Blade sat in the shadows at the back of the Hangman's Noose, nursing his third cup of wine. A tenday had passed since he had won the belt, and already he had performed two assassinations, both wealthy merchants. Permal still waited in another corner, trying to attract clients who could not afford the Master's fees, but he had had little success. Most who came to Blade's haunt now were looking for the Master of the Dance, and found him. Four other assassins had made the inn their haunt, in the hopes of gleaning extra work from being in the Master's proximity.
Blade glanced up as a shadow fell on him. A young woman with rich mahogany hair and green eyes stood beside his table, smiling. She slid onto the bench opposite, and he noted her gilt-edged, midnight blue velvet gown and the string of rubies that glowed at her throat. Lacy gloves clothed her hands, and diamonds sparkled on her fingers and nestled in her elaborately styled hair, which framed her face in a gleaming fall of burnished ringlets. A waft of musky perfume accompanied her, a scent he disliked. She took a sip from the goblet of wine she had brought with her, studying him in a way that made his skin crawl. Her eyes lingered on his belt, and her smile widened.
“So, I heard that there was a new Master of the Dance. You are young.”
He shrugged. “So I've been told. You have business with me?”
She looked a little taken aback, her smile faltering, then she rallied. “Yes, I do. I will not discuss it here, however. Come to my house in two time-glasses, and I shall tell you all about it.”
“Why can't you tell me now?”
She looked coy. “It is of a... delicate nature. I would prefer privacy. Will you come?”
Blade glanced around, her strange manner making him uneasy. “I suppose so.”
“Good. Ask for Lady Emril.” She gave him an address in the affluent part of the city, where nobility dwelt, and left him with a smile to re-join a group of noblemen and women at another table. Blade watched her for a while, looking away when she cast him coy smiles, then was distracted when the serving maid came over to ask if he wanted more wine.
Blade frowned at the girl, for his cup was still half full, which she could plainly see at a glance, even in the dimness. She struck an alluring pose and smiled when he refused, resting her tray on one hip.
“You drink too slowly, master assassin.”
His scowl grew blacker. “I'll drink as slowly as I wish, and I'm not a master assassin.”
“You're wearing his belt.” She giggled. “Did you steal it?”
“No. I'm the Dance Master, that's all.”
The serving girl sat on the bench opposite, ignoring his glare. “That makes you the master assassin. Didn't you know that?”
“Yes,” he lied. “But it's not my title.”
“So what's your title?”
“Dance Master, as I just said.”
“Ah.” She nodded sagely, dimpling. “And would the Dance Master like anything else, aside from more wine?”
“No.”
She leant closer. “You haven't even asked what I'm offering.”
“I know what you're offering, and I'm not interested.”
“Why not?”
“I don't need a reason, I'm just not.”
Her smile faded. “You're rude, that's for sure.”
“Then go away.”
The girl jumped up and flounced off, shooting him a dirty look. Blade returned is attention to the group of gently-born fops, where the young woman watched him with a smile. They were out of place in a lowly slum tavern, but he supposed that if the woman wished to hire the Master of the Dance, she had no choice but to come here to seek him. Usually a member of the nobility would send an agent, though. Her friends had probably come along to keep her company, and assure her safety. The noblemen carried rapiers, and looked confident. He wondered who she could possibly wish dead. Certainly not an enemy, but possibly a father or brother. He shrugged it off as inconsequential; all that mattered was his fee.
After a time-glass, the nobles left, and Blade waited another half a time-glass before he set off for the affluent suburb. He had not ventured into it before. The two rich merchants he had assassinated had lived in the middle-class part of the city. This area was reserved exclusively for nobility, within sight of the royal palace, where Queen Tashi-Mansa dwelt with her daughter, Princess Minna-Satu. Tall houses loomed over a wide cobbled road, its pavements swept clean and its lamps all lighted. Lush gardens fronted most of the mansions, which boasted balconies with lead-paned doors on the upper floors. Many of them also had gimlet-eyed sentries patrolling their gardens, often with canine familiars. If his target lived in this area, it might prove to be a challenge.
Arriving at the address the young noblewoman had given him, Blade lifted the brass knocker and tapped. The situation made him uneasy, standing so exposed outside a house, under a street light. He probably should not have agreed to come here, he mused. Only the prospect of a lucrative assignment had lured him. Within a few moments, a liveried manservant opened the door and ushered him inside, gesturing to a sweeping staircase against one wall of the marble entrance hall.
“Lady Emril awaits you in the second room on the right.”
