Blade glanced up as a well-dressed merchant slid onto the bench opposite him, banging down a tankard of ale. The assassin leant back and sipped his wine, casting a quick glance around the dimly lighted taproom. Permal sat in another dark corner, nursing a jug of ale, and three other assassins lurked in the shadows. The muscular man opposite Blade leant forward, his eyes on the glittering belt that clasped the assassin's slim waist.
“You're the Master of the Dance?”
Blade inclined his head. “I am.”
“You look like a damned boy.”
The assassin shrugged and looked away, tired of such comments from prospective clients. They all found him too young looking, even now that he was all of twenty-two years of age. In the three years that had passed since he had won the belt, he had lost count of the number of assassinations he had performed, but it was a lot. Experience had tempered him, and taught him a great deal about the art of killing. That was what it was to him now, but the killing itself was not the thrill. It was his ability to enter a sleeping man's house and slay him in his bed, then escape undetected, that filled him with pride. His prowess, and his inordinately long stint as the Master of the Dance, had led to whispers about him amongst his peers, and a rumour circulated that the common folk called him the Silent Slayer. Blade was not particularly fond of the title, but it proclaimed his skill, so he did not refute it.
“I have a job for you,” the merchant stated, drawing Blade's attention to him again.
“What is it?”
“I want the head of the Trobalon family dead. His name is Graleth, and he's a man of the bull. He dwells in the rich quarter, at the end of Bloodwood Street. It's a mansion; you can't miss it.”
Blade frowned, considering. The Trobalon family was a well-known dynasty of wealthy merchants that comprised a vast network of dealers, carters, tradesmen and shop-owners, thereby excluding outsiders and ensuring that all the profits went into the family's coffers. Some rumours even claimed that distant relatives owned the farms and mines that produced the raw materials. Most people knew where Graleth lived. He was the patriarch of the clan, and kept a small army of bodyguards, many of whom were veterans of the Endless War. His mansion resembled a fortress, with high walls and patrolling dogmen. Blade eyed the man who awaited his reply, noting his gold-trimmed velvet coat and satin shirt.
“And who might you be?”
“What does that matter? I can afford to pay you whatever you demand, but the job must be well done. I want to hire no bunglers or foolish, inexperienced boys.”
Blade leant forward and banged his cup on the table, nettled. “Then bugger off and find someone who looks the part, if I don't. I am the Master of the Dance, don't doubt it. If that's not good enough, try the likely looking man in yonder corner. He looks the part, I'll wager.” He indicated Permal with a stab of his finger.
The merchant raised his hands in an appeasing gesture. “No need to get riled. I can't be too careful, you understand. If anything should go wrong, suspicion will fall upon my family, and the reprisals will be dire.”
“Even if everything goes right, suspicion will fall on you if you're Graleth's enemy.”
The merchant nodded, fiddling with the gold chains around his neck. “But I too come from a powerful family, and the Trobalon clan will be reluctant to accuse us if Graleth is killed cleanly. Without proof, they would cause an uproar and summon the Watch, but nothing more. But if you're captured, they'll torture you until you tell them who hired you. Even if I don't tell you my name, my description will be enough.”
“Then you should have worn a hood if you think I would betray a client. It's part of my code.”
“I know, but to look at you...” The man shook his head. “You don't look capable of withstanding torture, and they will do horrible things to you if they catch you.”
“Firstly, they won't catch me, and secondly, looks are deceiving. I've already endured more suffering than you could ever imagine.”
The merchant inclined his head. “I've heard that the current Master of the Dance is called the Silent Slayer. You're not what I was expecting, though.”
“I'm losing interest, merchantman. Either hire me or leave. I have no interest in your opinion of me.”
The man quaffed his ale, wiped the foam from his upper lip and nodded. “All right. I'm Borass, from the Artemann Clan. My father is Perinius, matriarch of our family. Graleth has given offense, and my father wants revenge. What will your fee be?”
