Authors: T. Southwell
A small mirror afforded him a view of his face as he outlined his eyes with kohl and rubbed blue powder onto the lids. Berry juice reddened his lips, and he pinned a blond wig over his hair, then surveyed the results with some satisfaction. He removed his trousers and boots and wrapped a length of cloth around his hips before donning the ankle-length blue gown. Two water bags filled the bodice, granting him a generous bosom.
Aware that the tiniest detail could betray him, he checked his hands to ensure that they bore no calluses. His fingers were as fine as a woman's, the nails clean and short, and the skin dye hid the faint scars of dagger practice in his youth. He strapped the leather dagger sheaths to his forearms and pulled the loose sleeves over them. The earrings had to be forced through the holes in his earlobes, long since closed from disuse. The cheap baubles added the final touch, the necklaces hiding his tattoo, and he strapped on a pair of sandals, wondering if he looked a little too fine to pass as a camp whore. He rubbed some dirt into the faded overdress, just to be safe.
Picking up the mirror, he searched for imperfections, anything that might give him away. The face that looked out at him could easily have been that of a remarkably handsome woman. A little strong-featured perhaps, but his cheeks were as smooth as any girl's, impossible for a normal man, no matter how well shaven. He used this disguise rarely, and hated it. The memories it evoked were painful and ugly. It enabled him to be the perfect assassin, however, with the appearance of a weak woman and a man's hidden strength. Putting away the mirror, he brushed the wig and donned a gossamer veil over it, then checked himself one last time. Pulling up the hood of the pale fawn cloak, he left the cave and moved down towards the camp.
By the time he reached the outskirts, the sun sank in a medley of glorious colours, and the gathering gloom added to the perfection of his disguise. Emerging from the desert, he would appear to be a camp woman returning from the latrine pits. He passed two guards unnoticed, and slipped between the tents. Walking with a graceful, swaying gait, he strolled towards the King's distant abode. For some time he passed unchallenged, then a hag looked up from the pot she stirred and called out to him.
The Queen's warriors had doubtless donned excellent disguises to enter the enemy camp, and perhaps had succeeded in going unnoticed for a while, but the Cotti spoke a dialect different from Jashimari in accent and inflection, some words being alien. The moment a Jashimari opened his mouth, he gave himself away, but Blade spoke the tongue perfectly, a legacy of four years spent amongst them.
"Hey! You new around here?" the old woman asked.
Blade moved closer and modulated his voice to a female tone. "Yes, what of it?"
"Why would a pretty girl like you come to a damned camp?"
He shrugged, placing a hand on his hip. "The money's good."
She spat. "Money! Don't you know what these animals will do to you?"
"No worse than the animals in the city."
"You won't keep your teeth long."
He turned away with a toss of his head. "I can look after myself."
"You're a fool, girl! Catch the next supply wagon home, while you've still got your looks!"
Blade shot her a disdainful look and sauntered away, leaving the crone shaking her head. He walked more slowly now, the men becoming abundant as he drew closer to the camp's centre. Several whistled and leered, a few called obscene compliments and one offered him money. He brushed this aside, skipping away from the drunken soldier's grasping hands. Others laughed at the man's failure, and a minor brawl started in Blade's wake.
Further on, two soldiers blocked his path and insisted upon his going with them to their tent. Blade tried to evade them, stated his unwillingness and scorned their money, but the soldiers would not be refused. He had no choice but to allow them to lead him to their tent, one man gripping his arm. He affected a woman's weakness in his struggles, and the men laughed at his frailty while admiring his size. They pushed him into the tent, and one soldier started to undo his breeches.
Blade released the catch of a dagger and allowed the weapon to slide into his hand. Hiding it in his skirts, he moved towards the nearer man, smiling. The soldier stared at him and licked his lips, shivering as Blade slid his hands up the man's flanks. Finding the exact spot between the fourth and fifth ribs under the armpit, Blade slipped the dagger into the soldier's heart. A little blood oozed from the wound as the man gasped and slumped, his mouth open in a soundless cry.
