Elya returned a couple of time-glasses later, weeping and nursing a fresh bruise on her cheek. Eshra went over to comfort the girl, helping her stumble to an empty pallet and sit down. Elya gulped down the cup of wine that Eshra pressed into her trembling hands, then accepted a damp cloth with which she scrubbed her face. When the girl had calmed down, and lay curled on the pallet under a thin blanket, Eshra returned to stand before the assassin.
He rose. "He should be asleep now."
"Yes." She hesitated. "I want to come with you."
"No."
"I may be able to help."
"More likely you will put us in danger."
She raised her chin. "I will not."
"You stay here." Blade walked to the door, where he paused at her soft call.
"Good luck," she murmured.
With a smile, he opened the door and stepped into the corridor, glancing both ways before he set off towards the junction where the guards had been posted. Here the corridor joined another, which ran at right angles to the first, and was considerably longer and better-lighted. Following Eshra's directions, he turned right and followed it to the end, then turned left and descended a short flight of stairs.
At the bottom, he found a corridor hung with Cotti banners and coats-of-arms, the floor inlaid with patterns of polished marble. The many doors that led off it were each emblazoned with a different crest, indicating that men of high rank occupied them, most likely Endor's lords. At the far end, four guards stood outside a set of imposing brass bound doors adorned with Endor's rather flamboyant personal crest, a striking golden snake. From their position, the guards could see the entire length of the corridor, and would certainly notice anyone entering it.
Blade ducked back into the stairwell with a curse. The corridor was too long and well-lighted for him to get close enough to kill the guards before they could raise the alarm. To do that, he would need a disguise, and all he had in his bag was the false moustache he had used in Cotti. He considered the problem for a few minutes, discarding several ideas as unsuitable or too risky.
The best probability of success relied upon a disguise, and he toyed with the idea of returning to the harem for a female one, but decided against it. Stray women in a Cotti stronghold were unheard-of, and would arouse suspicion. He peered around the corner again, measuring the distance to the nearest lord's room, which was only about four yards down the corridor. The soldiers outside Endor's doors leant on their spears in the classic pose of bored sentries, but they did not talk, presumably for fear of being heard by the Prince.
Blade waited, knowing that sooner or later something would happen, such as a call of Nature, to distract them. All he needed was a moment to reach the nearest door, which he suspected would not be locked in such a well-guarded stronghold. Almost a time-glass passed before the guards moved, then one rummaged in his tunic and pulled out a tobacco pouch. The others turned to share in the filling and lighting of two pipes. As soon as their attention was focussed on the pipe lighting, Blade slipped around the corner and pushed open the closest door, slipping within.
Inside, he leant against the door, his heart racing with the familiar thrill of danger as he scanned the dark room. The greatest threat would be an alert familiar of a noisy ilk, but there was no sign of one. A shadowy figure snored in a huge bed in the adjoining room, and as he had hoped, a trail of discarded clothes led to it. He moved into the room, picking up a garish jacket and a feathered hat, then a pair of embroidered breeches and a silk scarf. Creeping closer to the bed, he examined the man who occupied it, finding a young, florid-faced Cotti with a short beard, but no moustache.
Moving back to the door, he donned the clothes over his own, then rummaged in his bag for the moustache and glue. Without a mirror, he had to attach it to his chin by touch. It only had to fool the guards for a short time, and from a distance. Assuming that the young lord had been one of Endor's drinking companions, his re-emergence should not seem too suspicious to the sentries. The smell of stale wine and ale on the jacket assured him that this was the case, and he pulled the hat well down to cover his hair. The jacket was loose around the waist, providing a handy place in which to stuff his bag.
When he was ready, he took a few deep breaths to steady his nerves, trying to slow the pounding of his heart. Usually he had more confidence in his disguises, but this one was hastily donned and probably not very good. Still, his anxiety made him pause to consider its origin, since he had never been so concerned about failure in the past, for he did not usually fear death. The prospect of joining Lance in the dungeons, at the mercy of a sadist like Endor, held a great deal of repugnance for him, since he had a grave dislike for pain.
Blade pushed open the door and staggered into the corridor, drawing the attention of the guards. He had been drunk enough times to do an excellent parody of a man who could barely walk, and he tottered down the corridor towards them, bouncing off the wall a couple of times and using it for support. He kept his head down, the feathered hat hiding his features, and moved slowly, fighting the urge to hurry. He paused to lean against the wall and shake his head, then made some revolting retching noises before reeling onwards.
When he calculated that he was close enough, he peeped under the brim of the hat. The guards watched his approach with bemused expressions. He slipped his hands into his sleeves, taking hold of the hilts of the daggers secreted there. The nearer he was, the better his chance of success. The guards wore breastplates, limiting his targets to their throats and eyes.
One of the guards stepped forward. "Lord Fennish, you really should return to your rooms."