Blade considered, frowning at his wine. The Artemann clan was as powerful as the Trobalon family, and some said more ruthless. The two dynasties had ever been at loggerheads, and a blood feud existed between them whose origins had been lost in time. Rather like the Endless War, it continued on its own momentum, spurred by occasional confrontations and bloody street brawls. The assignment would be a difficult one, and the prospect excited him, but it would also have to be lucrative, for that much danger.
“Fifty goldens.”
Borass gave a low whistle. “You're not cheap, that's certain.”
“The Master never is. It's not negotiable, either.”
“How do I know another assassin wouldn't do just as good a job as you for half the price?”
Blade smiled and raised his eyes to meet Borass', noting the way his gaze made the man flinch. “Hire one then, if you want the job bungled and your throat slit by Graleth's family.”
Borass shook his head, looking ill at ease. “No, I'll hire you. At least this way, if it does go awry, no one will blame me for hiring an inferior assassin. If the Master of the Dance fails, the blame will fall on your Guild.”
The assassin scowled, disliking Borass' inference. “I don't fail, Borass, that's why I'm the Dance Master.”
The merchant drew a pouch from his jacket and dropped it on the table with a clink. “There's five and twenty goldens. When will the job be done?”
“Within the tenday.”
“See that it is, or you'll deal with the Artemann Clan, and you won't enjoy the experience.”
Blade's frowned deepened. “And you'd be well advised not to threaten me.”
“A friendly warning, Dance Master. One you would do well to heed.”
The assassin glared at Borass' back as the merchant marched off, then picked up his cup of wine and sipped it, glancing at the pouch. The fee was the largest he had ever demanded, and the fact that Borass had been carrying that much on him rankled. It made him feel cheap. Draining his wine cup, he tucked the pouch away and left the inn.
***
Blade lounged on a rooftop two houses away from Graleth's mansion and studied it through his newly acquired spyglass. The Bortalon family employed not only guards, but spies and lookouts as well, making a closer vantage perilous. Over the past two days, he had mapped the mansion through its windows, and logged Graleth's habits, but he had yet to find a weak point in the defences. Four pairs of dogmen patrolled around the house, ensuring that there were always two on every side. They were all retired soldiers with canine familiars, and carried not only swords and daggers, but loaded crossbows as well. The ill-bred black bull that was Graleth's familiar grazed in the garden, with two cows for company.
The mansion also housed Graleth's two sons and four daughters, a daughter-in-law and a grandchild, as well as several others who may be nephews and nieces. This added two horses and a donkey to the herd of familiars in the garden, and several birds winged in and out of dwelling, carrying messages, he guessed, to far-flung family members. The mansion was a hive of activity from dawn to long after dusk, with a constant traffic of associates and servants. The patriarch was a widower, and a whore also arrived after dark each night, either for his pleasure or that of his unwed son's. His daughters remained unmarried by virtue of their extreme homeliness, and in spite of their father's wealth.
Graleth was a tall, portly man in his fifties, grey-bearded and ill-tempered, by the look of him, and the frequent shouted arguments that flared within the house. He had recently inherited his patriarchal status from his father, who had passed away just two moons ago, according to gossip. Blade made it his business to visit the fish market regularly to listen to the wives' banter, which was an excellent source of news. Better than the town criers, at any rate, who tended to spread only news from the palace. Perhaps the source of the renewed animosity between the Bortalon and Artemann houses was due to the new Bortalon patriarch, who was said to be a stubborn, miserly man with a penchant for humiliating lesser men. It may also have something to do with Graleth's son's apparent attempt to seduce an Artemann daughter, which had ended in violence.
Blade shifted to ease the growing ache in his right buttock, and lowered the spyglass with a sigh. The mansion appeared to be impregnable, and he considered other options. Graleth spent his days in his office, closer to the heart of the city, but striking at him in broad daylight, and while he was surrounded by family members and dogmen, was even more dangerous. The patriarch did not appear to frequent drinking establishments or whorehouses, nor did he seem to have any friends. Only one stranger was allowed into the house on a regular basis, and that was the whore who came each night. It seemed more likely that she was there for the son's use, but it would still gain him entry.
