At noon the next day, Blade sauntered down to the whorehouse where Lilu worked, a tawdry place where women lounged about on old furniture clad in little or nothing. His hackles rose the instant he entered it, and the pathetic smiles of the two whores on duty soured his stomach. At the bar counter, he ordered a glass of wine and waited for one to approach him. Within a few minutes, a buxom redhead with sultry brown eyes sat beside him, her breasts almost spilling from her too-tight bodice. A woman of bats, he surmised, from her twitchiness and large ears. She pulled her skirt up to display her thighs and smiled, revealing missing teeth.
Blade fought the urge to jump up and leave, or chase her away, and returned her smile. “I hear you had some fun here a few nights ago.”
“We always have fun,” she said in a throaty voice full of false allure.
“There was a fight, wasn't there?”
She shrugged, stroking her thighs. “Of a sort. If you call a whore being beaten a fight, then I suppose so.”
“Why was she beaten?”
“She stole.”
“And who beat her?”
Her hand made the journey from her thighs to one of his, gripping it. “My, but you're solid muscle, aren't you?” She giggled, fluttering her eyelashes.
“Who beat her?”
She pouted. “Some drover.”
“Does he have a name?”
“I expect so.”
“But you don't know what it is?”
She leant closer. “My name's Lerril.”
“Good for you. What's his name?”
“Why, do you want to bugger him?”
“You could say that, I suppose.”
She withdrew her hand and frowned, raking him with a hard glance. “More likely he'll bugger you.”
“I doubt that. Do you know his name?”
She shrugged. “My memory's not so good with names.”
Blade slapped a silver on the counter, and she licked her lips.
“Tromar. His name's Tromar.”
She reached for the coin, but he placed his hand over it and asked, “What does he look like?”
“Big man, all brawn, with a black beard and a shaven head.”
“There are hundreds of big brawny men with black beards and shaven heads in this city. Give me something specific.”
“He has a scar, here.” She touched her left cheekbone. “A horse kicked him, I heard.”
“What kin is he?”
“Bear.”
Blade pushed the coin towards her and drained his wine before heading for the door. She frowned and called after him, “Don't you want to come to my room?”
He paused in the doorway. “No.”
“Pity. You, I'd do for free.”
“I wouldn't do you at all, even if you wore three bags over your head.”
Blade closed the door on the stream of vitriol that followed him, smiling as he strolled down the street. Reasoning that the drover most likely paid his daily visit to Lilu's door at dusk, since that was when he would finish his work and Blade had been absent on previous evenings while he was practicing, he returned to his room to rest for the afternoon.
As the sun sank, he rose and strapped on his daggers, checking that the ones in his boot sheaths slid free easily, then wandered down to the slums. He located a suitable side alley and scaled the wall to settle against the sloping roof of a house that gave him a good view of Lilu's door. His visit to the whorehouse had not really been necessary, he reflected, but he had to be sure that whoever came banging on Lilu's door was not some other unhappy client or drunken beggar. He had also wanted to confirm her story.
The late afternoon sun warmed him, and his eyes drooped. From the street below came the sounds of shouting fishwives, shrieking urchins, barking dogs, braying donkeys, cackling chickens and muttering men, all blended together into a formless hubbub. Few carts visited the slums, so the rumble of wheels and clop of hooves were absent. For amusement, he tuned his hearing to a shouted argument two doors down, between a fishwife and her husband over the state of his finances. Losing interest, Blade switched to two washerwomen haggling with a barrow-hag for a pie. The sounds faded as he slipped into a doze.
A thunderous banging jerked Blade awake, and he sat up with a frown. A vast man stood outside Lilu's door, his fist hammering on the cracked wood.
“I'm going to kill you, bitch!” he roared.
A big brown bear sat behind its friend, pawing at its ears and shaking its head. A formidable familiar indeed, but ponderous enough to evade.
“Go away!” Lilu's shout came faintly.