Blade's uneasiness grew as he mounted the stairs, but he ignored it. In the passage at the top, he pushed open the second door on the right and entered a plush bedchamber decorated in burgundy and cream, its furniture gilt-edged and ornaments rich. Lady Emril lounged on a pile of embroidered satin cushions, sipping a cup of tea, a book in her lap. She smiled and put aside the book, gesturing to a cushion in front of her. Blade sat a little awkwardly, unused to sitting on cushions, which was the province of the nobility. Lady Emril picked up a teapot from the low table beside her.
“Tea?”
Blade shook his head. “No.”
Emril put the teapot down with a clink, her smile unwavering. She wore a loose, diaphanous gown that barely hid her nakedness, and he averted his eyes. Emril giggled and picked up her tea cup again.
“You are bashful, assassin. Have you a name?”
“Blade.”
“A fearsome trade name. Do you have another one?”
“Not that I'll tell you. Who do you want dead, Lady Emril?”
Emril sipped her tea. “Well, straight to the point. An admirable trait, brevity. I do have an assignment for you, but perhaps not one that you have had before, judging by your youth and shy demeanour.”
“I'm experienced enough.”
“Are you?” She giggled again. “Somehow, I doubt that. If you were, you would not be blushing with embarrassment.”
“I don't usually receive assignments in a lady's bedchamber.”
“As I said, this assignment is different, and I suspect you have little or no experience at it. You are even younger than I thought. How old are you?”
He shot her a frown. “Nineteen.”
“Hardly more than a boy, and very young to be the Master of the Dance. You must be a fine assassin indeed.”
“Good enough.”
“Clearly.” Her eyes sparkled, and she put down her tea cup. “I am pleased to be the first to offer you this assignment. It is a feather in my cap, and I hope you live to accept many more from me, and other ladies.”
“I don't plan on dying soon.”
“Excellent. Now, as to the assignment...” Lady Emril leant forward and placed a hand on his knee. “I think you will find it most pleasant. Not a task at all, in fact.”
Blade scowled at her hand, wanting to move away. “I take no pleasure in killing.”
“Oh, I do not want anyone killed. How uncouth.”
“Then what do you want with me?”
She giggled, sliding her hand up his thigh. “Why, to dally, of course.” She moved closer, pouting. “You are a beautiful man, Blade. Did you know that? Far too fine to waste your life as a hired killer.”
Blade stared at her, surprised and apprehensive, but curious. Part of him longed to experience the pleasures of the flesh, another part found the idea vaguely repulsive, while deep down he knew it would never happen to him. More than anything, he wanted to prove that deep-seated knowledge wrong, and even now he occasionally checked his chin for sprouting hair. It remained as smooth as a girl's, and he somehow doubted that, at his age, it was due to immaturity.
Lady Emril allowed her gossamer raiment to slide off one shoulder, revealing feminine curves of the sort he knew he should find alluring. He studied her, his cheeks warm, torn between a longing to touch her and an equally powerful wish to flee. She squirmed closer and loosened the ties of his jacket to pull open his collar. Her fingers traced the dagger tattoo at the base of his throat, and her eyes darkened with desire. That was what excited her, he realised. She longed to lie with a killer. He sat frozen, partly because he did not know what to do, and partly because he did not wish to do anything. She took hold of his hand and studied it, her fingers tracing the pale scars left by his dagger.
“You have beautiful hands,” she murmured. “I long to feel them on my skin.”
Lady Emril placed his hand on her breast, then closed her eyes and moaned as if his touch aroused her. He watched, fascinated, as she leant closer still, holding his hand in place while she tilted her face and pouted her lips. Her other hand slipped under his jacket and caressed his chest, yet he had no wish to kiss her, as she clearly wanted him to do. After several moments she opened her eyes, looking a little disappointed, and smiled.
“My, but you are a timorous boy. Do you not find me desirable?”
Deep in the frozen pit within him, something broke, and a tide of despair flooded out. He did not find her desirable, and he should. Her attempt to seduce him was failing, and only he knew why. The suspicion he had so long dreaded and denied, that he would never find pleasure in a woman's arms, became a certainty, and with it, a cold rage engulfed him. Since the fiasco with the serving wench, he had shied away from intimate encounters for fear of having his suspicions confirmed. Emril had forced him to face the reality of what he was, and he could no longer deny it. He had no lust for a woman.
His hands flashed up to grip her wrists and thrust her away, removing her unwanted touch. Pushing her down on her back, he pinned her there. She gave a throaty chuckle and licked her lips, her eyes filled with lust.
“That is better. You just needed a little encouragement, did you not? I will wager you are a tiger between the sheets.”