The assassin paused to review that thought, frowning. Talon's suggestion three years ago, that he should employ a female disguise, still rankled. He remembered the disconcerting sight of his powdered reflection with its red lips and shadowed eyes. The thought of dressing as a woman still angered him, especially the notion that he could look so girlish, which he knew to be true from his time amongst the Cotti. The humiliation of that experience had not dimmed with time, and he was not certain that he would be able to don a female disguise and endure men's lecherous looks without fury overcoming him.
If the whore visited the son, and he tried to force his attentions on Blade, he was convinced that the luckless man would die with two hand spans of steel through his heart. That would make Blade a murderer, and bring down the wrath of the Guild upon his head. The assassin picked up the wine skin beside him and drank some, pondering his dilemma. Unless Graleth did something out of the ordinary and exposed himself, coming within striking distance of him would be near impossible. Considering how many enemies the Bortalon patriarch had, it seemed unlikely that he would take any risks.
Rising to his feet, Blade tucked away the spyglass and slung the wine skin over his shoulder, walked to the edge of the roof and jumped down to the street. A passing peddler recoiled in surprise when the assassin landed in front of him, and hurried off, muttering. Blade sauntered along the road, still pondering his problem. Disguised as a whore, he should be able to walk into the mansion, find Graleth and kill him, then walk out again without raising a hue and cry, provided his disguise was fool proof. Talon had assured him that it was, and his recollection of his reflection on that night seemed to confirm this. Nevertheless, the prospect disgusted him.
When he arrived at the room he rented next door to a whore, she was entertaining, and he lay on the bed and listened to the thuds, grunts, squeals and creaking that came through the wall. The racket would not allow him to think, and he stared at the mildewed ceiling, silently urging them to finish. Fortunately, his neighbour was not a busy woman, and irritating noises were few and far between. When at last silence fell, he pondered his dilemma afresh, but still the idea of dressing as a woman rankled, and he rejected it.
***
Blade stopped outside the dress shop and studied the wares in the window with a frown. Over the last three days, his vigil on the rooftop had been rewarded only by an increasing awareness that his target was too well guarded for his liking, and a bruise on his posterior. Graleth kept to his routine with unflagging diligence, and the number of guards around him never waned. Blade had considered secreting himself somewhere close to the mansion and lying in wait for that rare opportunity to sprint to the house and shinny up a wall, but that required nights of patience and had a high risk of discovery.
The idea of dressing as a whore grew more appealing with each frustrating day of spying, yet it still disgusted him. He forced the memory of the Cotti soldiers' mockery from his mind. The disguise was just that, a disguise, and a useful tool of his trade. No one would mock him. They would not know what he was, and he had no intention of ever revealing his secret, if he did it. Perhaps Talon was right. With such a disguise, he would be able to saunter into the Trobalon mansion with hardly any risk of discovery. It would turn a daunting task into a simple one. Common sense and logic dictated that he should do it, stubborn pride and aversion railed against it.
With a sigh, he pushed open the shop door, glancing up in irritation at the bell that jingled, announcing his entry. A plump, fresh-faced man with a jolly smile and shy eyes appeared through a curtain at the back of the shop. His smile faltered a little when he spied Blade, then he rallied and advanced.
“A dress for your sweetheart, assassin?” His eyes dropped to Blade's belt. “I beg your pardon, Dance Master.”
“Yes. A dress... and some face paint.”
“Ah, is it for a party perhaps?”
“Something like that.”
The shopkeeper sidled over to a rack and whipped two frocks from it, displaying them with a flourish. “My finest. Knotted lace from Aerlon, printed silk from Dra'shen, in Contara.”
Blade frowned at the gowns. “Too fancy. Something simple, and a lot cheaper. The sort of thing a whore would wear.”
