Sacrifice: The Queen's Blade (9 page)

"He is tired," Chiana pointed out.

Blade smiled at her ignorance. "Who would not be, after that?"

"What happens now?"

"He has to rest, then he makes his challenge."

Archer came over and stopped before Blade. "He's good. Are you fit?"

"No. I was wounded a moon phase and a half ago, and as of now I cannot complete the Dance."

Archer frowned, looking concerned. "That's not good. Luckily you don't have to do the Dance now, but I hope you can beat him. The honour of our guild is at stake."

"Surely there are others who can challenge him?"

"None as good as you. I saw you dance your first challenge, when you defeated Lash, and I've never seen your equal. This boy's not as good as you were then, so I hope you haven't lost your edge."

Blade nodded. "So do I."

"Should you win, I'll allow no other challengers tonight."

Archer wandered off, and Chiana observed, "That was nice of him."

"He wants me to retain the title. He knows a second challenger would defeat me if I am not even fit enough to complete the Dance. If he accepts challenges, he must accept them from the Vordan guild as well."

"I see. A matter of honour then, not consideration."

"Yes." Blade glanced around at the assembly. "There is no love amongst assassins. We are all rivals. The man with the best reputation, such as the Master of the Dance, gets the most clients and therefore the most money. Archer, for instance, was Master of the Dance for only a few moons, and his tally was less than fifty when he retired. Not because he was a bad assassin. He just could not find enough clients. By contrast, the man who held the title in his day made over a hundred kills, but was killed when he was only seven and twenty."

Chiana gazed across the grassy circle at the Vordan assassins, watching Swift. "That man Swift, his animal kin is insect, but I cannot make it out. Scorpion?"

"No, spider."

"Of course. And Archer is a snake. The other elder, Sting..."

"Wasp."

"Ah yes." She shivered. "I have never liked insect kin."

"Few do. The only ones I can tolerate are butterfly kin."

"Yes, they are tolerable, but empty headed."

Swift drank from a water skin and spat, then poured water over his head and shook it from his hair. The challenger seemed to have plenty of energy still. His eyes snapped with eagerness, and he grinned at his companions as he wiped the sweat from his arms. Of course, Blade pondered, most of it was probably an act, to intimidate his rival. He wondered if the spider secreted somewhere on Swift's person was of a venomous variety.

Assassins took pride in displaying dangerous familiars, it added to their deadly reputations. That was why Talon always had his wolf close by, but Archer kept his harmless, burrowing mole snake hidden. All assassins were bonded with animals that were either poisonous or predatory, the trade required a certain amount of ruthlessness that men who were influenced by harmless familiars did not possess.

Talon wandered over to stand next to Blade. "They say that he's the best in the world. He even dances in taprooms and at parties. Apparently he's in great demand, lords pay him good money to perform."

"Perhaps he should change his profession," Blade muttered.

"Trust you to make such a reply. I'm trying to warn you."

"I have already seen him dance. I'm impressed."

"You have not accepted a challenge since you beat Lash eight years ago. Age slows men, you know. Many contend that you can't defend your title, and that's why you don't accept challenges."

Blade shrugged. "I don't have the time, I have been busy of late."

"You can't retain the title simply by refusing to accept challenges."

"I'm here, am I not?"

Talon glanced at Swift. "Your challenger appears to be ready. Good luck. I think you'll need it."

Blade frowned at Talon's back as his former mentor walked away, the slinking dark wolf shadowing him. He disliked the insinuation that he was too old and slow to beat the red-haired challenger, and Talon's lack of confidence annoyed him. Then again, he mused, Talon had always used this tactic to get the best from his pupils, a method that had worked well on Blade until he had grown wise to it. Remembering this, his anger faded.

Swift climbed the steps onto the platform and spread his arms wide, grinning as he announced, "I challenge your Master of the Dance, let him come forward and defend his title!"

All eyes turned to Blade, who shucked his cloak and handed it to Chiana. He stripped off his jacket, revealing a tight-fitting black vest similar to Swift's. A silver-studded belt clasped his waist, the symbol of his status as Master of the Dance. He bent and buckled the metal toe and heel caps to his shoes, then ascended the steps onto the stage. Swift grinned, beckoning to him with mocking derision as he circled the platform with slow steps. Blade stood and watched him, unperturbed.

