Invisible Assassin (23 page)

The blades on his feet flashed in the torchlight, whipping in deadly arcs that would have disembowelled an opponent or slit his throat. Once again he deviated from the Dance, adding a few sideways leg flicks and graceful gestures. Sweat sheened his skin and a dull ache started in his scarred lung as he gasped the cold night air. Knowing that he could not do any more than he did in practice, he released the daggers from their sheaths and let them fall into his hands without breaking the rhythm of the Dance. He leapt and spun with stiffened arms, slashing at invisible opponents who stood no chance against his speed and agility. The watching assassins would almost see the shadows of former foes falling to his deadly strokes.

The pain in his lung became a burning agony, and steel bands seemed to bind his chest, not allowing him to draw breath. He turned, using several spinning leaps to reach the back of the stage, then leapt and spun again, hurling a dagger that thudded into the centre of the target erected some distance away. He repeated the feat, flicking the second dagger, then gave a final leap, his stiffened legs crossing in a flash of sparks, and fell to one knee, remaining motionless for several seconds to signal the end of his performance.

A heavy silence filled the circle of stones as more than a hundred assassins watched him rise to his feet, clasping the side of his ribs where pain lived like a beast chewing at his innards. A glance at the target assured him that the daggers were impaled together at its centre, almost sharing the same hole. With a savage grin, he descended the steps and strode over to it, yanked out the weapons and returned them to their sheaths.

Ignoring the silence, Blade walked over to Flame and unbuckled the silver-studded belt, holding it out. Flame took it almost reluctantly, looking up from it to study Blade's pale, sweaty features.

"It's hard to accept this from a man who's so far superior to me. Are you certain you cannot complete the Dance? You managed almost two thirds of it."

Blade shook his head. "That's my limit, any more would kill me. What I have in experience and speed is countered by my lack of stamina. No assassin who cannot complete the Dance of Death may be allowed to ply his trade. That's the law." He clasped the younger man's shoulder. "Improve your additions and speed. You lack nothing in technique or grace. Do this within the moon phase, and you'll defeat Strike."

"You haven't seen him dance. He's better than I."

"He's a snake, they lack imagination."

"Would you teach me?"

Blade smiled. "You're not an apprentice. But remember that you are the kin of cats, as I am. This will be enough to ensure your success, so long as you remember it. Call upon your familiar to aid you with your speed, that's all the help you need."

Blade swung away as the young assassin turned the belt, studying its glitter. Talon stepped forward and started to clap slowly, an almost mocking accolade that no others joined. He gestured to the silent crowd as Blade bent to unstrap the deadly footgear.

"They are stunned into silence by what they have witnessed. It's the highest accolade you can receive. They're also, I think, very sad that they'll never see such a performance again."

Blade shrugged. "I'm just glad it’s over, now I can seek my bed."

Talon held out Blade's jacket. "And now you have the duties of an elder, taking apprentices and coming to meetings to judge and aid in the guild's decisions. I'll expect to see a lot more of you in the future."

"I'll take an apprentice, but I'll be retiring to my estate, which is some distance from the city, so I won't be partaking in guild business."

Talon turned as an argument behind them grew in volume. Strike was embroiled in a heated debate with two elders, both of whom shook their heads. Talon smiled, accepting the bladed boot pieces that his former pupil held out.

"Already it starts. Strike may not challenge tonight, but he will at the next meeting."

Blade turned away, pulling on his jacket as he walked out of the circle. "Let him. Now it's between the younger men to fight over the belt, my time is done."

Talon watched Blade stride into the darkness, which swallowed him up as if he was one of its shadows. He shook his head, muttering, "You'll always be the Master of the Dance, no matter who holds the belt, you bastard."

By the time Blade reached his room in the palace, the night was half gone and he ached with tiredness. His lungs were tight and cold, and the new tattoo smarted. Although he longed to sleep, when he sat down on his bed a wave of desolation washed over him. He was no longer an assassin. Pulling open his collar, he stared at the red tattoo beneath the dagger. His trade was gone, and with it his purpose. The future loomed empty and uncertain. He had not known that retirement would be such a heavy burden, yet at the same time a release. Like a bird kept too long in a cage, the temptation of freedom beckoned, yet he did not know how to take it.

