his gaze on the floor. Angelo nudged him in the ribs and he looked up. One glance and he could not look away. The three women were close now; spinning with the music's beat, their arms rose, forming shapes that were somehow very familiar to him, but he was too distracted to work it out. The women were naked but for the long fall of their hair and a twist of fabric.

  As he watched, the beat changed. Horns shrilled. The tempo increased, and the women howled and stamped bare feet against the boards. They leapt in the air, arms slashing down and suddenly he knew; it was a war dance. The music rose to a frenzy. Edouard watched, mesmerized. He could almost see the glint of steel, and he felt the music
and the dance in his blood, warrior to warrior. It was a challenge and he yearned to rise and meet it.

  The music reached a crescendo; the women, sweat-slicked, leapt, twirled and slashed, each movement an echo of a fighter's skill. Instinctively he pressed back against the wall, as if there was danger. Then it was over. The drums fell silent and the dancers were gone. A few moments silence. The watching men applauded. The pipes started a new, haunting melody, and serving girls appeared with trays of spiced meat and flasks of liquor.

  Angelo was grinning at him.

  "Who are they?" he asked.

  "They are from Allesarion. Once their kind guarded kings and queens, now they are dancers."

  "Dancers?" Edouard looked up as one of the serving girls came to stand before him.

  "Innana invites you to join her," she said.

  He turned to Angelo and received a smile.

  "Dancers and very maybe something more, they promise nothing. But you are invited, few are."

  "You will come?" the girl asked.

  Edouard opened his mouth to question, but Angelo was quicker.

  "He will come," he said. "Go on, or are you too chicken!"

  ####

  The girl led him from the room, through a long hall to a door. She opened it and stood aside for him to enter.

  He stepped inside. The room was not large. A brazier stood in one corner. The air was heavy with incense. His gaze caught on a low bed heaped with cushions. What had Angelo done? Excitement warred with a measure of fear and uncertainty. The women…

  The swish of curtains stopped his thoughts. He spun as a woman emerged, one of the dancers. Innana. She wore nothing more than she had to dance, a mere twist of fabric. Her breasts glistened beneath the long fall of her golden hair.

  She made a gesture with her arm and bowed from the waist like a knight. "Welcome."

  The lilt of her accent surprised him. He stood like a rabbit before a fox as she crossed the room. She came to stand very close. They faced each other in silence. Then she reached to touch his face. When her hand slid down his neck, he knew there would be no words. A moment later she reached up to kiss him.

  Her lips glistened, and the taste of her exploded across his tongue. He gasped, "What is that?"

  Her hand gripped his neck, holding him. She stayed close, her dark eyes looking into his as she smiled. "Once, when a man betrayed us, we would coat our lips with poison and take our revenge. But you have nothing to fear, it is for your pleasure."

  "But how–"

  She laughed at his expression. "That's a secret I will not tell. Remember you are a guest here."

  "A guest?" he echoed and felt foolish as she laughed.

  "A guest, with no rights or privileges but those offered." Her calm gaze measured him. "Remember it and be welcome."

  It sounded a little like a threat, but her fingers were sliding beneath his shirt and she was kissing him again. The taste and feel of her were so good he no longer cared.

  He felt her lips curl in a smile, and he smiled too. Her tongue brushed his. The taste of cherries and wine left his head spinning. Pulling her close, he slid his hand along the curve of her back and down, feeling the strength of her muscles and the softness of her flesh. Her fingers unlaced his shirt and gathered fistfuls of the fabric to tug it off. She saw his scars and bruises and looked up into his eyes. Then she bent to kiss each one, working slowly lower until he had to bite his lip to stay silent. She looked into his eyes again. With a smile, she deftly unlaced his britches.

  He lost his balance trying to tug his boots and britches off. Her arms were round his neck and they fell together. The bed was beneath them, low to the floor but piled with brightly colored cushions.

  He sank down and down into the softness, drowning in cushions. He squirmed to kick free of his britches. Before he could recover, she straddled him. Instinctively, feeling some thread of danger, he fought her for position. He was half dazed, and her weight at his hips and the lithe strength of her body tamed him as he had failed to tame the colt. It was like nothing he had known before. He surrendered.

  "You're so strong," he said, sunk in cushions and breathless from the struggle.

  She laughed. Her hand reached beyond his head. Her breasts brushed his face. He pressed up into the softness, and then froze as he felt the kiss of cold steel at his neck. He tried to sit up and the blade pricked his skin.

  "There is a price," she said. Her hand was steady on the blade. Through his hazed vision, her dark eyes were unreadable.

  His body was confused, strangely aroused by the challenge and the underlying thread of fear. At the feel of the blade, his breath came in gasps. He tensed to throw her off and the knife pressed closer.