Blade lowered him to the floor, pretending that his grasping hands and trembling lips were the result of passion. The other protested, still struggling with his breeches, and Blade turned to him. Once again the luckless soldier welcomed his deadly embrace, and two hand-spans of cold steel ended his life. Blade wiped the blood off his hand and the dagger with the edge of the second man's tunic and sheathed the weapon. He checked himself, then pushed open the flap and strolled outside.
Moving on through the camp, he took a direct route towards the King's tent, not bothering to disguise his destination. He refused two more offers of employment and paused to buy a sweetmeat at an old woman's barrow. Outside the King's tent, a bonfire blazed, lighting the area around it. A spit held a sheep's carcass over a smaller fire. Two cooks tended this, and several bubbling pots. Beyond the fire, a burly, hirsute blond man sat on a gilded chair, armed with a tankard of ale. His garb of furs and silk betrayed his rank, confirmed by the gold band that encircled his brow. A slender man, slightly younger than Blade, sat beside the King, staring into the flames and ignoring his father's loud banter. Several high-ranking officers stood around them, laughing at the King's jokes and offering their own.
Blade watched them, listened to their talk and hated them with a deep-seated loathing that had burnt within him for years, and now found fresh fuel to fan it to new heights. King Shandor, from his size and hairiness, loud talk and raucous laughter, was a man of the bear, Blade deduced. Perhaps next to snakes, he disliked bears the most. Braggarts, liars and bullies all; the women coarse and cruel. King Shandor, however, did not appear to have his familiar with him, for bears were not desert creatures. If he had one at all, it must be kept at the palace.
Blade thought it more likely that the Cotti King was one of the Shunned, and lacked a familiar altogether. He studied the Prince, with his silver circlet, and came to a different conclusion with him. Prince Kerrion's quiet watchfulness and air of disdain marked him as a man of birds, most likely eagles. Blade had always rather liked eagles, next to cats, of course. They were usually honourable and just, hardworking and a little idealistic.
There was no sign of the Prince's familiar either, but Blade studied the ones belonging to the officers. Three maned male sand cats, smaller than the Queen's Shista, lay together to one side, asleep. Four big, vicious looking wardogs begged at the feet of their men, and two officers carried snakes about their shoulders.
Several whores mingled with the officers, having their bottoms pinched and breasts squeezed, and he had no wish to join them. Yet in order to succeed, he must catch the King's eye. He pushed back the cloak's hood and opened the front of it, revealing the bright blue silk gown beneath, and his almost-white wig. All Cotti were blond, and the paler her hair, the more prized a woman was. The wig itched abominably, making his scalp sweat under its clammy confines, and he resisted the urge to scratch, hoping that lice had not invaded it.
As yet, the night was young, and the King had not even eaten. Blade made no overtures, but waited on the far side of the fire. Sooner or later the King would notice him, and, given a choice between a beautiful woman and the rather slatternly harlots who vied for his attention, Blade was confident of his selection. A sober soldier approached the assassin, who smiled at him. The man fell under his spell and stayed at his side, talking to him in a friendly manner, most of his conversation complimentary in the extreme. Blade encouraged him a little, for the man was a junior officer, and protected him from the advances of others.
The King noticed Blade halfway through his dinner and stared at him. At first the assassin looked away, sending Shandor several shy, seductive smiles. By the end of the meal, Blade knew that he had succeeded. The monarch leered and winked at him in a repulsive manner, dribbling grease onto his beard as he tore at the meat. The Prince noticed the exchange and looked disgusted. The young officer beside Blade observed it as well, and wandered away with a sad grimace. The assassin's heart beat faster as the King beckoned him over. Now the dangerous part of his subterfuge began. He swayed over to the monarch and sank to his knees, bowing his head. King Shandor placed a greasy hand under his chin and raised his face to study him.
"My, but you are a comely one, are you not?"
Blade smiled, keeping his eyes lowered. "Thank you, Sire."
"New in the camp?"
"Yes, Sire."
"Hmm, I thought I had not seen you before, I would have remembered you if I had. Why, you are almost lovely enough to grace my court. What is your name?"
"Jishi, Sire."
Shandor grinned and glanced at his son. "What do you think, Kerry? A nice big girl, is she not?"
Prince Kerrion cast Blade a scornful look. "I do not lie with whores, Father."
