The Queen's Blade Prequel II - God Touched (8 page)

As he arrived
unnoticed at the back of the crowd, he noted a huddle of elders
beside the platform and tuned his ears to their conversation.

Talon sounded
angry. “He's been gone three moons, what of it? I told him to hide
out for a while. He isn't dead.”

“
Three moons is a long time,” an elder Blade recognised as
Archer said. “The Trobalon fracas blew over two moons ago. He
should have returned to his haunt by now. We can't go without a
Dance Master forever, you know. It seems likely that the Trobalons
got their revenge after all. We've heard rumours of an assassin
killed in the slums.”

“
I still say you're wrong,” Talon averred.

“
Perhaps, but in the mean time we must have a Dance
Master.”

Blade slipped
through the crowd towards the arguing elders, who were too
engrossed in their discussion to notice him. Talon's wolf looked up
when Blade stopped beside his former mentor, and several assassins
behind him muttered when they noticed him.

Talon glowered
at Archer. “You would put the belt back up for contention without
knowing if the true Master is dead?”

“
How will we ever know? If he's dead, doubtless his corpse was
thrown in a gutter to rot and the belt stolen. We'll have to make
another one.”

“
What will you use until then, a piece of string?”

Blade
unbuckled the belt and held it out. “Why don't you use this?”

Talon swung
around, his eyes widening. “Blade!”

Blade stepped
towards Archer. “Here. If you're so keen to believe me dead, then
put the belt up for contention. I'll beat anyone who dares to dance
for it.”

Archer looked
uncomfortable. “You've been gone for –”

“
Three moons, I know. Here.” Blade thrust the belt at him.
“Take it.”

“
If you're able to dance, I doubt anyone will challenge
you.”

“
I want them to,” Blade said. “Let them try!”

“
No one could find you –”

“
That was the idea.”

“
But not for three moons.”

Talon, who
studied Blade, asked, “They found you, didn't they? What
happened?”

“
None of your damned business. I'm here now, and I invite
anyone who thinks they can beat me to try.” He swung away and held
up the belt. “Who wants to challenge me? Come on! Now's your
chance!”

Talon leant
closer. “If you were injured, that might not be such a good
idea.”

Blade mounted
the stage and walked around it, shouting, “Come on! Challenge me! I
call for it now, if any of you have the spine. I don't come to
meetings much, so don't miss this opportunity!”

The throng
shifted and muttered, and a young, muscular man emerged from their
ranks, a confident smirk on his lips. He glared up at Blade. “I'll
challenge you.”

“
Excellent.” Blade buckled the belt on, then pulled the metal
toe and heel taps from his jacket pocket. “This will be a brief
duel.”

The man looked
a little confused when he mounted the platform to find the Dance
Master employed in attaching his boot taps.

“
I must perform the Dance of Death first,” he said.

Blade
straightened. “I'll waive my right to see you dance. I'm sure
you're able to.”

The challenger
glanced at the elders, who shrugged and nodded. He faced Blade
again. “I'm Mace.”

Blade stripped
off his jacket and tossed it over a post, unlacing his shirt. “How
nice for you. Let's get started.”

Mace strapped
on his taps and removed his jacket and shirt while Blade leant
against a post and tapped his toe. The Guild muttered and settled
down to watch, some members sipping wine from flasks or skins.
Talon watched Blade so intently that he found it unsettling and
shot his former mentor a cold glance. Mace bent and stretched,
limbering up, and Blade did the same. The strapping assassin was a
year or two older than him, Blade judged, and when Mace turned to
face him after what he considered to be a lengthy warm up, Blade
gesture expansively to the stage. In a Duel, the challenger danced
first.