The plump man hesitated, then hung up the frocks and pulled out another, this one a gaudy concoction of orange linen and pink bows. “Like this, Dance Master?”
The assassin recoiled from the gown's ugliness. “No. Something with a little more taste.”
The shopkeeper drew out a pale blue frock with dark blue piping, puffed sleeves and a white lace collar. Blade stepped closer to inspect it, then nodded.
“That will do.”
“What size?”
“My size.”
The shopkeeper raised his brows, then stepped closer and held the dress up. “Perhaps you'd like to try it on?”
Blade frowned. “It's not for me, you dolt. My sweetheart is the same size, more or less.”
“Of course, my mistake. I thought... never mind. This one should fit you, but I can't be sure unless your sweetheart tries it on. You can bring it back for adjustments, if necessary.”
“Fine, I'll take it.”
The man folded the frock and placed it on the counter. “Excellent. Presumably this is a masquerade ball?”
“What else?”
“Indeed.” The man reached under the counter and took out several pots, placing them on the top. “I have powder to prettify the eyes, another for the skin and a berry juice extract to make the lips redder. Also of the sort a harlot would wear.”
“Good. And some baubles.”
“Of course.” The shopkeeper gestured to a set of shelves, and Blade went over to inspect the wares. He chose a pair of hoop earrings, a bead necklace and several slim bangles. The merchant added them to the pile.
“What about perfume, and shoes?”
“Yes, those too.”
The man set out a selection of bottles, and the assassin chose a flowery scent, then inspected the array of slippers on another shelf. Finding a blue pair that was the same size as his boots, he placed them on the counter. The shopkeeper watched him with deep fascination, although his bland smile did not waver.
Blade paid for the goods and departed, certain that he was flushed with embarrassment. With the parcel wedged under one arm, he made his way to a jeweller and had his ears pierced, then bought a mirror and returned to his room. Spreading his collection of purchases on the bed, he set about mimicking Talon's transformation in the little mirror. His first attempt was fairly disastrous, and he thought that the end result looked like a tart in a pantomime. He washed it off and tried again.
Over the course of the next several time-glasses, he discovered that it required the application of only a small amount of powder and paint to make him look like a woman. When he studied the result, the intensity of his revulsion made his stomach churn and his head pound. He rubbed his face, smearing the powder and paint into dark streaks down his cheeks and a red smudge on his chin. Bowing his head, he clasped it and contemplated the depths to which he had sunk, and the self-loathing that accompanied it.
Was it not bad enough that he would never be a proper man? Now he must add to that humiliation by dressing as a woman? He had nothing against women, but he was not one, and he had no wish to be one. Worst of all, what he saw in the mirror looked more like a woman than he would ever look like a man. A beardless, neutered thing. A sexless abomination. Neither man nor woman. A nothing. A no one. He sensed the coiling darkness of his insanity grow, and fought it. What did it matter? He was already dead. Since he had stopped sharing his profit with Talon, he had hardly spoken to anyone other than his clients.
The innkeeper visited him once a tenday to collect his rent, which Blade handed over without a word. His conversation with the shopkeeper earlier had been the longest he had undertaken since he had spoken to Borass. No one cared if he dressed as a woman, a clown or a popinjay, so why should he? He rubbed his cheek, hating his lack with every iota of his being. All that remained to him was his pride in his skills and his enjoyment of good wine.
Rising, he washed his face and went down to the taproom to indulge in a little of that enjoyment. Or a lot. He watched the serving girls as they wended their way amongst the evening throng, taking note of the way they walked and gestured. If he was going to do this, he would do it right, for he had no wish to be discovered. He must become entirely feminine, not a man in women's clothes. His pride demanded perfection, as it had with his dancing and dagger skills. He must excel in all he did, so he could find some pride in it, instead of humiliation.