"Let's hope your wife hasn't sapped your strength, old man," Swift sneered. "I've heard they can do that."

"Worried that you may lose, otherwise?"

"No, I just enjoy a good challenge, or it would be rather dull, don't you think?"

"You're the challenger, so why don't you get on with it before we all fall asleep?"

Swift gestured to the drummer, who beat out the swift cadence for a Duel. The Vordan assassin's hands rested on his hips as he executed a complex series of steps with incredible speed.

Blade grinned and took a few running steps, then leapt high, raising his arms in a swift throwing gesture. As he leapt and spun, he lifted his legs and clicked his heels together behind him. Landing lightly, he mirrored Swift's steps, only faster, adding an extra series of steps to it. Swift's sneer vanished, and he circled his opponent, his eyes narrow, then leapt and spun, landing in a running set of fast foot-crossing taps.

Blade replied with an identical performance, but faster, ending in a mighty leap. His stiff legs lashed out before him, crossing in mid-air to strike together with a sharp report and a shower of sparks before his descending foot hit the ground and his ascending foot rose above his shoulder. Swift paused, frowning, then replied with a set of fast stamping steps, seeming to float over the ground on blurred feet. Blade matched it, spread his arms and added several forward kicks, flicking his lower leg sideways and striking his feet together each time with sharp clicks.

Swift circled again, sweat sheening his skin, his mouth open as he gasped. Blade breathed heavily too, the slight burning in his left lung warning him of his weakness. Swift executed a veritable rattle of steps, his feet blurring as he hammered out the tattoo. Blade matched it again, and added another high foot-clicking leap. His challenge was obvious, and Swift could not refuse it any longer. He beat out another series of fast taps, then attempted to emulate Blade's high kick. He succeeded fairly well, but failed to click his steel-shod feet together and landed rather heavily, his knee almost buckling under the force of the impact.

Blade smiled, scenting victory, and repeated Swift's steps, but faster and for longer, ending in a perfect high leaping kick. Swift changed tactics, planted one foot and used the other to beat out a rhythm so fast that it blended into a buzz of sound, the heel of his stationary foot keeping cadence. Blade grinned and set off on a series of graceful leaps that carried him high into the air, clicking his heels together at the pinnacle of each jump and landing in a rhythm of tapping that defied the eye to follow his feet. He added a high forward kick and ended with the same fast routine as Swift.

Chiana watched the dancers, spellbound. Never had she seen such grace and strength displayed, nor such impeccable control and fast footwork. Many times she had seen flamingo-kin dancers perform at the palace, but, for all their grace and beauty, their dance paled beside the precision and vigour of this one. This dance was utterly masculine, a feat of strength, endurance and speed that would tax the strongest man, while having an eerie grace of which she had never thought men capable. Blade was by far the more graceful of the two, not only for his floating movements and apparent effortlessness, but also his more slender build, his legs carrying him high into the air with each bouncing step.

Swift seemed less able to diversify, his hands remained on his hips while Blade used his arms as well, making sweeping gestures that added to the beauty of his movements and resembled the motions employed to hurl daggers. Sweat ran down them now, and Swift spent more time circling, taking a short respite before each gruelling performance. Blade's chest heaved as he sucked air through an open mouth, but he grinned with evident enjoyment while Swift glared. She had never seen Blade enjoy himself so much. He seemed to revel in his abilities, and they were truly astounding.

Swift executed another series of blurring steps, and Blade matched him again, adding a few of his own. As the two tired, the leaps became rarer, for they required the most strength. Swift planted himself and rattled out another fast tattoo, ending with a stamp. Blade stood still, his chest heaving, and she wondered if he was about to admit defeat, too tired to continue. Swift smiled and beckoned to his opponent.

Blade ran a few steps, made a prodigious foot-clashing leap and landed lightly, settling into Swift's stationary routine, his feet blurring against the wood. Unlike his opponent, he turned slowly, his arms outstretched, then speeded up the hammering of his feet. It seemed impossible that anyone could move so fast, yet Blade continued to increase his speed, until even Swift stepped back in astonishment. Still Blade went faster, his rhythm perfect, never missing a beat, until he ended with a stamp. He grinned and beckoned to Swift, daring him to attempt the same routine.