  "Lie still," she commanded.

  "What are you doing?"

  "This is something you should know, prince's son." Her body slid against his. "There is always a price."

  He felt a moment's plunging fear, followed fast by rage and a desire to meet her challenge. "Get off me or–" He did not make the threat.

  "A price, if you will pay it," she said. Her lips silenced his angry cry. The blade still pressed to his neck as she kissed him. Then her lips were on his neck, licking the blood away. When she rose to smile down at him, her lips and teeth were stained with his blood.

  She placed one hand on his chest and arched above him, the dagger held high. He did not have time to react. The blade sparkled in the soft light as it spun through the air and sank, quivering, into the door.

  "You've paid the guest price." Her laugh was wild. "Now take your reward."

  She leaned over him. Full of desire and anger, he reached to pull her down among the cushions. She let him. But she bit his lip when he kissed her and she fought like a tiger claiming a price for everything he took from her. Her nails sliced his back, her teeth his neck. Her wildness sent him crazy. Their coupling was a battle. She was not kind to him and seemed to want no kindness herself. But he had his pleasure, and it was like nothing he had known, a moment of victory and surrender that left him sprawled among the cushions, sweat sheened and near senseless.

  She lay beside him, panting like an animal, full of energy. He felt the contrast between them. Amazed, he reached out to trace the curve of her spine. She was the goddess of war.

  "What are you?" he asked, and blushed when she turned to laugh at him. "I know you come from Allesarion."

  "We are dancers and…" She was silent for a moment. "Once, long ago, we were the royal assassins."

  In one breath, he knew it was the truth. "And now?"

  "Just dancers," she said.

  He heard the lie in her voice, and knew she let him hear it. "You are more than dancers." It was so obvious. "If you were what you claim everyone would know of you."

  She laughed without humor. "But we are dancers. We whore and spy as our Queen demands."

  "Why are you here?"

  "Why do you think?"

  "You spy on my father for Micia of Allesarion." Disappointment, followed quickly by anger and a thread of fear; they called Micia the Scorpion Queen.

  She did not answer at once. "Do not worry. Our Queen has no quarrel with your father. It is his brother that she hates."

  "Why?" he asked, though he knew well enough. It was as if he had plunged into an ice bath. From the heat of passion to the chill of treason. But what business of his was it if Micia of Allesarion hated King Ferdinand. He had no love for his uncle.

  She slid an arm across his belly and settled her head against his breast. "Because he refused her cousin as a match for his son."

  Edouard shivered. For once, he found no fault with his uncle. He would not see his beloved cousin, Prince Arnaud, married to a niece of the Scorpion Queen. But he kept silent.

  "It is not a slight Micia will easily forget."

  "Why would you tell me this?"

  "How do you think this game is played?"

  When he did not answer, for he had no answer, she continued.

  "My Queen send
s her greetings to you. Your father is loyal to his brother. We are not here for your father." She stretched like a cat. "We go where our Queen commands. Our sisters in Fourges watch the King and his lords." She hesitated, and her voice was softer when she spoke again. "If we are the first to court you, there will be others, prince's son."

  He was lost. What was she telling him? Befuddled by drink and sex, he had just enough sense left to know he could not compete on this battleground. "My father is loyal," he said, knowing that was what mattered. His father was loyal. "It takes passion to be disloyal." The words surprised him.

  For a moment, she watched him. "We know it, why else are we here," she said and laughed. She moved, smooth as a snake, to kiss his lips. "But you have passion enough."

  None of it made sense. Her lips moved from his mouth to his neck and down to lick and tease. He bit his lip to silence the groan of pleasure. Her tongue traced a path down his belly, and her fingers worked a different magic.

  Edouard forgot about his father.

  ####

  As morning light crept through the shutters, Edouard woke alone and naked among the cushions. The brazier had burned low and he was shivering. As memory returned he tossed cushions aside and, cursing, rose from the debris to search for his clothes. There was no sign of Innana, the only clue to her existence the scratches on his back and a very different ache. His head was a mess, full of shame and elation. It made a confusing mix. And there was fear too. What had he done? What had he said? He stamped into his boots. Whatever he had done, it was all Angelo's fault.

  Dressed, he left the room and strode along unfamiliar corridors. Waiting, hoping almost, that someone would try to stop him, but the place seemed deserted. Downstairs, he found himself outside the long room. He shoved the doors open. The room was dark but for the glow of the braziers. A dozen or so men were lying sprawled by the walls asleep, many with girls in their arms. He looked closer, and saw these were not the dancers but other girls. It was no different to Madame Rouge's.