After three cups of wine, he returned to his room to practise the swaying female walk and graceful gestures. The alcohol helped to make it vaguely amusing, but did not improve his balance. The whore next door had another client, and their groaning and thudding distracted him. He longed to bang on the wall and demand silence, but he knew they would ignore him. When the noise abated, he attempted to emulate a feminine tone, and discovered that he only had to raise his voice an octave to sound like a woman. He paced around the room, mimicking a female flounce and toss of the head, then placed a hand on his hip and struck a pose, as he had seen girls do many times when they flirted with him.
When he was satisfied that he had mastered the feminine mannerisms, he pulled the hated frock on over his clothes, finding that it was far too tight across the shoulders. He struggled to remove it, and an ominous ripping came from the back of it. Stripping it off, he discovered a tear in the back, where a seam had given way. Cursing, he flung the dress on the bed and glared at it. Now he would need to find a seamstress to repair it. He had no wish to return to the shop and its suspicious keeper.
After some consideration, he drew a dagger and slit the back of the gown, deciding to buy a shawl to hide the damage. Whores wore ragged clothes, in any case. Removing his jacket, he donned the dress again, which now fitted fairly well, except it was too loose around the hips and the sleeves were far too tight. He used his dagger again to slit the underside of the sleeves, where it would not be visible. His narrow hips presented another problem, which he solved by wrapping a sheet around them, giving himself a buxom figure.
The empty bodice remained an issue, and he stuffed a pillow case into it to pad it out. The result was less than satisfactory, being lumpy and hard, and he contemplated using two small water bags. That would not only fill out the bodice, but would also feel and appear more like breasts. Donning the slippers, he flounced around the room, swished the skirts and swung his hips. He thought the effect was good, but it needed to be tested. First, he would need to buy the water bags and shawl. In the middle of a twirl, he realised that in this disguise, he had nowhere to hide his weapons.
Blade sat on the bed and considered this. The dress offered no places to secret a dagger, except perhaps under the skirt, but that would make it awkward to draw. The only place that might work, and offered easy access, was his sleeves, but now that he had slit them, they would not provide sufficient concealment. With an angry growl, he stripped off the frock, flung it in a corner, and went to bed.
The following day, Blade purchased a shawl, a length of blue cloth, two small water skins and a needle and thread, then visited a leather crafter and ordered a pair of wrist sheaths. Back in his room, he sewed the new cloth into the slits in the gown's sleeves, widening them sufficiently to allow his arms free movement and accommodate his daggers, using the remainder to patch up the rent in the back. The end result worked well, and he practised his feminine mannerisms for several time-glasses before deciding to test his disguise. It took him a time-glass to apply the face paint, which he wanted to wash off again immediately.
Quelling the urge, he inserted the earrings into the still-raw holes in his earlobes and donned the rest of the baubles and slippers. Finally, he anointed himself with the flowery perfume and considered the result in the mirror. His hair fell to his shoulders, and, when he released it from its leather thong and brushed it into a silken fall, looked sufficiently womanly. As he hooked it behind his ears to reveal the earrings, his eyes fell upon the dagger tattoo at the base of his throat. Blade almost laughed as he flung the mirror down and sat on the bed. All his efforts were wasted, it seemed.
An assassin was forbidden to hide the tattoo, but with it, he had no hope of passing for a trollop. His inability to use the disguise was a relief, until he considered the dearth of other ways to assassinate Graleth. He had promised to achieve it within a tenday, and only two days remained. Sighing, he picked up the mirror again and considered the tattoo. The Guild would never know he had hidden it, and surely others had done so when they had donned a disguise. Talon had told him that other assassins had used a female disguise, and they must have hidden the tattoo. He would need to buy a cosmetic to cover it, and until then, he tied a spare length of blue cloth around his neck to conceal it.
The water skins fitted snuggly into the bodice, endowed him with a generous bosom, and jiggled realistically when he moved. The gown's plunging neckline was not deep enough to expose them, and the corset supported them.
