Lord Protector (11 page)

"I think so."

"That would be a shame." The Idol sighed. "A pitiful end to a legend, do you not think?"

"Not really. Who would know? I shall simply disappear. It will remain a mystery to all."

Shamsara snorted. "You are a fool. You can be happy, as Tinsharon wishes, or at the very least content, if you will only allow it. Have you not wallowed in self-loathing long enough?"

Blade smiled. "That is my other pastime."

"I know. But why?"

"I would have thought that was fairly obvious."

"Not to me, or to the people who love you. Tell me what it is that makes you hate yourself above all others."

Blade turned to gaze at the Idol, his slight smile widening into what he knew was an expression of singular sweetness that did not reach his eyes. "Others only see what is on the outside, what I want them to see, and they listen to my lies as if they were truths. But I know what is within me, and that is what I hate."

"The emptiness?"

"Yes." Blade's eyes drifted to the fire, and his smile faded. "The hopelessness. I am useless as anything but a killer, and that part of me I hate too. Perhaps if I enjoyed it, my life would have some meaning, some purpose, but I do not."

"If you did, you would indeed be a creature worthy of loathing."

"If I was capable of emotions, I would feel pity and compassion, but that part of me died with my family. It is gone forever."

Shamsara shook his head. "No, it is not dead, but so long as you hate yourself you will never be able to find it again. You have to let go of the hatred."

"I cannot."

The Idol put down his empty cup and rose to his feet, his cheerful visage fallen into lines of deep sadness. Blade stood up, and a hush fell over the woods. The fox jumped up and trotted away into the shrubbery, and the crow on Shamsara's shoulder spread its wings and gave a harsh cry. Blade's horse raised its head and walked towards them in answer to the Idol's summons, and Shamsara put a hand on Blade's shoulder.

"Tinsharon loves you, Conash. Your hatred was given to you by those who made you what you are. That is your curse. Nurture it at your peril, for if you do not cast it out in time, it will suck the life from you, and all his gifts will not save you. Go to your wife and tell her more of what you consider to be lies. See what happiness a few words and gestures can bring her, and then look well within yourself. There is hope."

"For what? Even if I did as you ask, what use am I to her?"

Shamsara closed his eyes with a martyred expression, releasing Blade to rub his brow. "Only you could spoil my exit." He opened his eyes and gazed at the assassin. "For the answer to that question, apply to your wife. She will tell you."

"And what about me? It may make her happy to have me around as a lap dog, but I will not like it."

Shamsara sighed. "Is there anything you do like, apart from drowning your sorrows in wine?"

"To be left alone."

"No, that is not what you want. It is what you think you deserve. Cast out the hatred, and you will not want to be alone."

Blade frowned, eyeing the Idol. "My hatred is all that has sustained me. Without it, I shall have nothing."

"It sustained you through the dark days of your loss and the harsh times that followed, but it will not bring you joy, and ultimately it will destroy you."

Shamsara turned away, raising a hand in a brief gesture of farewell as he walked into the forest. Before Blade could think of a suitable retort, the trees had swallowed him. The assassin sat down by the fire again, pondering the seer's words while he stared into the flames. If it was even possible to do as Shamsara asked, what would he be left with? Without his hatred, he would be utterly empty, something he had already experienced upon his retirement. Then the drug in the tattoo ink had stripped away his hatred and rage, and he had fallen into a deep depression that only copious amounts of wine had alleviated somewhat.

Chiana had dragged him from it by locking him in the dungeons until his anger had stirred within him again, and had not released him until he had regained his cold rage once more. How could he cast aside that which had been a part of him for thirty years, and what if he found nothing to replace it? It seemed like a recipe for disaster, and not one he was willing to court at this time. The old seer did not understand him, and could not plumb the depths of his soul, where the scars of his pain remained, only half healed by time.

Blade drained his tea and stood, packing up the camp once more.