“I want the money you stole!” the drover bellowed.
“Bugger off! I have a knife!”
Blade wondered if Lilu used the same words every time, and marvelled at her lack of diversity.
“You can't hide in there forever! I'll get you!” Tromar yelled. “And if you don't come out, I'll come in!”
“I'll call the Watch!”
“Bring my money!”
“Piss off!”
Blade's brows rose. Lilu certainly sounded defiant; much more like herself.
The hammering went on and on, interspersed with the drover's threats and Lilu's caustic replies. Blade lay back again with a sigh, wondering why none of the people who lived nearby saw fit to complain. He would have, had he lived within earshot of that racket. The sun sank behind the rooftops and gloom engulfed the street below, since the slums had no street lamps. The din stopped, and the assassin sat up to watch the big man stride away down the street, heading for the poor quarter. Rising, he walked to the edge of the roof and jumped down, giving a barrow-hag a fright. She cursed him, and he slipped into the shadows, following the drover.
Two streets from Lilu's room, Blade broke into a lope, overtook the drover and ducked into an alley beside the angry man's route. He scouted around for something suitable, and found a heavy, half rotted length of plank. Hefting it, he went to the corner and peeped around it. Tromar walked towards him, wearing a thunderous scowl. From the look of him, Blade suspected that the drover would have no qualms about killing a whore who had stolen from him. Blade had never liked bear kin. The bear rooted in the rubbish quite far behind its friend, but bears could move fast when they wished.
Blade raised his makeshift weapon when Tromar's footsteps drew near. As the drover stepped past the corner, Blade swung the plank at Tromar's head. It hit his face with a resounding thwack, sending him sprawling on his back, his nose a flattened ruin that seeped blood in a dark river. He appeared dazed for a moment, not surprisingly, Blade thought, then struggled to sit up. The assassin hit him again, pulverised his face further and crushed his lips. His head cracked onto the cobbles as the blow hammered him back, and he stared at the sky with wide, glazed eyes. Blade glanced at the bear, which had abandoned its snack and lumbered towards him.
The assassin kicked the drover in the side of the head three times, then in the belly, making Tromar groan and curl up. For good measure, Blade kicked him in the face with a crunch of breaking teeth, then leant down.
“Bother the whore again, and you die.”
Tromar gaped at him. “Who in Damnation are you?”
“Someone you don't want to meet in a dark alley again, if anything happens to that whore.”
Tromar spat out a broken tooth, drooling blood. “She stole from me!”
“I don't care. Leave her alone. I'll be watching, so don't darken her doorway again.”
Tromar tried to struggle to his feet, murder in his eyes, but Blade hit him with the plank again. The drover slumped, his eyes closed, and Blade glanced at the bear that galloped towards him, its shaggy coat rippling over mighty muscles. The assassin dropped the plank and ran to a nearby wall, grabbed the gutter and swung himself onto the roof. From its safety, he smiled down at the furious bear, which clawed at the wall and growled. The beast soon deduced that its prey was out of reach and went over to lick its friend's face, huffing at the scent of blood. Blade ambled away over the rooftops, heading for home.
The following day, he returned to Lilu's room at dusk and took up his vigil until after dark, assuring himself that the drover had heeded his warning. Before he left, he collared an urchin he always saw in the street and drew the boy aside to promise him a silver if he brought news if Lilu had a problem again. Satisfied that his duty was done, he went home.
Blade stood in the darkness beyond the ring of ancient standing stones where the Guild always met and studied the throng of black-clad men and boys. Torchlight bathed the platform with leaping brilliance. This was another autumn meeting, and all the apprentices were present. He glanced down at the glittering belt that clasped his hips, fingering it. Another moon had passed since he had beaten the drover, and his dance was sufficiently restored, he judged, to face his peers without the risk of losing his belt. He strolled towards the gathering, his gut tightening with his dislike for such meetings, but he had to show himself or they would replace him.
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.