Once again, he considered the result in the mirror. A young woman with milky skin, shadowy grey eyes and a sensuous mouth stared back at him from a strong, chiselled face framed by glossy black hair. He longed to smash the mirror with its loathsome reflection and strip off the hated disguise. The urge almost overwhelmed him, but he quashed it and put down the looking glass, rising to stroll about the room with a graceful, swaying gait. He dreaded going down to the taproom to test his disguise, and it took him a time-glass to pluck up the courage. It was a tool of his trade, he told himself for the umpteenth time, although that brought him little solace.
Blade forced himself to walk to the door and open it, then saunter to the top of the stairs. There he paused, unable to bring himself to descend them. Raucous laughter wafted up from below, mingled with the clink of goblets and the low rumble of male voices. A haze of pipe smoke hung in the air, mixed with the sour tang of rancid ale and the musky stink of stale sweat. As an assassin, he was avoided and reviled. As a trollop, he would attract unwelcome attention. In addition, he was unarmed. After watching the interaction between the male patrons and the serving wenches, however, he was reasonably confident that he would not require his weapons.
All he needed to do was find out if the disguise worked, he assured himself. It would take only a few minutes. If it did not work, the humiliation would be dire, but better humiliation than failure to assassinate his target. He must achieve that goal at any price; his pride dictated it. Bolstered by his resolve, he descended the stairs and entered the common room, trying to be unobtrusive. Slipping into a dark corner, he sat and scanned the room. Permal sat at his usual place, looking bored, and the two assassins were not in evidence. Blade looked up when the serving wench came over, her eyes raking him with a hostile glance.
“You buying a drink, missy, or just waiting for a customer?”
Blade cleared his throat. “I'll have a cup of wine.” His voice emerged a little too high pitched, due to his nervousness, and he coughed.
The maid snorted and flounced off, her nose in the air. Blade glanced around to see if anyone had noticed him, and found, to his horror, that several men were eyeing him. One leered, and the assassin looked away with a frown. He toyed with his hair, as women often did, twisting a lock around his finger. A shadow fell on him, and he looked up at the burly drover who stood beside his table.
“Mind if I sit?” the man enquired.
Blade shook his head, averting his eyes.
The drover settled on the bench opposite and set his ale tankard on the table. Blade glanced at the table where the drover had been sitting, where his companions grinned and nudged each other. Evidently the drover was here on a dare. The man looked ill at ease, but determined.
“Can I buy you a drink, miss?”
Blade inclined his head and indicated the serving wench, who was on her way back with his cup of wine. The drover paid for it when it arrived, and the girl shot Blade a scathing look before marching off with a toss of her head. The assassin wondered why she was so annoyed. She was not a whore, as far as he knew, so why did she care if one came to the taproom?
The drover quaffed his ale, and Blade sipped his wine.
“I'm Dramon,” the drover said.
Blade hunted for a common name. “I'm Jishi.” This time his imitation of a woman's tone was more convincing.
Dramon leant closer, studying the assassin. “You have lovely eyes, Jishi.”
“Why, thank you, sir.”
“And beautiful hands.”
Blade glanced at his scarred hands, wanting to hide them. “Thank you,” he murmured in a whispery tone.
“Whereabouts do you stay?” The man hesitated. “I mean, have you lived in Jondar long? I haven't seen you here before.”
“Not too long.” Blade wondered why the man was hedging. “I stay up the street a little way.”
“All alone?”
This time Blade hesitated, as he realised the drift of the drover's questions. If he said he had a husband, the man would probably leave. If he claimed to be single, Dramon would no doubt press home his advance. Blade opted for middle ground; he wanted to test the disguise a little more.
“No, I stay with my mother.”
“Ah, of course. You're just a young thing, aren't you? What, eighteen, nineteen? And your mother lets you drink in a taproom?”
Blade shrugged, uncomfortably aware of the water bags' cold, jiggle presence. “I do as I please.”
“So, you're worldly-wise lass, eh? A little bit wild, I can tell.”
“Perhaps a little,” Blade hedged.
“And do you enjoy a good time?”