Mace walked to
the centre of the platform and took up a stance, arms raised, an
unnecessary embellishment that Blade instantly disliked. Mace, he
sensed, was a show off, and probably a bully, too. From his quick
movements and sinuous grace, Blade surmised that he was a man of
ferrets or mongooses. Blade folded his arms to show his disdain for
the challenger, and Mace frowned. With a flamboyant gesture, he
launched into a complex series of foot crossing taps, drifting
across the stage on drumming feet. The brief routine was
sufficiently skilful and swift to show that Mace had spent a great
deal of time practising his dancing, and was good at it. He swept
into a series of spinning kicks, his feet hammering on the boards
and his legs lashing out, ending with another arm gesture and
stamp.

Blade
straightened and walked to the centre of the stage, facing Mace.
The tension rose while he paused, eyeing his opponent with a frown
and sensing a collective indrawn breath around the platform.
Raising his arms in a graceful gesture that was similar to Mace's
but lacked its flamboyance, Blade launched into an identical
routine, only he performed it at twice Mace's speed, his feet
blurring as his taps blended into a simple tune. He leapt into the
spinning kicks, hanging in the air with the height of his jumps,
the bounce and power of his legs sending a wave of euphoria through
him.

Reaching the
end of Mace's challenge steps, Blade floated across the platform,
performing a series of steps so complex that the taps formed a
rattling melody. He leapt high, his legs lashing out sideways, and
touched his toes in mid-air before landing in another twisting
series, lifting his feet high to hammer the boards. Blade spun and
leapt again, tapping his boots together behind him in mid-air, then
took a few steps and launched himself high, his straight legs
crossing at the apex of his jump. A flash of sparks shot from his
boots as they clashed, then he dropped to the boards, stamped once
and turned to face his challenger.

Blade frowned
at the empty stage, glancing down to find his erstwhile opponent
pushing his way into the throng. A slight smile tugged at his lips
while he scanned the crowd of stunned faces.

He raised his
arms. “Anyone else?”

A low
muttering issued from the assassins, and after a minute Blade
plucked his shirt and jacket from the post and went over to sit on
the steps and remove his taps.

Talon
approached, wearing a wry smile. “So, I was wrong. And you really
thought anyone else would dare to challenge you after that
exhibition?”

Blade
shrugged. “I could hope.”

“
No one's that stupid. Mace was utterly humiliated.”

Blade tucked
his taps into his pocket and straightened. “As I intended. And you
were right. A dozen or so of Trobalon's thugs tried to kill me. I
want the right to seek blood debt.”

“
Do you know their names?”

“
I'll find out.”

Talon shook
his head, frowning. “Why must you court danger? You survived, let
it be.”

“
They left me for dead. I want them to pay.”

“
How did you survive?” Talon raised a hand. “I know, it’s none
of my business. How badly were you hurt?”

“
A broken arm, leg and ribs, and stab wounds.”

“
How did they –?”

“
I was drunk, all right?”

Talon nodded.
“I see.”

“
I doubt it.”

“
Obviously you had the help of a healer to make such a complete
recovery.”

“
Obviously. Are you going to ask the elders?”

“
All right,” Talon said, “but if they say no, you must abide by
their decision.”

“
Accidents happen in dark alleys all the time.”

“
Just don't get caught, then.”

Blade waited
while his former mentor consulted his peers, aware of many eyes
watching him from the crowd, weighing his mettle and perhaps
wishing him ill so a new Master would have to be found. Every
member of the Guild resented his prowess, he knew. Just as he had
coveted the belt when Lash had held it, now many eager young men
longed to make it their own. Possibly the only thing that kept them
from trying to kill him was that they were prohibited from doing
so.

Talon
returned, looking sour. “They will allow it, but they warn you to
make sure the deaths look like common murders or accidents. They
don't want any repercussions from the Watch. So many deaths amongst
Trobalon stalwarts will raise a few questions and a great deal of
anger, especially if some of them are relatives.”

Blade nodded.
“No one will suspect.”

“
Good.” Talon hesitated. “Be careful.”