From the time that he had become a Cotti slave, his life had consisted of danger, fear and struggle. A life of desperation and hunger had replaced his humiliating existence, then the harsh training an assassin must endure, followed by the tension and danger of his trade. For eighteen years he had been unable to relax, always on edge, sleeping lightly, ever alert, watchful and wary.

Now all that was gone, and the steel spring within him, which his life of peril and death had wound over-tight, was uncoiling. Yet the shadow of death that had always stalked him stayed with him still, an unwanted companion that now clung to him only through the echoes of his past. His gladness that the killing was over mingled with a deep grief that nothing lay ahead but an empty road to old age. He almost wished the night undone and the mark purged from his skin, so he could continue his trade until it claimed his life. He was tired of the killing though, and glad that it was over.

Blade bowed his head, his eyes stinging, and wiped the moisture from his cheek in surprise. The last eighteen years seemed to rise up and slap him in the face, then ebb away like a receding wave, leaving him with the raw emotions of a twelve-year-old boy stripped of his family in a bloody battle. He slid off the bed and fell to his knees, struggling with the agony of repressed emotions now fighting for release, and covered his face as he strived to stem the sobs that tore through him. Visions of his victims flashed before his eyes, many peaceful in their beds, others with twisted faces in pools of blood.

Always there was blood, on the walls, the floor, his hands. Pools of it. He lowered his hands to stare at them. Blood seemed to ooze from his skin in an endless tide. With a wordless cry, he pulled off his jacket and flung it across the room, struggling to unstrap the daggers from his wrists. They clattered to the floor, but still he could not escape the visions of horror. Alenstra's face, filled with revulsion, the way she had looked at his hands, seeing the blood that dripped from them.

Once his hands had splinted the broken wings of fallen birds and nursed them back to health. They had carried his sisters home from their play and stroked the warm fur of his familiar. Now they had snuffed out the lives of so many men. His tears dripped onto them, yet no amount of tears could wash them clean. He groped for one of his daggers and jerked it from its sheath, holding it against the inner skin of his wrist, where his blood pulsed blue in his veins. Here was an end to all his suffering, a way out of this empty world with all its death. He started to draw the blade across his skin.

The door opened, and Chiana stood framed in it, clad in a flowing nightgown.

Blade swung away. "Get out!"

"What is wrong?"

"I said get out, damn you."

She walked closer. "There is no call to speak to me like that. What is it?"

"Go away."

Chiana placed a hand on his shoulder, leaning closer to try to see his face. She spied the shallow cut on his wrist and cried, "What have you done? What is wrong? Tell me!"

Grabbing his wrist, she tried to pry the dagger from his hand, but he refused to release it. Giving up, she knelt before him and gripped his chin, tilting his face up so she could see it. Blade sighed and leant back against the bed, meeting her eyes.

"You want to see? Then look."

Chiana gazed at him with a frown, then pulled him into her arms. Blade found his face buried in the soft silk of her hair where it lay over her shoulders, engulfed in its sweet scent. Her warm, wordless compassion soaked into him, melting the hard knot of despair and bitterness that sat like a stone where his heart should have been. It reminded him of his mother's embrace, which had soothed his bruised ego or skinned knees when his brothers' childhood pranks had proven too much for him. He had been the softest of the three boys, the one who always got hurt, even though he was not the youngest. His throat closed as the memories rushed in, and he released the dagger with a clatter to clasp her with strength that made her squeak.

Chiana's eyes overflowed as she stroked his shorn hair. For Blade to hold her so tightly was something she had never thought would happen, and her heart seemed to have grown too large for her chest. A lump blocked her throat, and she clung to him, sensing the slight tremors that ran through him and the tension that made his heart race. Gradually the tautness seeped out of him and his arms loosened, allowing her to breathe more easily. When he released her, she sat back and studied him.