Chapter Eight

Blade arrived in Jondar almost a moon after his meeting with Shamsara, riding through the crowded, dirty slums with a sense of homecoming. Whores offered their wares from doorways and windows, street urchins and pick-pockets darted through the crowds, peddlers shouted and waved their goods at passers-by. He glanced back at Embeth, who rode one of his packhorses, and looked a little overwhelmed by the city she had left behind fifteen years before. Blade's return to his estate had delighted Lilu, and she had been overjoyed when he had agreed to take Embeth to court with him. She had confined her joy to a lonion-scented hug, releasing him before he pushed her away. For the next tenday, she and Embeth had spent much of their time sewing new gowns from swathes of rich cloth she had bought with her savings, pestering Blade for details of the latest court fashions. He had quelled his urge to tell her the fops at court wore paja bird feathers on their bottoms and fen-dog fangs around their necks. Embeth had proven to be a pleasantly silent travelling companion, and saw to his needs with commendable efficiency.

Passing through the slums around the northern gate, Blade guided his horse into the central marketplace, where merchants of every variety displayed their wares. Street sweepers struggled to clear away the endless supply of garbage, from the mounds of dung that fouled the livestock pens to the rotting vegetables that farmers discarded.

The stench made him wish he did not need to breathe, and the crowd's noise, mingled with the cries of beasts and merchants, drowned out his thoughts. He passed through it as quickly as possible, ignoring the pleas of stall owners and the wares they thrust at him. His rich clothes and silver-edged cloak made him a popular target, and vendors crowded around his horse. Embeth stayed close to him, shaking off the plucking hands of traders who did not dare to accost Blade in the same manner.

Leaving the market's hubbub, they rode through a middle class district and into a more affluent suburb that bordered the broad, tree-lined avenue that led to the palace. Nobility who visited the palace primarily used the avenue, and, whereas Blade had appeared rich in the marketplace, he was plainly dressed compared to the court popinjays. Embeth stared at the powdered fops and jewelled ladies in blatant fascination, earning herself and Blade a few frowns and sniffs. The difference between the rich and poor was marked, not only by their dress and manner, but by their familiars.

In the market, few had been in evidence, since most were small, insignificant beasts, insects and birds. In the avenue, however, large animals abounded, especially dogs, birds of prey and horses. Embeth's familiar was a songbird, a mark of the lower classes, but since the Regent was a woman of doves such stigmas had become less important. Blade imagined what it would be like when Rivan walked at his side once more, experiencing a surge of pride at the prospect. Although a forest cat was not as large or dangerous as the sand cat or spotted snow cat, it was still a powerful and noble familiar.

They arrived at the palace gates as a gilded coach was leaving, and Embeth guided her horse from its path, but Blade kept to the centre of the road. The coachman raised his whip in a half-hearted attempt to chase the assassin away, then decided against it and reined in his team. The carriage's occupants, however, took a dim view of the matter, and a powdered dandy stuck his head out of the window.

"You there! Lout! Do you not know better than to get in the way of a member of the nobility?"

Blade guided his horse closer to the carriage window and swept back his cloak, revealing its rich satin lining. "And who might you be, pray tell?"

The fop swelled visibly, his starched ruff bristling. "I am Viscount Jaraba, you insolent wretch. You should be using the servant's entrance, if you have any business in the palace at all."

Blade smiled. "Indeed I have business here. I have come to visit my wife."

"An underling chambermaid, no doubt. That does not give you the right to use the main entrance."

Blade reined his horse closer still. "Oh, she is a little more important than that, but I will be sure to pass on your remarks."

A rouged woman in a feathered hat poked her head out of the rear window and raked Blade with a scornful look. "We do not care if she is a lady-in-waiting, it does not allow you to be so impertinent."

Blade chuckled, starting to enjoy himself. "I do not need to rely on her importance to gain entrance here, madam. But do go on with your rhetoric, it is most entertaining."

"How dare you?" the fop cried, opening the door and jumping out. "Get down, oaf, and I shall teach you some manners."

"Will you, indeed? That would be interesting, if I had the time or inclination to allow it. Clearly you do not frequent the palace very often, or perhaps it is I who am at fault in that regard. However, right of way is dictated by rank, and I am afraid that you are in the wrong."

The dandy reddened, and his hand dropped to the hilt of the rapier that hung on his belt. "Get down I say, before I drag you from your nag!"

Blade laughed, patting his horse. "He might be ill bred, like you, but he is not a nag."

Viscount Jaraba stepped forward and grabbed Blade's horse's reins, making the beast shy. "Clearly you do not have the good sense to do as you are told, dolt, but insulting a viscount is a serious offence."