“
I'm not an impatient boy anymore. I have time on my side, and
I intend to savour their suffering.” He smiled. “No, I'm not going
to kill them, though they may wish I had.”

Talon stared
at him. “I pity any man who earns your wrath now. You're quite mad,
you know. You have no conscience and no pity.”

“
What good would they do me?”

“
They'd make you human.”

“
So what am I, then?”

Talon shook
his head. “I don't know anymore. You’re like a blizzard; cold,
pitiless and deadly.”

“
Or a blade.”

“
A blade requires a wielder. Then again, I suppose you have
one. Your hatred. Beware, lest it consume you.”

“
It already has.” Blade flashed him a smile and walked off,
shoving aside men who did not step aside fast enough. Some frowned,
but none dared to protest.

Chapter Five

The butcher
swept aside the curtain and left Lilu in the dim back room that was
only a little larger than a broom cupboard. She sighed and pulled
the sheet over the bulge of her belly. Only a moon-phase remained
before the birth, but her situation had become dire. When she had
returned to the whorehouse, the owner had taken one look at her
ruined face and ordered her out. A time-glass of pleading had
persuaded him to allow her to use a back room, where aging and
mutilated harlots were allowed to ply their trade, out of
sight.

No one wanted
to see them in the front room, where the pretty girls tempted
clients. Along with her relegation to the back room had come a
drastic drop in pay, for such as she serviced the poorest clients,
and were only allowed to charge three coppers a go. The brothel
owner took one copper out of every three, and what was left was
barely enough to buy food for herself and her babies. Her customers
were sent to her room when they asked for a cheap whore, and she
had no choice but to lie with whoever came through the
curtains.

Some of her
clientele, being poor labourers and the like, stank of sweat, piss
and shit. The butcher had smelt of offal and blood. Lilu closed her
eyes and thought about the young man who had spent so much time in
her bed, and with whom she had fallen in love. His image came to
her easily, burnt into her memory forever, along with the warmth
that always filled her heart when she thought of him. When Tromar
had stopped beating on her door, she had known Blade had had a hand
in it.

Since then,
she had glimpsed the drover in the front room when she had peeked
through the curtains once, and marvelled at his flattened nose and
missing teeth. How a slight man like Blade had bested the brawny
drover and his huge bear was a mystery, but she suspected that his
cleverness had helped. She longed to see him again, and every knock
on the door of her room had had her leaping up to open it with a
smile, only to find another beggar or the slattern from down the
street who sometimes visited to drink Lilu's cheap wine.

Rolling onto
her side, she yawned and watched the scuttle-bugs crawl around the
floor. Her room was dark to hide her face, and she was lucky, she
supposed, that she was not expected to wear a bag over her head.
One of the other back room whores, whose face had been burnt by an
angry client armed with lamp oil and a tinderbox, had to do so. The
men who visited Lilu now also had no gold for her to steal, and she
had been forced to give up her room on Tarbriar Way. Now she slept
here, snatching naps whenever she had the chance. Evenings were a
busy time, however, and the brothel was full tonight, it being the
end of the tenday, and tomorrow a rest day.

A flare of
light made her glance up as the curtain was thrust aside and a
vast, hirsute man entered. She rolled onto her back and pulled off
the sheet when he stepped towards her and tossed three coppers onto
the floor. While he was busy, she thought about how fortunate she
was to have been allowed to stay at the whorehouse, where clients
had to pay or face the bounder boys, who ensured that they did or
took it out of their hides. Had she become a street whore, she
would have been at the mercy of unscrupulous men and rapists.
Street whores seldom lived long.

Her customer,
whom she assumed was a labourer from his callused hands and stench
of sweat and mud, finished and left. Lilu scraped the coppers into
her purse and lay back to await her next client. Back room harlots
were inevitably busy, due to the cheapness of their services. Once
she gave birth, however, life would become even harder, with a baby
to feed and clients to satisfy. The curtain was swept aside again,
and a fat man entered.