"Picky, picky. She would make you a fine wife and bear strong sons. Not often you see such a strong female, most are such tiny things. Why, I have almost squashed a few to death in my time."
The King guffawed, and his officers joined in, but Kerrion snorted and looked away. Shandor released Blade's chin and wiped his eyes, giggling. He reeked of beer and sweat, and his nails were black with grime.
"I will wager she is almost as tall as you, Kerry." He chortled, stroking Blade's wig. Prince Kerrion ignored the jibe, and the King thrust a piece of chewed meat into Blade's hands.
"Here, have something to eat, you will need your strength for later."
Blade took the meat with a smile and bit into it, wary of the grease that might remove the dye from his chin if he wiped it, as well as the berry juice on his lips. The King grinned and drained his ale, patting the assassin's head. Blade was forced to sit at Shandor's feet and chew the cold meat, enduring the monarch's lecherous pawing. To speed things up, he cast many seductive looks at Shandor, until the King could bear it no longer and stood up, stretched, and belched.
When King Shandor pulled Blade to his feet, the assassin bent his knees a little, lest he appear too tall for a woman. Shandor placed an arm about Blade's waist and leered at his officers, who laughed and called encouragement. The assassin allowed the King to lead him to the tent, and only once had to avoid the big man's hands when he reached for his wrist where a dagger was strapped.
Inside the tent, the King fumbled with his tunic and nodded at the cot. "Get on the bed and take off your clothes." He giggled. "Or take them off first, whichever you prefer, my sweet."
Blade smiled. "Sire, there is no hurry. Let me help you."
Shandor staggered as he struggled with the thongs that bound his tunic. "An excellent idea, you help me, and I shall help you."
Blade stepped closer and released a dagger. The weapon slid into his hand, cold and deadly. The deed had to be done swiftly and without sound, but he was determined to deliver a message with the killing stroke. He undid the ties that bound the King's tunic and slid his hands under it as Shandor groped for his water-bag bosom. With the dagger poised between the fourth and fifth ribs under the King's armpit, Blade leant close and whispered in his ear.
"This is a gift from Queen Minna-Satu."
Shandor stiffened, and his eyes bulged as he opened his mouth to bellow. Blade rammed the dagger in. Blood oozed from the wound, and the bellow of outrage and alarm died to a whimper in the King's throat. For a few seconds Shandor stood, swaying, staring at Blade with bulging eyes, his lips trembling as he fought to draw breath. His heart had stopped the moment it had been pierced, however, and no sound issued from the King's mouth.
The assassin's smile became chilling as Shandor's knees buckled and his eyes glazed, his limbs twitching in the grotesque manner of all dying men. Blade supported him as he sagged, lowering him onto the bed. He lifted the corpse's legs onto it and arranged it so anyone who looked in would think the King asleep. Right now, he needed to buy time, for the Prince still sat by the fire. Once he had arranged the body and pulled the sheet up to its chin, he settled on the bed to wait. If anyone looked in, the scene was a cosy one, and completely innocent.
The waiting ate at his nerves, and Blade disliked lying beside the cooling corpse. He would have preferred to leave through the back of the tent, but this was the safest place to hide until the Prince retired. He listened to the men talking around the fire, willing them to go to bed. When the conversation ebbed, he crept to the tent flap to peer out.
Most of the officers had left, but the Prince still stared into the flames. Blade cursed and returned to the cot, settling down to wait once more. The wig itched terribly, and he allowed himself the luxury of scratching it, but that only made it worse. As the time dragged on, he checked his attire again and ensured that no blood soiled his hands. If there was one thing that he had learnt from his life as an assassin, it was to master the art of limitless patience.
Chapter Four
By the time the Prince left the fire, the King's body was cold. As Kerrion entered the next tent, Blade scanned the area within the dying fire's light. Two soldiers lay sprawled nearby, apparently asleep, one guard leant on his spear, yawning. Blade pulled up the cloak's hood and crept from the tent while the guard's back was turned, crossed the sand to the Prince's tent and pushed aside the flap. As he slipped inside, Kerrion looked up from his task of undressing and glared at the intruder.