Blade mumbled and staggered closer, the daggers loosened from their sheaths but hidden in his sleeves. Another guard approached, probably to help the first to drag the wayward lord back to his bed chamber. Blade waited until they were just a few steps away, then raised his head and whipped out the daggers. The guards froze, giving him an instant of opportunity when they were utterly still. He flicked the daggers. One impaled a man in the eye; the other hit the soldier in the cheek. The dead man stood rigid, his mouth opening in a gasp that would be his last. Blade snatched the daggers from his belt and lunged at the second man, slashing his throat with a swift motion.
Blood pumped forth, sprinkling Blade, and the other two men gaped at him, frozen by shock. The dying soldier sank to his knees, then slumped to the floor with a rattle of armour as Blade hurled the daggers. One struck its target, the other imbedded itself in the guard's nose, penetrating the cartilage and protruding obscenely. As the first soldier collapsed, Blade sprinted towards the one who still lived, jerking a dagger from a dead man on his way.
The soldier pawed at the hilt projecting from his nose, but had yet to gather his wits sufficiently to yell. He died before he could, stabbed through the eye when the assassin reached him. Blade caught him and lowered him to the floor, ensuring that his armour did not clatter on the marble. The other sentries had gone down slowly, falling to their knees before slumping to the floor, making only a slight clank. Considering the inebriated state of the occupants of the rooms in the corridor, Blade hoped that none would be roused by such soft sounds. The killings had only taken a couple of seconds, but were sloppy, in Blade's opinion. Too much blood had been spilt, and two of his thrown daggers had missed.
Blade dragged the bodies around the corner, dousing several of the torches in the area. He was not prepared to look in any of the rooms for a hiding place, since he did not want any more surprises. According to Eshra, the next guard change was not due until early morning, which gave him several time-glasses with Endor. Pushing open one of the doors, he slipped into the Prince's rooms. The suite took up most of this wing of the castle, and consisted of a lounge, dining room, bathing room with a sunken tub big enough to swim in, a couple of rooms whose use he could not discern, and, at the far end, a palatial bed chamber.
A man tossed in the silk-canopied bed, his sleep uneasy. Blade moved across the dark chamber, his feet silent on the thick rugs scattered around the floor. He held two daggers ready in case his presence woke the Prince, since Endor was in a light doze, and the knowledge of his danger would heighten his senses. Blade glanced around for Endor's venomous familiar, and found the sand snake coiled atop a table, its tongue flickering.
Blade reached the bedside and stopped, poised like a cat about to pounce. The Prince tossed and moaned, copious amounts of wine dulling his senses and worries, judging by his sour smell. The assassin kept an eye on the snake while he put away his daggers and leant over the Prince, holding his breath so no breeze wafted against Endor's cheek. As if he was moving through treacle, his hands drifted towards Endor's throat, too slow to make an impression of movement upon a sleeping mind.
Experience had taught him that an alien presence could wake many people; he himself would wake at the slightest hint of danger. Most people did not have his unusual alertness when asleep, however, and Endor snored in his silken sheets, oblivious to his peril. He lay on his back, his throat exposed, and Blade's hands hung poised above the places on his neck that, when pressed, would render him unconscious in a matter of moments. His fingertips touched the warm, throbbing skin, and clamped down in a vice-like grip that years of training and experience had honed.
Endor woke with a gasp, his eyes flew open and he gaped in a silent scream, then he slumped. Blade held the Prince's throat for a few moments to assure his unconsciousness, then released him and stepped back. Now he would normally end his target's life and make his escape, but this time he had other plans. He turned his attention to the snake, which had raised its head in alarm, and went over to it before it could slither away into the darkness.
Picking up a powder pot, he tossed out its contents and clapped it down over the snake, trapping it. The serpent writhed, hissing with rage, and Blade looked around for a larger, more secure container. Spying a vase of dried flowers, he emptied it and brought it to the table, then slid the pot off, dropping the snake into the vase, from which it would be unable to escape. With the familiar out of the way, Blade stripped off the disguise, threw the clothes on the floor and pulled a length of rope from his bag. Returning to the bed, he flipped Endor onto his stomach and tied his hands behind his back, then lashed his ankles together.
As he was tying the knot, a slight noise made him spin around, a dagger ready to throw. He relaxed when a female figure appeared out of the shadows, moving into the moonlight that came from the window.
"Eshra, I told you to stay in the harem."
"I recall," she murmured, her eyes fixed on the figure in the bed. "Is he dead?"
"Not yet."
"Then kill him. Why do you wait?"
"He is going to suffer first."
"What if he escapes?"
Blade shook his head. "He will not."
She turned to study him. "You have already done the impossible. Do not test your luck."
"I want him to know why he dies."
"I am sure he does already."
"It is too easy. I am not going to argue with you. Go back to the harem."
"No. I want to see him die."