“That depends on what sort of good time.”
“You know.” Dramon gestured. “Flirting with the lads.”
“Sometimes.”
The drover nodded, his confidence growing. “Of course you do, else you wouldn't be here.”
“I came for a cup of wine.”
“And a good time, eh?”
Blade jumped when a hand clasped his knee under the table, jerked his leg away and frowned at Dramon.
The drover chuckled. “Don't be coy, Jishi.”
The assassin wanted to punch him in the nose. He imagined his fist lashing out and the blood spurting from Dramon's nostrils as his head snapped back from the force of the blow. He controlled the urge with an effort and forced a smile to curve his lips, hating himself even more. The drover stared at him, looking bemused, and Blade realised that in his female disguise his smile was even more potent. Dramon looked at him in the same why the Cotti soldiers had done, only they had known he was a boy. If anything, the lust in Dramon's eyes was worse, because he really did think that Blade was female, and fully intended to go through with his disgusting desires if allowed to. Blade longed to tell the drover that he was a man. Instead, he widened his smile.
“Why don't you go and stick your head in the cesspit?”
Dramon looked a little taken aback, but rallied. “Now, now, there's no need to get angry. You're such a lovely girl. I only want to make you happy. You do enjoy pleasure, don't you? I can give you lots, if you'll let me. And if needs be, I'll pay for it.”
Blade slapped the drover's cheek hard enough to jerk his head to the side. The man grunted and blinked in surprise. His friends at the other table chuckled. Dramon rubbed his cheek with a rueful smile.
“I guess I deserved that. Of course a beautiful girl like you isn't a whore. I'm sorry.” He leant closer. “Will you forgive me?”
Blade stared at him in astonishment. Had he slapped the drover as a male, he did not doubt that Dramon and his friends would have tried to beat him to within an inch of his life. He had expected an angry departure, not continued persistence, or an apology. Remembering the importance of maintaining his disguise, he also leant across the table, and Dramon's eyes brightened.
“Go away,” Blade muttered.
“Come now, what I said wasn't that bad.”
The man's tenacity astounded the assassin, and he sat back, picking up his glass of wine. He had not realised how difficult it was, being a woman, especially an attractive one. Since he had never made an advance to a woman, he had no idea how much doggedness was involved. How humiliating it must be, he mused, to be a man who was driven by his lusts. He leant forward again.
“I'm not interested, so bugger off.”
Dramon's expression became mulish, and he reached across the table to grip Blade's hand. “Now, now, there's no call for rudeness. I want to get to know you better, is all. I'm unwed, and...”
Dramon broke off when Blade placed his hand on the drover's in a light touch, and his eyes brightened with hope. The assassin gripped Dramon's middle finger and bent it back with a swift yank. The man yelped and jumped, snatching his hand back to rub it, scowling.
“You're a strong girl, aren't you?”
“You have no idea,” Blade murmured.
“There's no call to be nasty.”
Blade wondered how the man would react if he revealed what he really was, but had a nasty suspicion that it would hardly put the big man off. Unlike the Cotti, some Jashimari enjoyed lying with boys, he had heard. Disgusted, he slid off the bench and headed for the stairs, barely remembering to swing his hips.
In his room, he stripped off the dress and flung it across the room, ripped off the baubles and kicked off the shoes. He hated everything about this disguise and the subterfuge it entailed, but Talon was correct. It was perfect. That rankled even more. He realised now that he had hoped it would not work, that men would know he was male even in the dress and paint. Somehow, that would have confirmed that he was a man, instead, it made it even clearer that he did not look like one.
Not only had he been robbed of his desire for a woman, he even lacked the look of a man. Blade scrubbed the paint off in the bowl of water and lay down on the bed. Cold fury seethed within him, seeking outlet, but there was nothing on which to vent his rage. The thuds, squeaks and yelps started next door, and he cursed, stuffing his head under the pillow. His hatred for humanity expanded to include all hirsute males and busy whores.