They glared at each other, circling again with slow steps. Blade's left hand touched his ribs in a brief gesture of pain, his breathing stertorous. Swift eyed him, a slight smile curling his lips as he noted his opponent's exhaustion. He stamped his heels twice, then executed a strutting dance, his feet flicking up high behind him to stamp on the wooden floor as he moved across the stage. Reaching the centre, he copied Blade's rhythm, turning slowly as his opponent had done, his feet drumming faster and faster on the wooden boards.

Blade watched with narrowed eyes as Swift's speed increased to a rattling buzz. Before he matched Blade's speed, however, Swift stumbled, his rhythm broke and his feet faltered. He tried to correct it, but the damage was done, and he faltered again, unable to attain the speed of footwork that Blade had achieved. He stopped, his hands clenched at his sides, and glared at Blade, his lips drawn back in a snarl of rage. Spinning away, he quit the platform, to be swallowed up by a group of his companions. Blade walked to the steps and sank down on the top one, bowing his head as the assassins of his guild burst into enthusiastic applause.

Chiana went over to him, amazed by the steam that rose from his skin in the chill air, and draped his cloak about his shoulders to ward off the cold that would soon seep into him.

"Are you all right?"

Blade raised a sweat-streaked visage drawn with exhaustion and nodded.

Talon pushed her aside and pressed a water skin into Blade's hands. "Well done. I had my doubts for a while."

Blade wheezed and gasped for several more minutes before he could sip the water. Even then, his chest continued to heave, and he rubbed the ribs on his left side several times, trying to ease the burning in his scarred lung. When he was able to talk, he shook his head at Talon.

"I can't defend... my title again."

"Not tonight, no -"

"Not ever."

Talon frowned. "You'll get better. You'll get fit again. You're allowed time to recover from an injury."

Blade sipped the water. "What does it matter when Jashimari will be conquered in another moon phase? Do you think the Contara or Cotti care about our titles? What good would being Master of the Dance be then?"

"Why did you come tonight then?" Talon demanded. "Why not just forfeit?"

"I felt like enjoying myself one more time before I die. It was good to duel a worthy opponent one last time, but the next challenger can have my belt. I will not dance again."

Talon glanced around at the muttering throng. "I doubt anyone else will challenge you. No one who saw you dance tonight, certainly."

The Vordan elder walked over and flung Swift's belt at Blade's feet. "This is yours, I believe."

"How gracious of you," Blade growled, "but Swift can hand it to me himself."

Sting stormed back to the knot of Vordan assassins. Moments later, Swift emerged from their company and walked over to confront Blade. He bent and picked up the belt.

"You were on the verge of defeat," he said as he straightened.

"But you're the one who lost."

Swift nodded. "I admit, I couldn't match your speed." He held out the belt. "But I'd like to see you complete the Dance of Death."

"I'm sure you would." Blade took the belt. "But you won't."

"Because you can't do it."

"I'm not obliged to."

Swift turned his head and spat. "I've lost my belt to a cripple."

"So it would seem." Blade smiled, refusing to be riled.

"You should retire, old man."

"The day a young fop like you can beat me at the Dance, I will."

"That day may not be too far off." He turned and re-joined his fellows.

Blade studied the belt, then handed it to Chiana. "A souvenir, if you want it. I do not need two."

Chiana took it with a startled glance, holding it up to study its intricate silver patterns in the torchlight. Talon gave a snort and left, apparently annoyed by this gesture. The Vordan assassins departed in a tight-lipped group, Sting striding ahead with his chin thrust out. Blade watched them go, smiling. Several young assassins came to congratulate him before he left, and Archer bade him farewell with a contented smile.

The journey back to the Queen's palace was achieved in silence. Blade retreated to his room and locked the door. His lungs burnt, and the inside of his chest was cold and tight. The dull throbbing in his left lung offset the jumping of his tired leg muscles. It had been worth it though, the exhilaration of the dance had lifted his spirits. When he remembered the joy of the spring in his legs and the sensation of flying through the air, a smile curled his lips. The defeated look on Swift's face had been payment for the pain, and he relived the dance again and again with constant enjoyment.