Blade grunted and stuffed a rag into the Prince's mouth. "Then stay out of the way."
"What are you going to do?"
"Take him to the dungeons, where his screams for mercy will not be heard."
"But the guards..."
Blade bent and tried to lift the Prince, but his back creaked in protest, and he frowned at Eshra. "If you want to help, then take his legs."
Eshra obeyed, shooting him a doubtful glance, and he hooked his arms through Endor's, lifting him. They shuffled through the suite, the Prince's nightgown-clad form swinging between them. Under any other circumstances, Blade would not have considered this new and dangerous scheme. He was determined that Endor would pay for his crimes, however, and death alone was too easy for him. At the doors, Blade dumped the Prince and opened them, peering out before picking up Endor again.
Eshra closed the doors behind them, and they made their way down the corridor that led to the dungeons, passing the guards' bodies. The journey seemed to take time-glasses, and Endor grew heavier with each step as they descended several staircases. Luckily all the going was down, but even so, Eshra was soon panting, and Blade started to regret his decision to carry Endor to the dungeons. He toyed with the idea of waking the Prince and making him walk, but decided that Endor would be more trouble that way. Threats would not make him do as he was told, since he knew that Blade was going to kill him anyway.
At the bottom of yet another set of steps, Eshra stopped and put down her burden, signalling to Blade that the first pair of guards was just around the next corner. The assassin nodded and dumped the Prince, pulling two daggers from his belt. He found the guards sitting at a table, engrossed in a card game. They wore no armour, and died as they jumped up, one with a dagger in his throat, the other impaled through the heart. Blade retrieved his weapons and returned to take up his burden, carrying him on down a crooked corridor that led to another set of worn steps.
At the bottom, Eshra again warned him of more guards ahead, and he dumped the Prince to creep to the corner and peer around it. The next pair of soldiers was easily dispatched, since they were asleep, and never knew that their hearts had been pierced. Eshra averted her eyes as they carried Endor past them.
They arrived at a door that she indicated led to the torture chamber where Lance languished, and Blade picked the old lock. Carrying the Prince inside, Blade dumped him and closed the door, then turned to study the room, rubbing his back. Various torture instruments filled it, some of which he could not identify, but he recognised a rack, an iron maiden and a few other common implements.
Chains hung on the walls, and a pair held a man he did not recognise. Blade walked closer to peer into the unfortunate's blood-scabbed face, and recoiled from Lance's mutilated features. His nose had been severed, and his face was partially flayed. Blade released the young assassin, noticing that many of Lance's fingers had been amputated and his wrists were broken. A filthy loincloth covered his hips, areas of his chest had been flayed, and his back was covered with half healed burns.
As Blade lowered him to the floor, he raised his head and opened pale blue eyes. Blade propped him against the wall and went in search of water, finding only a rusty bowl with a little dirty liquid in it. He turned to Eshra.
"Go and find some water, or wine."
Eshra nodded, casting Lance a look of intense pity. Blade squatted and studied his former apprentice, his gaze coming to rest on Lance's bright, feverish eyes. The young assassin tried to speak, but his dry throat would make no sound.
Blade sighed. "This is a cruel punishment for your first failure. I should not have asked that you be sent."
Lance tried to shake his head, but his neck muscles merely jerked.
Blade rose and turned away, impatient for Eshra's return. The sight of his former pupil in this sorry state was unpleasant. He went to check on Endor, who remained unconscious. When Eshra returned with a wine skin from the guard post down the corridor, he indicated that she should give some to Lance. He made gurgling, retching sounds as he sucked down the wine, trembling with the effort. Eshra held the skin until he turned his head away, then retreated. Blade took her place, squatting in front of Lance.
The young assassin coughed. "Blade. Release me."
"Soon. You've endured this long. I'm sure you'll want to stay for your reward."
"Reward?"
"Endor."
Lance's eyes brightened. "You've killed him."
"Not yet."
"Beware..."
"Don't be concerned. It seems I was not as good a teacher as I thought. Perhaps only good at teaching dancing."
Lance tried to shake his head again. "Not your fault."
Blade jumped up paced about. "It was a bad plan, Lance. Dog soldiers! Didn't I teach you how dangerous they are?"
Lance managed to nod. "Not your fault."
"Then what? Was it because you wanted glory?"
"There was no other way."
"There was. Here it is. I have the Prince."
Lance's smile pulled his mutilated face into a ghastly grimace. "You... are the Queen's Blade."
Blade snorted. "I taught you all my skills."
"Not... your courage."
"Courage had nothing to do with it."
"You scaled the wall."
"So?"
Lance sighed, then coughed. "That... took bravery."
"No, just a lack of self-preservation. Better to fall to my death than end up like this."
"I... didn't have the courage."
"You wanted to live too much." Blade shook his head. "I taught you the folly of that."
Lance nodded jerkily. "Now I want to die."
"You will."