"It is you who have aired most of the insults here, and without proper introductions, too."

"I do not care who you are. You certainly do not outrank me."

"Indeed?" Blade chuckled again. "And since you do not know who I am, how can you be certain of that?"

"I just have to look at you, fool!"

"Ah. Do all nobility dress like peacocks in heat?"

Jaraba stepped back and drew his rapier with a hiss, shouting, "That is it! My patience is at an end. Get off that beast, or I shall have the guards do it for you!"

Blade raised a hand and beckoned to one of the gate guards. The man marched over and bowed low, but Jaraba, thinking the man was bowing to him, indicated Blade with a furious finger.

"Drag that man from his horse, guardsman!"

Blade smiled at the confused soldier. "Do you know me, guardsman?"

"Yes, My Lord."

Jaraba froze, staring at the guard, and Blade said, "Then kindly introduce me to Viscount Jaraba."

"At once, My Lord." The soldier turned to Jaraba. "Allow me to present His Grace, High Lord Conash, Lord Protector of Jashimari, sacred Knight of the Veil, former regent and husband of Regent Chiana."

Blade nodded. "I think that is most of my numerous titles, but I am certain that Viscount Jaraba knows the rest."

Jaraba gaped at Blade, the rapier falling from his nerveless hand to clatter on the paving stones. A soft thud from the carriage told Blade that Jaraba's lady companion had fainted. Jaraba was made of sterner stuff, although he had turned as white as a sheet. He fell to one knee and bowed until his forehead almost touched the road, straightening slowly.

Blade remarked, "I do not warrant a prostration, Jaraba. I am only a high lord, not the Queen."

"My Lord. I - I did not know. I beg your forgiveness. My words were ill considered. I am stricken with embarrassment."

"So you should be. But I have to admit I enjoyed our little encounter. Seldom have I met a man more endowed with foolish pride, who is such a complete lack wit."

"I am mortified, My Lord. Please forgive me."

"Next time, ask for an introduction before you challenge someone to a duel. I trust you are aware that you would have been most thoroughly humiliated, had I thought to amuse myself further at your expense?"

Jaraba nodded. "Indeed I am, My Lord. And most grateful that you spared me the embarrassment. Anything I can do to make amends, name it."

Blade glanced at Embeth. "I may do that, but, for the moment, you may remove your carriage from my path."

Jaraba swung to shout at his luckless coachman, and the team of snorting, high-stepping horses drew the carriage aside. Jaraba bowed again, then rushed to climb into his coach when Blade waved a dismissive hand. As the carriage rumbled away, Embeth guided her horse closer to Blade's.

"I didn't think you had a sense of humour, My Lord."

"There's much you don't know about me, girl."

"So it seems. You enjoyed that, yet you scorn your high rank."

He shrugged. "It means little to me, but humiliating idiots like him is always amusing. In that regard, it's quite useful."

"And you talk different. When you're with us, you speak like we do, but when you spoke to him, your manner was more noble than his."

"It's a talent I discovered in my youth. I have the ability to mimic any form of speech after hearing it for a short time. Queen Minna-Satu taught me court manners, since my own were, in her opinion, boorish."

She urged her horse after him when he headed for the gates, past bowing guards.

Blade ensured that Embeth was installed in rooms used by the lesser nobility, then sought his suite, where Arken had already prepared a hot bath. News of his arrival had spread swiftly through the palace, and he wondered how Chiana would react.

"What does he want?" Chiana frowned at the messenger who had just delivered the news of her husband's arrival.

The man shrugged. "He did not say, Regent. He has retired to his rooms. But there is a woman with him, who has been installed in the lower court's accommodation."

"And who is she?"

"That too remains a mystery, my lady."

Chiana nodded and dismissed him before turning to gaze out at the spring garden with its newly budded, bright green leaves. Her longing to see Blade burnt like a fire in her breast, making it difficult to breathe, and she struggled to quell the urge to run to his rooms. Tears stung her eyes at the bittersweet joy of his return, mingled with an ironic resentment that he had. For fifteen years, she had longed for him to do this, and would have welcomed him joyfully, but now, when she had resolved not to see him, it only added to her heartache.