Emril gasped as the cold edge of a dagger pressed against her throat, her eyes widening. Blade did not remember drawing the weapon, yet there it was, a simple slice away from ending her life. He had no real wish to kill her; his fury wielded the dagger, nothing else. His longing to strike back at the cruelties and injustices that had been perpetrated upon him almost overwhelmed him, and his hand quivered. His mind chilled, and reason rushed back, dousing the fire of his wrath. If he killed without a client, the Guild would execute him.
Blade leant closer and glared into her terrified eyes. “No, my lady, I am no tiger between the sheets. All you will find in my arms is death, so do not seek my embrace, it is perilous. I am above the base urges you enjoy. I am as cold and passionless as frozen stone. Beware, and warn your sluttish friends not to seek to play their dirty little games with me, for they may not survive my anger.”
Emril gulped, her eyes shimmering with tears. Blade lifted the dagger and sat back on his haunches, staring at her sprawled nakedness with something akin to loathing. A thin red line ran across her throat where the keen edge of his dagger had cut her, and he knew that she had come within a hair's breadth of death. Pulling his jacket closed, he sheathed the weapon and rose to his feet to frown down at her for a moment longer, then went to the door and let himself out.
By the time he reached his shabby room in the inn, next door to a whore, the cold fury had grown into a towering rage. It was as well, he reflected, that the streets had been all but deserted. He sat on the hard bed and stared at the peeling wall, his mind clogged with impotent fury mingled with dark despair. The suspicion of his lack had been hard to live with, but the certainty was devastating. All hope that he may one day know the sweet pangs of lust were gone, after his encounter with the beautiful seductress. His body was as cold and dead as his heart, a useless tabernacle in which he was doomed to dwell, devoid of any hope of pleasure.
His future stretched before him as a frozen road through a barren wasteland. No sweet flowers to pluck; no still pools to drink from; no verdant hills to climb or haystacks to frolic in. It was a good thing his heart was ice, for now he knew that he had ice in his veins too. All he had were his skills, and his pride in them. He longed to tear the room apart with his bare hands and vent his anguish, but such a display of temper require passion, and he had none. Instead, he drew a bag of goldens from under the mattress and tucked it into his pocket. He quit the room and sought the warm, dark haven of the taproom and the solace that was to be found at the bottom of a wine cup. If the Guild objected to their Master of the Dance being a drunkard, let them punish him as they saw fit, he did not care.
***
Blade lay atop a high wall overlooking the abode of a fat merchant, his next target. The assignment had been given to him earlier that night by an angry tradesman who had gone to the trouble of explaining his reasons for wanting the man dead, something Blade did not particularly wish to know. The tale had been somewhat entertaining, however, and had amused him while he had drained five cups of wine. The merchant, apparently, had ordered a dozen chairs from the craftsman, then neglected to pay for them. When the crafter had demanded payment, the merchant had claimed that the chairs had been stolen, and refused to pay. The crafter was, therefore, considerably out of pocket, and had no hope of receiving his payment, since he had forgotten to demand a receipt for the chairs.
The dispute was petty, in Blade's estimation, but the crafter wanted the merchant dead, and had paid six goldens for the Master of the Dance to do job. It was almost insulting, the assassin mused, for the merchant was a man of the boar who hired no guardsmen and would therefore be easily killed. The wine fumes suffused his mind with pleasant numbness, warding off the chilly nip in the air.
The two-storey house with whitewashed walls and a grey slate roof was set in a veritable jungle of a garden, half wild and full of weeds. Blade seemed to remember his client telling him that the merchant was a single man who devoted his life to making money, but did not like to spend it, apparently. Blade yawned, fighting a creeping lethargy, and swung a leg over the wall. Best to get it over with, then he could seek his bed. He tried to recall how he had reached the merchant's house, but it was a blur of splashing through gutters and bouncing off walls. He was not even sure if this was the right house.
No matter, one dead merchant was probably as good as the next. Blade chuckled, wondering how many assassins had killed the wrong man. He groped for a foothold on the inside of the wall, and lodged the toe of his boot into a crack. As he slid off the wall, his foot slipped and his hands snatched at air. The ground rushed up and hit him in the face, quite hard. Shaking his ringing head, he spat out dead leaves and climbed to his feet, only to blunder into a peril bush and yelp as the thorns stabbed his hands. Recoiling, he tripped over a root and fell backwards, cracking his head on the wall. Blade rubbed the lump that popped up on the back of his skull, grimacing. He needed another drink, or three.