"You weep."

"Did you think me incapable of it?"

"No, just unlikely to. What has happened?"

He looked away. "I think they put a drug in the ink."

"Why? What ink?" Blade glanced down at the new tattoo, and she followed his gaze. "What does it mean?"

"I am retired."

"And that is what you wanted."

"Yes. But whatever they gave me brought on visions, and the realisation that I am now nothing."

Chiana frowned. "Why would they do such a thing?"

He shrugged. "A test, maybe. Those bastards are always trying to trip each other up. I thought Talon was unusually friendly tonight. They knew that I would drink no wine with them, so they put it in the damned ink. Bastards!"

"Maybe it was good for you to face your feelings and feel remorse for all your victims, a kind of purging."

He held up his injured wrist. "You think so?"

"Surely that could not have been their intent?"

"Perhaps only for the weaker ones who could not face their guilt, but I have killed more than most. If you had not come in..."

"Do not think about that." She wiped the tears from his cheeks.

"You must think me a fool," he muttered, gazing over her head. "Living so for long without emotions only to have some damned drug throw them all in my face."

"No, I do not think you a fool. I am glad you have found your feelings."

"Only until this wears off. Do not imagine it is going to last."

She sighed. "I wish it would. It is strange to see you like this, but I like it. You no longer look so harsh and stern, but younger and gentler."

Blade snorted. "Such qualities do me no good."

"But while you have these feelings, can you tell me how you regard me?"

His sweet smile tore her heart. "Poor Chiana, always wanting what you cannot have. Why did you choose me? You and so many others, giving your affection to one who neither deserves nor wants it." He stroked her cheek. "I shall give you one last gift, if you wish. I promised before that I would never do you harm. Now I shall add to that. So long as I live, I will allow no one to harm you, and, should they do so in my absence, I promise you vengeance."

Chiana blinked, biting her lip. "Your words speak volumes."

"Do they?" His smile broadened. "What do they tell you, little dove?"

"That you do care for me."

"Do I? And this brings you such great joy. How easily you are pleased. Empty words from an empty man with an empty life ahead of him. Killing is the easiest thing I may promise, but loving is something I will never attempt. You must let me go, Chiana. Do not cling to a hopeless cause. Do not suffer for someone who cannot share your pain.

"I am truly nothing now. No longer an assassin, not even a man, certainly not a husband and in no way a lord. I have riches with nothing to spend it on but drink. Lands that have no interest for me but to walk on. Titles that hold no value at all since they were earned through bloody deeds. Tonight I lost the only things I valued, my trade and my title as Master of the Dance, honourably learnt and earned, now gone. What have I left?"

"You have me."

He snorted. "Ah yes, a wife."

"One who loves you more than anything in the world. Who would avenge your death without having to promise it."

"That you must never do. You will promise not to avenge it. Chances are, the Cotti will find me one day, and when they do you must do nothing, you understand? You will start another war if you do, and more lives than yours and mine are at stake."

"But -"

"Promise it!"

She looked away. "I do. But only if you promise to stay here for a while. Do not leave straight away to your estate."

Blade groaned. "Why must you torture yourself so?" He grimaced and shifted. "Damn, this floor is hard; my backside grows numb from it." He levered himself onto the bed, putting distance between them at the same time.

Chiana settled beside him. "It is not torture to have you near me; rather it is torment when you are gone. If you have nothing else to live for now, then let it be your purpose to bring happiness to one who loves you."

His brows rose, and he lay back with a sigh. "A high calling indeed, and one I would fail miserably. But I shall stay awhile if you wish. I am now a man of resignation. My situation means little so long as it is peaceful and well supplied with good wine." His eyes closed. "Now I am tired."

"You wish me to leave?"

"I do not care what you do, so please yourself in the matter. But if I kill you in my sleep do not be surprised."

She hesitated, uncertain of the seriousness of his remark. "Then put your daggers out of reach."

"Ah, Chiana. I do not need a dagger."