Climbing to his feet again, he avoided the peril bush and staggered towards the house on rubbery legs. Something narrow and springy caught him across his neck, jerking his head back with a soft twang. Blade sprawled on his back with a thud, cursing, and realised that he had walked into a washing line. Rubbing his stinging throat, he crawled to his feet and reeled onwards, wondering if he should return to the alehouse instead. This was becoming a mission, and his thirst for another cup of wine was increasing. A Sea moon waned overhead, and the garden was diabolically dark, not to mention blurred. Hoping that he would encounter no more washing lines, he lurched onwards, heading for the corner of the house. He was not sure exactly where he was going, but it seemed like a good direction.
Something caught him across the shins, and he fell over it with a grunt. A host of cackling chickens flapped from the hen house, making a terrible racket. Blade levered himself upright and raised a finger to his lips, making shushing noises. A dog barked in the next garden, setting off others further down the street. The assassin cursed and lay back, deciding that he was not in the mood to kill anyone after all. Nor did he have the energy, and his stomach churned. A light came on in the house, but Blade was too distracted by his burgeoning nausea to pay it any heed.
Rolling onto his side, he spewed the liquid contents of his stomach onto the grass, sweat popping out on his brow. Perhaps he had overdone the wine tonight. He retched again, bringing up the last of the sour, burning wine, then flopped back and closed his eyes. A light fell on him, and he opened them again to squint at a portly man in a floral nightshirt who stood over him, holding a lamp.
“What in Damnation are you doing in my garden?” the man demanded in a petulant tone, scowling.
Blade glanced at the mess beside him. “Vomiting, apparently.”
“You've broken my henhouse! You'll pay for that. I'll call the Watch if you don't leave now!”
The assassin waved a languid hand. “Call them, I don't care.”
The man stepped closer, his demeanour threatening. “Get off my property, you drunken lout!”
Blade frowned and raised himself on one elbow, studying the man's plump features, small eyes and pouting lips. “Are you...?” He could not recall the name of the merchant he was supposed to kill.
“Am I what?” the man demanded. “Angry? Damned right I am! I don't enjoy being woken in the dead of night by drunkards stumbling around in my garden!”
Blade shook his head. “No. Your name, what is it?”
“I'm not telling you! Why would you wish to know, in any case?”
“How else will I pay for the damage?” The assassin congratulated himself on his quick thinking.
“Oh, I see.” The man looked a little taken aback. “It's Ardenal.”
Blade snapped his fingers. “That's it. Ardenal. I'm at the right house, then.”
“What do you mean?”
The assassin groped for a dagger and tugged one from his belt, almost dropping it. Ardenal's eyes widened at the sight of it, then flicked over Blade and acquired a fearful glint. Evidently he had just noticed that the drunken intruder was clad entirely in black, and wore a silver-studded belt with two daggers sheathed in it.
“You're... What do you want?”
Blade fumbled with the weapon, shifting his grip to the blade, wondering if he would be able to throw it at all, never mind hit anything. The merchant's features stretched with horror, and he backed away, raising his free hand.
“No, please!”
The assassin squinted at him, trying to focus, and raised the dagger as the merchant turned to flee. His first throw struck the man in the shoulder, making him stagger. Blade levered himself upright, cursing. Tugging another weapon from his belt, he hurled it, this time hitting the fleeing merchant next to his spine. A pig's squeal came from the house, where Ardenal's familiar must be locked. Still the man stumbled on, giving little whinnies of terror. Blade muttered a string of oaths and pulled out his last dagger, taking more time to aim before he flung it. It impaled the merchant between his shoulder-blades, and he shambled on for a few more steps, then fell to his knees, dropping the lantern.
Blade clambered to his feet and staggered after his victim, scowling at his inaccuracy. As he reached the plump man, Ardenal screamed for help. The assassin yanked a dagger out of the merchant's back and rammed it into the base of the man's skull. He collapsed, dead before he hit the ground. Blade retrieved his weapons and wiped them on Ardenal's garish nightshirt before tucking them away in his belt sheaths. The neighbours' dogs all down the street barked furiously, setting up a terrific racket underscored by the cackling of loose chickens.
The assassin lurched back to the wall, narrowly avoiding a second encounter with the washing line and circumventing the prickly peril bush. Arriving at the wall, he eyed it, wondering how he had managed to climb it last time. No trees offered easy access, and its top was far out of reach. He tried to jump up and grab it, but his fingers slipped off and he fell back with a curse. Wandering along it, he searched for a means to scale it, wondering how long it would take for the neighbours to summon the Watch. He followed the wall all the way around to the front of the property, where he came across a gate.
With a shrug, he opened it and wandered onto the street, closing it behind him. It was not the best way to leave a victim's dwelling, since someone may see him, but it was certainly the easiest. The wine fumes had lost much of their potency, and he turned into the first dark alley that he came across, heading back towards the slums.